one-eyedalmond

[one-eyedalmond]

The Sun in the Dragon House: Chapter 11 - News from Driftmark

Series Masterlist

Chapter 10, Chapter 12

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x fem!reader & Aegon II Targaryen x fem!reader & Jacaerys Velaryon x fem!reader

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Vera stirred as the first pale light of dawn filtered through the shutters, painting soft golden patterns across the chamber. She became aware of a steady heartbeat beneath her ear, a comforting rhythm that had accompanied her throughout the night. Her eyes fluttered open to find Aemond already awake, his violet eye watching her with an intensity that made her breath catch.

The sapphire had been returned to its place, glinting with a deep blue radiance in the early morning light. His arms encircled her completely, one hand splayed protectively across her back while the other rested possessively on her hip, holding her firmly against him.

"How long have you been watching me sleep?" she whispered, her voice still rough with slumber.

"A while," Aemond admitted, making no move to release her from his embrace. His silver-gold hair was tousled from sleep, falling across his forehead in a way that softened his usually severe features.

Vera shifted slightly, becoming acutely aware of their intimate position—her body half-draped across his chest, her leg tangled between his, her nightgown having ridden up to expose her calf. Heat rose to her cheeks, but she didn't pull away.

"Did you sleep at all?" she asked, noting the shadows beneath his good eye.

"More than I have in weeks," he replied, his thumb absently tracing circles against her hip. The casual intimacy of the gesture sent a shiver down her spine.

Outside, the castle was beginning to stir—distant footsteps and muffled voices signaling the start of a new day. Soon the corridors would be filled with servants and courtiers, and this stolen moment of peace would be shattered.

"We should get up," Vera said reluctantly, though she made no move to disentangle herself from his embrace.

"Should we?" Aemond countered, his grip tightening almost imperceptibly. The morning light caught in his silver-gold hair, creating a halo effect that contrasted sharply with the darkness in his eye.

For a moment, they simply gazed at each other, caught in a private world where nothing existed beyond the warm cocoon of her bed. The castle continued to wake around them, but in this chamber, time seemed suspended.

Vera finally sighed and placed her palm against his chest, gently pushing herself up. "You should go before someone notices you're not in your chambers."

Aemond caught her hand, his fingers encircling her wrist. "Let them notice," he said, his voice carrying an edge of defiance.

"Aemond," Vera warned softly, though a smile played at the corners of her mouth.

He released her with obvious reluctance, watching as she slipped from the bed and straightened her nightgown. The silk clung to her curves in a way that made his throat tighten.

"I'll see you at breakfast," she said quietly, turning back to look at him.

Aemond hummed in response, a low sound that resonated deep in his chest. Vera felt that familiar delightful shiver race down her spine, and the knowing gleam in his eye told her he was well aware of the effect it had on her. He had to be.

Without another word, he rose from the bed and moved toward the hidden passage. At the entrance, he paused, casting one final glance over his shoulder before disappearing into the darkness. The stone door slid shut behind him with a soft scraping sound, leaving Vera alone with the memory of his warmth.

She stood motionless for several heartbeats, her fingers absently tracing the place on her wrist where his hand had been. The moment was broken by a soft knock at her chamber door.

"Enter," she called, quickly composing herself.

Lyla appeared, already dressed for the day with a fresh pitcher of water balanced on her hip. Her eyes widened slightly at the rumpled state of the bed.

"Good morrow, my lady," she said, moving to pour water into the washing basin. "Did you sleep well?"

"Very well, thank you," Vera replied, hoping the flush in her cheeks wasn't too obvious.

As Lyla helped her wash and dress, selecting a pretty green gown that complemented Vera's olive complexion, she leaned in with a conspiratorial smile.

"The Queen has a special request this morning," she said, her eyes twinkling with amusement. "She's asked if you might wake Prince Aegon for breakfast. He's apparently ignored three servants already."

Vera couldn't help the delighted laugh that escaped her. "What mischief should I inflict on him this time, I wonder?"

"Whatever you wish, my lady," Lyla replied with a chuckle, clearly anticipating the entertainment to come. "Though perhaps nothing involving live animals this time? The last incident with the frog caused quite a stir."

"No promises," Vera said with a wink as she made her way to the door. Lyla was already turning her attention to the rumpled bedsheets, shaking her head with fond exasperation.

The corridors of the Red Keep were already bustling with morning activity as Vera made her way toward Aegon's chambers. She passed several servants who nodded respectfully, a few ladies-in-waiting who offered polite curtsies, and two members of the Kingsguard who greeted her by name.

She knew her father would be standing guard outside the King's chambers by now, his white armor gleaming in the morning light as he maintained his vigilant watch. She would see him later in the day, perhaps during the midday meal.

When she reached Aegon's door, Ser Arryk Cargyll stood at attention outside, his solemn face breaking into a knowing smile at her approach. The knight had witnessed enough of these morning wake-up calls to anticipate what was coming.

"Good morrow, Lady Vera," he greeted, his eyes twinkling with amusement. Without further comment, he pushed the heavy door open, stepping aside to allow her entry.

"Good morrow, Ser Arryk," Vera replied with a soft chuckle, offering a grateful nod as she slipped past him into the dimly lit chamber.

The room was thick with the heavy stillness of prolonged sleep. Heavy curtains had been drawn across the windows, allowing only thin slivers of sunlight to penetrate the gloom. In the massive bed that dominated the center of the room, a large form lay sprawled beneath tangled sheets, soft snores emanating from beneath a pillow pulled over his head.

Vera approached silently, surveying the scene with practiced assessment. Aegon had clearly dismissed his servants before they could properly prepare him for the day. A pitcher of wine sat half-empty on the bedside table, and discarded clothing lay strewn across the floor where he had dropped it before collapsing into bed.

With deliberate care, Vera reached for one of the large pillows that had been kicked to the floor during the night. She weighed it in her hands, testing its heft with a mischievous smile. Then, without warning, she brought it down firmly on Aegon's head.

The effect was immediate. Aegon bolted upright with a startled yelp, silver-gold hair standing on end as he flailed against his invisible attacker. When his bleary eyes focused on Vera standing beside his bed, pillow in hand and triumph on her face, he groaned dramatically and flopped back onto the mattress.

"No," he moaned, throwing an arm over his eyes. "Again?"

"Good morrow to you too, lazybones," Vera chirped, entirely too cheerful for Aegon's liking. "The Queen requests your presence at breakfast."

"Tell Mother I died in my sleep," Aegon mumbled, attempting to burrow deeper into his bedding. "Tragic accident. Very sad. Funeral at sunset."

Vera rolled her eyes, utterly unimpressed by his theatrics. "Get up, Aegon. Don't make me get creative."

Aegon groaned and looked at the young beauty standing over him, her dark eyes gleaming with determination. He knew exactly what the demon was capable of—she'd proven it countless times over the years.

"Fine," he muttered, "I'm up. I'm up."

Vera smiled triumphantly and strode to the windows, yanking the heavy curtains open in one swift motion. Sunlight flooded the chamber, harsh and unforgiving against Aegon's sensitive eyes. He groaned again but didn't dare protest about the light. As much as he wanted to sleep—to spend the entire day hidden away from his family and their expectations—he knew better than to try Vera's patience further. If he dared to lie down again, she would simply drag him bodily from the bed. Again. And not a single person in the Red Keep would intervene to save him.

Vera moved back to the bed, perching on its edge as she studied his disheveled appearance. "How much did you drink last night?" she asked, her tone somewhere between disapproval and amusement.

Aegon shrugged noncommittally, running a hand through his tangled silver-gold hair. "Don't remember," he admitted.

Vera sighed softly, shaking her head as she rose and crossed to the side table where a pitcher and goblets waited. With practiced movements, she poured water for herself and watered wine for Aegon, the routine as familiar as breathing after years of these morning wake-up calls.

She returned to the bed, holding out the goblet of watered wine. Aegon took it without protest, their fingers brushing momentarily in the exchange. Vera settled beside him once more, raising her goblet in a small toast. They clinked their vessels together before drinking.

The cool liquid soothed Aegon's parched throat, easing some of the fog from his mind. He drained half the goblet in one long swallow, then lowered it with a satisfied sigh.

"Better?" Vera asked, one eyebrow arched elegantly.

"Marginally," Aegon conceded, rolling his shoulders to work out the stiffness. "Though I still maintain it's cruel to wake a man before midday."

"Get dressed," Vera instructed, standing up and smoothing her green dress. "We're expected at Mother's table for breakfast."

Aegon flopped back against his pillows with a dramatic sigh. "I suppose I don't have a choice in the matter." His lips curled into a suggestive smirk. "Though I know what you'll do to me if I refuse, and sadly, it won't be anything like what I've been fantasizing about."

Vera rolled her eyes, immune to his provocative comments after years of hearing them. "Get up," she said flatly, already moving toward the door.

With surprising agility for someone so recently asleep, Aegon swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, stretching his tall frame. Vera paused at the threshold, one hand on the heavy oak door.

"I'll wait for you outside," she said, her tone making it clear this was not a request but a command. "Don't make me come back in."

She stepped into the corridor, and Ser Arryk pulled the door closed behind her with a knowing smile. The knight's eyes twinkled with amusement as he resumed his post.

"Will he actually dress himself this time, my lady?" Ser Arryk asked, his voice low enough that only Vera could hear.

"If he knows what's good for him," she replied with a small smile. "Though I've never known Prince Aegon to choose what's good for him when there's a more difficult option available."

Ser Arryk chuckled softly, his white armor gleaming in the morning light. "True enough, my lady."

The door swung open several minutes later, revealing Aegon in a hastily donned crimson doublet that complemented his Targaryen coloring. His silver-gold hair remained slightly disheveled despite obvious attempts to tame it, and dark circles shadowed his violet eyes, testament to the previous night's indulgences.

"That was quick," Vera remarked, a hint of surprise in her voice. "I'm impressed."

"Don't be," Aegon muttered. "I simply didn't want to risk whatever torture you were planning next."

Vera laughed and extended her arm. Aegon took it with a dramatic sigh. Together they began walking toward the Queen's chambers, Ser Arryk following at a respectful distance.

They passed servants who bowed respectfully, knights who nodded in acknowledgment, and ladies who offered perfect curtsies. None showed any surprise at the sight of Lady Vera Cole with her arm linked through Prince Aegon's. It was a familiar sight in the Red Keep—the dark-haired beauty guiding the reluctant prince. The Lady had grown up alongside the royal children since their earliest days, her place among them unquestioned despite her lack of royal blood.

When they reached the Queen's chambers, Ser Erryk stood at attention outside the heavy oak door. His eyes, identical to his twin brother's, crinkled slightly at the corners—the only indication of his amusement at Aegon's bedraggled appearance.

"Good morrow, my Prince, Lady Vera," he greeted, pushing the door open to admit them.

The Queen's private dining room was awash in morning sunlight. Queen Alicent sat at the head of the table, her emerald gown complementing her eyes as she supervised a servant arranging freshly cut flowers. Helaena was already seated, absently stroking the hair of one of her twins while the other played quietly with a wooden dragon. Aemond stood by the window, his tall figure silhouetted against the bright light.

At their entrance, Aemond turned, his violet eye finding Vera immediately. Something unreadable flickered across his face as he took in the sight of her arm linked with his brother's.

"You're late," Queen Alicent remarked, though her tone held more amusement than censure.

"You will have to blame him, Your Grace," Vera replied cheerfully, releasing Aegon's arm to approach the Queen. She bent to place a respectful kiss on Alicent's cheek. "He was determined to sleep until midday."

"I was having the most wonderful dream," Aegon complained, dropping into a chair beside Helaena. He reached over to ruffle the hair of the twin nearest him, earning a giggle from the child. "Something about a beautiful dark-haired maiden who didn't torment me with pillows."

"Sounds dreadful," Aemond commented dryly, moving to take his seat. "No wonder you didn't want to wake."

The servants began bringing in platters of food—freshly baked bread still steaming from the ovens, bowls of honey and preserves, plates of sliced fruits, and pitchers of watered wine. The rich aroma of spiced eggs and roasted meats filled the chamber as more dishes appeared.

Vera took her seat beside Aemond, accepting a cup of tea from a servant with a gracious smile. As everyone settled into their breakfast, the twins—Jaehaerys and Jaehaera—began vying for her attention from across the table.

"Aunt Vera," Jaehaerys called, his silver-gold curls bouncing as he leaned forward eagerly. "Will you come see our new beetles today?"

Jaehaera nodded enthusiastically beside him. "Mother helped us find them in the garden yesterday. They have shiny green shells."

Vera smiled warmly at the children. "I'd love to see your beetles. Perhaps after that we could visit the garden together?"

"Could we bring bread for the birds too?" Jaehaera asked, her violet eyes brightening.

"Of course," Vera agreed. "We'll make a proper adventure of it."

Helaena's face lit up with one of her rare, fully present smiles. "I'll join you. The roses are speaking more clearly these days."

Queen Alicent set down her cup with a gentle clink, drawing everyone's attention. Her expression had shifted, a subtle tension appearing in the lines around her eyes.

"Before you all disperse for the day, there's something I must share," she said, her voice carrying a weight that immediately sobered the table. "I received word this morning from Driftmark."

Aemond straightened in his chair, his full attention focused on his mother.

"Lord Corlys has been gravely injured while fighting in the Stepstones," the Queen continued, her green eyes moving deliberately around the table. "It's unknown when or if he will wake up."

"That's unfortunate," Aegon remarked, reaching for his wine.

The Queen nodded. "Indeed. But there's more. His younger brother, Vaemond Velaryon, has sent word that he intends to press his claim as heir to Driftmark."

"But Lord Corlys named Lucerys Velaryon as his heir," Vera pointed out, her brow furrowing. "He's been quite clear about his wishes."

"Vaemond disputes the boy's right to inherit," the Queen replied carefully. "He will be arriving at court within days to present his case before the King."

Aemond's lip curled slightly. "Lord Strong has no true claim to Driftmark," he said, his voice carrying a deliberate edge. "The Sea Snake's blood doesn't flow in his veins."

Vera turned sharply toward him, her dark eyes flashing a warning. The Queen cleared her throat pointedly.

"We will not speak of such matters at this table," she cautioned, though her tone lacked genuine reproach.

"My brother speaks only truth," Aegon interjected, leaning forward with sudden interest. "Everyone knows those boys are Strong's bastards, not Laenor's true sons."

"Enough," Queen Alicent said firmly. "I merely wished to inform you all why the Keep will soon feel... tense. This matter will bring many visitors to court."

Helaena looked up from her plate, her dreamy eyes suddenly focused with unsettling clarity. "Sister will come," she said softly. "With her sons."

The Queen sighed and nodded. "Yes, Rhaenyra will certainly attend. The claim involves her son, after all."

"Will Father preside over this dispute?" Aegon asked, reaching for another slice of bread.

"No," the Queen replied, her voice softening. "The King's health has worsened. He will remain in his chambers. However, the petition with heard at the Throne Room, with the Hand and I making the final judgment."

Vera exchanged a glance with Aemond, noting the calculating gleam in his violet eye. She could practically see the thoughts forming behind that careful mask—the opportunity this dispute presented, the potential to expose what many whispered but few dared speak aloud.

"When will they arrive?" Aemond asked, his voice carefully neutral despite the intensity in his gaze.

"Vaemond is expected within three days," the Queen answered. "Rhaenyra and her sons perhaps at the same day."

A tense silence fell over the table at the mention of Rhaenyra's arrival. Vera studied Aemond's face, noting the muscle that jumped in his jaw and the way his fingers tightened around his goblet. She could read the signs of his rising anger better than anyone—the slight flare of his nostril, the almost imperceptible narrowing of his eye.

Vera placed her hand gently on Aemond's beneath the table, feeling the tension coiled within him. Six years had done little to dull his hatred for Lucerys Velaryon. If anything, time had only hardened his resentment, transforming it into something cold and unyielding.

"Uncle Aemond," Jaehaerys called suddenly, his small voice cutting through the tension. "Will you come to the garden with us today?"

Aemond blinked, pulled from his dark thoughts by his nephew's question. "What?"

"The garden," Jaehaera echoed, her violet eyes wide and hopeful. "You haven't played with us in ages."

"We miss you!" Jaehaerys added earnestly. "No one else can lift us both at the same time."

Vera bit back a smile as she watched Aemond's expression soften slightly, the hard edges of his anger blunted by the children's innocent request. The twins had always held a special place in his heart, though he tried to maintain his stern demeanor even with them.

"Please, Uncle Aemond," Jaehaera pressed, clasping her small hands together. "We want to show you our favorite hiding spots."

"And the new flowers," Jaehaerys added quickly. "The blue ones that look like dragons."

Aemond glanced at Vera, who raised an eyebrow expectantly. After a moment's hesitation, he nodded. "Very well," he conceded, his voice gentler than before. "After breakfast."

The twins exchanged delighted grins, their excitement palpable as they wiggled in their seats. Queen Alicent smiled softly, her green eyes warm with approval as she watched the interaction.

As breakfast concluded, the twins could barely contain their excitement, practically bouncing in their seats as they waited for the adults to finish. The moment Queen Alicent signaled the end of the meal, they slid from their chairs and rushed to Aemond's side, each claiming one of his hands.

"We should go now!" Jaehaerys tugged insistently on Aemond's hand, his small face alight with anticipation.

"Before all the good treasures are gone," Jaehaera added solemnly, as though imparting a great secret.

Helaena rose from her seat, her movements graceful despite her distracted air. "The garden will be lovely this morning," she murmured, her eyes focusing briefly on Vera.

The small party made their way through the corridors of the Red Keep, the twins chattering excitedly as they led the way. Vera walked beside Aemond, their shoulders occasionally brushing as they navigated the hallways. Each brief contact sent a pleasant warmth through her, a reminder of their shared intimacy from the previous night.

The royal gardens welcomed them with a riot of color and fragrance. Spring had transformed the space into a verdant paradise, with blossoms of every hue competing for attention against the lush greenery. A light breeze carried the sweet scent of roses and honeysuckle, mingling with the earthy aroma of freshly turned soil.

Vera and Helaena settled on a stone bench beneath the shade of a flowering cherry tree, its pale pink blossoms occasionally drifting down around them like delicate snow. From this vantage point, they had a perfect view of the central garden where Aemond now knelt on the grass, his tall frame looking almost comically large next to the tiny twins.

"Go explore," he instructed the children, his usually stern voice gentled for their benefit. "Show me these hiding places you mentioned."

The twins needed no further encouragement. They darted off in opposite directions, their silver-gold curls catching the sunlight as they disappeared among the flowering bushes.

"He's different with them," Helaena observed quietly, her dreamy gaze fixed on her brother. "Softer."

Vera nodded, unable to suppress her smile as she watched Aemond scanning the garden, pretending not to notice Jaehaerys hiding poorly behind a slender tree trunk. "They bring out a side of him few others see."

"You see it," Helaena replied, her tone matter-of-fact. "You always have."

Before Vera could respond, Jaehaera emerged from behind a rosebush, clutching something in her small hands. She ran to Aemond with an expression of pure triumph, her violet eyes wide with excitement.

"Uncle Aemond! Look what I found!" she exclaimed, carefully opening her cupped palms to reveal a smooth, speckled stone.

Aemond leaned forward with exaggerated interest, examining the offering as though it were a priceless gem. "An excellent find," he declared solemnly. "Worthy of the royal collection."

Jaehaera beamed with pride, placing the stone carefully in Aemond's outstretched hand before rushing off to discover more treasures. No sooner had she disappeared than Jaehaerys appeared, brandishing a slightly bent feather with equal enthusiasm.

"This came from a special bird," the boy announced confidently, presenting the feather to his uncle. "Maybe even a dragon!"

"Perhaps," Aemond agreed, accepting the gift with appropriate gravity. "Though dragons have scales, not feathers."

"This one might be different," Jaehaerys insisted, unwilling to abandon his theory. "A special dragon."

Vera couldn't help but laugh at the boy's determination. The sound carried across the garden, drawing Aemond's attention. His violet eye found her, and for a moment, his severe features softened into something approaching tenderness.

"They adore him," Vera remarked to Helaena, watching as the twins continued their treasure hunt, periodically returning to present Aemond with their findings—a uniquely shaped leaf, a fragment of blue pottery, a small white flower.

"The dragons circle each other," Helaena murmured, her gaze suddenly distant. "The blue eye watches, waiting for the moment to strike."

Vera had grown accustomed to Helaena's cryptic statements over the years, learning not to dismiss them despite their apparent nonsense. She opened her mouth to ask for clarification when the twins' excited exclamations drew her attention.

Both children were looking toward the garden entrance, their faces lighting up with delight. Following their gaze, Vera saw her father approaching, his white armor gleaming in the morning sunlight. Despite his formal appearance, Criston's expression was relaxed, a rare smile softening his features as the twins abandoned their treasure hunt and raced toward him.

"Grandfather!" they cried in unison, small arms outstretched as they collided with his armored legs.

Criston chuckled, bending down to meet them at eye level. "Good morning, little dragons," he greeted, his voice warm with affection. He took their hands and walked with them back toward the others.

"Look what we found for Uncle Aemond!" Jaehaerys exclaimed, pointing to the small collection of treasures now arranged beside the prince.

"Very impressive," Criston replied seriously, his dark eyes twinkling with amusement as he approached Aemond, Vera, and Helaena.

"Grandfather is here to see our treasures too," Jaehaera announced happily, swinging his hand as they walked.

Criston's expression turned apologetic. "I'm afraid you can't call me that, little ones," he said gently. "It's not proper."

Jaehaerys looked up at him with confusion written across his small face. "Why not? Mother, father, Uncle Aemond and Uncle Daeron all say you're like their father," he reasoned with a child's simple logic. "So that makes you our grandfather."

Vera felt warmth bloom in her chest at the boy's words. She glanced at her father, noting the subtle shift in his expression—a complex mixture of pride, humility, and deep affection.

"The young prince makes a compelling argument," Aemond remarked, rising to his feet with fluid grace.

Helaena nodded dreamily. "Father in all but name," she murmured. "The white knight who guides the dragons."

Criston looked momentarily overwhelmed by their words, his usually composed demeanor faltering slightly. He cleared his throat, visibly gathering himself before responding.

"I am deeply honored by your regard," he said formally, though emotion underlay his words. "But I must maintain proper respect for His Grace, your true grandfather."

"Can't you be both?" Jaehaera asked innocently, tugging on his hand.

Vera smiled at the child's persistence. "Perhaps when no one else is around," she suggested, meeting her father's gaze with understanding. "A special name just for private times."

Criston's expression softened as he looked at the hopeful faces of the twins. After a moment's consideration, he nodded slightly. "Very well," he conceded. "But only when we're alone, understand? It would not be respectful otherwise."

The twins nodded solemnly, though their violet eyes danced with delight at this small victory. Jaehaerys immediately launched into a detailed explanation of their morning treasure hunt, while Jaehaera pulled Criston toward the collection to show him her favorites.

Vera rose from the bench and moved to stand beside Aemond, watching the scene with a warm smile. "You've made quite the impression on them," she observed quietly. "They practically worship you."

Aemond's expression remained impassive, but she caught the subtle softening around his eye. "They're good children," he replied, his voice low enough that only she could hear. "Innocent of the ugliness in this world."

"Thanks in part to you," Vera pointed out. "You protect them from it."

Aemond's gaze lingered on the twins as they continued showing their treasures to Criston. "Someone must," he said softly. "The world will try to harden them soon enough."

"Come," Vera said, touching his arm lightly. "Let's join them before the twins exhaust my father with their endless questions."

----------

The rest of the morning passed in pleasant companionship, with the twins leading them on an elaborate treasure hunt throughout the garden. By midday, even Aemond's severe demeanor had softened, a rare contentment settling over him as he watched Jaehaerys attempt to climb a small ornamental tree.

After their garden adventure, Vera spent several hours with Queen Alicent, helping prepare for the upcoming arrivals. The Queen seemed grateful for her company, speaking openly about her concerns regarding Vaemond Velaryon's petition and what it might mean for the delicate balance of power at court.

"Your father will stand guard during the proceedings," Queen Alicent said as they reviewed seating arrangements. "I would have you attend as well, if you're willing. Your presence has always had a... calming effect on certain members of my family."

Vera understood the Queen's meaning perfectly. "Of course, Your Grace. I'll be wherever you need me."

The day slipped away, and as evening shadows lengthened across the Red Keep, Vera bid goodnight to her father outside his chambers. Criston looked tired but content, the day's events having eased some of the strain from his journey.

"Sleep well, Father," she said, embracing him briefly.

"And you, my dear," he replied, pressing a kiss to her forehead before retreating into his room.

Vera made her way through the quiet corridors, nodding to the guards who stood at attention along her path. When she reached her chambers, she slipped inside and closed the heavy door behind her.

As she turned, her breath caught in her throat. There, resting on her pillow, lay a single blue rose—its petals a rare, deep azure that seemed almost luminous in the candlelight.

A smile spread across her face as she approached the bed. With gentle fingers, she lifted the bloom, bringing it to her nose to inhale its sweet fragrance.

A soft knock at her door startled her from her reverie. She quickly tucked the rose into the pocket of her dress before calling, "Enter."

Lyla appeared with fresh linens and a pitcher of water. "Would you like help preparing for bed, my lady?" she asked, setting down her burdens.

"No, thank you," Vera replied, trying to keep her voice casual despite the warmth in her cheeks. "I can manage tonight."

After Lyla departed, Vera removed the blue rose from her pocket.

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[one-eyedalmond]

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[one-eyedalmond]

"I will love you till eternity, from mortality to immortality, when our bones will be dust and our souls will become ghosts, and we will haunt the lovers, who don't dare express their love...we will haunt them."

a thought: when Aemond loses his eye and his mother demands retribution, it's Rhaenyra's daughter that is to be punished. Stripped of her titles, sent away from her family to some cold sept far, far away, the one person that truly cared about Aemond...his sole friend and confidant, the one person he wouldn't ever have wanted to hurt by this.

Y/N, no longer a princess, does not stay to be punished for a crime she didn't commit.

She always had a touch of adventure to her and, though dragon-less and only a child, she leaves in the night. If she's going to be a nobody than she'll be a nobody on an adventure, at the very least, saying goodbye to only one person. Not her mother, who only fought to protect her brothers but not her. Not her brothers, who allowed her to be punished as they remained free, neither meeting her hurt gaze. Only Aemond, who helped her to slip away into the shadows, the only one who fought for her, even as he was bleeding.

"I don't want you to go, Y/N..."

"I'm going away no matter what," you replied simply. "But I won't be going in chains. I'd rather be free than live in a cage. And besides...I've had a dream, Aemond."

"A dream?"

"I'll go. And I'll be gone for a long, long time. But I'll return to you on blackest wing."

When the castle awake, the once and future princess is gone, only a note left behind on her pillow and a few things taken with her. Rhaenyra is presented with her daughter's final words to her, scribbled in childish handwriting on a scrap of paper:

"I must cross the horizon to find the him."

And she does find him.

Cutting off her hair and dying it black, she becomes a boy. Baelfire. She travels the world and does many great deeds and has many adventures until one night, on her sixteenth birthday, she finally finds him.

Her dream, Her dragon.

Black as night with burning, sapphire blue eyes, he's the most beautiful creature, massive and lovely and terrible. She calls him Kairos the Dark Dream and claims him. There's something triumphant about this, to claim such a beast after being rejected from the Targaryen clan, proof of her dragon blood, her royal heritage! After that, Y/N buries the identity of Baelfire. She lives as a woman again, her white hair returning slowly from the shadowed inky black. But she does not go home.

Not yet.

Rumors spill through the world, finally making it to her mother's realm. Stories of a white haired girl on a dark dragon, a lost princess perhaps returned.

Rhaenyra does not believe them. Stories of Y/N have haunted her for years, these are just more ghost stories.

But Aemond knows the truth of them at once. He knows that you have claimed your dragon and soon, you will return to him, as promised.

And you do.

When the dance of dragons begins and Aemond goes off to collect their allies, he is surprised to see another dragon approaching. So dark and so quick that it moves like blackest shadow, a smile slowly gracing his face, both riders landing on some quiet, desolate island. You are as beautiful as the day that he lost you, as proud and lovely as a Targaryen princess should be.

"Y/N...you returned..."

"I promised that I would, Aemond."

The next rumors are ones Rhaenyra and her sons do not want to believe, stories that the Greens have welcomed the lost princess into their ranks and returned her titles to her. That she returned with allies and armies from far away lands, connections made as she wandered the world. But they come to believe it when Princess Y/N flies into battle, a nightmare come to life, as blue fire burns the earth beneath her.

[one-eyedalmond]

Imzadi X

Summary:

A glimpse into the fifteen year reign of King Aemond Queen Lucaera.

Warning(s): Angst, Drama, Language, Uncle/Niece Incest, Kissing, Masturbation, P in V, Knotting, Blood, & Mild Violence.

AEMOND x O.C NIECE

ALPHA/BETA/OMEGA DYNAMIC

Word Count: 10200

A.N - 'Imzadi - Beloved'

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

Comments, likes, and reblogs are very much appreciated, do not copy/post to other sights without my permission.

Tag List - @jasminecosmic99 @kaelatargaryen @yesterdayfeelings-blog @immyowndefender @0eessirk8 @darylandbethfanforever9 @killua2dot0 @msassenach @xcharlottemikaelsonx @moonnicole @zenka69 @aemondsbabygirl @aphroditesblunt @iamtoriasworld @persephonerinyes

Fifteen-year-old Rhaegar, tall and sharp eyed, was in mid-spar with his thirteen-year-old brother, Vaelor.

Their blades met with rhythmic precision, Rhaegar fluid in his movements, practiced and poised.

He struck with confidence, testing his younger brother’s defences, but Vaelor was no easy match. His feet were quick, his resolve just as fierce as he pressed forward with determined strikes, his silver-blond hair clinging to his damp brow.

From the edge of the sandy training ground, Aemond stood with arms folded behind his back, his lone violet eye tracking each movement intently.

He offered occasional words of advice, sharp and clear: “Vaelor, keep your stance wide—don’t let him push you off balance. Rhaegar, faster on the recovery—strike before he can retreat.”

Nearby, eleven-year-old Aerys and nine-year-old Daemon were play-fighting with wooden swords, mimicking their older brothers with grandiose swings and dramatic falls, giggling as they collapsed into the sand.

However, Aemond’s attention shifted, when he caught movement near the weapons chest. His lips twitched into a smile as he spotted a familiar head of messy-silver curls—Saeryna, his youngest daughter, crouched behind the chest, peeking curiously at her older brothers.

He stepped away from the training ground, walking quietly across the sand, his long shadow creeping over her.

“And just what do you think you are doing, zaldrītsos?” he said with mock sternness, voice low and amused (Little dragon).

Saeryna squeaked and turned, her big violet eyes going wide before her face broke into a cheeky grin. “I’m hiding, Daddy.”

Aemond arched a brow. “Have you snuck away from your grandmother again?”

“She’s boring, Daddy,” Saeryna said with an impish giggle.

Aemond scooped her into his arms with a huff. “Be that as it may, young lady, she’s still your grandmother.”

Saeryna pulled a face. “My other grandmother is more fun.”

“That’s only because she sneaks you sweets,” Aemond said dryly, narrowing his eye. “Don’t think I don’t know.”

Saeryna beamed. “Uncle Aegon sneaks me sweets too, Daddy.”

Aemond raised a brow. “Which Uncle Aegon? You have two, remember.”

She giggled, whispering like it was a secret, “The one who likes piss wine.”

Aemond reeled. “Saeryna! Where did you learn such talk?!”

“Uncle Aegon says it all the time,” she shrugged innocently.

“I think I shall be having words with your uncle,” he muttered. “Such language is not appropriate for young ears.”

Saeryna giggled and buried her face in his neck, her tiny fingers gripping the collar of his jerkin.

“Now,” Aemond said, “Aside from sneaking away from your grandmother, what brings you here?”

“I want to train too, Daddy,” Saeryna mumbled, determination bright in her eyes.

Aemond smiled warmly and set her down gently. “Alright, my little warrior. Let’s see what you can do.”

He stepped to the weapons chest, selecting two wooden swords. One was a little shorter and lighter. He handed it to her and took the other for himself.

Saeryna struggled a bit under the weight, lifting the sword with both hands before swinging it at him with all her might.

Aemond blocked it easily, letting out a dramatic gasp. “Oh no, Saeryna strikes with deadly precision! How will I ever defeat such a seasoned warrior?”

She giggled and swung again. This time, Aemond dropped to his knees, clutching his chest.

“She got me!” he cried, and fell backward onto the sand.

Saeryna gasped and ran to his side. “Oh no, Daddy, I was just playing!”

Aemond lay still a moment longer before suddenly opening his eye with a mischievous glint. “Got you!” He grabbed her and pulled her down into the sand, tickling her as she shrieked and squirmed with laughter.

“Daddy, nooooo! Stop!”

They rolled in the warm sand, both laughing so hard that they didn’t notice the approaching footsteps until a voice rang out.

“And just what exactly is going on here?”

Lucaera’s voice, teasingly stern, drifted over to them as she crossed the yard, her long dark hair shining in the sunlight, her smile already tugging at the corners of her mouth.

Aemond looked up from the ground, still holding Saeryna. “I’ve just been defeated by the most fearsome warrior in the realm,” he declared grandly.

Lucaera laughed. “Is that so? Well, I do hope she takes mercy on me.”

“I will, Mama- I will” Saeryna giggled.

Lucaera reached down. “I’m sure there’s a little girl under all this sand.” She brushed her off gently.

Aemond stood and smiled as he looked upon his Queen—his Omega, the mother of his eight pups.

Gods, how he loved her. She could feel it too, the bond between them thrumming with warmth and affection. She smiled, meeting his gaze.

“I thought I might find our runaway daughter here,” she said.

“She has no patience for spending time with her grandmother,” Aemond replied dryly.

Lucaera rolled her eyes. “Does anyone?”

They both laughed, and Aemond leaned in to press a kiss to her forehead.

“Where are our other daughters?” he asked.

“Rhaella’s gone dragon riding with my brother Aegon-” Lucaera said.

Aemond’s smile faltered. “She what?”

“You knew she wanted to go flying with Hūra today.”

“I did,” he muttered, kicking the sand lightly. “But I didn’t know he was going with her.”

“My brother isn’t the devil you think he is,” she replied, raising a brow.

“Yes, he is. He’s weaselling his way into my little girl’s affections, and I don’t like it.”

“She’s five and ten, Aemond. Soon she’ll be a woman grown.”

“I don’t want to think about that,” he said pouting “All I care about is that your brother keeps his hands to himself, or he shall lose them.”

Saeryna shimmied down Lucera and in a sing song voice said, “Oohh, Daddy’s got his mad face on!” Before she ran off toward her brothers.

Lucaera chuckled and wrapped her arms around Aemond, resting her head on his chest, breathing in his scent of leather and ash.

“I know you wish Rhaella could stay your little girl,” she murmured. “But she has to grow up, my love.”

“I don’t want her to,” Aemond replied, voice low. “I don’t want any of my girls to grow up. I want them to stay mine forever.”

“It’s inevitable,” she said gently.

Aemond sighed. “So, if Rhaella’s with him, where are Alyssa and Vaelys?”

“Both of them are with Helaena and Jaehaera” Lucaera said.

Aemond visibly relaxed. “Much better company to keep, if I do say so myself.”

Lucaera smiled and nuzzled closer and Aemond looked down at her with a softness few others ever saw.

“I know you think I’m being overprotective. It’s just Rhaella is close to presentation age. I worry what will happen when it’s revealed that she’s an Omega.”

Lucaera nodded. “As much as you don’t want to hear this-I think Aegon will be her Alpha. She feels drawn to him.”

Aemond clenched his jaw. “She won’t be drawn to him when I exile the little runt-”

“Aemond,” Lucaera sighed. “Be reasonable.”

“This is me being reasonable. I could’ve arranged a convenient accident—but I reconsidered.”

Lucaera leaned in and kissed him, soft and lingering. “Please, my love. You don’t have to like the idea, but you love our daughter—and her happiness is what matters.”

Aemond held her face in his hands, thumb brushing her cheek. “When did I get so lucky to have you as my wife?”

“Oh, about fifteen years ago,” she teased, grinning. “When I shocked the realm and presented as an Omega, and the only Alpha Prime took me as his mate.”

Aemond leaned forward, pressing his nose against her mating mark and inhaling deeply. “You still smell as good as the day I claimed you”

“As do you, husband,” she whispered.

Their lips met in a deep, passionate kiss—only to be interrupted by a chorus of groans.

“Ewwww! That’s gross!” their children cried from the sparring yard.

Aemond and Lucaera parted, breaking into laughter.

“Monsters-” Aemond muttered fondly.

“-Every last one,” Lucaera agreed, beaming.

She leaned against his side, content, her hand gently resting with his. For a moment, the world was perfectly still — the warm sun casting golden light across the Red Keep, the soft sound of sparring swords, the laughter of their children filling the air like music.

Then Lucaera tilted her head to look up at him. “Are you going to be aiding the children in their High Valyrian lessons today?” she asked softly.

The warmth in Aemond’s eye flickered. His hand, still clasped in hers, gave the slightest squeeze before he looked away, jaw tightening.

“No,” he said, his tone quieter now, the humour drained from it. “Not today.”

Lucaera’s expression gentled, watching him closely.

“I trust Grand Maester Gerardys to lead the lessons in my stead,” Aemond continued. He looked off toward the horizon, where the towers of the Red Keep gave way to the sky. “There is-somewhere I need to be.”

Lucaera didn’t press him. She only nodded, understanding written clearly across her features. “I understand.”

Aemond’s eye returned to her, and the emotion behind it—loss, remembrance, something heavier than time—spoke volumes he couldn’t say aloud.

She reached up and touched his cheek, gently brushing back a strand of silver hair. “Do you want me to come with you?”

Aemond hesitated, then shook his head. “No. I need to go alone.”

Lucaera nodded once more, drawing her hand away slowly. “Then go, my love.”

Aemond took one last glance at the children in the yard—Rhaegar landing a solid strike on Vaelor’s side, Aerys helping Daemon to his feet after a tumble, and Saeryna now leading a charge with a stick as if commanding an army.

He turned back to Lucaera and leaned down, pressing a final kiss to her forehead. Then, without another word, he stepped away, his boots crunching softly in the sand.

She watched him go, her heart aching gently. She knew exactly where he was going.

And why.

Bathed in the warm, flickering light of candles, Aemond knelt in silence before the massive skull of Vhagar.

Her hollow eye sockets stared back at him, empty and vast, and yet still full of memory.

The stone walls of the crypt were silent save for the gentle hiss of wax dripping from the candles around her shrine.

Almost a year had passed, and yet the ache in Aemond’s chest felt as fresh as the day she’d left him.

He had claimed her as a boy of ten in the sands of Driftmark, a lonely child with no dragon of his own, mocked and dismissed.

But Vhagar—had accepted him, the largest and oldest dragon in the world.

She had been his solace, his strength, and his most loyal companion. She had loved him in the way only a dragon could love their rider: completely, fiercely, eternally.

And now, she was gone.

“I still feel you,” he whispered, though it wasn’t entirely true. He used to feel the thunder of her heartbeat through their bond, the ancient power that bound dragon and rider.

Now, there was only silence. Emptiness.

Aemond reached out, placing a hand on the massive curve of bone. He closed his eye and remembered that final day—

She had lain in the grassy meadow beneath the late spring sun, her breath shallow, her body still but for the occasional twitch of her vast tail.

He had known her time was near and had refused to leave her side. His forehead had been pressed against her weathered maw, and her old eyes had looked at him, gentle and knowing.

She had trilled gently, sensing his sorrow, a soft, broken sound from the beast that had once shaken the skies with her roars.

“Emā issare ñuha sȳrje raqiros, kirimvose syt mirre emā gaomagon syt nyke-” (You have been my best friend, thank you for all you have done for me)

His fingers had stroked her ancient scales, the tears slipping silently down his cheek.

“Emā glaestan iā sȳz ābrar, sōvegon dāez ñuha uēpa riña” (You have lived a good life, fly free, my old girl).

Vhagar had exhaled one last time, her head settling with finality upon the grass.

The last remnant of Aegon’s Conquest had finally returned to the skies, perhaps to fly beside Balerion and Meraxes once more.

The bond that had once pulsed within him like a second heartbeat was now only a silence he could not fill.

Aemond had not spoken for days after. He locked himself away, consumed by grief that none could soothe—

Until Saeryna. His sweet little Saeryna.

She had crept quietly into his solar and held his hand, watching the fire with him.

“Vhagar kessa va moriot sagon lēda ao-” she’d whispered (will always be with you).

He had whispered back, brokenly, “Skoros iksin nyke mijegon zirȳla?” (What am I without her?)

Saeryna had crawled into his lap, curled against his chest, and said simply, “My daddy”

That had been the beginning of his healing.

And yet, even now, as he stared at Vhagar’s skull, the pain still lingered—less of a wound, more of a scar.

One that he would carry always.

 “Kesā va moriot sagon isse ñuha prūmia-” (You will always be in my heart).

Aemond stood slowly, brushing off his knees. He took a steadying breath and turned toward the crypt’s exit, his footsteps quiet on the stone.

At the door, he looked back one last time.

“Jaelagon nyke biarves, uēpa riña” (Wish me luck, old girl).

Then he stepped out into the morning light.

He had left the Kingsguard behind by command. This was something he had to do alone.

A lone rider again—only now, there was a sliver of hope that he might not remain one for long.

He took a horse and rode from the Red Keep to the grassy meadow beyond the city’s edge. The earth here was untouched and wild, the sky open, and the wind carried the scent of dragonfire.

In the distance, the great bronze form of Vermithor gleamed under the sun, watching his approach patiently.

Aemond dismounted, his boots crunching against the grass. His eye scanned the clearing—beside Vermithor, curled like a silver coil of smoke, was her.

Silverwing.

The unclaimed she-dragon who once belonged to good Queen Alysanne. She raised her head as he approached, her nostrils flaring, her eyes curious.

He walked slowly, heart pounding, and raised a hand.

“Dohaerās, Silverwing-” he said calmly (Serve).

Her tail lashed at the ground once, then stilled. She studied him. He could feel her wariness, her uncertainty.

“Lykirī,” Aemond murmured (Be calm).

She stepped forward, her breath hot as she pressed her snout against his outstretched hand.

A low trill rumbled from her throat, and something stirred within him—something new.

A whisper of connection. Not the raging fire he had known with Vhagar, but a softer glow, gentle and curious.

A bond, fragile and new, blooming in the emptiness she had left behind.

Silverwing exhaled, and warmth washed over him. Aemond smiled faintly, his gaze drifting to the empty saddle on her back.

Slowly, Silverwing lowered her shoulder in silent invitation.

Aemond took a deep breath, climbed into the saddle, and strapped himself in with careful precision. His fingers tightened around the reins.

“Sōvēs, Silverwing-” (Fly).

There was a beat of hesitation. Then she launched into the sky and Aemond let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding as the wind roared past him.

They soared over King’s Landing, the Red Keep a distant silhouette beneath them, and for the first time in a year, Aemond felt whole again.

Not as he once was—but as someone beginning anew.

They circled the city once before he noticed a carriage approaching the meadow far below. He directed Silverwing to descend, her wings folding with surprising grace as she landed, kicking up dust.

As Aemond dismounted, he placed both hands against her warm scales. “Kirimvose,” he whispered (Thank you).

Silverwing cooed, pressing her snout into his side in affection, and the new bond coiled around his heart like a gentle vine, tender and alive.

The carriage door burst open—and then he was swarmed.

“Daddy!”

“You did it!”

“Well done, father!”

Eight pairs of arms wrapped around him, his children taking turns hugging him, cheering and beaming.

Lucaera stood a few paces away, smiling, her pride unmistakable. Aemond beckoned her, and she crossed the distance to wrap her arms around him, their children pressing close.

“I’m so proud of you,” she whispered against his cheek.

Aemond leaned down and kissed her.

“Ugh, not again!” groaned Vaelor loudly.

“Gross” said Aerys.

“Must you two always kiss when we’re around?” sighed Rhaegar.

“You’re so embarrassing,” Daemon moaned, covering his face.

Aemond laughed—a deep, free sound that filled the meadow. Silverwing answered with a roar of joy, her wings flaring in the golden sunlight.

And for the first time in a long while, Aemond felt light.

The skies were his once more.

But Vhagar’s memory would fly with him, always.

The air in the council chambers was thick with impatience. The great oaken doors remained shut, the flickering torches casting long shadows across the carved stone walls.

Daemon leaned back in his seat, fingers tapping out a slow, rhythmic beat on the table—steady, deliberate, and more than a little annoyed.

Across from him, Rhaenyra exhaled sharply, her sigh full of irritation.

Aegon, slouched in his chair with all the grace of a drunk cat, lazily swirled a goblet of wine. He took another languid sip, eyes fixed on the door with disinterest.

Alicent sat rigidly, hands folded so tightly in her lap they had gone white at the knuckles. Her stare was a blade, aimed directly at the doors, waiting. Fuming.

Luke rested his chin on one hand, the other drumming half-heartedly against the armrest. He looked half-asleep, eyelids drooping from the monotony of waiting.

At the far end of the table, Thaddeus and Isembard Arryn were engrossed in a quiet but intense discussion about the rules of Cyvasse.

“No, I’m telling you, the dragon may move diagonally only after the third rank,” Thaddeus insisted, pointing at an invisible board on the table.

“That’s not in the Essosi codices,” Isembard replied, frowning. “That’s a Reach man variation”

Between them, Grand Maester Gerardys idly fiddled with the links of his chain, the soft metallic clink of silver and steel the only consistent sound in the chamber, his lips moving slightly as he recited something under his breath—likely to keep himself awake.

Then, finally, the doors opened with a ceremonial creak. Every head turned.

“Finally-” Aegon muttered into his goblet.

But it was not Aemond.

A member of the Kingsguard stepped forward and announced, “Prince Rhaegar.”

The murmurs died.

Rhaegar entered with calm precision, his posture regal and deliberate. Tall and lithe for a boy of five and ten, his long silver hair cascading over his shoulders—he was the mirror image of Aemond, and every inch heir to the Iron Throne.

He crossed the room with quiet confidence and reached for the stone ball that marked one’s place on the council. He took the sphere without hesitation and placed it firmly in front of the King’s seat—Aemond’s seat.

Then he sat, spine straight, his violet eyes sharp.

“Apologies for my late arrival,” Rhaegar said, voice smooth but firm. “My father is-indisposed at the moment, so I have been asked to conduct the meeting in his stead.”

Alicent’s voice cut across the chamber like a knife. “The King is indisposed?”

Rhaegar inclined his head respectfully. “Yes, Grandmother.”

Aegon let out a loud snort and lifted his goblet again. “He’s busy fucking-”

Alicent jabbed him in the ribs with surprising sharpness for a woman her age. “Aegon! Mind your tongue”

Rhaegar’s ears turned slightly pink, and he cleared his throat. “As I was saying, Uncle—my father is indisposed—”

“Yeah, yeah. Indisposed,” Aegon said cheerfully, waving a hand. “Tell me, dear nephew, is your mother also indisposed? Or will the Queen be gracing us with her presence?”

Rhaegar shifted slightly in his seat, glancing at Rhaenyra, whose brow arched in intrigue. “No, Uncle. The Queen will not be joining us either.”

Aegon barked a laugh. “See? Told you they’re fucking!”

A quiet ripple of awkwardness passed around the table.

“Uncle,” Rhaegar snapped, his composure cracking for a moment. “If you do not hold your tongue, I shall have it removed.”

The room went quiet.

Aegon narrowed his eyes at Rhaegar, some flicker of real warning in them.

“You are your father’s son,” he muttered darkly.

Rhaegar took a steadying breath, letting the heat fade from his cheeks as he looked around the table at the assembled council.

“What is the order of business for today?” he asked, his voice composed once more.

-Meanwhile-

“Take off your clothes” commanded Aemond, his voice low and stern.

“As you wish Valzȳrys” replied Lucaera as she began undoing the ties on her dress. Her fingers moving agonizingly slow against the crisp silk material, as it slipped from her shoulders she moved to the fastenings on her shift, letting the sheer white material pool at her feet as it slid off her body (Husband).

She stood before him, her cheeks-tinged pink as his singular eye roved over her naked body, his tongue slowly wetting his lips.

The bond between them was thick pulsing with desire and heavy arousal.

“Now lie on the bed” said Aemond as he pulled off his eyepatch and began to remove his own clothes.

Lucaera obliged and moved too slowly recline against the many soft opulent pillows.

“What else do you desire husband” asked Lucaera as she watched Aemond’s naked form calmly sit in the chair that had been placed at the end of the bed.

“Touch your breasts for me” instructed Aemond, his voice low and hypnotic.

Lucaera did as he asked and slowly moved her hands to her breasts, closing her eyes.

“No. Ābrazȳrys, keep your eyes on me” demanded Aemond as he reclined in his seat (Wife).

Watching him intently Lucaera gently cupped her breasts.

Aemond stared at her transfixed, his fingers tightly clutching the wooden arms of the chair.

“Is this pleasing to you, ñuha zaldrīzes?” asked Lucaera as she ran her fingers across slowly her erect nipples (My dragon).

“Very, now keep going ñuha jorrāelagon” replied Aemond hungrily, his cock was hard and weeping as it rested against his stomach (My love).

Aemond was going to ensure that she peaked from his instructions alone and then after that he would fuck her so hard into the mattress, swallowing every one of her screams.

“Touch yourself” said Aemond; his mouth watering as he watched Lucaera’s hand travel down her body.

Her fingers slowly running down her stomach towards her centre.

“Aemond” moaned Lucaera, biting her lip as she slid her fingers along her already wet folds, slowly stroking herself.

Aemond watched as his wife’s fingers began circling her pearl, his fingers twitching with anticipation.

“Open your legs wider-show me”

Lucaera opened her legs and Aemond growled as he watched her fingers teasing her pearl, his scent of leather and ash swathed in arousal.

“A-Aemond” gasped Lucaera.

“Put your fingers inside yourself” said Aemond firmly.

Lucaera readily obeyed and slowly slid two fingers inside her cunny, curling them slightly as she moved her hand back and forth.

“Oh, fuck” moaned Lucaera quietly.

“Are you getting close” asked Aemond; his eyes firmly fixed onto Lucaera’s shaking body.

“Yes. Yes-” cried Lucaera as she began moving her hand faster.

“That’s it ābrazȳrys, peak for me so I can fill you with my cock” replied Aemond, his fingers digging into the wood of the chair (Wife).

Gods, she looked so beautiful, splayed naked on their bed pleasuring herself for him.

“A-Aemond, I’m going to-“ exclaimed Lucaera, her back arching off the bed as she peaked.

Aemond rose from the chair and walked towards the bed, never taking his of Lucaera whose eyes were now screwed shut, her chest heaving, a thin sheen of sweat covering her brow.

Aemond climbed onto the bed, holding himself above Lucaera as he took her hand and placed the two fingers that she’d pleasured herself with into his mouth, expertly swirling his tongue around her wet digits, moaning at the taste of her.

“Hmmm-you taste so delicious my Omega-” growled Aemond.

“Aemond” gasped Lucaera as he then leaned down pressed his nose into her neck, inhaling deeply at her mating mark-his growl of satisfaction reverberating through her.

“I love you so fucking much” whispered Aemond as he reached down and pressed his hard cock to his wife’s warm wet folds.

Lucaera’s eyes fluttered open, and she gasped when Aemond surged forward; her warm wetness enveloping him.

Lucaera’s body trembled under his, her arms and legs clinging to him, never wanting to let go.

“I love you too” moaned Lucaera as Aemond thrust into her, hard, deep, and fast. Holding nothing back as he slammed into her, using no restraint.

Aemond then wrapped his arms tightly around Lucaera’s body and lifted her off the bed, holding her body against the nearest wall as he rutted into her.

“Yes. Don’t stop. Please” begged Lucaera.

Aemond silenced her screams of pleasure with his mouth, his tongue sliding against hers. They were ravishing each other with such ferocity that it could only be rivalled by animals.

Moving together in perfect synchronization; wrapped together as one.

Lucaera clawed at Aemond’s back as he broke their kiss and began to suck her neck, his teeth then sinking into her neck- reopening her mating mark.

“AEMOND” keened Lucaera- her inner Omega purring in delight at her Alpha’s decision to renew their bond.

“My Queen- My wife- MINE” rasped Aemond his tongue lapping up the blood that was dripping down her neck.

“Aemond, oh fuck-“ moaned Lucaera as she was held against the wall with the force and agility of his deep penetrating thrusts.

His hands clasped around the meat of her thighs, never wavering in his aggressive movements.

“You feel so good” growled Aemond, he was close, so close, he could feel the heat shooting across his abdomen, the knot forming at the base of his cock, his body aching for release.

“Knot me, Alpha. Please-oh please-” whined Lucaera.

"God. Yes. Lucy-My Lucy” growled Aemond as he gave a series of deep measured thrusts, his knot slipping inside.

Lucaera’s entire body pulsating with euphoria as she clenched tightly around him, her own teeth sinking into his neck-

Aemond moaned loudly as he exploded, his knot locking them together as his seed spilled deep inside her.

“That was incredible” gasped Lucaera, her tongue slowly licking at Aemond’s neck.

“I-I know-” replied Aemond his chest heaving with exertion.

“Your amazing, do you know that” said Lucaera, leaning back to look Aemond in the eye.

“I-Love you” said Aemond as he reached out and swiped his thumb over her lower lip-

“And I love you-” replied Lucaera as she gently nibbled his thumb.

Aemond chuckled slightly and then wrapped his arms around his wife, moving them to the bed.

“We’ve still got a bit of time whilst we wait out my knot, so let’s enjoy it shall we” said Aemond.

“I like the way you think” replied Lucaera as she snuggled closer to her husband.

The warm glow of late morning poured through the sheer curtains of their bedchamber, casting golden light across the silk sheets.

Aemond lay reclined, one arm behind his head, the other curled protectively around Lucaera as she rested her head on his chest, her fingers idly tracing slow, swirling patterns over his torso.

"Do you think Rhaegar is all right leading the council meeting?" she asked softly, her voice low and thoughtful.

Aemond pressed a tender kiss to her head, his lips brushing against her hair. "I'm sure our son is fine," he murmured.

Lucaera’s hand paused for a moment, then continued its tracing. "In truth, it’s not him I’m worried about. It’s the others. Rhaegar is a boy of five-and-ten. Will they truly accede to any decisions he makes?"

Aemond sighed, his jaw tightening slightly. “Rhaegar is our heir. He is the future of our reign. He sat on my knee during many council meetings when he was a boy. They will agree—or they will face my wrath.”

Lucaera chuckled softly and whispered, “Ñuha nēdenka gēlenka zaldrīzes.” (My fierce silver dragon).

Aemond gave a pleased hum at the title and drew her closer. “Rhaegar’s presence during the council meetings will become a regular occurrence now. He’s five-and-ten, it’s time he becomes more involved in the governance of the realm.”

“I understand, my love,” Lucaera said, voice gentle.

Aemond turned to face her fully, tucking a strand of her dark hair behind her ear. “I just want to prepare him, that’s all. To teach him, to let him have what I did not.”

Lucaera’s hand moved to his cheek, thumb brushing the scar that marred the left side of his face. “I know,” she whispered. “Just don’t put too much pressure on him. Remember—whilst you are King, you are also his father.”

Aemond nodded solemnly. “Mayhaps he’d like to go dragon riding. I could see if Vaelor, Aerys, and Daemon would join us—make a day of it”

Lucaera smiled, eyes dancing. “A suggestion they will happily accept, no doubt. But you’re forgetting someone.”

Aemond groaned and laughed. “Ahh yes my byka sȳndor.” (Little shadow).

Lucaera nodded knowingly. “Saeryna will throw a fit if you don’t take her with you.”

“Will she not be content spending time with her sisters?” Aemond asked.

“You already know the answer to that one, my love.”

Aemond sighed dramatically. “Mayhaps I could pacify her with a new doll or—”

Lucaera placed a finger on his lips, silencing him with a smirk. “You know our youngest daughter is as fierce as any dragon that has ever lived. No number of dolls will soothe her ire if you do not take her and Melusine flying.”

Aemond chuckled. “Melusine. Our daughter was certainly creative when it came to naming her dragon.”

“She named her well-” Lucaera said proudly. “It means female spirit of the water. Quite fitting, given Melusine’s proclivity for fish and other sea faring creatures”

“Hmmm. Much better than Daemon’s choice of name for his dragon.”

“Nagendra is in honour of Caraxes and his serpent-like form,” Lucaera said pointedly.

Aemond huffed. “Not enough that my son is named after your stepfather, but he then names his dragon after that whistling—”

Lucaera silenced him with a kiss.

“Just be glad that all of our children have been blessed with dragons, and that our house has flourished under the reign of King Aemond the Wise.”

Aemond snorted. “Is that what they call me these days? The Wise?”

“A title no doubt given in homage to old King Jaehaerys,” Lucaera said with a soft smile.

Aemond tilted his head, his expression softening. “It is an honour, to be thought worthy.”

“You are a good King,” Lucaera said, her tone suddenly firm and resolute. “The realm has prospered under your rule. The smallfolk are content. The lords-less so, but stuff the moaning cunts.”

Aemond burst into laughter. “Such a filthy mouth my Queen has.”

She grinned playfully. “I do recall my King is rather fond of my—”

Aemond silenced her again with a deep, hungry kiss.

Then he dipped his head, pressing his lips to the soft skin of her neck, nuzzling her reopened mating mark, breathing in the scent of apples and cinnamon—his favourite fragrance in all the world.

“Mine,” he whispered.

“Always,” she replied.

Lucaera sat on a carved stone bench beneath a blooming plum tree, her daughters Rhaella, Vaelys, and Alyssa gathered nearby, embroidering or plucking at petals, while Helaena and her daughter Jaehaera sat across from them, enjoying the peace.

Helaena looked around and asked gently, “Where is Saeryna today?”

Lucaera gave a soft laugh, brushing a lock of hair from Alyssa’s face. “Hovering around Aemond, I expect.”

Helaena smiled knowingly. “My brother is going to have his hands full with that one when she’s a woman grown.”

“You think so?” Lucaera asked with amusement.

Helaena nodded with calm certainty. “A bold maiden, unafraid to speak her mind and the object of many men’s affections.”

Lucaera laughed aloud. “Gods, don’t say that in front of Aemond. He’s very sensitive when it comes to any discussions—or thoughts—of our daughters growing up and finding husbands.”

Helaena’s eyes drifted toward the sky, wistful. “Fathers never like to admit when their daughters are ready to live their own lives. It means they become spectators instead of protectors. Aemond simply wishes to keep his daughters close.”

“I know,” Lucaera replied, her smile faltering. “But one of them is close to presentation and—”

Helaena reached across and took her hand gently. “Do not fear. Rhaella will be fine. As will your other Omega daughters.”

Lucaera searched her face. “How do you know about-?”

“I saw it,” Helaena said dreamily. “All of them beautiful fruits that will grow and flourish.”

Lucaera’s voice dropped. “What else have you seen?”

Helaena’s gaze grew distant, almost otherworldly. “Many things. Some that will never come to pass. No dragons dancing. The skies stay blue instead of turning red. It is the rains that fall—not ash. A realm prospers with life, not death.”

Lucaera’s eyes shimmered. She squeezed Helaena’s hand. “If only my grandsire had realised you were there all along; a dreamer-”

“I do not mourn what was or what could have been,” Helaena said with a soft smile. “I find joy in what is and what will be.”

“And what is that?”

Helaena leaned closer, her voice a whisper. “From your blood, the Promised One will come.”

Lucaera stilled, her breath catching. “What did you just say?”

“The cold and darkness will come,” Helaena murmured, “and she will bring the dawn.”

“In our lifetime?” Lucaera asked breathlessly.

Helaena shook her head. “Your granddaughter, many times over.”

Before more could be said, a shadow swept across the gardens. Lucaera looked up to see Silverwing gliding gracefully across the sky, followed by a majestic procession: Vermithrax, Sapphyre, Abeloth, Nagendra, and fierce little Melusine trailing behind like a silver-tipped arrow.

Helaena smiled, her eyes bright. “’Tis a wonderful thing to see my brother amongst the clouds again.”

Lucaera watched the dragons with pride and sorrow mingling in her chest. “He still grieves deeply for Vhagar.”

“He was a lonely child,” Helaena said softly. “And she was his greatest friend.”

“He once told me,” Lucaera said, “that he never really felt like he fit in the Red Keep. And since Vhagar was too large for the Dragonpit, she didn’t fit anywhere either.”

“They were kindred spirits,” Helaena whispered. “She was always meant for him.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Lucaera said with a fond smile. “She claimed him that night on Driftmark just as much as he claimed her.”

Helaena turned to look at her. “You see things too, you know. Not in the way I do, but you have a way of making sense of the world.”

Lucaera rested her head on Helaena’s shoulder, peaceful—until a sharp scent in the air made her sit up straight.

Peaches and honey.

Her eyes snapped to Rhaella, who was pale, sweating, and looking around in mild panic.

“No,” Lucaera whispered, rising quickly. “Not now. I thought we had more time.”

Rhaella gasped, “Mother—”

“Shhh, sweet girl. You understand what’s happening, don’t you?”

Rhaella nodded tearfully. “I-I’m presenting.”

Lucaera wrapped an arm around her quickly and helped her to stand “Right. We must get you back to your chambers before anyone scents you.”

“I want Aegon-” Rhaella whispered.

“I know you do,” Lucaera said gently. “But your father will go mad if I allow it-”

Rhaella wobbled, and Lucaera steadied her. Helaena stood at once.

“Go,” she said. “I’ll keep an eye on the others and tell Aemond-”

Lucaera nodded, grateful. She removed her shawl and draped it around Rhaella, hoping her own Omega scent would mask the girl’s blooming heat.

They moved swiftly through the Keep, Lucaera nodding politely to bowing lords and ladies. "Your Grace," they greeted—but her eyes were only on her daughter.

Inside the chamber, she dismissed the startled maids at once, pouring cool water on a cloth and pressing it to Rhaella’s brow as the girl moaned.

“It hurts, Mother, m-my stomach, it feels like my insides are being ripped apart.”

“I know, sweet girl. Just breathe,” Lucaera said, kissing her daughter’s hand.

A knock at the door, made them pause briefly before it opened and the scent of leather and ash swirled through the air.

Aemond walked in, slamming the door shut, and quickly locking it. He crossed the room in a flash, kneeling by the chair.

“Father!” Rhaella gasped, clinging to him. The scent of her Alpha Prime father helping to ease her trembling slightly.

Aemond stroked her hair. “It’s going to be alright.”

“She needs help, Aemond,” Lucaera said firmly.

“I know. Mayhaps Gerardys can give her milk of the poppy—”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Aemond’s head snapped up, face twisted in a snarl. “Surely you are not suggesting I allow that runt—”

“I know you don’t like it,” Lucaera said gently, “-but she’s in pain”

Aemond began pacing, his scent sour with fury. Then Rhaella whimpered again, sobbing as another wave of heat wracked her.

 “FUCK!” balled Aemond before he stormed out, the door slamming so hard it rattled on its hinges.

Lucaera helped Rhaella to undress and get into bed, draping her in a thin sheet.

Sometime later, the sounds of a scuffle and muffled voices could be heard before the door crashed open— and Aemond reappeared dragging a dishevelled looking Aegon in by the collar.

“S-Sister? What’s going on—?” Aegon started, but then caught Rhaella’s scent, and his eyes darkened.

“A-Aeg-” gasped Rhaella.

“Aegon is here to help you,” Lucaera told Rhaella, voice soft. “It’s alright, sweet girl. Everything will be alright.”

“R-Rhae-y-you’re- a-a-” stuttered Aegon.

“Yes, she’s an Omega and she-needs you” said Lucaera.

Aemond tightened his grip as he snarled in Aegon’s ear. “If any harm comes to my daughter, I swear you’ll be begging for death-”

“I-I promise,” Aegon choked out. “I won’t hurt her.”

Aemond snarled again, then glanced down when he felt something hard pressed against him—his eye narrowing. “That better not be what I think it is—”

“I can’t help it!” Aegon yelped, face flushing with embarrassment.

Aemond then shoved him away roughly with a look of disgust.

Aegon looked at Rhaella who was reaching for him, but he hesitated, his scent tinged with fear as he turned to look at Aemond- the Alpha Prime’s scent of unbridled rage making him visibly recoil.

“It’s ok Aegon-go to her” whispered Lucaera softly.

Aegon glanced nervously at Aemond one more, before he stumbled towards the bed, taking Rhaella’s outstretched hand, kissing it as he whispered “I’m here-I’m here”

Lucaera then took hold of Aemond, guiding him out of Rhaella’s chambers. “That’s our cue to leave-”

In the corridor, she gave strict orders for Beta guards to bar the hallway. No one was to come anywhere near until she and the King said otherwise.

Lucaera then turned—and saw Aemond with his fingers stuffed in his ears as he glanced awkwardly at Rhaella’s closed chamber door.

She arched a brow. “What are you—oh never mind. Come on.”

In their chambers, Aemond seized a wine jug and drank straight from it.

Lucaera snatched it, poured herself a cup, and downed it too.

“I can’t believe we’re allowing that runt to sully our daughter’s virtue,” Aemond grumbled.

“Like you sullied mine?” Lucaera shot back.

Aemond caught in his hypocrisy frowned “That’s different. We got married.”

“And Rhaella can marry Aegon.”

Aemond huffed, yanking off his weapons belt, and opening the top claps of his jerkin.

“I just thought we’d have more time,” he muttered. “You were older when you presented. And gods, what about Rhaegar?”

“His scent hasn’t changed yet. But I dare say it won’t be long-”

“I’ll keep an eye on him-”

“Rhaella is just the first,” Lucaera said. “We still have three more daughters.”

Aemond groaned and buried his face in her neck. “Don’t remind me.”

Lucaera slowly stroked his silver hair. “We’ll need to announce her presentation soon, and-”

“-Her betrothal to Daemon’s hellspawn,” Aemond growled.

Lucaera smirked. “My brother isn’t that bad.”

“Yes, he is. That boy is a thorn in my side. He’s risen from the depths of the seven hells to ruin my sweet angel”

“Oh, Aemond-”

Lucaera rolled her eyes and leaned into him, flooding his senses with her scent of apples and cinnamon. His anger melted into a heavy sigh as he clutched her tightly.

Peace, for now at least.

The atmosphere in the council chambers was tense with curiosity. Every seat around the long table was filled—Alicent, Aegon, Rhaenyra, Daemon, Luke, Thaddeus, Isembard, and Grand Maester Gerardys—all gathered at the command of the king.

The room buzzed with hushed speculation.

Aemond stood at the head of the table, with Lucaera beside him, her presence calm and composed, though her eyes gave away the weight of what they were about to say.

“I asked you all here today,” Aemond began, his voice steady but tight, “to make an announcement.”

Aegon leaned back in his chair with a groan. “Oh, Seven hells, you’re not having another pup, are you? Surely eight is enough.”

Aemond growled low in his throat, and Lucaera stepped in smoothly before tempers flared.

“No,” she said, offering a pointed look at Aegon. “This announcement is not about us.”

Aemond took a breath. “It’s about our daughter, Rhaella. She-she has presented as an Omega.”

A thick silence blanketed the room for a long beat—then Rhaenyra smiled warmly.

“Wonderful news,” she said. “How is Rhaella doing?”

Aemond and Lucaera exchanged a glance, their expressions laced with hesitation.

“She is well,” Lucaera said carefully. “She has the company of an Alpha, to aid her through her presentation.”

Alicent gasped. “Aemond—how could you allow such a thing? Rhaella’s virtue—”

“Believe me, Mother,” Aemond snapped, “I am well aware of the implications. But she was in pain. I could not—would not—let her suffer.”

Alicent pursed her lips but said nothing. Lucaera gently added, “I understand your concerns, but when an Omega presents, the pain can be unbearable. Only their chosen alpha can soothe them.”

“Chosen alpha?” Rhaenyra echoed.

Lucaera nodded. “Yes. Their bond is forged by scent. For the last six moons, Rhaella has confessed to me there is one Alpha’s scent that she finds most pleasing. The one she cannot be without-”

Isembard leaned forward. “Who is the Alpha?”

Aemond’s entire body tensed. His jaw clenched, and a low growl rumbled from his throat. His scent soured with fury as he gritted out, “Aegon.”

The room exploded in surprised murmurs. All eyes turned to Aegon, who blinked, uncomprehending.

“Wait—what?” he said, raising his hands. “It’s nothing to do with me!”

“Not you,” Lucaera clarified.

Luke's eyes widened in realization. “Our little brother Aegon?”

Lucaera nodded. “Yes. He’s with Rhaella now.”

Rhaenyra let out a quiet hum of understanding. “Now the flowers make sense.”

Lucaera tilted her head. “Flowers?”

Rhaenyra smiled softly. “I’ve caught Aegon picking flowers from the gardens. He said they were for someone, but I never guessed who. I see now that it was Rhaella.”

Lucaera’s face lit up. “He’s been giving her flowers? How lovely.”

Aemond growled louder, and Daemon chuckled.

“I take it the King is displeased with current events?” he said, smug.

Aemond clenched his fists, the Alpha Prime in him bristling. Lucaera quickly stepped in front of him, her calming scent of apples and cinnamon flaring.

“He’s-still adjusting to it,” she said gently.

Daemon smirked. “It’s truly wonderful news. No doubt we’ll soon have a shared grandchild to fawn over-”

That was enough.

With a furious snarl, Aemond moved to strike Daemon—but Lucaera caught him, pulling him to her side.

He faltered for a moment but then leaned down, pressing his nose against her mating mark and inhaled deeply, trying to calm the rage threatening to consume him.

Alicent cleared her throat sharply. “I assume there is to be a wedding?”

Lucaera nodded. “Yes. Once Rhaella’s heat has passed, we’ll begin arrangements.”

Suddenly, Aegon burst into laughter. “I see the apple didn’t fall far from the tree. Didn’t you do the same with my brother?”

Alicent put her hand to her forehead and the Kingsguard stood ready, expecting Aemond to snap.

But it wasn’t Aemond.

With a feral roar, Lucaera lunged forward, crashing into Aegon and sending him sprawling.

Her fists flew, striking every inch she could reach as Aegon yelped, arms raised to protect his face.

“AEMOND!” Alicent shrieked. “STOP HER!”

But Aemond stood there, his arms folded, an expression of immense satisfaction on his face.

“Wait-” he told the Kingsguard who stepped forward.

Daemon laughed aloud, watching with undisguised delight. “Now this is a meeting.”

Rhaenyra, trying not to smile, hurried forward and attempted to drag Lucaera off Aegon—who was shielding his head and shouting, “Alright! Alright!”

Only when Aemond stepped in, grabbing Lucaera by the waist and lifting her off, did she relent.

“Lucy-” he murmured as he pinned her gently but firmly against the wall, “-That’s enough.”

She struggled, still seething. “Did you hear what he—!”

But then she felt his hips against hers, his breath hot against her skin.

“My feisty Omega,” he whispered, his voice low and rich with desire.

Lucaera flushed. “Did you-find that pleasing, Alpha?”

Aemond smirked. “I did. And once this meeting is over, I’ll show you just how pleasing I found it.”

Lucaera’s anger quickly dissolved in a haze of heat.

Aemond pressed a kiss to the corner of her mouth and then released her, turning to the council, expression calm and somewhat controlled.

“Brother,” he said to Aegon, still sprawled on the floor, “-Get up and stop whining.”

Aegon groaned and pulled himself into a chair, muttering curses.

Aemond looked to the others. “Now—if there are no further interruptions, take your seats.”

Aemond paced the length of his chamber, arms folded behind his back. His single eye kept flicking to the door as though willing it to open.

Lucaera watched him quietly from the end of their bed, feeling the tension through their bond like a tightly wound string.

She rose and crossed to him, placing a hand gently on his chest. “It’s going to be alright,” she said softly.

“I—I need to know that my zaldrītsos is safe,” Aemond murmured, voice low, his chest rising and falling beneath her palm (Little dragon).

Lucaera slipped her arms around him and pulled him close. “She will be-”

Aemond exhaled and leaned into her touch, closing his eye.

A knock at the door made him stiffen again.

“Come in,” Lucaera called gently.

The door creaked open, and Rhaella entered, her silver hair gleaming like moonlight. Relief washed over Aemond’s face as he looked upon his daughter.

Lucaera whispered, “Go.”

Aemond stepped forward slowly. “Are you well?”

“I am, Father,” Rhaella replied with a small smile.

But Aemond’s eye caught the mark on her neck—the mating bond. He inhaled sharply and took a step back.

Her scent, once all peaches and honey, now carried the faint undercurrent of her Alpha. He growled low in his throat.

Rhaella took a step forward, her voice quiet but firm. “Nyke iēdrosa aōha zaldrītsos.” (I’m still your little dragon).

Aemond frowned slightly. “Issi ao drējī?” (Are you truly?)

Rhaella smiled. “Va moriot-” (Always).

At that, Aemond's anger melted away, as he pulled her into his arms, holding her tight, stroking the back of her head, like when she was a babe.

It took a moment before he could let her go.

“I wish to see Grand Maester Gerardys,” Rhaella said softly as they pulled apart.

Aemond tensed again. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she replied quickly. “I—I just wish to request moontea.”

Without needing to be told, Lucaera moved to the door and summoned a maid. “Please have Grand Maester Gerardys attend the Kings chambers immediately—and bring moontea.” The maid nodded and hurried off.

When Lucaera turned back, Rhaella was speaking softly. “While I’m thankful to have bonded with my mate. I’m only five-and-ten. I don’t wish to have a pup just yet-”

Aemond nodded. “A wise decision”

Lucaera arched a brow. “And what does Aegon think of all this?”

Aemond snorted. “Like I give a single shit what that little runt thinks.”

Lucaera elbowed him. “I do wish you’d stop calling my brother a runt.”

“He is a runt,” Aemond muttered. “But Rhaella’s made her choice, and I support it.”

“You only support it,” Lucaera said, folding her arms, “-Because you don’t want to be a grandsire.”

“That’s not true,” Aemond replied. Then after a beat: “-Not only because of that.”

“And because you don’t want to share a grandchild with Daemon,” she added, smirking.

“That especially-”

Rhaella smiled. “Aegon supports me. We want to marry and travel a bit before we have children—fly across the Narrow Sea, see the Free Cities. Just be together.”

Aemond softened. “There’s nothing wrong with that. And for what it’s worth. I’m glad Aegon supports you-but don’t you dare tell him”

“He loves me, Father,” Rhaella said. “Just as you love Mother. That’s what I want. So many are not fortunate enough to marry for love, but you two found your way to one another and your love burns as bright as any flame. That is what I hope to have with my Alpha.”

Lucaera stepped forward and cupped her daughter’s face. “And I believe you’ll have it, my sweet girl.”

Aemond reached out and drew Lucaera close, pressing a kiss to her temple. She giggled, nuzzling into him.

Another knock broke the moment, and Grand Maester Gerardys entered with his usual solemnity, a steaming cup in hand.

“Thank you for your haste, Grand Maester,” Aemond said.

Gerardys gave a little bow. “Due to the frequency of your vigorous activities with the Queen, Your Grace, I generally keep some moontea at the ready—unless, of course, you are intending to sire another child. You are both young and still quite—”

“The tea is for me,” Rhaella interrupted hastily, blushing.

Gerardys blinked. “Oh! Apologies, Princess. I merely assumed—”

“It’s fine,” Aemond said, already looking like he wanted to throw himself out the window.

Rhaella took the cup and sipped it, grimacing. Lucaera gave her a knowing look. “You’ll get used to it.”

Gerardys added, “I’d advise you drink moontea after every-coupling, Princess.”

Aemond visibly winced, face twisting like he’d bitten into a lemon.

Lucaera leaned over and muttered, “Oh, grow up.”

Gerardys gave a respectful bow after finishing his quiet assessment. “Do you have any further need of me, Princess?”

Rhaella shifted slightly, her cheeks pink. She leaned in, her voice barely above a whisper. “It-it hurts a little, you know d-down there.”

A moment of stunned silence followed.

Then Aemond grimaced. “All right. I’m going to check on our other children. Yes. That’s what I’m doing. Immediately. Right now-”

He turned and bolted out the door.

Lucaera chuckled, shaking her head. “Apologies, Grand Maester. The King finds such topics-a little delicate.”

Gerardys smiled, unfazed. “Many fathers do, Your Grace. It’s perfectly normal.”

He then turned to Rhaella with gentle professionalism. “Now, Princess, tell me about the discomfort.”

Aemond sat in his armchair, long legs stretched out, one arm curled protectively around little Saeryna, who perched contentedly in his lap.

Her small fingers clutched a well-worn book as he read aloud, his deep voice soothing as the words rolled effortlessly off his tongue.

Across the chamber, Vaelys and Alyssa sat side by side on a cushioned bench, needles flashing in and out of fabric as they sewed—one focused, the other humming quietly under her breath.

At the wide table in the centre, Vaelor hunched over a scrap of parchment, his tongue peeking from between his lips as he drew, utterly engrossed, charcoal dust smudging his fingers.

In one corner, Daemon and Aerys were locked in yet another debate, voices rising in childish indignation.

“Abeloth is faster!” Aerys declared, arms crossed.

Daemon scoffed. “Nagendra is the fastest in all of Westeros!”

“Is not!”

“Is too!”

By the far wall, Rhaegar stood at a bench, methodically cleaning the blade of his sword, the flick of cloth over steel a calm rhythm amidst the noise.

The door creaked open.

Lucaera stepped in, radiant and composed, only to be immediately met with a chorus of eager voices:

“Mother, is it true?”

“Did Rhaella really present as an Omega?”

“Is Uncle Aegon her Alpha now?”

“Hush,” Lucaera said, raising a hand with a fond but firm smile. “One at a time.” Her gaze shifted, catching sight of Rhaegar, still at his post, his jaw set, movements slightly more rigid.

She walked over to him quietly. “Is everything all right, my son?”

Rhaegar gave a tight smile as he wiped his hands with a rag. “I’m fine, Mother. Truly.”

Lucaera cupped his face, her eyes soft. “You’re not upset about your sister’s choice of Alpha?”

He shook his head. “She chose wisely. Aegon is a good Alpha.”

From across the room, Aemond growled low in his throat, not even looking up from the book.

Lucaera chuckled. “Your father is still-adjusting.”

“Oh, I’m aware,” Rhaegar said dryly. “We all are.”

They stood together in companionable silence for a few moments. Then, with a sidelong glance, she spoke gently, “You’ve been quiet of late, Rhaegar, are you sure it isn’t Rhaella?”

Rhaegar’s brow furrowed. “-I’m happy for my sister truly. I-It’s about Laena”

“I’ve noticed you’ve been avoiding her-”

Rhaegar’s jaw twitched. "She’s kind and clever-" He paused, shifting his weight. "-But I don’t feel that way about her. I-I’ve tried mother truly-but this courtship-"

Lucaera tilted her head slightly. "-If it’s not something that you’re comfortable with then we will sort it out-"

Rhaegar exhaled softly. "I just-I hope that Uncle Jace won’t be too disappointed."

"Jace loves his daughter, and he wants her to be happy. If the match isn't right for you, it wouldn’t be right for her either," Lucaera said kindly.

“W-When will you tell him?”

“He’s currently visiting Lord Stark at the moment- so let’s give it some time and then I’ll tell him”

Rhaegar nodded

"You mustn’t worry or despair sweet boy. Your mate will find you—or you will find her—when the time is right”

There was a long pause.

"What if I already have?" Rhaegar asked, his voice quiet but earnest.

Lucaera turned to face him fully now, her gaze searching. "And you're sure?"

Rhaegar nodded, slow but firm. "“It started recently. I I feel drawn to her in a way I’ve never known. It's like—something inside me stirs when she’s near. It’s quiet, but undeniable.”

Lucaera’s expression softened, touched by the vulnerability in her son’s voice. "Who, may I ask?"

Rhaegar’s ears tinged pink as he glanced across the room. Lucaera followed his gaze—straight to Vaelys.

Almost as if sensing his attention, she looked up. Their eyes met. She smiled shyly, her cheeks colouring.

“Oh,” Lucaera breathed, a smile playing on her lips. “Are you sure?”

“More than anything,” Rhaegar whispered. “I can feel it. I know she is only three and ten and I would never—never dishonour her”

Lucaera touched his cheek, thumb brushing gently. “I know you wouldn’t, sweet boy.”

“I will wait,” he said earnestly. “For as long as it takes. I’ll wait for her.”

Lucaera nodded. “A wise decision. But perhaps you might speak to your father when the time is right? A formal betrothal could be arranged. That way, when she turns four and ten, you may begin a prolonged courtship-”

Panic crossed Rhaegar’s face. “But—Father. He was barely able to stomach Rhaella bonding with Aegon. What if he hates me for this?”

Lucaera laughed under her breath. "Your father won’t hate you, Rhaegar. He’s just protective. Especially of his daughters. But you are his son. His heir, he loves you. I'm sure he’ll be fine."

"And if he isn't?"

Lucaera’s smile turned sly, eyes glittering with mischief. "Then I have my own ways of bringing him around."

Rhaegar wrinkled his nose. “I really don’t want to know-”

Lucaera glanced once more at Vaelys, who was now laughing quietly at something Alyssa had said, her face lit with warmth.

Then she turned back to her son, her expression gentle. “She’s a good girl,” she said softly. “Kind, sharp and steady. She’ll make a fine mate, in time.”

Rhaegar smiled, something quiet and hopeful blooming in his eyes. “I think so too.”

Lucaera laughed softly, then crossed to Aemond just as he encouraged Saeryna, “Come now, sweetling. You read this part.”

The little girl read in a halting whisper, her voice unsure. Aemond’s arm tightened around her in encouragement.

When she was done, she scrambled off his lap and padded over to Rhaegar. He lifted her easily onto the table, her bright eyes watching as he resumed cleaning his blade, her endless stream of questions beginning.

Aemond rose quietly and walked to the balcony doors. He pushed them open and stepped out, bracing his hands on the railing as he drew in a long, slow breath.

Lucaera followed, wrapping her arms around him from behind. He turned in her arms and pressed his face into the crook of her neck and inhaling deeply.

“It feels like only yesterday Rhaella was a babe in my arms,” he murmured. “Now she’s a woman grown with an Alpha. I’m not ready to let go-”

Lucaera hesitated for moment deciding it was best to keep her discussion with Rhaegar quiet, at least for now.

“Who said you had to?” Lucaera finally whispered. “Rhaella may have bonded with Aegon, but she still loves you—so very much.”

Aemond raise his head to look at her, voice barely audible. “She does?”

Lucaera smiled, cupping his face. “Of course she does. Her love for you is uncontested. She may have grown, but she still needs her father. She wants you to be proud of her.”

“I am,” Aemond said, a spark of emotion in his eye. “I’m proud of all of our pups-”

Lucaera’s brow arched teasingly. “Just go easy on Aegon. My brother is terrified of you.”

“Good,” Aemond muttered with a smirk.

Lucaera pressed her forehead to his with a sigh. “What am I going to do with you?”

“I could think of several things you could do with me,” Aemond rasped, kissing the corner of her mouth, then along her jaw, his lips warm against her skin.

She giggled. “Oh really?”

Aemond nuzzled into her neck, breath hot. “I want another pup-”

Lucaera stilled. “Did you just say what I think you just said?”

Aemond drew back, nodding slowly. “I know we said eight was enough. And if you don’t wish for another, then I will accept that—but I do. I wish for another-”

Lucaera studied him, then reached up and gently removed his eyepatch. The sapphire gleamed in the light. Her thumb brushed his scar, and she smiled softly.

“Okay-”

Aemond blinked. “O-okay? Are you really saying—?”

“Yes,” Lucaera said, her voice full of warmth. “Let’s have another.”

He laughed and swept her into his arms, spinning her off her feet as he showered her face in kisses.

Lowering her gently, he whispered in awe, “My Queen.”

“My heat should arrive in the next two moons,” Lucaera murmured.

Aemond nodded. “My rut will come then as well.”

“Perfect time to conceive a pup.”

Aemond leaned in, kissing her deeply—and then:

“Seriously?” came a dry voice.

They turned to see Rhaegar leaning in the doorway, arms crossed, smirking.

Lucaera raised a brow. “What’s happened now?”

“Saeryna’s challenged Daemon to a fight-”

Aemond groaned. “Again?”

The distant sound of children bickering carried through the doors.

Aemond turned to go, muttering something under his breath. As he reached the threshold, Lucaera called after him:

“Aemond.”

He paused.

“You wanted another-”

Aemond turned back, smiling softly. “I do-”

He disappeared into the chamber with Rhaegar behind him, the door swinging shut on laughter and chaos.

Lucaera stepped forward onto the balcony, eyes casting over the sprawling city below. The streets bustled with life, the Red Keep calm and steady.

A realm at peace—under the reign of King Aemond.

A sudden roar split the sky.

Lucaera looked up, lips parting as Vermithor soared overhead, bronze scales gleaming like molten metal.

Moments later, Silverwing followed, her melodic trill echoing through the air as the two dragons danced around one another in perfect harmony, high above the Keep.

Lucaera watched, a hand resting lightly over her belly, a faint smile playing at her lips.

FIN

[one-eyedalmond]

𝐎𝐧𝐞-𝐄𝐲𝐞 & 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐫 ║ 3. The Godswood ║ Aemond Targaryen x OC!Aylana Velaryon

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➣ [divider @targaryen-dynasty]

➣ Story Masterlist

Word Count: 3,7k

Synopsis: Aylana Velaryon foresees Aemond Targaryen's fate and assigns herself to alter it.

Chapter Themes & Warnings: POV first person (Aylana's), swearing, angst, mentions of blood & violence, friends to enemies, consumption of alcohol. See story master list for full themes & warnings!

Enjoy the read!

Likes, comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated!

AYLANA

Where love tales start, a maiden stands, Wide-eyed, a caged truth in her hands. A diamond raw, before the strain, Innocence a fragile, sunlit pane.

But what if she, with heart untamed, Loved blood's sharp tang, a death proclaimed? The wolf's raw bite, a searing bliss, His fangs' deep pierce, a fatal kiss?

He, the wolf, with crimson stain, His teeth like steel, a hunter's reign. The world, a feast, laid at his door, And she, the prize he'd hungered for.

The Godswood of the Red Keep was an ethereal sort of place. Sunlight dappled through the verdant canopy, illuminating an effervescent, airy garden overlooking the river. A pale white oak reigned supreme in its centre, stretching its magnificent red crown towards the heavens like grasping fingers. The air was spicy with the scent of flowers. Silverware glinted in the scorching sun, and the food attracted flies. 

The thick wet heat soaked through my dress, melting it to my body like a second skin, and the salt stung in my wound. I was edgy and uncomfortable before our presence had even been noted. Mother and Daemon always made their way through the heat unencumbered, leaving me and my brothers to wilt under the sun’s relentless gaze.

It was never too hot for a Targaryen.

It singled us out, drawing unwanted attention our way as if our perspiration was proof that we weren’t one of them. 

Congruent mingling chatter, birdsong, and the chiming of cups floated around us, settling me into a veil of sereneness. The volcanic island that had been my home for the last four years was a stark and frigid place, leaving little chance for either greenery or birdsong to thrive, and didn’t even have a Godswood. This alteration in environment had proved to be a welcome one. 

But upon our entry, the ebullience was cut short, and the throng fell into an eerie silence. 

Heads swivelled our way. A subdued susurration ensued, and as we navigated the crowd, I felt a thousand eyes upon me, their scrutiny weighing down like a thick suffocating blanket. Piecing together their gossip was of little challenge. The deeper the crowd swallowed me, the clearer it became, like they were chanting it in chorus into my ears. 

She challenged Aemond.

She must have a death wish.

Shouldn’t she have been ripped to pieces by now?

Aemond clearly spared her.

Annoyance ticked beneath my skin, and it took every ounce of my power not to implode in protest right there in front of everyone. The sweet nostalgia of the place I used to call home was now a forgotten memory. Tainted and corrupted. The years of our absence had surely given the Queen ample time to sink her venomous teeth into the courtiers. Each familiar face I went to greet was another face that shunned me. 

I had never felt more unwelcome.

I followed suit behind Daemon, attempting to shield myself behind his broad back, but it was futile. The eyes unravelled me until I feared each one of my transgressions was on display, hot on my skin, as clear as the banners of the great houses. 

Never had I previously disapproved of being the centre of attention. It used to be a glittering crown, but now it was a stifling prison. These people no longer admired me. They wanted to eat me alive. 

My gaze remained locked into Daemon’s back, for I was sure to get picked apart to the bone if I skimmed the vultures around me. 

As Mother made our presence known to her siblings whose union we were celebrating, I couldn’t help but notice the absence of the King. Rumours of his ill health were, from my memory, not unfounded, but I had now begun to question its severity. It made me wonder just how close the succession actually was. 

A loud, obnoxious yawn shattered the silence and snapped me out of my abstraction.

Aegon, sprawling indolently in a chair, had just rudely interrupted my mother in her good wishes. 

Daemon’s grip around Dark Sister tightened in front of me as I took stock of the situation. 

Alicent kicked Aegon in the shin, to which he winced and blinked in rheumy confusion, his eyes widening as if suddenly realizing he was in the presence of people. 

He cleared his throat, “And to you, dear sister. Enjoy-,” he choked on a burp, before clearing his throat a second time, “Enjoy the festivities… at your leisure,” he slurred, waving one hand theatrically in the air before propping his elbow up on the armrest, his chin collapsing in his palm. 

I sawed my bottom lip between my teeth, fighting down the giggle bubbling in my chest. He was drunk, and it was only an hour past noon. 

My gaze flicked to Helaena who seemed present in body only. Her eyes stared absently into the distance, and her frame was turned away as if she did not wish to be there. But her brows, knotted in a tortured expression, told me she was at least aware of her brother’s intoxicated disposition. Something told me that she had endured far worse. 

The Hand stood protectively at her side, eyeing Daemon’s fingers caressing Dark Sister.

Alicent looked to the sky, presumably asking the Mother and the Crone for nurturing and guidance. 

My brothers and Rhaena twisted uncomfortably beside me, casting furtive glances at each other.

As a matter of fact, the entire throng crackled with tension, like electricity in the air before a lightning storm, each party eyeing the other, awaiting the source of the coming strike. 

I was biting the insides of my cheeks, scraping my nails against my palms, my stomach verging on turning inside out from my stifled laughter. None of this was funny, but I couldn’t help myself. It was the only way in which I could seem to deal with these types of situations. An unfortunate affliction, to be sure, but I preferred it over the anxious one that appeared to grip most people. At least Aegon’s impertinence had diverted the court’s attention so that my breathing could come easier. 

But a prickle of awareness from being watched still gnawed at me, sharp and beckoning. 

A warm rush of recognition ran down my spine as I met an intense gaze – one eye, cold and relentless, but carrying more weight than all the dozen pairs prior put together. It wiped the grin right off my face. 

Contempt pulsed hot and heavy in my chest; the last traces of my amusement stifled like the flame of a dying candle. Amid the silent spat that was seemingly happening between the rest of them, Aemond and I became immersed in our own. We stared at each other, the tense scene simmering around us, relegating to obscurity. 

He was taller than I’d previously observed, donning all black leather, save the dragon-shaped silver buckles fastened up his midsection to the high collar clasping around his neck. 

It was obvious that the heat was insignificant to him.

Dragons prefer heat. 

His jaw was sharper than Valyrian steel, and his mouth was set in a sort of perpetual sneer that hollowed his cheeks. Not a nasty sneer, but rather an amused one, as if all the rest of us were quite foolish and he could tell some good jibes on us if he wished. 

A subtle glow of sinister glee had come alight in his eye during our ocular joust. Like he was imagining ways of how to torture me. Or like he carried some clandestine knowledge unbeknownst to me. It was difficult to tell the difference. Either way, he looked like he could simply snap his fingers and my whole world would come crumbling down around me. 

An infantile nerve tugged at me, one of which I knew I shouldn’t indulge. But as with all of my other impulses… I just couldn’t help myself. 

I made a face at him, complete with tongue - pointing it at him like a petulant child, and his expression shuttered, a muscle in his jaw tightening. 

My face straightened, a dry huff of amusement leaving my nose. I averted my gaze, needing to abstain from looking at him altogether, or else mirth would consume me. An elbow nudged my arm, and I turned to meet Rhaena’s stern expression, mouthing the words Stop it. 

I needed to. This was serious business. But remnants of glee poked at me, my mouth twitching with forced resolve. I looked up to find Aemond’s eye remaining on me, steady and unyielding, promising sharp retaliation. 

“Thank you, brother,” Mother’s voice broke the silence, her lilt calm and composed, as if Aegon’s obvious sign of discourtesy were of no consequence, “Might I acquire as to why the King has not yet joined the celebrations?”

Alicent stepped forward, relieving Aegon of his duty to respond. Though, he was hardly capable. And the question had not been aimed at him anyway.

“I might acquire as to the rumours that have been spreading around the castle this morning,” Alicent demanded, her hands stacked beneath her ribs. 

My spine became steel, my mirth doused once and for all. 

“What is this I hear? A savage attack carried out against my son… again.” Her last word pitched lower, swathed in lethal warning and an undercurrent of tortured reminiscence. “By your daughter, no less.” Her eyes tore from my mother and fell on me, glaring daggers. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

I swallowed, heat blossoming on my cheeks. 

I had expected the matter to be brought up sooner or later, but I was not prepared to be confronted so ruthlessly. In front of all these people. Supposed it was just as she’d planned it. Humiliation was her creed.

Words of an extemporized apology began forming on my lips, when Mother grabbed my arm, a vice speaking of protection and a command of silence. 

“It is not as they say,” Mother announced, as if to the entire throng. “It was an accident-.”

“Oh, another accident, was it?” Alicent interjected, venom seeping into her voice, her lips curling. “Is this the sort of excuse you will make for all of your children? Perhaps soon they will believe murder to be an accident too.”

Mother scoffed. “Aylana’s intentions were hardly of bloodlust. This was merely the consequence of two dragon riders being a bit too reckless with their beasts. Purely that.”

“So now you’re attributing blame on my son for this façade?” 

“It’s all right, Mother.” 

A voice, the stroke of velvet and ice, cut the quarrel between the Princess and the Queen. It set my stomach churning, bile bubbling up the back of my throat. Aemond had uttered the three placating words to Alicent – not very loudly might I add – yet the entire throng stood to attention, a steady chill coursing through us in the dead heat of summer. Aemond’s eye was on me though, his expression trained into a blank mask. He held the court’s attention and the power to steer the course of the narrative in the palm of his hand. 

I’m going to make you wish you and your pretender menage never set foot in this city again.

Adrenaline exploded through my veins.

I braced myself for his coming defamation, sharpening my tongue to belittle him right back. I would not go down without a fight.

“My sister speaks the truth,” he drawled, never training his eye off me.

What?

“What?” Alicent frowned up at him. 

Mother cast me a look, but I was too focused on catching the words coming out of Aemond’s mouth as soon as he’d uttered them. 

He nodded gently. “It was my fault. I initiated a game of tag with my niece whom I’ve not seen in ages. I see now that it’s caused quite a stir. It was foolish of me.”

What the fuck was this? 

I’d known him for the greater part of my life, but the last four years of his was a mystery to me. Yet, this felt completely out of character. Words like this simply weren’t uttered by this man, and the guarded look twisting Ser Otto’s features validated my conjecture. 

Unease danced beneath my skin to a foreboding tune.  

I scavenged Aemond’s features with my eyes, searching for any quirk of his mouth, any devious crinkle of his eye that might reveal an ulterior motive for his intervention in my favour. But his countenance was unreadable. Still as a windless sea. I guessed Alicent was occupied with a similar challenge because she was just glaring at him in wide-eyed confusion, unsure of who exactly to rebuke after this declaration. 

Aemond’s resolve was more frightening than if a smug grin had been curving his lips, and a single unnerving realization was starting to dawn on me: This would not bode well for me. 

“Aylana.” My throat constricted when he spoke my name, sounding more like a threat on his tongue than a word used to address me. “Will you forgive me?” he asked, his voice a honeyed drawl, his gaze holding mine with unbridled conviction. 

My scar burned hot on my brow. 

He had stated it as a question, yet his tone brooked no argument. Mother’s grip tightened around my arm. 

I considered ripping myself away. To announce to everyone here that the fault, in fact, was mine. To make them hate me, and shun me because at least then, I wouldn’t be teetering on the precipice of selling my soul to a demon – that was the only way I could describe the feeling consuming me at that moment.

But I couldn’t do that to my mother. She was relying on me to keep the peace. To make any sacrifice necessary to prevent any further doubt spreading of our claim to the throne. Whatever Aemond’s intentions, I would undoubtedly soon find out. 

I forced a smile to my lips and a silken lilt to my tone, playing along. “Of course, uncle,” I said. 

Aemond tipped his chin up.��

“Consider it forgotten,” I declared. The incongruent feeling rose higher like a building wave of nausea. 

Being more dishevelled by the situation than anyone else, Alicent took another measured step forward, blocking Aemond out of view, as if attempting to make us all forget this ever happened, and cleared her throat. 

“The King has been up day and night readying the Keep for his children’s nuptials. He’s in his chambers having a well-deserved rest,” said Alicent, “He will join us for the tourney on the morrow.”

“I would like to see my brother,” Daemon announced curtly, with a sense of finality in his voice. “And say what you will, Alicent, but the King has not retired to his chambers on a day of celebration in his life. No matter how…,” he cast a look of scrutinizing contempt around the gardens, “…dull.”

“Causing much grief to both of us, he is not the same man as you remember,” said Alicent ominously, ignoring the Prince’s indisputable insult.

“A fact hardly attributable to your efforts, I’d wager?”

“Certainly not,” Alicent countered.

Daemon huffed derisively. 

Their conversation wove into a constant backdrop to my thoughts, as my gaze still fixed on Aemond. My eyes had never left him so that absolutely no crack in his façade would’ve escaped my notice. And indeed, I’d watched him slowly alter, morphing into something more sinister, and dark – something more himself. A predatory gleam had gradually lit his features. The corners of his mouth were no longer curled into that of rye amusement. His head was canted to one side, a cold, calculating glint shone in his eye, and his nostrils flared as if he were smelling blood. 

A shiver chased up my spine while I regarded him. Of all the weapons he’d ever taken up against me, this one was undoubtedly the most lethal. In any other circumstances, I would’ve struck my tongue at him again or casually presented him with a low-held fig. But the truth of the matter was that I was absolutely terrified to do so. 

Daemon laughed; simply, and dismissively. “We shall return shortly,” he said, casting half a reassuring look at me, my brothers, and Rhaena, before interlocking his fingers with Mother’s and ambled back into the Keep.

A raw panic gripped me as I watched them vanish, their absence leaving me bare and vulnerable to the court’s scrutiny – to Aemond’s silent execution. 

Alicent brushed past me too, her mien bristled. “Enjoy the festivities,” she said absently, almost rehearsed, and followed suit into the castle. Heleana retreated, as if finally dismissed, into a corner with her grandfather in heel, and what was left was a semiconscious Aegon, his head still propped in his hand, snoring loudly. And Aemond… His eye flickered with dark enjoyment as he watched me falter. 

“Come on.” Rhaena tugged on my sleeve and tipped her head toward a refreshment table. “Let’s get something to drink,” she said. 

I hesitated, my legs like hewn stone, too anxious to move at first beneath Aemond’s chilling leer, like one false move would trigger him to lunge at me with full force. Relief washed over me when Rhaena locked her arm with mine and pulled me along. Bodies flickered by me. Shoulders clashed and feet were accidentally stepped on in passing, but once I emerged from the crowd, I filled my lungs with a gasp, like I’d been beneath water for too long. 

I vacantly regarded the assortment of foods lining the table from which Rhaena and my brothers plucked eagerly. Lemon cake, apple cake, cream cake, candied almonds, jellies, dates, figs, pomegranate… I loved pomegranate. The vibrant, ruby-red orb was split open on a silver dish, its glistening seeds within the ivory husk making my mouth water. I considered picking up a wedge but resisted at the thought of the fruit’s bloodied stain on my fingers. I’d have the servants deliver some to my room later. I settled for some walnuts and candied almonds, the earthy bitterness mixing with the sweetness working up a proper hunger in my stomach. 

“What was that all about?” Jace’s inquiry came from my left. 

I glanced his way, noting three pairs of curious eyes awaiting my explanation. 

“What was what?” I said, feigning ignorance, placing another candied almond on my tongue. I’d barely had any time to process whatever it was that had just transpired, and I certainly wasn’t sure I’d dare speak of its significance with anyone at present. 

Jace scoffed. “That little charade back there.” He turned to me. “We all saw what happened. Half of King’s Landing did. Why is he altering the story?”

“Shh!” I chided sharply, casting my brother a look of pure venom.

Jace’s mouth tightened into a line, and he peered for prying eyes over his shoulder. Then, he dipped his head, leaning closer from down the line of Luke and Rhaena.

“Do you not find it strange?” he whispered. 

I picked up a decanter containing a liquid as dark as blood and sniffed its contents. Deeming it suitable enough for consumption, I filled a goblet. A sour and bold flavour filled my mouth as I took a sip. It burned pleasantly as it crept down my throat and left a lingering bitterness at the back of my tongue. 

“Is this Dornish?” I asked, gazing into the cup as if its origins were written in the tannins. 

“That Aemond, of all people, would find it in his heart to defend you after what you did. Against his mother. Against an entire court of people who now hate us. Why did you agree with him anyway?” Jace’s voice jumped and dipped where he occasionally forgot that he was supposed to whisper. 

“Must be Dornish,” I said, remaining on the subject of the wine, a cryptic attempt to make him change the subject. 

“I don’t fucking know!” he hissed, before coming around to stand next to me. “Listen, do you want me to be honest with you?”

My chin turned up, arranging my lips into a pondering pout while my eyes continued to travel over the refreshments. “Not really,” I sighed, collecting a handful of grapes. 

“Whether we like it or not, we’re on their territory now. And that means we eat out of their hand,” Jace began to explain, annoyance flickering in his eyes as he watched me eating the grapes out of my hand, clearly ruining his clever euphemism. “Your lapse in putting bounds on your impulses has put all of us in danger.” 

“He was just being nice. Now, drop it,” I retorted, building up a detestation for his nagging. 

Jace narrowed his eyes at me, a wave of incredulity sweeping over his features. “Nice? You know better than anyone that nice is a concept beyond his comprehension.”

“You only say that because you’re afraid of him. I am not.” That was a lie. But how would Jace be able to tell the difference? 

“I’m not afraid of him either,” he muttered, his brows knotting together. “I have a bad feeling about this. You shouldn’t have done what you did. And you certainly shouldn’t have allowed him to alter its unfolding-.”

“What did you expect me to do, Jace?” I snapped, a bit too loudly, and Rhaena’s placating hand found my shoulder. “To interject? To say, ‘No, my uncle is lying, I actually did attack him. But don’t worry, because it was purely out of jest. Not like the last time when my brothers took his eye’,” I rasped, watching Jace’s expression turn cold, a shadow of guilt passing through his eyes. “This is a better outcome than we could’ve hoped for. So be fucking grateful.”

Jace’s jaw clenched, his lips plumping into a brooding pout, telling me that he would at last give up picking at my wounds. 

“Don’t worry, Jace,” I said reassuringly, picking up the goblet anew, turning my back to the refreshment table. “Of whatever punishment the Greens would want us to suffer, be sure that I would be the sole receiver.”

I headed out into the ocean of bodies, sipping eagerly at the strongwine, planning to dull the scorching premonition at the forefront of my brain. 

That Aemond’s favour would be a bargain sealed with a cruel price. 

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[one-eyedalmond]

𝐎𝐧𝐞-𝐄𝐲𝐞 & 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐫 ║ 2. Childhood Kingdom ║ Aemond Targaryen x OC!Aylana Velaryon

➣ Masterlist | Add yourself to my taglist | Ao3 | Ko-Fi | Playlist

➣ [divider @targaryen-dynasty]

➣ Story Masterlist

Word Count: 3,1k

Synopsis: Aylana Velaryon foresees Aemond Targaryen's fate and assigns herself to alter it.

Chapter Themes & Warnings: POV first person (Aylana's), swearing, angst, mentions of blood & violence, friends to enemies, mother-daughter relationship. See story master list for full themes & warnings!

Enjoy the read!

Likes, comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated!

AYLANA

Childhood is a kingdom gleaming over the horizon, a faraway sunset. You reach and grasp for faint little lights, golden and blue and red.

Your hands are made of smoke; passing through a world of gold. Sapphires tumbling into white sands. You, at the middle of it all, waiting.

Your childhood home possesses a different sort of nostalgia. It will always hold a piece of you, a version of who you once were. Reminiscence is mixed into the mortar. Its very air exudes memories that you thought long ago buried. Its edifice takes on the shape of your past - it’s almost tangible. It’s riveting.

King’s Landing held that sort of sentiment for me. When the city skyline emerged from the sea, I was a child once more, inching ever closer on the back of Syrax. Mother always used to bring me along, and I was welcomed home with an embrace. 

This time it was with a blade to my throat. The cold ruthless edge biting my skin, and a piercing blue eye staring down at me like a hawk watching its prey. Ire licked around the edges like flame on water. One eye – cold and relentless. The other patched up behind leather. Reminding me of my failings. And during that breathless moment, all I could feel was defeat. 

I hadn’t ascertained how I thought I might find him after all these years. I just knew that it wasn’t like this. Only a fool wouldn’t have presumed that he too had changed.

He was no longer the quiet, sensitive boy that I grew up with. One that would chase me around the castle and indulge my silly little ideas like swapping the milk for vinegar in the kitchens, or smearing honey on the door handles. 

He was a man. Dangerous and unforgiving. Rather, he was just the way I’d left him – tyrannical, with a weapon of steel instead of stone. His depravity had been fed like water into drought-stricken land. And strangely enough, I could not blame him. 

What was one to do at the loss of half one’s world, if not seclude to darkness?

But he was more than I would’ve welcomed in his circumstances. He was cruel. He was vindictive. Granted I hadpushed his buttons, and I had perhaps taken it a bit too far with Nymax. But I was angry. I was betrayed. A part of me wanted to see what he’d do. But behind that eye was nothing indicating regret or even the slightest acknowledgment that we had once been friends. Instead, I felt like a stranger, as significant as a leaf blowing in the wind. 

And how he’d looked at me… Like I was no more than a beggar on the Street of Silk. With his single eye like a transparent blue agate marble. And that deep scar stretching out beneath the leather like a disease… It plagued my mind. 

Word of the one-eyed Targaryen boy had surely spread like wildfire throughout the Seven Kingdoms, but this was the first time I’d seen it for myself, and all I could think of was to reach up and let my fingers graze across it as if my touch would turn back time.

My goading had reaped no fruit. Instead, it had turned to ash in my mouth. Bastard, he’d called me. My gut twisted with a wave of nausea. I’d heard the slight all my life. But from him alone, it stung more than a thousand whispers. It was a brutal testament to whatever monster had taken my friend’s place. He was no longer an Aemond who wanted to be touched. No longer an Aemond that smiled, except in a sadistic, taunting manner. No longer an Aemond that needed me for comfort, or that I needed to protect from his relentless subjugates. Like Ser Harwin and Ser Laenor, the Stranger had claimed him, and assuming his form was a malevolent and vengeful wraith. 

Unlike many, I had not pitied him but rather respected the power that he had stepped into - claiming Vhagar as his own. The power I knew deep down he had always wished for. But the shaping of his power had seemingly shattered the last shreds of mine. 

No dream had come to me in years. 

Perhaps it was the blow to my head, or perhaps our life at Dragonstone was so uneventful and humdrum that there was no scope for the imagination. 

Perhaps my auguries were imagined. Though the dream… no, the nightmare, that had come to me at Driftmark all those years ago, spoke to the contrary, filling my mind like a noxious fume: Aemond… writhing in pain, and a flock of maesters tending to him like a violent storm. Blood poured from him in lethal volumes, but as I looked him over, his body was intact. Blood was still gushing down, staining his hands that applied pressure, and as the maesters forced them away, I screamed. Aemond was crying blood. A deep, vertical gash split the left side of his face from cheekbone to forehead. His bone gaped white through the crimson like pulp, and all the layers of his eye had been slashed down to the retina. The pigments of his eye were leaking into the structures and mingled with the blood. He was howling in pain…

Moments later, I had stepped between my brother and the deadly promise of the boulder in Aemond’s hand. And then, everything went black…

It wasn’t until I’d awoken days later on a ship back to King’s Landing that I’d been told of my uncle’s brutal fate. 

My mind had been quiet since. 

Whatever the reason, I do believe I’ve been better for it. My dreams had never wrought a thing but the recipe for melancholia. 

As a child, I had hoped that the life of a Dreamer would’ve granted me the freedom I’d always wished for. 

Daenys Targaryen had a powerful foreboding, and alerting her father, Lord Aenar Targaryen, saved the entirety of our house from the Doom of Valyria. She was charged with a greater purpose, besides that of her inheritance. 

My own dreams however, were nothing but misgivings – a feeling pitting my stomach that occasionally came to pass. Just the premonitions of a stupid girl with too wild an imagination. Or so I’d been told. Regardless, nothing could’ve prevented the tragedies that followed.

Whatever the future had in store, I had decided that I preferred not knowing.

Even though the people had changed, the castle remained quite the same, ever flaunting its extravagance and wealth of the Targaryens in tapestries, ornaments, and gold. 

One thing that certainly had not changed was the stench. The pungent smell of vomit, urine, and feces gusted into my chambers through the balcony where I found myself gagging, considering which death would be more pleasant – suffocation or heat stroke. 

The summer had been torturous. The heat hovered in the air, thick and sticky, and transformed the fetidness into something more tangible. And what little wind stirred, it did little to cool me.

How did I ever survive in this place?

I fidgeted with my dress in the mirror donning the Targaryen colors, and although I myself had picked it out, I was at present sincerely regretting my decision. The fabric was beautiful and the stitching intricate, soaking up my sweat until the garment weighed twice as heavy. The only piece of the design that offered me even the slightest reprieve was the neckline that wrapped well beneath my collarbones and let the breeze whisper across my neck. 

My gaze drifted to the angry score that decorated my throat like a ruby necklace. I caressed it with my fingers, letting out a restrained hiss. It would leave a scar… 

Vexation itched beneath my skin.

If another damned scar got painted on my body by that eunuch, I would start resembling one of his training dummies out in the yard. 

The memory of his rough fingers digging into my cheeks swam up before me, pulsing hot like a bruise. His presence had been overwhelming. There had been so much of him at once, and the reminiscence of how he used to look culminated in a shock to my system, like being doused in iced water. The scent of leather, wood smoke, and citrus consumed me. The intensity of his eye on me had been so blinding that I could hardly stand to look at him, like gazing straight into the scorching sun. And his tongue… remaining idle at first but then jabbed at me like a venomous snake. 

Hatred tasted acidic in my mouth when I recalled what he’d said to me. I’m going to make you wish you and your pretender menage never set foot in this city again. 

A cold shiver skittered down my spine when I tried to imagine what he’d be capable of to make these words stand ground. 

“Ayla!”

I jolted; my mother’s entrance having completely eluded me in the bowels of my thoughts. When I turned to face her, she was a flurry of distress and agitation, one hand clutching her swollen belly, wild eyes piercing me.

“What were you thinking?! Gods, how could you be so reckless? The entire city is already speaking of it. That you attacked Aemond and Vhagar with your dragon, and that Vhagar ripped you to shreds!” Mother declared, storming towards me.

Oh my. Causing a scandal before I’d even arrived. Gods had I missed this.

I scoffed, glancing out of the open balcony as if I’d expected to catch the culprit of this gossip. “Well, they’re lying. As you can see,” I said, gesturing up and down my intact frame. 

To be fair, I hadn't actually anticipated every dockworker and merchant in King’s Landing to witness my small aerial taunt. But the fact that they would think Aemond could actually take me down was just insulting.

Mother stepped closer, her eyes narrowing at me. “I saw you attacking him.”

“But I didn’t attack him!” I countered, rolling my eyes. “I merely… tested his mettle a bit.”

“I doubt he saw it that way,” Mother hissed, raising an eyebrow at me, her eyes briefly dropping to my neck.

I swallowed, feeling the phantom of Aemond’s blade against my skin. 

He had for a fact not seen it that way.

Ugh, why did they all have to be so dramatic?

“Oh, Alicent is going to be furious.” Mother exhaled despondently, cupping her face in her hand as she paced the room.

A steady current of regret diluted my pretension. The last thing I wanted was to stir up any more animosity between the two of them. Nor put any unnecessary strain on my mother in her most delicate condition. I admitted I must’ve miscalculated the entire situation. Tugging at a friendship that died long ago. But I refused to believe that a simple amnesty wouldn’t be able to solve this. 

“I’ll… I’ll apologize to him. Publicly.” My jaw clenched, dreading the idea of begging for his forgiveness. But I cherished my mother more than I despised him. 

“It doesn’t matter now, don’t you see that? If Alicent hears tale of this – that you made a strike on her son and his dragon, she will see to it that she has her revenge.” Mother looked me dead in the eye, menace rimming them like a she-wolf ready to pounce. As she approached me again, her voice dropped to a low hush. “You know what she wants.”

“But as of yet, she hasn’t succeeded. Grandsire stands between her and her delusions.”

“That doesn't grant us leave to poke the bear. And…” Mother hesitated, an anxious frown crowning her features, “Viserys won’t be around forever.” A distant look clouded her gaze like she was contemplating the fact. I took her hand in a silent comfort. 

But once she recovered, her aggravation burned hot again. “Four years we’ve been absent, and you take the very first opportunity to risk our inheritance on some folly attempt of revenge. I thought you knew better than this.”

She was right. I had been reckless. Selfish. Not even entirely certain of why I’d done it in the first place. It hadn’t had anything to do with seeking revenge though. I wasn’t holding any grudge towards him… 

Actually, that wasn’t entirely true. I was still angry at him for bashing my head in. But my actions had not been an attempt of retribution. I already believed he’d paid for what he’d done. With no intervention from myself. It was rather that I couldn’t resist the urge to vex him. In which I had succeeded. And was ill-received. 

Like I said – me misjudging the situation.

If the Greens were to decide to take action against me, Alicent was certainly the least of my worries.

“I’m sorry,” I said, twisting the golden ring in the likeness of a dragon guarding a Tahitian pearl around my finger. “It won’t happen again.”

Mother softened, collecting my hands in hers to stop my fidgeting. 

“We’re to gather in the Godswood in an hour. You’ll allow Daemon and I to handle it from here.”

I nodded, relief that I wouldn’t need deign make any apologies flooding me. 

“And is this,” she said, cupping a hand around my crimson wound, “Something you’d wish to tell me about?” The tinge of maternal worry penetrated her voice as she exchanged a single look with her maid Elinda, who curtsied to a silent command and left to fetch something. I had always found their bond most fascinating. 

I knew Mother’s choice of returning to King’s Landing had not been an easy one. Our return would surely unravel countless memories and stir dormant grudges never forgotten. Was I to tell her that it had already begun? What good would that do?

I covered the laceration, still raw and pulsing.

“Nymax caught her thorn in me as I climbed off,” I said tersely, still feeling the cool edge of Aemond’s sword biting into my flesh, juxtaposing his warm fingers around the back of my neck. 

She studied me for a moment, before taking the damp cloth from Elinda and began to fab away the dried blood. The cool aftermath of the water’s touch was a welcome exchange. 

We stood there, in silence, feeling the reminiscence of the room, the spirit of our past echoing between the walls. I suddenly felt an overwhelming grief choking me, like something crawled up my stomach and lodged in my throat. Ser Harwin used to push open the doors and tread inside, his gold cloak flowing around his sword hand with indisputable authority, and he would announce the request for our presence, or that Nymax needed feeding. But I had come to understand that the latter was just an excuse to speak to Mother alone.

I gulped down the lump and fought back tears.

Everything had changed. 

Mother dropped the cloth back into the basin and I turned to the mirror dismissively, pulling at my dress absentmindedly. 

“It’s so fucking hot in here,” I huffed, wiping at my face with my hands.

“Are you certain?” 

“That it’s hot in here? I’m pretty fucking sure,” I quipped. 

“About your cut,” she emphasized. “And please stop swearing so much. It does not befit a future Queen.” I caught Mother’s eyes in the reflection. They were stern with an ephemeral softness at the rim, as only her eyes could. She wanted me to confess. To convey his name so that she might be granted some leverage in the coming confrontations. But I was never one to admit defeat. Nor was I a rat. 

If I wanted him reprimanded, I would put myself to the task.

I stretched my neck and forced a convincing resolve into my features. “Yes,” I told her, and she considered me for a moment, silence stretching as she looked beyond my eyes. Until she nodded what I believed was approval. 

“If anyone asks, then that’s what you’ll tell them,” she said. A golden torc emblazoned with Valyrian glyphs materialized in her grasp. “I thought you could wear this today. And considering the circumstances, I believe it would be perfect,” she said, dressing my wound in gold until the angry red was only barely visible. She turned me around to face her. 

A big sigh escaped her lips, her eyes coming alive with love as she took my face in her hands.

“You have grown into such a beautiful, intelligent woman, Ayla,” she said tenderly, rubbing my cheeks between her thumbs. “And though I would like to take all the credit, we both know part of it lies elsewhere. So, I’m aware that what I’m about to say might already be common knowledge to you. But as your mother, I must tell you anyway. No one at court is to be trusted. Do not cede to flattery and do not allow your temper to get the better of you. Here, your weaknesses will be routed and used to destroy you.” Vehemence laced her voice, and I watched a rueful glint flicker in her eyes when she let her thumb brush across my split eyebrow. “If anything happens, know that you have me, Daemon, your brothers, and Ser Laurent to protect you.”

I don’t need protection.

“Yes, mother,” I said placatingly. She was worried, and I could not find it in my heart to make any snide remarks. 

She let out a sigh that pulled the tension out of her fingertips, like a bowstring relaxing after being drawn back, readying to release the arrow. She took to washing my skin and brushing out the snags in my hair from my leaking salt. Preparing me to look perfect. Though, I never felt it. My hair had always been too dark and meandering, my skin too olive, and my spirit too wild. Occasionally, I felt like an imposter. Like a crow among peacocks. I was aware of what people were saying about me, and for the longest time, I’d been enraged by it, the whispers rendering me incapable of thinking of anything else. But ever since I’d claimed my dragon, all of their impudence faded into insignificance. 

I was as much of a Targaryen as any of them. Perhaps not pumping the amount of royal blood as Aegon the Conqueror, but pumping royal blood all the same. And I’d come to terms with that. 

I was the daughter of Rhaenyra Targaryen, and I would eventually ascend the Iron-fucking-Throne. 

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[one-eyedalmond]

Watercress - Chapter 5

Warnings: She/her pronouns, graphic descriptions of blood and gore, grief, loss, depression, suicidal ideation, pining, fighting, yearning.

Pairings: Aemond x She/Her

Summary: Raised in the Riverlands, near the shadow of Harrenhal, her life was one of endless toil and quiet resilience. Every day was the same—scraping together food, tending to the ill, and surviving the harsh realities of a land marked by struggle. But when war came, it brought horrors beyond anything she could have imagined. The skies blazed with fury, the waters of the Gods Eye churned with the echoes of battle, and then—just as suddenly as it began—the world grew eerily quiet. She believed the worst was over. That was, until a fateful discovery in the woods shattered her fragile peace and set her on a path she never could have foreseen.

Words Count: 9k oops

Notes: Hello my angels, it's me again, your resident yearner. Thanks again for all your kind words, I'm so glad you're all enjoying this! <3

The energy in the cottage had changed. Shifted into something thicker, more palpable. And although Aemond hadn’t stopped his snarky comments, they had become fewer and farther between. He no longer snapped at her when she checked his dressings, or handed him food. It was almost as if he had grown accustomed to their new and strange routine, and Gods was she thankful for it.

It was exhausting to constantly be on guard around him, be ready for his sharp words and narrowed eye. Add to this that she still slept on the floor and tended to those coming to her, her resolve was growing so thin that she genuinely considered slipping him milk of the poppy to quiet and subdue him. But she had ruled that it would be more hassle than it’s worth. 

The cottage was small, but no longer suffocating. Aemond had long since grown used to the tight space, the walls no longer feeling like they were closing in on him. It made him bitter to think of his ease and compliance to his situation, but begrudgingly had to admit that it was much better than being dead. 

Sometimes. 

The home was built of sturdy wood and stone, the scent of earth and dried herbs clinging to the air. It smelled of damp soil after the rain, of pine and firewood, of bitter medicine and dried fish and freshly cut cloth. Aemond had learnt its sounds—the soft creak of the door, the steady bubbling of a simmering pot, the occasional rustle of wind through the trees just outside the door, and the ever constant grind of her mortar and pestle. Over and over again.

He hated it.

Hated the way time slowed in this place, the way his limbs ached uselessly beneath the weight of his own body. Hated the quiet routine of his days, the endless monotony of waking, eating, and watching her move about her work.

And he hated her most of all.

Or at least that’s what he continued to tell himself. 

The healer had made it clear from the beginning that she did not fear him. At first, he had tried to tear through her with words, with biting threats and promises of vengeance. Had even attempted to take her life with his sword, but he could barely stand on his own. Could barely bathe himself, could only just feed himself and could barely stand up unassisted.

He knew that the only way to divert his attention from his failures was to focus on hers.

He had lashed out at her again as she tried to give him a herbal tea to help with his pain, but in a lazier drawl than usual, as though his insults were becoming tiresome to even him.

And they were.

She had only blinked at him, unimpressed, holding the tea out to him to take.

He had knocked the cup from her grasp. The tea, boiling hot, had spilled across the floor, and to his surprised worry, her hand. She had hissed and drawn her hand back away from him, shaking it quickly to flick the hot liquid from her skin. 

It was the first time he had felt true guilt for his actions. 

Aemond had to physically stop himself from leaning forward and grabbing her to see the injury, to grasp her hand and inspect her in the way she had done to him many times before, but the look she had given him was scathing. Worse than any other time she had ever looked at him before, and it made him shrink back into the furs, averting his gaze elsewhere as if bored.

He wouldn’t admit it, but that look made him nervous. 

It was familiar, and it was not. 

It was familiar in the way his mother had looked at him. The way his half-sister had looked at him. His sister.

It was a look of anger, disappointment, and hate. 

It was a look he had never seen from her. And it was a look he never wished to see again. 

The wound on his side healed slowly, a cruel reminder of how far he had fallen. His leg however, would always be wrong. Aemond was used to pain, had lived with it for many years, but this was something else entirely.

This was helplessness.

But even despite the burn on her hand, despite the way he treated her, she still helped him each day to stand. Fed him that evening despite what he had done. Helped pull him from the bed, no matter how exhausted she seemed to be after nights of caring for people or days of toil, and held his weight up to help him gain his strength. It was agony, but each day, each time he stood, it got easier, just as she said it would 

But it didn’t change the real issue.

The world had moved on without him.

And now, he was here. Trapped in this small, suffocating life, reduced to nothing more than a broken man in a stranger’s home. He hated it. Hated her. Told himself he did every day like a mantra.

And yet…

He could not stop watching her.

Not because he had softened, not because he had lost the fire in his blood—but because it was exhausting. His anger, his threats, his endless attempts to assert himself in this wretched place… they had no effect. She would not break. He didn’t think she even had a breaking point.

So instead, he watched.

He watched her as she gathered herbs from the small wooden shelves, grinding them down with practiced ease. He watched as she greeted the villagers who came to her door—no longer bothering to hide him away, having some sort of unspoken agreement with them all—old women with aching joints, hunters with deep gashes, mothers with sick children.

She took what coin they could offer. More often than not, she took nothing at all or the goods they could offer. Clothes, or food, or cloth, or bowl. They came to her and she would do what she did best, and they would give the best that they could back.

One morning, after watching a hunched old man shuffle away with a bundle of herbs he had not paid for, Aemond exhaled sharply.

“You’re too giving." He muttered from his place on the bed.

The healer only laughed, the sound light but knowing, “I’m a woman."

"You ask for nothing. Take nothing. Have nothing.” He always voiced this, as though her generosity grieved him, offended him, ”Do you truly have no sense? Do you know how much gold would you have if you took your dues?" Aemond looked around her home in disgust.

“I don’t need anything but this.” There was something softer in her voice this time, something that unsettled him. 

She always unsettled him.

Said and did things that had no rhyme or reason to him. That made no sense to him. Had no logic. It was not weakness—no, he had seen her sharpened edges too many times to mistake it for that. 

It was something else.

And Aemond Targaryen did not understand it.

-

The water was cold, and she reflected on how strange it was to be in the same place she had been when she first found Aemond again. The net was slowly dragged back into shore towards her, her dress rolled up as much as possible, sleeves pulled up her arms to stave away the cold chill. 

What would have happened if she never went fishing that day? Would she have found his corpse instead? Would someone else have found him? 

There was so many ‘what ifs’ that it made her head spin. In some ways she wished that she hadn’t found him. So far he had been much more hassle than what he was worth, but she could empathise with him. He had lost everything, including his ability to care for himself. Yet despite this, she didn’t want to think too hard about what would happen when he healed, where he would go. What he would do. The havoc he may reap. She only hoped that no innocents would be affected by him. That they would not face the anger she pushed him to daily. 

The blame could quite easily then be shifted towards her.

She returned just before dusk, her boots and dress damp with water and a net slung over her shoulder. The scent of fresh fish clung to her clothes, mingling with the crisp evening air as she pushed open the cottage door.

Aemond barely spared her a glance at first. He had been sleeping—or pretending to—but the second the unmistakable sound of fish slapping against wood reached his ears, his eye flicked up sharply.

His stomach twisted in immediate, visceral irritation.

"Fish again.”

She ignored him, untying the net with practiced ease before dumping her catch onto the worn wooden table. Silver scales gleamed under the candlelight, the fish still slick with water. She reached for a knife, humming under her breath as she began to gut them, utterly unconcerned by Aemond’s growing displeasure.

He watched her, expression tight with irritation, "Do you ever get tired of eating the same thing over and over?”

She didn’t pause, quick as a whip, ”Do you ever get tired of complaining?”

His lips pressed into a thin line, "It reeks, no matter how well you cook it.”

She huffed a quiet laugh, “Reeks, you say?”

“Like the fish mongers and whores at docks." He wrinkled his nose, "It’s unbearable. The monotony of it. Picking through the bones, chewing it, swallowing.”

She snorted, “That’s usually how people eat food.”

He shot back, “Don’t be obtuse.”

"I’m sure you had fish in the Red Keep." She lifted an eyebrow at him before gutting the next fish with a swift, practiced movement. 

Aemond didn’t answer, because he had. 

Of course he had.

She continued, ”If you’d prefer to not eat, I’m amenable to that. Saves me the trouble. Unless of course you'd like to start hunting for yourself?”

Aemond exhaled sharply, looking away. He knew she had him cornered.

She smirked at his silence, "I’ll get you a bow and some arrows and you can kill us a nice, large deer. I don’t mind venison, though it’s more tedious to prepare than fish. Fish are small, easy to clean.” She cut the head off of one for show, “Have you ever tried to prepare a whole deer? Skin it, gut it, clean it.”

After a long pause, he leaned back against the wall, arms crossing over his chest, "I’ve been on hunts.”

Unspoken words lingered in the air.

I’ve killed men too.

“Sure. But have you prepped them? Cooked them? Stored what was left?”

Aemond blinked, then quickly, “Why don’t you just buy the meat? Surely you can afford it. Definitely could if you took payment.”

The healer hummed noncommittally, "Good meats hard to come by these days, too expensive for what little there is. So until then, you’ll eat what I put in front of you.”

Aemond scowled, watching as she continued cleaning the fish. “Surely your traps can collect more rabbits, a badger even. Or at least do something to make it taste like food instead of Flea Bottom slop.”

Her voice became higher, "Would you like me to roast it over the fire, m’lord? Is spiced wine from Dorne with your meal tonight good, m’lord? Oh, please, m’lord, I live to serve you and only you.”

Aemond sighed, glancing at the fish again with poorly concealed distaste, "You truly enjoy this, don’t you?”

She shrugged, a small smirk on her lips, “It is a pleasure to watch you suffer, forcing you to eat Flea Bottom slop and all other things you’ve accused me of.”

He sneered, “I’m surprised I haven’t been poisoned by it.”

“I’m still deliberating on that.” She smiled.

Aemond’s eye narrowed.

She shrugged, "Cook your own meals then.”

With a reluctant sigh, he muttered, almost relived for the grace she had permitted him, "Like it's hard. I’ll learn.”

She grinned, victorious, "Now that, I'd like to see.”

His eye flicked up to her, the soft glow of the fire catching the curve of her smirk, the teasing glint in her eye. It sent something hot curling in his gut, something he didn’t want to name.

He looked away, jaw tightening.

He had spoken without thinking. 

He had let himself slip—had let her glimpse something he had no right to feel. The unspoken thought that he would still be here, long after he had healed. That he would choose to stay.

The realisation made his stomach twist, and suddenly, the warmth of their exchange soured into something bitter.

His fingers curled into a fist against his knee.

"I won't be here forever." He said sharply, the words coming out harsher than he intended, "Don't get used to this.”

She stilled for a fraction of a second, her knife poised over the fish, before she resumed her work, cold mask slipping into place.

"I never do."

Her voice was unreadable, but something in it made his irritation flare hotter.

He didn’t know what he wanted from her. A retort, a fight, some sharp-edged remark to push him further into the anger that felt safer than whatever had passed between them just moments ago. 

But she gave him nothing.

Just the steady, rhythmic sound of her knife scraping away scales and intestines, as if his words meant nothing at all.

And Aemond hated that most of all.

-

The pounding of hooves shattered the evenings quiet.

The healer had been asleep on her makeshift cot in front of the fire when she heard it—hoofbeats and the shrill call of her name, fast and urgent, tearing through the trees like a storm. Her eyes blinked away the sleep rapidly as she sat up, looking over to Aemond who too began to wake. She had worried for a brief moment that he had been the one to call for her.

She could tell just from the sound that whoever was coming was desperate.

Outside the cottage the hooves scuffed at the forest floor and a horse whinnied. The voice called out her name again, over and over as it came closer, metal jangling and footsteps racing towards her home.

She was already rising when the rider bashed against her door rapidly, fist beating against it as her heart raced in her chest, the wood thunking and rattling at its joints. The man outside called her name in a panic again, and as she swiftly moved towards the door in her chemise she glanced over to Aemond. 

to her utter surprise, Aemond looked ready to rise. Ready to act. Ready to protect her from whatever danger he perceived lurking at the door.

But she recognised the voice. Had known it for many years.

Erik. 

One of the farmers' sons from the village.

The door swung open as she brushed her long unbraided hair away from her cheeks. His face was pale, sweat beading at his temple. She let her eyes drift lower, looking him over for sign of injury. Upon his clothes, large dark patches of blood.

"You have to come. Now." His voice was raw, breathless, eyes glancing behind her to look at the man who now stood beside her bed, furs clutched against his waist.

Aemond was poised and ready. For what, he did not know.

Her heart kicked against her ribs, "What happened?”

"Ana," He gasped, "She was attacked.”

Her heart clenched.

Ana.

She didn’t hesitate.

"Help me.” She ordered, rushing to snatch her supplies as she threw them into a soft leather pouch hidden by the door. 

Erik stepped inside, wary of Aemond who watched him with a narrowed eye, and began to help her collect her things. She didn’t even spare Aemond a second glance as she raced out the door, pulling on a cloak atop her chemise, hurling herself atop the horse as she waited for Erik to mount behind her. The large chestnut shuffled impatiently as she swayed atop it, securing the leather pouch against her chest for the ride, reins already in hand.

Erik slammed the door shut, and Aemond’s view of the healer and the man was ended. Hooves pounded outside, and Aemond listened to the sound of it until it slowly faded from existence. He was still standing when the cottage became silent again, the longest he had stood by himself so far, furs tightly clutched against him, heart racing in his chest.

It was eerily quiet without her.

He didn’t even have a chance to see if she was going to be safe.

-

The ride into town was brutal. The saddle was hard beneath her hips, Erik pressed tightly against her back, trying to fill her in on what had happened as they went. The wind bit at her face as the horse tore down the narrow forest path, its hooves drumming against the frozen ground, puffs of breath dissipating from before her. 

The trees blurred, branches whipping past, but all she could think about was Ana—bleeding, unconscious, slipping away with every passing second. This was a woman she had known for years. Had helped through her first and second births. 

A friend. 

Her mind was already racing ahead, cataloging what she had in her satchel, what she might need when she arrived. Hot water. More cloth. Dried fish skin. 

By the time they reached the village, a small crowd had gathered, their faces drawn and anxious. Three men stood by the cottage, all sporting small wounds that were being tended to by the people around them. Hands wiping away blood and inspecting the damage. 

They parted quickly as she slid down from the horse, barely catching her breath before pushing through the door of the house.

The moment she saw Ana, her stomach clenched.

She raced to her side.The young woman lay on the bed, her dress soaked through with blood. Her skin had an ashen tint to it that the healer had never seen on her, not even during her two births, lips slightly parted as she took in slow, ragged breaths.

“Ana," The healer whispered, pulling off the satchel as she looked over her, “I’m here.”

Ana’s mother, an older woman with grey hair stood nearby, wringing her hands, "She’s barely awake since we found her. Please. Please. Fix her.”

The healer didn’t waste time responding.

She moved quickly, pulling her satchel open and looking down at Ana’s body. Along her stomach and base of her hip blood bloomed beneath the sun bleached lilac dress. She could feel Erik’s presence behind her and looked sideways at him, “Help me undress her.”

Erik faltered, and behind him the shuffling of curious towns people watched on by the door. 

“Get them away.”

Pulling a blade from the satchel as she slipped it down the centre of Ana’s dress ripping it apart, revealing the two deep wounds that continued to bleed profusely. From behind her came the bark of Ana’s brother, and the slam of the door, leaving her inside with Erik, her mother, and Ana’s older brother, who sported an injury of his own to his upper arm. 

“I need water.” Her hands moved to grab some strips of clean linen from her satchel to one of the wounds, and then the other, gradually stuffing them with her fingertips inside to staunch the bleeding. 

Ana moaned weakly, which to the healer was a good sign. 

She was still alive.

But then she looked at the damage, over Ana’s bare torso, shredded dress pushed to the sides and felt fear rise inside of her. The gash was deep, stretching across Ana’s stomach. 

Too deep.

“Erik, the water.” She snapped, and finally he sprung into action behind her, gathering the pail from beside the fireplace.

It wasn’t boiled, but she didn’t have time.

She dipped her hands inside and scrubbed viciously at her fingers, head turning towards Ana’s brother, “D'you have ale?”

The bloodied man nodded, and rummaged by the bench, coming over to uncork a flagon. She took it from him and poured it over her hands, and then atop the wounds. 

Ana screamed, eyes shooting open as she looked up at the healer.

“Shh, it will be over soon.” The healer tried to console her, wiping the back of her hand across the top of Ana’s scalp, trying to soothe the woman. 

“You’re here.” Ana breathed, voice quiet and broken, the edges of her lips tinged red with her own blood. 

“I am.”

“I’m going to die, aren’t I? Like your father.” Her tongue darted out to wet her lips, a small hum of a laugh passing through her nose as she smiled dreamily.

The healer blanched, blinking at Ana. Her skin was so grey that she already looked dead, dark circles beneath her eyes and the tell tale sign of delirium sinking in that came with too much blood loss. When the body was at the end of its tether and began to slip.

She grasped strips of clean cloth and leant over her body, pressing them down into the wounds to staunch the bleeding. 

Ana cried out in pain.

“No. You’re going to live.” She tried to assure her friend, but it felt hollow. 

Felt emptier still as she began to press the cloth into the open wounds tightly, stuffing it inside, trying to stem the bleeding. Ana wailed and cringed as the healers fingers pushed more and more cloth into the wound trying to stem the bleeding. It slowed, but not enough, the cloths immediately soaking through.

“Stop.” The woman wheezed, hands trying to push away the healers.

“Be brave f'me. Let me do what I do best.”

Hands in her satchel again she rummaged until she found the needle and thread, her hands shaking as she tried to thread it to begin. Erik stood beside her watching as Ana’s mother and brother stood at the end of the bed, the mothers eyes full of tears as the brother held her. 

Each time she tried to thread the thread through the needle, it wouldn’t go, slipping just to the side avoiding it.

“Give it t'me.” Erik held his hand out. 

Frustration boiled over her, “I can do it.” The healer snapped, she tried thrice more until finally she was able to thread it, hands covered in blood, leaning forward towards Ana, “Hold her.” 

The farmers son jerked forth and pressed two gentle hands against Ana’s shoulders, one covered in blood briefly coming up to brush the hair away from her face. 

“Where are the children?” Ana wheezed, blinking languidly up at her partner.

Erik cleared his throat, as his hands moved to her shoulders again, stroking gently back and forth with his calloused fingers, watching in his periphery as the healer moved towards the larger of the wounds, “With Myra. They’ll come see you when you’re cleaned up.”

Her tongue brushed against her bottom lip again, smearing fresh blood against it, “Good.” She said weakly, “Don’t let 'em see. They shouldn’t see.”

The healer swallowed the panic that continued to rise steadily in her throat, willing a cool calm to wash over her. She looked up at Erik and whispered a ‘ready?’ at him, watching his worried nod, and with swift and almost uncaring hands, she pulled the cloth from within the largest wound, fresh blood spilling over her hands making it hard for her to see what she was doing. 

Ana cried out beneath her writhing, her head thrown back as the healer tried to squeeze the wound together, held down only by Erik who cooed at her to stay still, and that it would be over soon. 

Her hands were so wet with the blood that continued to ooze that she could scarcely hold the needle steady in her grip, it slipped and shifted unsteadily in her hand as she made the first stitch. And then the second, closing the wound in her friend as quickly as she could, looking at the way Ana’s diaphragm weakened as she went. 

But the wound was too big.

She knew it was too big.

She worked in silence, listening as Erik continued to talk to Ana, tried to reassure her and comfort her the best that he could, the mothers soft sobs being equally consoled by her son.

The healer pushed it all away, her hands becoming steadier even as her chest tightened. 

But the bleeding wouldn’t stop. It was so deep, so much deeper than a flesh wound. It had hurt her organs. Important organs. And as she worked she tried to press the cloth down to stop the bleeding of the other wound with her arm, making it harder to work as she went, and knowing that someone else would only get in the way. But no matter how much she pressed down atop it, no matter how tightly she stitched her body, it just kept seeping through.

“Ana, stay awake.” Erik’s voice wavered, “Look at me. Keep your eyes open.”

The healer didn’t have the strength to look up, to watch what was happening. Didn’t think that she would be able to hold her resolve if she could. But she could tell it was happening. 

It was happening right before their eyes and there was nothing she could do.

Nothing they could do.

Nothing.

Ana’s chest barely rose anymore, stunted, weak and inconsistent breaths beneath her as the healer hurriedly worked to save her friend. But it was never ending, happening so quickly yet so agonisingly slow that it felt that it would never be done. Her hands were soaked with blood and she could scarcely see or discern a thing anymore, her hands constantly trying to wipe away the blood as it came to see what she was doing. To see what needed to be done.

“We’re almost there.” She urged regardless, her voice quiet, "Just a little longer, Ana.”

“Good.” Was all that Ana could say.

She knew it was coming. 

She could feel it.

She had seen it before.

Felt it before.

Had seen it with her father.

Felt it with her father.

The way that Ana’s body cooled beneath her hands. The way her breath came slower. Shallower. Her light eyes kept fluttering shut, the hand that had been weakly holding Erik’s loosened, and the telltale rattle of her lungs signalled the end. 

Erik’s reassuring words became more and more panicked. More and more desperate as he watched his wife slowly slip away. So she tried to worked faster, her heart hammering, her movements almost frantic now, her work was not as precise. She was working to get it closed. To stop the bleeding. 

She had saved people from worse. 

She had seen men survive wounds that should have killed them.

She could save her still.

She had to.

The healer swallowed, her throat tight.

The first wound was finally sewn shut, and she moved to the second, blood soaked rags lost to the floor beneath her and the sheets that Ana lay upon.

Erik whispered Ana’s name in question from beside her.

The healer didn’t look up, didn’t register what was happening as she continued. 

The gasping sob of Ana’s mother was ignored, the sorrowful whispers of Ana’s name that came from Erik growing louder beside her, and yet she didn’t stop. Her hands kept moving, the blood no longer pulsing beneath her. 

She kept on.

And on.

And on.

Her hands beginning to shake again as the world crashed atop her, the needle slipping more than once into her own skin, though she couldn’t feel it. She ignored the hollowed cry of the older woman as she collapsed beside the bed, beside where the healer continued, her hands grasping her daughter tightly as she wept.

She didn’t stop.

Couldn't.

Wouldn’t. 

She would save her.

She would live.

She would-

The healers name was whispered beside her, two large hands reaching to grasp her own hands. She shook them off, needle still poised as she moved to the next stitch. 

Her name was spoken again, this time, her shoulders were grasped and pulled back, and she struggled against it, stitch being pulled free.

“Stop. I need to-“

“Enough.” The voice was deep, crackled with exhaustion, “She’s gone.”

The sounds that followed were unbearable.

The healer sat back slowly, her bloodstained hands falling to her lap. As she finally let herself gaze upon her friend. She felt the weight of it press down on her—failure, grief, exhaustion. Ana’s mother let out another choked sob, as Erik sunk to his knees beside Ana, bloodied hands brushing against her hair as he looked down at her. 

Her eyes were open. 

She did not blink.

Did not breathe. 

She was gone.

The healer stared, hands shaking slightly as she wiped them against her skirts. The blood was thick, clinging to her skin. It made her feel sick. Made her want to claw at her skin. To tear it away violently with a blade. She had seen death before. She had watched men gasp their last breath, had pressed her hands to open wounds she could not close, had listened to the quiet, rattling end of those too sick to save.

But Ana’s death—this felt different.

She had known her. Been with her before. Shared smiles and wine with her. Meals.

But it hadn’t been enough.

It was too late.

She had been too late.

And then the wailing started.

It was the kind of sound that cracked through bone, that settled into the skin like frostbite, that would haunt the healer for days to come.

The mother had reached for Ana’s body again, pulling her closer as if she could shake her back to life. Eriks hands kept brushing against Ana's face, eyes wide with shock, face streaked with silent tears.

And the healer could do nothing.

Say nothing.

She knelt there, blood soaking her hands, her skirts, her arms, her chest—her own breath coming in shallow gasps. The smell was suffocating, the irony stench that lingered upon skin like fish. Her fingers trembled. She wanted to say something. Anything.

But there were no words.

Nothing could fix this.

She felt the brothers gaze on her then. When she finally lifted her eyes away from Ana, his expression was hollow, empty in a way she had seen before.

“Go." He said, voice flat, distant.

She hated it.

She had failed.

She didn’t move.

“Go.” He gruffed, “Take the horse, he knows his way home.”

So she did.

She stood, and she moved, and she took her satchel with her. She took the blood covering her with her.

The grief with her.

The loss with her.

The sorrow.

The failure. 

The ride home was slow, the exit from the home unbearable as she emerged to find the townsfolk waiting, watching as she exited covered in blood, the wails and sobs of grief behind her. She said nothing as they watched her. Said nothing as she mounted their horse and guided it away from the home.

The horse’s hooves crunched against the forest floor, she did not trot, did not canter, she simply trailed towards her home, deeper and further away from everyone. Back into solitude. The solitude that she knew and loved, and lived and breathed. The cold bit at her blood-soaked clothes, but she barely felt it. Didn’t want to let herself feel.

Didn’t want to come to terms with what had just happened.

With Ana.

Ana.

Her fingers ached from gripping the reins too tightly, the blood beginning to dry against her skin. Grief settled deep in her gut, an unrelenting weight. She had lost people before. She had told  herself she would lose them again. Had known that she would.

But this time—this time it had been someone she knew. Someone she cared for. 

A friend.

And for the first time in a long time, she wondered if she could bear it.

-

It had been hours since she had left, and Aemond had sat rod straight at the side of the bed, watching the door, listening for the sound of hooves, the sound of anything that wasn’t the howling wind outside. He waited, and waited, and waited for her, a million thoughts racing through his head. He wondered what had happened. He wondered if she was in danger.

He wondered if she would come back.

And for the first time in a long time, Aemond Targaryen let himself care.

-

The wind whipped through the trees as she approached the cottage, her limbs heavy with exhaustion, her breath visible in the cold night air. Snow would come soon. It flowered before her lips, briefly warming her face before the cold would nip at her again. Ana’s blood had dried in thick, stiff patches across her clothes and body, crusting beneath her fingernails, streaking up her arms where she had pushed so hard, pressed so desperately, tried so hopelessly to hold life inside a body that could no longer contain it.

She stumbled as she dismounted the horse, legs numb beneath her feet. She let the reins go, and turned away from the horse, leaving it where it was. Her fingers barely worked as she fumbled with the door, the weight of it unfamiliar, as though she had forgotten how to move through her own home. When she stepped inside, the warmth of the fire did nothing to touch the ice lodged beneath her skin.

She did not look at Aemond.

Did not acknowledge his presence where he sat, his head lifting to attention the moment she entered.

She felt his eye on her, sharp and searching as she moved towards the washbasin in the corner of the room. Her hands shook as she poured the water, dark red swirling and staining the surface. She unclasped her cloak and placed it upon a hook. 

There was so much of it. 

So much blood. 

She began to scrub.

And Aemond watched silently.

She scrubbed harder.

And harder.

But the blood would not leave.

Would not wash away from her skin.

The rag in her grip was soaked, and still, she scrubbed, the motion mechanical, hollow. She could not feel the temperature of the water, could not register the rawness of her skin beneath it.

Aemond uttered her name.

She had lost people before.

He called her name again.

She had held the dying before.

So why—why did it feel like this?

The bed creaked behind her. A soft, uneven step followed.

Why was the blood not coming off?

Why was it so thick?

The water in the basin was so dark with it, it looked like it had been filled with it. The thick acrid smelling life force that she had seen so often. That she had touched so often. But it was too much.

Why was there so much of it?

Surely there hasn’t been this much.

Behind her, her name again, and the uneven steps of an injured man, followed by a shifting of a chair by the table, like weight had been leant against it.

But why wasn’t it coming off? 

She would need to go down to the lake, to collect some more water. 

Perhaps she could dive beneath the murky depths and bathe in its iciness. Let the numb of the cold take over from the numbness of grief that she felt now.

More shuffling behind her, more utterance of her name, more concerned questions. But she didn’t register it. Didn’t answer it.

Didn’t turn towards him despite knowing that he was up.

She did not want to see him.

Did not want to see pity.

Or anger. Or disgust. Or a sneer. 

Did not want to see the look of disappointment at her failure. 

How had she been able to save him, but not Ana?

How was he still living?

His limp was more pronounced now, but she could hear him moving closer. She did not stop washing her hands. Over and over she scrubbed, becoming more erratic with the cloth that merely smeared the red across her skin.

“Stop.” His voice was low, rough, edged with something unnameable.

She didn’t.

She kept scrubbing.

His hand came to her wrist—not forceful, not cruel, just enough to still her. The healer’s breath hitched at the contact. It was the first time in so long that someone had touched her, not out of desperation, not out of grief or sickness, but simply to stop her from falling apart.

Her fists tightened beneath his grip, hand still clutching the cloth as she stared down at the water.

His eye flickered over her, lingering on the blood, the way it had seeped through the fabric of her sleeves, dark and clotted and the front of her chemise. How it streaked up her arms and was smeared on her face. 

Could feel how the muscles in her hands tightened, coiled, ready to move again, to continue the incessant scrubbing which didn’t work. His own responded by tightening just slightly around her wrist, as if he could tether her back to herself. To signal that he could feel her. Predict her. 

Knew her.

“What happened?” His voice was quieter now, careful.

Had never been so careful.

She did not speak, eyes still trained to the water. With a jerky move, she attempted to pull her hand away from his, but his grip was unrelenting.

“Are you hurt?”

She swallowed, forcing herself to speak past the lump in her throat, “She’s dead.”

Aemond’s gaze did not waver, nor did his grip. He did not offer her empty condolences. Did not tell her she had done all she could.

Instead, he asked, “Who was she?”

Her throat tightened, “A friend.”

Aemond’s jaw clenched.

She had never looked so small before.

She had always been a force—unyielding in her stubbornness, sharp-tongued, quick-witted, infuriatingly kind despite his cruelty. But now… now she looked lost.

And Aemond hated it.

He shifted his grip, his thumb pressing just slightly against the inside of her wrist. Not a comfort. Not really. But an anchor. A piece of pressure she could focus on.

The healer closed her eyes, forcing her breath to steady. Her exhaustion clawed at her, dragging her downward, threatening to pull her beneath the weight of everything she could not fix.

“Sit.” Aemond said, quieter now, but insistent.

It was ironic really.

The pain in his side and leg had begun to creep into his senses, and he should really sit with her, but he didn’t. He wouldn’t.

She shook her head, finally looking at him, “I—”

“You’ll collapse if you don’t.”

A pause. 

Such a long pause.

It seemed to stretch on forever.

Then, with a broken kind of reluctance, she let him guide her to the chair by the fire. It was a slow guidance, and he couldn’t help but notice as her eyes roamed over him, inspecting him for injury, watching as he struggled. But she did not argue. Did not resist. Did not do anything but sit herself down as Aemond still held her, limping by her side. Pushing through the agony. The furs that he had wrapped around his body tucked in tightly.

Aemond watched as she sank down, her body curling inward as if she could fold herself away from the grief.

He didn’t know what to do, didn’t know what he could do. But he felt an urge to do something. To repay her in some way. He wasn’t like the others that came to her home. He wouldn’t take, and take, and take from her without giving back. He would repay her. 

He would. 

He just didn’t know how.

Once he was certain she wouldn’t move, he limped back to the wash basin. It took him some time, hand seeking out furniture for support—the chairs, the bed, the table, the edges of the cabin as he shuffled forward, pausing to catch his breath. It took him more time than he would care to admit to empty the basin out the window and refill it with clean water from a bucket. He didn’t even want to think about how he looked, pale and agonised as he moved towards her, his balance impeded by his now lack of hands.

By the time he made it back to her, tears had begun to fall from her eyes as she stared into the flames. She didn’t look up at him as he came to her side, not even when he slowly dragged the other chair beside her.

The fire crackled softly, filling the heavy silence between them. She sat slumped, her body rigid with exhaustion, her hands curled in her lap as if she no longer knew what to do with them. Her skin was cold beneath the dried blood, dark circles shadowing her eyes, but still—still, she tried to hold herself together.

Aemond could see it, the way she clenched her jaw, the way her fingers twitched as though she might force herself to stand and keep moving, as if sheer willpower alone could push away the weight of her grief.

“Go back to bed.” She said finally, her voice barely above a whisper, “You need to rest.”

Aemond scoffed, shifting his weight onto his uninjured leg. His body ached with the effort, but he refused to let himself falter, refused to let her push him away the way he had done to her.

“I think you forget,” He said dryly, “That I am not so weak anymore.”

“You’ll only injure yourself—”

“I am perfectly capable of standing in this moment.” He cut in, stepping closer, “Besides, a healer told me that I should stand to gain my strength.”

Her eyes lifted to his, sharp despite her exhaustion.

Aemond’s lips curled into something between amusement and frustration, “You are covered in blood.”

It was the wrong thing to say. 

She looked away, and back into the fire, “It isn’t mine.”

“As if that makes a difference.”

“It makes all the difference.”

Aemond exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face before leaning toward the washbasin he had placed on the chair. He picked up a clean cloth, dipping it into the cool water before grasping her hand from her lap. She protested at first, attempted to grasp the cloth from his hands, pulling away from him.

“I can do it.” She murmured, “Go to bed.”

His eye narrowed.

“I’m not a child.”

She was watching him now, tired but wary.

“Let me.” He said, as cooly as she had once spoken to him a she tended to his side.

“I can wash myself.”

His jaw tightened. Was this how she felt when she tended to him?

“Quiet.”

Aemond sighed, and then grunted, the pulse of his blood through his leg making his teeth clench, and what little patience he had dwindled. He lowered himself onto the seat beside her, the firelight casting sharp shadows across his face, washbasin in his lap. He lifted the cloth, reaching for her hand again.

This time, she did not stop him.

His fingers brushed against her wrist, gentle despite their roughness. He pressed the damp cloth against her skin, wiping away the dried streaks of blood, revealing the flesh beneath, watching as the liquid darkened with the remnants of her failed attempt to scrub herself clean.

The silence between them shifted—not tense, not uncomfortable, just… something different.

Something unfamiliar.

It had been building for days. Weeks.

She watched him carefully as he worked, his movements steady, methodical. Aemond had always been methodical. Always been calculative and precise. He did not speak, did not offer any words to fill the quiet. He simply cleaned her hands, her arms, her face, wiping away the remnants of a battle she could not win with detached coolness. 

Methodical.

By the time he was finished, the cloth was stained deep red. Aemond set it aside, his gaze flicking over her, taking in the way her shoulders had finally begun to droop, the exhaustion settling heavier now that she had allowed herself to stop. Let someone else take care of her the way that she tirelessly took care of others.

It was the first time Aemond had witnessed her stop. The first time Aemond had witness her be still. 

He leaned back slightly, his eye grazing over her. She was still covered in blood, her clothes having dried with it. Her unbraided hair needed to be brushed, knotted and tangled from the wind, but he doubted she would allow him to do that, let alone herself. She looked so empty, so hollow that he worried she may collapse then and there. 

Aemond’s chest tightened.

He had never seen her like this.

She was always sharp, always biting, always moving with purpose—whether it was to tend to him, to fetch herbs, to argue with him. But now… now she was something else entirely. Something fractured.

He hated it.

Hated that he did not know what to do to fix it.

Aemond grit his teeth.

Why did he care?

She was nothing to him.

Nothing.

And yet, when he dropped the cloth he had been holding, when her breath hitched as though she might shatter, he found himself moving without thought, pushing himself up again despite the pain in his ribs and leg, moving the wash basin to the seat.

“You need to rest.” He said, his voice lower than he intended, rough with something he did not understand.

“You did your best. Now you must rest.”

She looked up into his gaze.

And Aemond wished she hadn’t.

Because her eyes—gods, her eyes—were filled with something he could not bear to see.

Grief.

Failure.

A hollowness that made his stomach twist, made his pulse quicken with something close to panic.

He had not thought her capable of breaking.

And yet, here she was—cracked open before him, bleeding out in a way that had nothing to do with wounds or war.

Aemond swallowed hard, his fingers reaching and flexing around her wrist again. He did not know what to say, did not know how to drag her back from whatever abyss she was teetering on the edge of.

And that infuriated him.

He should not care.

He should not care.

And yet, the thought of her fading into that emptiness, of her never coming back to the infuriating, sharp-witted woman who had forced him to live when all he had wanted was to die—he could not stand it.

His jaw clenched. His grip did not loosen.

She was not allowed to fall apart.

Not like this.

Not in front of him.

“Sleep.” He tried to pull her hand towards him, to get her to stand, but even with this new found strength his wound would not allow it.

She blinked at him, as if he had just spoken a language she did not understand.

“I will.” She muttered, glancing toward the mound of blankets and fur on the floor beside the fireplace, though they both knew it was a poor excuse for a place to rest.

Aemond’s expression darkened, “You are not sleeping on the floor.”

“I’ve done it before.”

“No.”

There was something final in the way he said it, something that left little room for argument.

Her mouth opened, then closed. For a moment, she simply stared at him, tired and frayed, but still stubborn.

Aemond clenched his jaw, leaning forward slightly, “You saved my life,” He said, voice quiet but firm, “Let me return the favour, if only for one night.”

Something in her gaze wavered.

For a long moment, she did not move.

“I’m not going to die.”

He ignored her, voice gruff, “Get up.”

She blinked again up at him, emotion flickering across her eyes. But he could tell she was tired. 

Gods she was so so tired. She just wanted to sleep. To forget what had happened. To not be present in that moment. 

Aemond spoke her name, and in a strange way it grounded her. It was rough, and commanding, and demanding in its tone. It was every inch the man she had known these past weeks. Stubborn, sharp, quick-witted. But this time it wasn’t to poke and prod at her. 

This time was different, and she found she didn’t have the energy to argue.

Slowly—reluctantly—she stood.

She moved toward the bed as though unsure of her own steps, pausing just before it, her back to him. 

Aemond watched as she numbly pulled the bloodied chemise over her head and onto the floor, leaving herself bare before him. 

Aemond blanched.

Not once in his time here had he seen her in the way she had seen him. His eye roamed over her body, even though he knew that it shouldn’t. Aemond knew that he shouldn’t gaze upon her now at her most vulnerable. At her most broken. But he couldn’t help it. Couldn’t tear his eye away from the soft slope of her hips of the curve of her breasts from the side. Couldn’t tear his gaze away from the roundness of her ass, or the soft skin of her back and legs. 

She didn’t seem to notice his gaze, or didn’t care as she pulled back the furs of the bed and crawled inside, sliding to the opposite side, her back facing him as she pulled the blankets up to her shoulders. 

If Aemond was anything like his brother he would have sought this moment to take advantage of her. To hurt her. It was a naked woman, in a bed he would be sharing. But instead of any urge to roll her onto her back or stomach, he felt a nervousness he hadn’t felt before. A nervousness to be around her that he had never felt.

His heart raced in his chest as he looked at her, gazed at her with a new intrigue,

She was beautiful.

She was perfect. 

She was—her.

So very her.

The bed was small. Too small.

He limped and shifted and struggled to lay back down but managed it all the same, the bed dipping beneath him. It took him some time to get his broken leg beneath the furs comfortably as he lay on his back. She was close enough that he could feel the faint warmth of her body, but far enough that she might as well have been a world away.

Aemond stared at the ceiling, his eye adjusting to the dim flicker of firelight. He had not thought this through. Had not considered what it would mean to share a bed with her. Not just the physical proximity, but the weight of it—of allowing her into his space, of stepping into hers. 

Of her within his.

It was different from when she had tended to him, different from when she had pressed cool hands against fevered skin, from when she had helped him stand, from when she had argued with him over fish.

This was something else entirely.

She was fragile now. And he hated it.

He hated so many things, but most of all, he hated this.

He hated the way it made something inside him tighten uncomfortably, the way it made his chest ache. He was not meant to feel this way. Not for her. Not for anyone.

And yet, she had looked so small when she finally climbed into the bed. So lost.

He exhaled slowly, willing the unfamiliar sensation away.

She did not speak.

And neither did he.

For a long time, there was only silence, punctuated by the occasional flicker of the fire and the slow, unsteady rhythm of her breath.

She smelled like the thick scent of iron and something uniquely her. He wondered if the scent of blood was just in his mind or if it still lingered on her skin, or perhaps it was on his now. He had tried to scrub it away with a cloth, had watched as the water in the basin turned red. But some things did not wash off so easily.

He, more than anyone, knew that.

She shifted slightly, the movement small, hesitant. He felt the way her muscles tensed, as if she were fighting the instinct to move closer. Trying to escape the ever haunting feeling that crashed over her.

Aemond knew what it was to be haunted.

He knew what it was to lie awake with ghosts pressed into his skin, to feel the weight of failure like chains around his throat. He had felt it after losing his eye. After the war. After his fall. His time spent in this very bed.

But he had not expected to recognise it in her.

He had not expected to care.

And yet, as he lay there, listening to the sound of her breathing, feeling the slight tremor in her limbs, something dark and unbidden curled inside him.

He turned his head slightly, his eye tracing the outline of her in the dim light. Over the slope of her shoulder, her tangled hair that lay messily upon the pillow. The curves of her body beneath the furs.

“Sleep.” He murmured, his voice quieter than he meant it to be.

She did not answer right away. But when she did, her voice was raw, as if she had spent all of it on grief.

“I can’t.”

Aemond hesitated. He was not good at comfort. He was good at pain, at rage, at control. He was good at killing, and fighting, and burning. At threatening those around him when needed. At the training yard with his sword. At politics, and history and philosophy. He was good at war. He was good at taking. But this was something else.

This he did not know how to do.

Still, before he could stop himself, his hand moved—slow, deliberate—until his fingers brushed against her shoulder. Just barely. Just enough to remind her that she was not alone. She tensed beneath his touch at first, stiffening as she held her breath, but as the warmth of his hand seeped into her skin, she relaxed.

Did not pull away.

And neither did he.

He did not sleep that night.

Not because of pain.

Not because of nightmares.

But because of her.

He would not say it aloud, but he knew.

Tonight, she needed this.

And for some reason he could not quite name—so did he.

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[one-eyedalmond]

THE PINK DREAD - CH. 38 (Masterlist)

Chapter Summary: The aftermath of Storms & Sirens; awkward conversations, feuding houses, confessions and familial betrayals. Word Count: 5515 CHAPTER WARNINGS: Medical emergencies, PTSD, anxiety attack.

Series tags: Aemond x Plus size!OfC, Aegon x Plus size!OfC, Celtigar!ofc, Plot with Smut, mdni 18+, Aemond End Game, Angst, Comedy, The Dragons Don't Dance, slow burn, friends to enemies to lovers, enemies to friends to lovers.

Credits: Lace Banner by V6que pearl divider by Pommecita

Notes: Haiiii.... It's been... over 20 days. I know... I hope this is worth the wait. More information of my prolonged hiatus at the end of the chapter, please read, it's important for future updates.

His heart, his thoughts, his world all stopped simultaneously in that moment. The world moved slowly as Aemond turned, his eye wide, his body feeling cold with dread. The first thing he could see was Valeana’s own saucer-sized eyes stare ahead of her like she was already lost in the void of her shock and past trauma. For a moment Aemond saw Valeana’s face as a 10 year old girl, the same expression she had when he had pushed her at these very stairs. 

As the world rushed back to him, as Valeana teetered back on the edge of the first stair, Aemond immediately sprung back to life. 

“Valeana!” Her name came out in a rush of panic and urgency, his body flying forward before she lost her footing at the edge of the stair. In a flash, Aemond was behind her, his arms wrapped protectively around her waist as he pulled her away from the stairs immediately and as far as possible.. 

Valeana felt as stiff as a board in his arms; when he looked upon her face it was blanched and her eyes were fogged over as if she was lost somewhere else, and not present with him. What’s more, her hands and legs were trembling and her breathing was rapid and short.

“Valeana, Valeana, speak to me,” Aemond pleaded as he pulled her further back until he reached a wall, then slid down onto the floor. Seating himself properly, he cradled her body in his lap and started to feverishly tap her cheek to get her to look at him. Her stare was still wide-eyed, frozen in terror, her pupils blown wide. 

Argumentative voices of the girls around him faded into muffled sounds. Shyla had run to his side and took Valeana’s hands in hers, and started to rub her frozen fingers in her warm ones. Her gentle, yet desperate pleas for her sister to wake up from her paralysis mixed in with Aemond’s. Meanwhile the Baratheon sisters were yelling at each other—and to no one's surprise, elder Floris was completely silent. Aemond was not looking at her, couldn't care less to remember she was still there, but he imagined she stood there frozen in shock, not knowing what to do or say. 

The sound of metal clanging against each other rapidly came from down the corridor, snapping Aemond’s head to attention as two Kingsguard approached the situation. They took one look at the Prince holding onto the frozen Lady Valeana on the floor and immediately asked what happened. 

“Arrest Lady Maris Baratheon!” Aemond commanded, his teeth bared as he pointed viciously towards the woman in question. “She has attacked Lady Valeana Celtigar with intent to harm. Seize her at once!” 

Chaos had begun instantly when the guards seized the protesting, mad woman, who actively fought and spewed lies about how she was the one who was attacked and was defending herself. Cassandra and young Floris even had the audacity to try to explain it was a misunderstanding, despite the fact they had witnessed the assault and had berated her for it. 

It all did not matter to Aemond anyway, because at the moment, Valeana was convulsing and twitching and she was making noises, short and brief like the breaths she was taking. 

“SOMEONE GET THE MAESTER!” 

“Where is she?!” Lord Bartimos burst through the door to the infirmary, Aemond’s head snapping in his direction as the panicked father marched through. Behind him followed the rest of the Celtigars, the worried Ursula, the fuming and panic stricken older brother, and the youngest brother who trailed behind, a soft expression on his usual stoic facade. 

The infirmary was already crowded with people before they came in. A team of Maesters led by Orwyle, Aemond, Shyla, and Ellyn Baratheon, who chose to come in lieu of dealing with Maris and her family. Aemond had been in a chair by Valeana’s side, his hand gripping hers, but when Bartimos flew to the bed, Aemond had the decency to stand up and allow the man to reach his daughter’s side. 

“What happened?! What is wrong with her?!” Bartimos demanded as he held onto Valeana’s hand, his fingers pressed on her pulse on instinct. 

“She suffered from a seizing fit, my Lord,” Maester Orwyle informed as he took his place on the other side of the bed. “A Stress Fever.” 

“A Stress Fever?” Bartimos echoed the words, foreign on his tongue. But the word ‘fit’ he knew all too well. His violet eyes turned back to his daughter, who laid asleep, her face pallid, and her eyes appear sunken like she had been sick for days. His head whipped around, landing on Shyla immediately, but settling on the Prince with a fierce gaze of accusation. “What happened?! What did you do to her, you–?!”

“Father, please,” Shyla sat up from her seat, rushing to Bartimos’ side before he could launch himself at the prince. “Prince Aemond saved Valeana.”

Bartimos’ face whipped to Shyla’s direction, his face a mixture of disbelief and surprise, “What-what do you mean ‘saved’?”

Aemond’s chest swelled in air and determination, his body still tense at the altercation that happened not even an hour ago. He was still in a state of shock from everything Maris had the gall to do, from forcing her lips upon his, right down to pushing Valeana to reenact the very fall that she suffered from ten years ago. 

“Lady Maris Baratheon attacked your daughter, Lord Bartimos,” Aemond spoke, his voice painfully controlled, his jaw taut as he looked down at the slumbering Valeana. The face of terror flashed in his mind’s eye, and he felt his heart tug painfully as the recent and old memory of that very expression flickered between each other like the quivering light of an unsettled candle. 

“Attacked?! Maris Barath– That bookish girl attacked my dove?!” Bartimos swiveled his head towards Shyla for confirmation. When she nodded, his eyes widened and he immediately returned to Aemond, “Why on earth would she–?”

“Pardon my interruption, Lord Bartimos,” Ellyn spoke up, saving Aemond from a rather embarrassing and convoluted explanation. “As a friend of your daughters, and a sister of her assailant, I can provide insight on what happened. Prince Aemond had rejected Lady Maris, and she reacted in a fit of jealous rage, impairing her judgement. 

“There was an altercation in the floor above the lower courtyard, in which Lady Maris attempted to trap Prince Aemond into a betrothal, but Valeana valiantly interfered before a scandal could be made. Though, as a result…your daughter became a target of my sister’s desperation. Maris had pushed her while she stood near the edge of the stairwell, and Valeana would’ve nearly fallen down them hadn’t it been for Prince Aemond’s quick reaction.” 

“Oh, Seven,” Ursula put a hand to her lips, as she looked down at Valeana while seating herself upon the edge of the cot and held onto her hand. “My dear girl, no wonder you went into a fit…” 

Bartimos was breathing heavily, his shoulders caved with the weight of the stresses and worry of being a father. He hunched over, his hands planted on the side of the cot as his head hung low. Aemond could see the conflict in the Lord’s eyes, which were tightly shut, and the rest of his weathered face etched with deep lines. The poetic irony of the situation was not lost on a single person in the room—that Valeana had nearly fallen down the stairs (the very same ones, at that), but was saved by Aemond this time around.

After a minute of tense, emotionally conflicted contemplation, Bartimos pulled himself up and fixed Aemond with a look the prince couldn’t really identify. The older man pointed at him and silently gestured towards the door, “I need a word with you.”

Aemond’s lip thinned with uncertainty, his eye flickering over to the unconscious Valeana before giving a deep sigh and following the Lord of Claw Isle out of the infirmary. His fingers were curled into fists as if bracing himself for the unknown— of what would become of this private conversation with who he would hope to be his future father in law. 

As they exited into the corridor, the door clicking shut behind them, Bartimos immediately turned to Aemond, his face taut, brows furrowed and his lips were a thin line. Though that expression didn’t last long, because suddenly the older man’s face softened to that of a broken father. With a sigh, Bartimos ran his fingers over his tired eyes before looking back at Aemond with a new kind of pained expression, one that was more conflicted. 

“It is difficult to be a father, you know, especially to daughters,” The older man began, every word heavy with burdens Aemond knows not of. “When they hurt, you feel it in your soul… And it makes past transgressions difficult to forgive, even if she, herself, has.” Bartimos leaned his hand against the wall as he studied Aemond, who remained respectfully quiet. 

He was quiet, but his mind was less so. Muddled with a thousand thoughts and feelings, his chest had been tight with tension ever since the incident occurred. Now he was subjected to an uncomfortable conversation with Bartimos Celtigar, a man who he has not spoken directly to in… Gods, probably ten years. Not even when he arrived here did Aemond dared to be alone in his presence. 

“My lord,” Aemond began, his carefully controlled signature tone not very controlled presently as he struggled to speak. “I understand–”

“No, no, you don’t,” Bartimos interrupted, though it was not done unkindly. His hand ran over his bearded chin, his shoulder sunk. “You won’t understand until you have children of your own.”

Aemond’s lip thinned at the comment; it wasn’t the first he heard it, likely won’t be the last. Parents of all kinds loved to use that statement to undermine the intelligence of unwed youth, and there was nothing he could do to argue against it. He understood in theory, of course, the bond between parent and child, though the way he was brought up… Well, he imagined his bond with his own parents was vastly less sentimental than what Valeana had with her father or step mother. 

“While my dove has not said to me explicitly that she has forgiven you for… the incident,” Barty spoke the two words through his teeth. “It has become plain in my eyes, and to the members of her family that she has, somehow, found it in herself to forgive you. And what’s plainer is that… Valeana clearly still harbours feelings for you, despite all that has happened.” 

Aemond felt his chest swell at those words, though he does not know why. He knows Valeana still has feelings for him, she has thus proven that time and time again despite the fact that he has given her every ample opportunity to loathe him until the end of time. 

“Valeana and I have discussed things at length, my Lord… And I will spare you the details, but know that I have dedicated myself into being worthy of her forgiveness, and of your daughter. She is precious to me, and I regret that it took me ten years to realize that…” Aemond surprised even himself at his act of vulnerability, especially before another man with whom he has no sentimental attachments to. Though he supposed if he truly wanted Valeana to be his in every meaning of the word, he would have to earn Bartimos’ approval.

The older man peered at him for a moment, his expression both difficult to read, yet Bartimos made no attempt at disguising the emotion on his face. It was a bit disconcerting to Aemond, who was usually so keen on deciphering expressions. Perhaps the princes’ own nerves were hindering this ability, he realized, which made the situation all the worse. Worse, yet necessary in the grand scheme of things. 

“I hope that you do, my Prince,” Finally the man spoke, his voice a bit lower, graver. “While I do not understand the entirety of the complexity of what happened today, what I did grasp is that my daughter cares about you enough to intervene before that… deranged Baratheon girl–” He gave a huff, shaking his head before continuing. “Caused a scandal upon you. And… And I am grateful that you were there to save her from… another…”

Bartimos’ head hung low—it was plain as the sun in the sky that it was beyond painful for him to express gratitude towards the Prince who he has resented the most in these last ten years. Aemond swallowed thickly, feeling uncomfortable and a bit relieved to hear those words. 

“As a fellow Valyrian and a man, you know well as I that our pride is our greatest strength and our most cumbersome fault. With that, I am sure you understand it is no easy feat for me to say this to you, Prince Aemond, but… if you wish to court my daughter, you have my blessing…”

Aemond’s face went slack, his bottom lip fell open a fraction. He nearly stepped forwards towards the man, the need to take a hold of his shoulders in gratitude nearly making him forget to read the room. Instead, his brow furrowed in his earnest appreciation, a slight bow towards the Lord of Claw Isle, “Your blessing is an honour, my Lord, and a privilege. I do not know what to say other than… you will not regret it.”

“Be sure you don’t,” Bartimos spoke, his gruff, authoritative voice coming back to him as he collected himself. “Because this is your one and only chance— And speaking of courtships that I regret ever allowing to happen… Where in the Seven Hells is your brother?”

Aemond opened his mouth to answer, but he found himself surprised by the question itself, as well as that he did not actually know. Aegon was openly courting Valeana, that much the entire damn Kingdom knew at this point, but he was not here.

“I…do not know, my Lord,” Aemond confessed.

Bartimos scoffed, “When you find him, Prince Aemond, do the pleasure of letting him know that he treads on thin ice.” 

It was the day after and much has happened in the last twenty-four hours. King Viserys was deprived of sleep due to the tragic, unforeseen events that transpired between Maris Baratheon and Valeana Celtigar. The tensions between these two houses were already strained, doubly so due to the fact that his youngest son was caught between Shyla Celtigar’s legs, forcing the two to be wedded, spurring Floris Baratheon in the process. 

The Council room was teeming with activity, of shouting and pleading, as the King sat at the front of the table, spectating both sides of the table arguing. Bartimos was yelling at Borros about how his daughter assaulted his ‘precious dove’, and Borros was yelling that Shyla had stolen his daughter’s ‘precious’ intended. It was quite plain to see who was in the right there, though even the King could not deny the transgression between Shyla and Daeron had been an unfortunate and unnecessary slight upon the Baratheons. Daeron was intended to marry Floris Baratheon, and while that had not been publicly decreed, it was a fact that everyone knew, including the young Shyla who had been friends with the girl as well. However, given the circumstances, Viserys’ hands were tied in that matter. 

“Enough!” The King shouted, rapping his cane against the table to get everyone in the room to shut up. They did, though with reluctance as each side clung to their last words. With a sharp eye from their king, their mouths clamped shut. Viserys gestured harshly to their seats, and one by one they pulled out their chairs and sat down across from each other. 

Ursula and Bartimos were on his right, and Borros and Otto were on his left. Queen Alicent sat before him, her face taut and unsure of the circumstance that fell on the lap of the crown. Then there was Ser Criston Cole who stood by, as well as Harrold Westerling, the commander of the Kingsguard. The other members of the Small Council were not present, because this matter would only be settled amongst the families involved.

But there were others that needed to be present, and that were the witnesses to the crimes and events. 

“Now we must first discuss the matter at hand, and that is the assault on the Lady Valeana Celtigar,” The King began. 

“There was no assault,” Borros insisted, his chest swelling in bravado. “It was self defence! My own daughters saw the incident… Bartimos’ reckless girl went to attack my Maris–”

“That is not what happened! Lies, all of it!”

“Enough!” The King banged his cane on the table again. “Neither of you saw what happened, and I will not make judgements based on hearsay from third parties. Ser Criston, bring them in, will you?”

With a curt bow of his head, the broad knight sauntered over to the door and opened it, allowing the witnesses to filter into the room in a single line. First came Floris the younger, then Ellyn, Cassandra, Shyla, Floris the Elder and finally, Prince Aemond. 

The six youths stood before the table in a line, facing King Viserys. His son, Aemond, at the far right, kept his arms behind his back, while the women had their hands clasped demurely at their laps. 

“I am sure you lot know why you’ve been summoned here today,” The King leaned back in his seat, his cane sitting between his legs as he balanced his eight-fingered hands upon it. “I shall hear each one of your accounts of the events that transpired yesterday. Lady Cassandra, I will hear yours first,” His head inclined to the eldest Baratheon daughter’s direction. 

Cassandra weaved a tale of scandal immediately, claiming that she had been walking around the bend on that floor with Ellyn and Floris the younger when she came upon Aemond kissing Lady Maris. Viserys caught the glare of his son when she had confessed this, his jaw grinding as he fought the urge to speak. The King was no fool; Aemond was not like Daeron nor was he like Aegon by any stretch— he would never be persuaded or seduced by a woman, especially one he had expressed disinterest in. Especially knowing that his son’s eyes were on only one woman.

Younger Floris gave a similar account, though much meeker and not as detailed or passionate. The two major factors that he gathered in both stories were that they both believed Aemond kissed Maris out of his own free will, if not initiated it in the first place. Though when it came to the attempt on Valeana's life, Cassandra was more confident in saying that Valeana made a move to take a swing at Maris, and Maris pushed her away before that could happen. Floris’ account was not so detailed and she had only said that she ‘believed’ her sister was defending herself, and it ended up horribly. 

It was Lady Ellyn’s testimonial, however, that surprised Viserys the most. He knew vaguely that she and Valeana were friends, though he was not privy to the friendships of ladies of court, so he couldn’t know the depth of the friendship. He had assumed that Ellyn would side with her sister—as blood was thicker than water for all the great houses—but that was not the case. Ellyn’s account of what she initially saw was simply that Aemond and Maris were kissing, but she made an emphasis on the fact that in her position, there wasn’t a way to tell who was forcing who, or if it was mutual. 

“However, your Grace, I may include that if I were to make an assumption based on the character of Aemond, I do not see him acting upon public displays of affection like that so brazenly, especially prior to marriage.” 

“And you believe your sister is capable of it?!” Borros asked immediately, his tone defensive and outraged at Ellyn’s betrayal of her kin. 

“Lord Borros, please hold your tongue,” Viserys raised a hand to stop him from speaking further. “Lady Ellyn, continue.” 

Ellyn’s lips were in a firm line when she inhaled deeply and continued, “Under normal circumstances, Maris conducts herself as a Lady should. But it was not under normal circumstances—she was a woman scorned.” 

Ellyn then goes on to describe the events that unfolded in more detail than her sister, Cassandra, including the insults Maris flung in Valeana’s direction. Though the catalyst for the shove itself greatly differed from the testimonials of Cassandra and young Floris, as she detailed that Maris seemed to snap when Aemond emphasized he did not want Maris. It was then that Valeana was unpredictably pushed. 

It was then Shyla’s turn to recount what she saw. The different perspective was from the lower courtyard, though she confessed she did not witness who initiated the kiss, but had stated she very clearly saw Prince Aemond push Maris away and kept her at arm's length. Shyla then went on to say that Valeana had run up the stairs when she saw what happened, and by the time she and her sister Floris reached the top of the stairs, Maris was arguing with Ellyn and Valeana about who kissed who. When Shyla began to account how Valeana fell, it was nearly identical to Ellyn’s, though spoken with less detail and more emotion. Shyla seemed to put great emphasis on the emotional turmoil of Aemond when he reacted in saving Valeana, and how both she and him tried to coax Valeana out of her seizing. 

When it came to Floris Grafton speaking, there was a notable shift in the room. Bartimos was fixing her with a fatherly glare, and Aemond was side-eying her, his jaw grinding in anticipation. Floris was, for once, visibly uncomfortable. She did not hold the usual snooty air about her—with her nose turned upward, or her lips pinched and pursed— but she appeared more like an apprehensive hen, wide eyed and fidgeting, not knowing where to put herself or her eyes. 

“Lady Floris?” The King tilted her head at her as she hesitated. 

Floris pulled her lips under her teeth for a moment before clearing her throat and looking down at her folded hands for a brief moment, then forced herself to lift her eyes back up to Viserys. “I witnessed Lady Maris pull Prince Aemond by the scruff of his doublet and kiss him by force, your Grace,” her confession caused a visible wave of surprise. Aemond’s jaw had relaxed, but his eye widened. Borros scoffed, and Cassandra and younger Floris stared at her as if she had just conducted the most vicious of betrayals. 

“Did you, now?” Viserys put down his hand from his chin and danced his fingers on the table. “Of all the girls present, you are the only one who witnessed the action being initiated. How is that possible?”

“Well, your Grace, I suppose it was just the right timing,” Floris continued, her voice so painfully controlled as she nervously tried to find the words to speak. “I looked up from the Lower Courtyard and saw it, then I pointed it out to my sister, Valeana… And when she saw it, she immediately fled up the stairs to them. Shyla saw it last, just when Aemond had pushed away Maris. After that, we ran to catch up.” 

“That is interesting,” Viserys mused, eyeing the girl carefully. “You were the only, if not the first to witness the act that started it all. Please continue, Lady Floris. What happened after?”

Floris ran her teeth over her bottom lip, her eyes trailing off as she tried to recall the events that unfolded, “When we ran up the stairs, they were already arguing about who had kissed who. When my sister, Shyla, had mentioned what she had seen, Lady Maris called her a tramp–”

“She did what?!” Bartimos nearly shot out of his seat, but the King shot him a glare, which effectively made him sit back in his seat and stew. 

“Valeana defended Shyla, and then many barbs and words were exchanged back and forth, between Valeana, Maris and Prince Aemond. It became clear that Maris was not dealing with Prince Aemond’s rejection. It escalated, Maris called Valeana a pig at least three times, if I remember correctly. The Prince warned her of the repercussions of doing so and made it adamantly clear that he did not want Maris as a wife. That is when she snapped and… pushed my ste— sister.” 

There was a beat of silence as the King absorbed everything she said, though he couldn’t help but allow his eyes to flicker between Borros and Bartimos to gauge their reactions. The former seemed to be silently fuming, his hand running down his face as he subtly cursed under his breath. The latter seemed to be eyeing his step daughter closely, his face stern, but his eyes light with pride as he gave her a subtle nod. 

Viserys hummed in response, his hand moving over his muzzle before his eyes settled on his son at last. 

“Aemond,” He finally addressed him, leaning back against his chair, his head tilted up as he peered up at his second son. “As the figure at the center of all of this, your account of the events are invaluable.”

Aemond bowed his head as she took a step forward, his arms swinging to his sides as he dominated the floor when he approached the table. His one eye landed on Lord Borros, not a single sliver of intimidation on his face when he addressed the Stormlord. 

“It will be of no surprise to you, my Lord Borros, that my interest in your daughter has waned these last few days,” Aemond began, earning a heated glare and a grunt from the lord he’s addressing. “Two days ago, I approached Lady Maris in the library to express this. She did not take the rejection well, and had threatened the crown on your behalf.” 

Borros seemed to be taken back by that; his brow furrowed and he leaned back as if he had been struck, “She did what?” 

“Yes, she had heavily implied that you would retaliate against the crown simply for two princes spurring your daughters, on top of expressing her entitlement to not only myself but of my brother, Daeron,” Aemond spoke matter-of-factly, his attention pulling from Borros and onto his father. “Of course, when she had said such treason, I had warned her of the repercussions, and it seemed at the time, she had sense enough to listen. 

“However, by the next day that was not the case. Lady Maris intercepted me in the hall, having no intention in heeding my warnings nor respecting my decision; she stated so herself before she put her hands upon me and forced her lips upon my own. Her intention was clear, to cause a public scandal, to force my hand into marriage in sheer desperation. What she did not account for was that not only would I never allow myself to be subjected to such an act, but that there would be other witnesses other than her sisters,” He looked over, emphasizing on the Celtigar girls. 

Aemond then went on to explain the situation that followed, which mirrored a lot of Ellyn, Shyla, and Elder Floris’ account, though with much more mechanical detail. Though he expressively made emphasis on Maris’ clear jealousy of Valeana, and had concurred with the testimonials of Maris insulting not just Valeana, but of Shyla as well. He didn’t, however, throw elder Floris under the carriage wheels by outing her betrayal that day. She had redeemed herself by actually speaking the truth where it mattered, so for her sake, and the sake of the merit of her story, he left that part out. 

“And the final thing Maris had said before she had pushed Valeana was: ‘I will never be your wife… And neither shall Valeana Celtigar.’ It was… an act of intent, your Grace, that Lady Maris wished to cause harm upon Valeana.”

With that final statement, the room rang with tension and silence. There was no rebuttal or attempt at contradicting his words, not from Cassandra or younger Floris. In fact, Viserys noted that they both shared a look of worry with each other. He watched every one of the girls’ expressions carefully before looking back at his son, who’s stoicism was on but a thin thread as he had to recall the traumatic experience.

The King heaved a deep sigh as he shared a look with his wife, who had surprisingly been quiet during this entire interrogation. Her lips were in a thin line, much like her father’s was, and that is when Viserys ancient violet eyes settled on Borros. 

“Lord Borros,” he began, lacing his fingers on his lap. “Out of respect for your house, I would have your opinion on the evidence given before us. It is clear that your daughter, Maris, has been the one to cause strife, despite Cassandra and young Floris’ efforts to protect her. Your third daughter, Ellyn, had even testified against her.”

Borros' hands were balled into large fists on the table and his face was as red as a ripe tomato, but he did a damn good job at containing his anger as he inhaled deeply and exhaled through his nose. The evidence was damning, not even he could deny it and judging by the look of disappointment etched with his anger, Borros was aware that Maris was very much capable of everything that she was being accused of. 

“Lord Bartimos,” The stormland began, fixing his eyes on the lord across the table. “I wish to apologize on the behalf of my house for the grievousness that was inflicted upon your daughter at the hands of my turbulent and misguided daughter. If it pleases you, my Lord, and your Grace, I shall be the one to punish her accordingly.” 

Bartimos leaned back in his chair peering at him curiously, as did King Viserys. The latter of which tilted his head and asked him what he had in mind. 

“I will enlist Maris into a motherhouse to become a Silent Sister. Her future and fate sealed as penance for the dual sins she has committed against both Lady Valeana and Prince Aemond—” Cassandra gave a gasp at her father’s words, her hands flying to her mouth. Floris the younger and Ellyn both had widened eyes of shock, not expecting their proud father would actually go as far as to rip Maris’ future from her hands. Ellyn especially would have assumed her father would beg for forgiveness, and simply ask for the mercy of just having her hands whipped. “-- As well, I believe it is best that I take my girls back to Storm’s End.”

“Father–” Cassandra immediately spoke, but was interrupted by the gesture of his raised hand. 

“I have decided. Maris’ crime is humiliating enough, but I cannot forget that my darling Floris has also been humiliated,” Borros’ tone turned icy at this reminder, but he quickly reigned it in when he cleared his throat. “This Conclave has not benefited my House, it would seem. To preserve our dignity, I believe it is best–”

“Lord Borros, if I may,” Surprising everyone, Ursula spoke up for the first time. She shared a look with Queen Alicent, a silent communication that told that this was a conversation they both already had. “The business between Prince Daeron and our youngest was never our intent. My heart bleeds for your dear Floris. As a mother myself, all I ever wanted was to see my children not just content but happy. And it does destroy me to see your daughter’s happiness taken away from you.”

Alicent hummed in agreement, making her presence more known as she leaned against her laced fingers on the table, her eyes fixed on Borros in that diplomatic and placating way women of power knew how to do. “Me and Lady Ursula have conversed in length, and we both agreed that you and your daughters deserve to be compensated for your injustice. We propose marriage betrothals for your girls, sans Maris, of course.”

Viserys’ eyebrows reached his hairline, but he did not seem perturbed that he was kept in the dark about this— he seemed almost delighted and intrigued. “You’ve been conspiring betrothals under my nose, Alicent?”

“Apologies, husband, but I did not get the opportunity to speak to you about this sooner. With the events that unfolded yesterday, it feels like today is the best time to bring it up,” Alicent explained, clearly prepared for Viserys’ surprise. 

“Alright,” The king tapped his fingers, clearly interested in this new development. He looked between Borros and Bartimos and then back at his wife, “I am intrigued. What are your betrothal offers?” 

SNEAK PEEK When she fled, Aegon was left standing in his bedchamber, a vision of sweat and tears, a pool of red wine at his feet like a mocking reminder of what he had done— what he allowed himself to get lost in.

Notes: So, yes, no Valeana in this chapter, but necessary. Girl's in a medical induced coma, give her a break. So, the Baratheon drama arc is closed. Now the next drama. :3 Also, where's Aegon--- Wait, what is he doing? AEGON-- Hokay, but for reals now, let's get serious. I've been dealing with a lot these last few weeks, doctor appointments, bad news, good news, medium news under that umbrella. My muse has been burnt out, to be completely honest, and I'm really *trying*, but it's a struggle lately. I was going to use the 14-20 (now a month) days to catch up on my quota and work on that one shot, but I didn't end up doing that. I ended up working on other distractions unrelated to fanfiction. I'm not giving up on this story, I made a commitment to myself that I'll actually see this through. But that means updates will be a lot slower, I'm sorry. I'm hoping once I push through chapter 43, I can get my momentum going, or at least find a way to spark my muse up again. I hope you guys understand and aren't too impatient! I appreciate the patience this far, especially since I left y'all on a cliffhanger.

Tag: @queen-of-elves, @keylin1730, @anakilusmos, @weepingfashionwritingplaid, @sugutoad, @desireangel, @t0biasparabatai

( if you wish to be tagged for this story, just give me a reply! )

Please do not re post, redistribute or plagiarize my work. The only other place this story is posted on is ao3 under the same username.

[one-eyedalmond]

Watercress - Chapter Four

Warnings: She/her pronouns. Smallfolk OC, mentions of death and war, descriptions of injury and blood, injury of a child, attempt at murder, choking, arguing. Tags will be added as the fic goes along.

Pairings: Aemond x She/Her

Summary: Raised in the Riverlands, near the shadow of Harrenhal, her life was one of endless toil and quiet resilience. Every day was the same—scraping together food, tending to the ill, and surviving the harsh realities of a land marked by struggle. But when war came, it brought horrors beyond anything she could have imagined. The skies blazed with fury, the waters of the Gods Eye churned with the echoes of battle, and then—just as suddenly as it began—the world grew eerily quiet. She believed the worst was over. That was, until a fateful discovery in the woods shattered her fragile peace and set her on a path she never could have foreseen.

Word Count: 7.2k oops....I'm so sorry....

Notes: Hello my angels, apologies for such a slow release on this one, I was so incredibly sick that I was bedridden for a week! I wrote this in my delirium and also on my journeys to work, so I hope you enjoy!! <3

“What have you done?” 

She startled, it had been so peaceful in the cottage that she had forgotten about the silver haired man’s existence in her bed.

The needle and thread she worked with this time was different to the one she used on injuries. Instead of pulling together a wound, she pulled together the seams of white linen and leather. 

It had occurred to her earlier on that she should probably get him clothed, but he had been so acidic, so scathing in her attempts to help him that she thought that keeping him vulnerable in her bed would humble him. 

It hadn’t. 

From the seat by the fire she glanced her eyes over to Aemond, who sat rod straight in her bed, long fingers grasping at his silver locks.

Ah.

“What. Have. You. Done.” He spat louder this time, the silk tresses falling between his fingers as his eye locked onto hers. His pale cheeks flushed in anger, lips pressed into a thin line.

“Saved your life.” Came her deadpan response, looking back down to his leather riding jacket. She was suddenly thankful for the way in which she had cut it off of him; it made it easier for her to go through the original holes of the leather with her needle rather than having to pierce new ones.

“You were fevered,” The healer said simply, without remorse, “Your hair was tangled, matted with blood. I had to—”

Aemond moved. Staggered from the bed, a wash of grey taking over his skin where there had just been colour. It had surprised her so thoroughly that she stared at him before jumping into action, body in autopilot. She stood to come to him, to get him to sit back down.

But then he surprised her again.

This was a man she had watched lay in her bed for weeks, too weak to stand, too weak to hold himself, but here he was, standing from the bed, furs tangled beneath his feet. He swayed, yes, and she could tell that his adrenaline was taking over, but underneath all of that, it was sheer will. 

Sheer spite. 

She worried that he would fall as she went to his side, that he would burst more stitches, un-align his leg, puncture his lungs. She was so preoccupied with worrying over his condition and potential to worsen it that she hadn’t thought for one second the sudden danger he imposed over her. She was by his side in a second.

And then he moved again. 

Too fast, too hard, ignoring the pull of his wounds, ignoring the agony screaming through his body.

His fingers found her throat and she froze.

She blinked as he gripped her, forcing her gaze to his. His hand trembled—not with weakness, but with the sheer force of his rage, and she felt the weight of him against her neck, as if he was using her to keep himself standing. 

All with the grip he had on her neck.

Her eyes looked onto his lone one, not daring to flick over to the empty socket on the other side. The violet eye she had grew accustomed to narrowing at her, flashing with anger, was now almost entirely black, his pupil having swallowed up all remaining evidence of humanity, leaving only the barest hint of a ring. 

“You had to?” He hissed, his voice low, deadly, “You had to strip me like a common dog?”

Her chin lifted, and though her pulse thudded beneath his fingers, her voice was even, “You would rather have rotted in your own filth?”

His grip tightened.

“Yes,” He snarled, the word cutting like a blade, “Better that than,” His voice dipped lower, the shadow of the firelight darkening his sharpened features further, “this.”

He was ruined.

Defiled.

Like a man shorn for punishment, like some domesticated drunk.

Like Aegon.

The realisation struck him like a blow, like a fresh wound split open, deep and raw. His lips curled, sickened.

“You’ve made me look like him,” He spat, his voice dripping with venom, “Like that wretched, slovenly oaf.”

A humourless laugh, sharp and bitter, scraped from his throat.

“Tell me,” He sneered, eye flashing with cruel mirth, “Shall I take to drinking next? Stumbling through brothels, pissing myself in the streets?” His lips twisted cruelly and she felt a pang of pity for him in that moment, “Is that what you’ve made of me? Turned me into a common, useless drunkard?”

“Only you have the power to do that. Though from what I’ve heard, your blood runs thick with it.”

Aemond’s grip flexed, his fingers twitching with the urge to hurt, to punish. She tried to inhale deeply, but he only allowed her the barest slither of air. And that was when she realised he would not kill her in that moment, not that she wouldn’t have fought him. He merely wanted an audience.

She liked her odds regardless; another hit to his ribs, a kick to his leg and she knew that she would be freed. But there was something new about this rage, something different. 

It was shame. 

“You’ve taken my hair,” He said, his voice like steel drawn slow from a sheath, “Defiled my birthright.” His breathing came heavy, ragged with fury, “And you expect me to thank you?”

You have no birthright, she thought, not anymore.

His fingers flexed against her throat, his other hand fisted at his side. She saw this as a good sign; if he truly wished to kill her, surely he would have had two hands at her throat. She tried to swallow, feeling her throat bob beneath his hand, to which he only tightened it further. Her head spun.

Opening her mouth she breathed raggedly, “I expect you to live.”

The words were plain. Cool.

Always so cold.

So detached.

And he hated it.

Where was her anger? Where was her fear? 

Where was his respect?

He had seen the fear briefly, flickering through her eyes as she had watched him stand. But it wasn’t fear of him, not at that moment it hadn’t been, it was fear of what he would do to himself. Fear that he would injure himself further. 

He hated it.

Hated that she cared.

But there was fear, the moment his hand had wrapped around her throat and squeezed her, he had seen her eyes flash with surprise, and then fear, but now, now she seemed so sure that he would not harm her. So sure that he would not lift his other hand and squeeze the life from her in the cottage where she gave so much life. 

She gave.

And he would take away.

Aemond exhaled sharply, a dangerous sound.

“It will grow back.” She said, unshaken, her eyes looking over his head, looking to the shoulder length hair he now had, small waves dancing behind his ears. 

It was pretty, his hair, especially now with the way the light caught it. It was so pale, so unlike anything she had ever seen before that it seemed to absorb light itself. 

“No,” He whispered, voice laced with something dark and bitter, “It won’t.”

Not in the way that mattered.

Not in the way that it mattered to him.

She didn't understand. How could she?

Aemond Targaryen was reduced.

“I had no choice.” She spoke again, and he felt her throat bob beneath his palm, and for a second he had to fight the excitement that coursed through him. 

She was under his control now.

He could control her. 

But there was something more. He looked down his long nose at her, and watched how she continued to look at his hair. How she continued to look at what she had done to him.

She was watching him with something more than cool observance.

“You are still a Targaryen.” She said with confidence, and his fingers twitched against the soft expanse of her neck, “There is no denying that.”

Aemond was breathing hard, his chest rising and falling in sharp, ragged motions. The pain clawed at his ribs, at his leg, at the raw stitches she had only just put back together. His fury had made him reckless. And now his strength waned.

She watched as his grip flexed, as though torn between crushing her throat and throwing her away from him entirely. His fingers twitched, then fell away, his strength faltering. And she watched as his eye darted down to her lips momentarily, the angry look on his face faltering as the pink of his tongue wet his lips.

It was fleeting.

He swayed.

The healer remained still, waiting. She knew better than to reach for him now. Knew that his pride would not suffer her hands upon him, not after she had already stripped him of so much.

Aemond let out a sharp breath, stumbling back a half step, the pain flashing across his face even as he tried to smother it. His fingers curled into fists, trembling with the effort to hold himself upright.

She cast her gaze downwards, ignoring the way that his member had seemed to swell slightly, and kept her eyes evenly on the wound that had healed somewhat on his chest and hip. Blood had welled to the surface and had begun to slowly leak from the wound staining the dressings.

“You’re bleeding again.”

She wished he would just lay down and stay quiet. Perhaps she could dose his food with milk of the poppy to keep him lucid.

His eye flicked to his side, where the fresh stitches had already begun to seep red into the bandages.

He swayed again.

Her voice was soft, placating, “Get back in bed.”

Aemond let out a breath, half a scoff, half a curse, “I’ll stand.”

“You’ll fall.”

His eye snapped back to her, gleaming with ire. But the truth of it was undeniable.

And then—his body betrayed him.

His balance tipped, his muscles clenched, and in the next moment, his knees buckled beneath him. She moved faster than he could stop her, stepping forward as he collapsed into her grasp, hands beneath his arms. 

Agony shot through his ribs. 

He let out a snarl, the sound vibrating in his chest as her hands pressed against him, steadying his weight.

“Don’t.” The Prince hissed, but his voice wavered, his body too weak to make good on the threat.

She ignored him, adjusting her hold with practiced ease, bracing her shoulder beneath his, “This is your own doing.” She muttered, bearing his weight as she guided him back toward the bed.

His muscles stiffened against her, “I won’t—”

“You will.” He tensed harder, and so she corrected herself “Or you will fall.” 

Her voice was soft this time. Softer than he had ever heard her. And it almost startled him. Since when did she have the capacity for meekness? To be quiet and polite? When had she ever shown that she could be more than cold or biting to him?

It was worse he realised, hearing her. This new her he had never seen before.

It was warmth. 

He seethed. 

She could feel his anger rolling off of him, sharp and smouldering, could hear the grinding of his teeth as she manoeuvred him step by step.

But he had no choice.

The healer felt the moment his body truly gave up—when his rage could no longer hold him upright, when his limbs sagged, when his grip on his own pride slipped and his own hands moved to her upper arms, clutching her tighter than he had ever clutched her throat.

She knew then that he would likely never actually harm her.

His breathing turned shallow, his weight heavier, and by the time she lowered him onto the furs, he had no more fight left to give.

She stepped back.

Aemond was still, his eye burning into the ceiling, jaw clenched so tightly she thought he might shatter his teeth.

A long silence stretched between them.

Then—his fingers lifted to the uneven edges of his hair, his nails scraping against the jagged strands.

The healer sighed, she was tired of his moods, “It will grow back.”

His eye snapped to her, cold and cutting, “You ruined me.”

She huffed out a humourless laugh, crossing her arms, “You men and your vanity. You’re worse than a young maiden.”

Aemond’s lips curled, “You do not understand.”

“No,” She agreed easily, moving to the table where her supplies were laid out, “I don’t.” She turned, looking at him over her shoulder, “But if I had left you to rot with the filthy state your hair was in you would have gotten an infection, and you wouldn't be here to worry about your appearance.”

Aemond exhaled sharply, his fingers curling into the furs.

She knew he was seething, drowning in his own shame, his own fury. But she had no patience for it.

Not now.

She dipped a cloth into warm water, wrung it out, and turned back toward him. “You can either sulk like a child,” She said, her tone firm, “Or you can rest, recover, and learn to walk again without having to lean on me.” She wiped gently at his stomach, throwing a fur over his length so it wasn’t in eye shot, “You will either learn to live with your leg as you did your eye, or you will learn to live as a cripple. It’s your choice.”

Aemond’s eye burned into her, sharp as a blade’s edge. He was still seething, his chest rising and falling in slow, measured breaths, as if he were keeping his fury caged only by force of will.

"Always so bold," His voice low and venomous, "You’ve defiled me.”

She scoffed, pressing the damp cloth against the sweat-slick skin of his brow. He flinched but lacked the strength to swat her away before she moved to the dressings.

“I saved your life.” She hummed amused.

“You humiliated me.” His lip curled, disgust and something deeper—something darker—twisting his features, "I should have woken with a blade to my throat, not a butcher’s hands in my hair."

She hummed, unimpressed, "You shouldn’t have woken at all. I should have let the fever take you. Or left you for the wolves and snow. The Gods have given you another chance, and yet, here you lay," She wrung the cloth out again, her expression unshaken, "Sulking."

Aemond’s jaw ticked, his fingers curling into the sheets, "You think I will forgive this?" His voice was silk-thin, fraying at the edges, "That I will forget what you say to me just because you tend to me?"

"No," She said simply, meeting his eye without flinching, "I think you will heal. And if I have to chain you to that bed to make sure of it, I will."

His breath hitched, his nostrils flaring, but his body betrayed him—always betrayed him-- exhaustion dragging at his limbs, pain licking up his spine. He could do nothing but glare, his pride bleeding out between them like an open wound.

"You made me look like him," He spat suddenly, the words ragged, raw, "Like a common drunk. Like my pathetic, soft-bellied brother."

She tilted her head, gaze flicking over him, unbothered, "It becomes you."

Aemond snarled, but the sound was weaker now. His body was failing him, the anger taking too much from him when he had so little left to give.

She exhaled slowly, shaking her head. "Rest, my Prince. If you ever hope to kill me as you promise you must rest."

Aemond turned his face away from her, but not before she caught the flicker of something in his eye—not just fury, not just loathing.

Something like defeat.

-

The usual silence of her cottage had been shattered often and violently since the man’s arrival. The air was thick with animosity, each interaction a silent war waged in glances, in barbed words, in the heavy quiet that stretched between them. She wasn’t used to this. Wasn’t used to having her patience tested so often, or being pushed so completely to the edge.

She could feel it now—the irritation, raw and insistent, scraping at her nerves, burrowing deep, wearing her thin. It was beginning to crack her resolve, piece by piece.

Her sleep had suffered. The floor had become a constant ache in her bones, no matter how much straw or fur she gathered to soften it. She had tried, at first, to offer some measure of comfort. But comfort was a foreign word now, an elusive thing she would have gladly traded for a moment’s peace.

What she would’ve given for her own bed. What she would’ve given for a guest who did not make her wish for solitude.

Whenever she moved about the cottage, she felt his eye follow her—heavy, burning, unrelenting. She had tried to ignore it, tried to lose herself in her work, but he was a shadow, always there, lurking. Watching. The only reprieve was when others came seeking her healing hands, or when she ventured out for supplies, just to breathe something other than him.

But even then, he was waiting.

For her.

At first, she had tried to answer his sharp-edged questions, had tried to dull their bite with reason. But it became clear; he wasn’t asking for answers. He was asking to provoke. To fill the silence that stretched between them like a battlefield left abandoned.

And in a way it was. To him anyway.

Every day, she tended to him—bandaging wounds, feeding him, bathing him when he could not manage. Though he would never admit it, she saw how his pride rebelled against even the smallest mercy. His body may have been broken, but his stubbornness was unyielding. He refused kindness, even when he was burning with pain. 

There was something more fragile about that than any wound.

And because of this, her patience had worn thin. She no longer bothered to hide her irritation, no longer masked her words in civility. But beneath the frustration, there was something else—something she could not quite name.

Curiosity, perhaps.

What lay beneath all that anger? The sharp words, the bitter arrogance—what was he running from? What had broken him before she ever laid a hand on him? Before he had ever fell from his dragon?

She could not afford to wonder for too long. Because they both knew neither could hold out much longer. The pressure was suffocating, thick as smoke and filled her small cottage, throats clogged with it.

But where she found quiet in the silence, Aemond found madness.

The stillness there was unbearable. It pressed in on him, vice-like, suffocating.

Aemond had known noise. The thunder of battle, the screams of men, the roar of his dragon’s wings. He had known chaos all his life training with the blade, flying, escaping his brother. But here, in this gods-forsaken place, there was nothing. No war to fight. No enemy to strike down.

The world had moved on without him, and the quiet of it stung worse than any blade.

And she—she was a constant reminder of everything he had lost.

Her voice, blunt and emotionless, cut deeper than steel. She spoke of his failures with no pity, told him of his cause’s collapse, of his brother’s death, of the loss of his dragon. But it wasn’t the words that hurt most. It was the silence in between. The absence of anything else. No loyalty, no affection, not even hatred.

She did not see him as a Prince. She did not even see him as a threat.

She made him feel like nothing.

And for that, he hated her.

The firelight flickered against her face as she worked, grinding herbs with steady, practiced ease. The sound of mortar scraping stone gnawed at his nerves, over and over and over again. Always the same.

Never ending.

His body ached—not just from his injuries, but from the weight of it all. The stillness. The powerlessness. The sitting. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting.

She was small. Insignificant.

And yet she carried herself like one who had never known fear. Or perhaps, she had known too much of it.

He hated it. 

The silence. 

He couldn’t bear it. 

His fingers curled into the furs beneath him, his voice low, dangerous.

“You are enjoying this.”

She didn’t look up, “Enjoying what?”

“Watching me rot in this hovel while you play at being a saviour.” His words dripped with venom, “Don’t pretend it doesn’t please you.”

She sighed, an exhale of quiet boredom, “Ah, this again. You give yourself too much importance.”

Her calm made his blood boil.

“You should pray I never leave this bed, healer.” He warned, voice thick with fury.

She did not so much as flinch. She only ground the pestle harder into the bowl, that same grating sound, “I find our silence preferable,” not dignifying his threat with a response, “You’re far less irritating when you’re not speaking.”

His jaw tightened.

“You forget yourself.” 

She let out a slow breath, as if barely restraining a yawn, “Do I?”

His breath came sharper, his rage coiling tight in his chest. Heat flooded him.

“You are nothing,” He spat, “A peasant. A nameless healer with no purpose beyond mixing herbs in this shack. Likely born of a whore and a drunk. And yet, you dare speak to me this way?”

She did not look at him. She kept grinding the pestle. The same grounding grating noise over and over.

She was grinding his resolve.

Crushing it into dust beneath her practised hands.

“Mmm,” She hummed, inspecting the herbs with feigned interest, “That may be true. But there are other truths.” She paused, then added, voice mild, “You are crippled. Like your brother before you. And your father.”

Aemond’s vision darkened with rage.

“I should kill you.”

At that, she finally looked at him. And then—she smiled.

It was not mockery. It was not fear. It was small, knowing—almost as if she had already decided something.

“Then so be it.”

Before he could speak, she moved. Across the room, to where his belongings lay abandoned. His tunic, still bloodied but sewn together. His boots, streaked with dried mud. And his sword—untouched since she had dragged him here half-dead.

She picked it up without hesitation. It was too large for her frame, but she carried it with ease. Almost too easily. 

What Aemond did not know, was that it took great effort for her to hold herself steady, but she did it out of spite.

They were both full of so much spite that she felt it almost suffocating her. This anger. This hatred. The rage. All of it. She felt it from him. She felt it within. It was drowning her.

She was drowning. 

She turned back and held the hilt out toward him.

“Take it, Prince. Since the first attempt did not go as you planned.”

Aemond inhaled sharply, eye longingly looking at a blade he had spent so much time with. So many hours in the training yard holding it. Always attached to his side.

He longed to touch it again.

“You mock me.”

The healer shook her head softly, “I only give you what you ask for.”

His fury burned hot and bright. He wanted to stand, wanted to wrap his hands around her throat, wanted to demand her respect.

She stepped back. Not offering it—challenging him.

“If you can stand without my help,” She said, smile still on her lips, “Then you may have your sword.”

Incensed, Aemond shifted, furs sliding from his shoulders. He forced himself up, every muscle screaming in protest. His skin paled, his chest rising and falling in short, sharp pants. But still, he stood.

He stood, Gods be damned.

Her eyes swept over him, not with the detached calculation of a healer—but something else. If he were not so insufferable, she might have blushed.

But he swayed. His leg trembled. His ribs protested, agony slicing through him like a hot blade. But he persisted.

Aemond reached for the sword.

The moment his fingers curled around the hilt, she let it go. In that moment, that moment that was so brief, he felt the first wave of calm wash over him in weeks. He felt the first piece of strength, of pride, slide back into place.

This was what he was made for. This was what he was capable of. But that moment was all too fleeting as her hand dropped away.

The weight of the unsupported blade yanked his arm down—too heavy, too much too soon, the pain in his ribs exploding through his chest, but his stubbornness won out. He did not let go of the blade to save himself the pain, instead his hand tightened to it, and with that came the fall. His body twisted with it, his wounded leg giving way beneath the weight of him.

She watched as he fell, didn’t move to stop him. Didn’t move to catch him as she had the last time. Just watched as he toppled, blade still clutched so tightly in his hand she thought it might break.

She had warned him he would.

Had told him he would.

Aemond Targaryen crashed to the floor.

The pain was indescribable. Black spots bloomed before his vision, his face scrunched tightly in agony as he wheezed an agonised breath. He couldn’t breathe. It felt as though his lungs seized within his ribs. As though if he even tried to suck in a breath, it would be useless.

What had the healer said about punctured lungs? Was this what it felt like?

The moment stretched unbearably, silence thick with his humiliation.

And yet she did not move to help him. She only stood over him, watching. Watching as his face grew more and more paled and ashen. Watched as he struggled to suck in pained breaths, his hand still clutched to the sword as the other clutched his middle. 

A shadow passed over him, the firelight momentarily being blocked.

And then—soft, calm, almost amused,

“Tell me, kinslayer,” She murmured, his eye blinking rapidly open to see her. There was a soft halo of light around her head, warming her features. She was pretty. So very pretty and yet she did nothing to show it. She did not dress pretty, only comfortably and smartly, nor she did not make effort to style her hair or wear jewels. She was plain. Unassuming. But in that moment, all he could focus on was how pretty she looked, just as pretty as a blade, and just as sharp as one too, “What use is a dragon without its fire?”

There came the final blow. And the warm light around her head suddenly looked like the seven hells. 

Like damnation.

Like-

A knock sounded at the door.

The moment was over.

And Aemond watched as her face moved away from his. He felt the absence of her then. The absence of her warmth. Of her fire. She rose without hesitation, stepping over his fallen form as if he were nothing more than a piece of furniture in her way.

From the floor, Aemond saw her open the door, revealing a thin man wrapped in a heavy cloak, his face lined with age and worry. A child clung to his side, perhaps six, perhaps younger, he cannot remember what Jaehaerys or Jaehaera had looked like when young. How old had they been? Lucerys had been five or six when he had taken his eye, so small yet so deadly. Tiny really. He blinked, the girls arm was cradled against her chest, her face pale and tear-streaked.

He could not hear their hushed words, but he saw the way the healer’s expression softened just slightly, how she nodded once before stepping outside.

“Not in here” She told the father,  “A man has the Shivers.”

That was all she offered, and the eagerness to enter her home vanished from the fathers face. He stepped back, his retreat swift, his gaze never even flickering toward Aemond’s crumpled form on the floor, as if viewing him would be contagious. 

Aemond had caught a glimpse of the child’s arm—swollen, bruised, likely broken. The healer moved quickly, guiding them further from the cottage. Her steps were careful, practiced. 

Gentle.

She was a paradox.

How could she be so gentle yet so unyielding? So sharp yet so tender?

If it weren’t for the pain making his head already spin, it would be now. Just one moment ago she was crouched in front of him, mocking his ability to stand, to hold a blade, and now she was as soft as the silks his sister used to wear. As soft as how Helaena had been with her own children. As soft as his mothers hair. Yet these people weren’t anyone that the healer knew. They were strangers. And yet she was so soft to them.

Aemond yearned in that moment to know her kindness for once. Not her ire.

He wanted her softness.

Outside, her voice was a soft hum, soothing, steady. The father’s murmured reassurances wove through it, the girl’s sniffles growing less panicked, less frequent. And then, to Aemond’s surprise, a small laugh. 

Even in her pain, she had managed to make the girl laugh. How she had done this, Aemond did not know.

He felt she really might be a witch.

Was she bewitching him?

No.

He hated her.

His fingers curled into fists, his body still half-curled on the floor. He tried to push himself up, but the pain in his ribs was sharp, so sharp it darkened the edges of his vision again and he slumped back to the cold and hard ground. His limbs felt foreign, his breath ragged, the wood of his splint dragging painfully against the floor as he tried and failed to get his leg beneath him and comfortable. But he couldn’t.

He was stuck.

He was pathetic.

Useless.

He had watched her work for the gods only knew how long. Watched the way she moved, how the father and young girl looked at her. As if she were something holy.

She was not.

She was nothing.

Nothing.

Rage twisted in his gut like a coiled viper.

Through the gap in the door, he watched—spiteful, seething—as flickers of movement passed through the firelight, watching as she tended to the child, as the father hovered behind them watching with nervous eyes. 

Always watching.

When at last she returned fully into view, the child’s arm was bound, and the father’s relief was evident as he lifted his daughter and pressed a kiss to her forehead, hand holding the injured arm inspecting it. 

Aemond wished he could see the healers face. See how she looked at the two people at her door. Would she be smiling softly at them both? At the girl? Or staring indifferently the way she looked at him. 

Gods the way she looked at him.

Indifferently.

And then sometimes not.

Like he disappointed her.

As if she knew he could be better.

His mother didn’t look at him like that anymore. 

Wouldn’t ever look at him again.

He could be better.

He could-

The father spoke to her, and Aemond strained to hear it, trying to shift on the floor to angle himself better to hear what is being said, but he couldn’t move. Every time he tried to shift himself he felt ill. He hadn’t felt so helpless since he lost his eye, and that made his heart race in his chest all the more.

Small. Innocent. And yet half blinded. 

His half sister, estranged yes, but calling for his punishment after her bastard had attacked him. Blinded him.

Her face, his own blood, calling for his punishment.

His punishment was coming.

It was always coming.

Always coming for him.

He groaned softly as he tried to move, panic winding up his throat, and was surprised to see the healers face turn to him. To check on him. To see if he was okay. And that small piece of care, small piece of worry made his heart slow, and the panic he felt lessen. 

She wouldn’t punish him.

She couldn’t.

She-

At the movement, the father reached into his cloak, the sound of coin in palm loud amongst the quiet. He placed the coins into the healer’s hand but to Aemond’s surprise she tried to take her hand back. She shook her head. Refused. Refused payment for her skill, for her time, for her help. It made Aemond furious. But the man insisted, and to Aemond’s disgust, she accepted only half of what was offered.

Half.

The father nodded his thanks before ushering his daughter back into the cold. And Aemond watched as the healer came back inside, dropping the coin carelessly into the front pocket of her gown.

The door shut. 

Silence fell.

She was back.

She came back for him.

She-

-turned back to the table, washing her hands with methodical ease in a wooden bucket. As if nothing had happened. As if Aemond were not still sprawled on the floor, humiliated. In pain.

Waiting.

She did not look at him.

She did not even glance at him.

It struck something inside of him.

How she would see him.

How she would not look at him.

He already knew what he would see.

Her voice, when it came, was soft, “Let me know when you wish to try again.”

All indignation on her behalf died.

All curiosity was burnt to ash.

Aemond wanted to kill her.

But it was more than that, Gods help him. He had never wanted to survive more.

—

After that night, Aemond had expected fear. Deference. Even hatred.

Instead, she simply… existed. Moving through the cottage as if he were nothing more than another broken thing to mend.

She never bowed. Never used his title. Never even flinched when he threatened her life. She had walked over to him, snatched the sword from his hand and leant it against the fire where it had been prior before helping him back onto the bed and tucking him in the furs. 

Each morning, she left without a word, disappearing into the woods for what felt like hours. And when she returned, her basket would be filled to the brim with herbs and roots—sometimes even rabbits or birds caught in her traps, and fish. 

Always fish.

He hated fish now.

Aemond watched her, seething at his own uselessness as she skinned the catches with quiet precision, prepared broth with effortless ease. And on occasion forgot herself as she moved to feed him. 

He resented her for it. For the way she cared for him despite everything he had said, everything he had done. He had tried to kill her. She had brought his sword to him as what he could only assume was a test, and he had grabbed it and tried anyway. 

And yet still, she tended to him.

She did not punish him.

Her willingness to forget the sword unnerved him. Set him on edge. It made him feel as though something was coming. Waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

That perhaps she was waiting for something. Waiting for him to grow complacent, to let his guard down, and then she would strike. Then she would attack him the way he had tried to do to her.

Four days had passed since the sword incident when she ventured into the woods again. She had set traps earlier in the week—though it was not out of necessity for food that she went. She simply could not bear the thought of an animal left suffering for days.

The healer was no stranger to pain. She had seen it, felt it. But she had always sought to prevent it where she could. Especially for those smaller and more helpless than herself.

The rabbit had struggled when she found it, panic in its small, shuddering frame. A swift cut of her knife ended its suffering.

The second trap was empty. The third, too. She reset them, then turned back toward the cottage.

The moment she stepped inside, she felt it.

His gaze.

He was sitting up, leaning against the wall, watching her.

She hated when he watched her.

It unnerved her.

He unnerved her.

She felt like prey in her own home. A creature being stalked, studied. Her every movement, her every reaction watched. Observed. She knew that as he healed, his threats would become more than words. He would regain his strength. And then, one day, she would no longer be safe.

Perhaps she was wrong. Perhaps he would kill her.

A smarter woman would have turned him over to a nearby Lord. Let them deal with him. But the thought of sending a man wounded and half-broken to certain death made her stomach turn. It was not who she was.

She was a healer. And what kind of healer would she be if she knowingly condemned a man to die? 

Even him.

Even after his cruelty.

When she told him that evening as the sun had set low in the sky that he needed to stand, he had thought she was mocking him. Thought that she wished to see him flail, humiliated. Stand above him as he no doubt fell once again to the floor.

He had refused, spat his usual vitriol at her, cheeks reddened. Life flowing through him.

But then she had ripped the furs away and his eye had widened. Was this it? The moment he had been waiting for? Perhaps she would cast him into the cold outside instead. But she hadn’t, and only moved to to hold his arms as she softly pulled him to the edge of the bed. 

It wasn’t without pain, despite her gentle hands.

Nothing was ever without pain.

His lashing out was never without pain.

Pain to his pride.

Pain to his solitude.

Pain to her.

It was over quickly.

He had stood, and she had helped him, telling him to not put weight on his broken leg, had pulled an arm over her shoulders despite her being shorter than him, and held the brunt of his weight. He had barely lasted before pain overwhelmed him, the edges of his vision fraying. But she had not laughed at him. She had held him aloft until he could stand no longer.

She had murmured quiet words of encouragement as she helped him to sit back down to lay. Had told him that the more he stands the easier it would get. That the more he did it, the sooner he would heal.

She had been as patient as the day he met her.

And Aemond had sneered. Because her care for him made his head spin.

It made him feel out of control.

And yet, the more time he spent with her, the more he wanted to know. She seemed to know much about him. Yet he knew nothing of her.

Even now, as she sat at the table, preparing another stew, frustration burned through him like an open wound. The cottage was too small. The silence too thick. He was caged, restless, filled with something dangerously close to loathing.

He felt like a caged animal, cornered and alone. Nowhere to go. He bared his teeth. Snapped his jaw. Bit. Clawed. Tore. And yet still, she persisted.

The hand that cornered him persisted. And he bit the hand that fed him viciously and repeatedly without repent.

The words left him, sharp as a blade.

“Is this all your life is?” Aemond sneered, and for once he immediately regretted it. The peaceful look on her face was gone, and the cold wall he had grown accustomed to slid into place, “Tending to the weak, the sick, and the worthless?”

His words stung himself.

She did not look up. 

Her voice was flat, unimpressed as she cut through vegetables at the table, “I prefer it to pretending I’m something I’m not.”

Aemond’s teeth clenched. The insult was clear.

"You think you’re better than me?" He spat, he couldn't stop himself, it was like watching himself from the ceiling, "A peasant who hides behind a façade of kindness?"

She exhaled softly—whether in amusement or exasperation, he could not tell.

"Better than a Prince who has nothing left but his pride."

The words struck deeper than they should have.

His fists curled. 

He was still Aemond Targaryen. Still the blood of House Targaryen.

But the worst part?

She wasn’t entirely wrong.

His voice dropped, low and edged with warning, "You think your kindness will change anything? It’s weak. It’s meaningless. You have nothing."

Finally, she met his gaze. Her eyes were cool, unwavering. The wall of ice thick between the both of them.

"It’s more than you’ll ever have."

Aemond inhaled sharply. He wanted to wound her. To find the crack in her armour and cut just as deep. But he knew nothing of her.

Not her age, though he could guess they were roughly the same. 

Not her life. 

Nothing. 

She turned from him, already moving to add the vegetables she had cooked to the pot. Food she would feed to him later.

And Aemond, for the first time, had no choice but to sit in the silence she left behind.

Aemond hated her.

He hated the way she moved through the cottage, unbothered by his presence, as if he were nothing more than another broken thing to mend. Hated the way she never flinched at his words, never cowered when he spat threats like venom. Hated that she did not treat him as a Prince, did not bow her head, did not offer the reverence he was owed by birthright.

She was insufferable. A ghost drifting through the dim light of the fire, tending to her work with quiet hands and steady patience. Always watching him—not with fear, not with admiration, but with that infuriating, unreadable gaze. As if she were waiting. Waiting for him to prove her wrong. As if she knew something he did not. 

It made his skin crawl.

And yet—

His jaw clenched as his eye tracked the subtle grace in her movements, the surety of her fingers as they sliced carrots into chunks, the way the dim candlelight flickered against the smooth curve of her cheek. She never hurried. Never faltered. There was something assured about her, something unshaken. He had seen knights on the battlefield waver more than she did in the face of his anger.

He despised that about her.

But he couldn’t deny there was something compelling about her certainty. The way she met his gaze, unwavering, unafraid. The way she never raised her voice, never allowed his rage to provoke her, as if she had already decided he was not worth the effort. It burned him from the inside out, that quiet dismissal.

And her hands—gods, her hands. He had felt them, too many times now. Pressing against his ribs, cool against his fevered skin, smearing salve over the bruises that littered his body. They were careful, practiced, but firm. They did not hesitate. Even when he had sneered at her, insulted her, she had continued without pause.

The scent of her still clung to him, faint but unmistakable—herbs and something softer beneath, something warm, something that made his pulse press against his throat too tightly.

Aemond’s fingers curled into fists.

He was being ridiculous.

She was nothing. 

She was nothing.

She was a wretched peasant, a woman who knew nothing of war, of power, of the weight of a name like his. She was insignificant, a speck of dust in the grander scheme of things. And yet, here he was, watching her as if she held the answers to questions he refused to ask.

His stomach twisted, a sharp coil of frustration.

He hated her. He loathed her.

And what was worse—what was far worse—was that even now, beneath all that hate, there was something else.

Something he did not have a name for.

Something he would rather burn than acknowledge.

Aemond exhaled sharply through his nose, forcing his gaze away.

Yes. He hated her.

And that was all there was to it.

Thanks so much for reading along with me, if you wish to be added to the tag list please let me know :) Likes and reblogs are greatly appreciated ! Enjoy <3

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[one-eyedalmond]

Happy Birthday to this sweet angel <3

[one-eyedalmond]

Watercress - Chapter 3

Warnings: She/her pronouns. Slow burn, mentions of injury, threats, sickness. Tags will be added as the fic goes along.

Pairings: Aemond x Healer

Summary: Raised in the Riverlands, near the shadow of Harrenhal, her life was one of endless toil and quiet resilience. Every day was the same—scraping together food, tending to the ill, and surviving the harsh realities of a land marked by struggle. But when war came, it brought horrors beyond anything she could have imagined. The skies blazed with fury, the waters of the Gods Eye churned with the echoes of battle, and then—just as suddenly as it began—the world grew eerily quiet. She believed the worst was over. That was, until a fateful discovery in the woods shattered her fragile peace and set her on a path she never could have foreseen.

Notes: Hello angels! I hope you enjoyed chapter 2 and now enjoy this. I've been writing these on my commutes to work which has been super fun. I'm going to try and get a chapter out every week if i can! Enjoy <3

For days, Aemond floated in and out of consciousness. Each time his eye flickered open, only to roll shut again, the healer took it as a sign that he would survive. She had seen men fade into death before. How their bodies went still, how their breathing grew shallow and thin until it simply stopped.

But Aemond was not one of those men. He lingered, clung to life like a beast caught in a trap, refusing to die despite the ruin of his body.

At first, he barely stirred. She forced water between his cracked lips, tipping it carefully so he would not choke. She fed him broth, the rich scent of marrow and herbs filling the cottage as she coaxed him to swallow. At one point, she had feared he would slip into a sleep he would never wake from, lost to his wounds and the fever that burned at his skin. But as the days passed, his fingers twitched. His lashes fluttered.

And then finally his eye opened.

Outside, the air had turned sharp and biting, winter creeping closer with every shortened day. The fire in her hearth struggled against the chill that bled up from the earth, and the furs wrapped around her shoulders did little to keep it out.

Soon, the snow would come.

And snow meant death for those who could not prepare for it.

Food was already scarce. Crops had withered in the wake of war, and what little remained was taken by the desperate or the cruel. She had coin, but even coin could not conjure wheat from barren fields or meat from hollowed-out forests. She often thought of selling the long sword she had taken from him, knowing it would fetch more than enough to keep her through the winter. For many winters to come. But carrying a sword like that, his sword, was as dangerous as wielding a traitor’s banner.

Lords and commoners alike who had supported the Green cause had been rounded up and slaughtered. If she was caught with the weapon of a kinslayer, she would be met with the same fate.

And yet… she had kept him alive.

She did not know why. She only knew that she had to.

Would he repay her kindness with a blade to her throat once he could stand again?

Would he lead men to her door, reveal that a woman in the woods had nursed the enemy back to health?

Would he seek vengeance?

She did not want to think about it.

Unease seemed to follow her however, ever since she found the young Prince. It was if the air itself had shifted when Rhaenyra had been slain.

When the war had ended.

It could be, she reasoned with herself, the unsettling feeling after a war. The sudden silence and stillness that clung to people after such uproar. It could also be that the dragons that once flew in great numbers above had greatly dwindled after the war, their shadows and roars missing from the sky. The thought left something heavy in her chest.

It did not bode well when the symbols of gods died.

A low groan pulled her from her thoughts.

She did not rush to his side. She had learned in the first few days that his body remembered the war even if his mind did not. He twitched in his sleep, breath hitching, murmuring half-formed words to ghosts that did not answer. But she knew this sound, this was different.

He was waking.

She dampened a cloth and pressed it to his forehead, watching as his eye fluttered open, violet, sharp despite the dazed, fevered haze clinging to him.

For a moment, he simply stared at her.

Then, suddenly, he tried to sit up.

A harsh cry of pain tore from his lips, and he collapsed back against the bed, his breath ragged, chest jerking in uneven gasps. His fingers twisted into the furs, knuckles white with strain, but his body refused to obey him. He clenched his jaw, breathing heavily through his nose, and tried again. This time, his injured leg jerked upward, and the pain hit him like a tidal wave.

A snarl ripped from his throat, his fingers curling into claws against the mattress, all those fine furs she had bought having their hairs town from their pelts. His eye was squeezed shut, his body taut with the unbearable humiliation of weakness and pain.

She looked down upon him, cloth still held aloft and hoped that this wouldn’t inspire a desperate instinct to attack her. She was certain he would likely not react well, waking up to the unfamiliar scent of her hut, his body aching, and his mind clouded.

A Prince waking in a cottage in the woods and not the chambers of the palace was certain to turn someone of his standings head. Especially since his last memory would have been the war at its peak.

If she woke up one day in a room in the Red Keep, injured and alone, she was sure she would be just as alarmed, if not more so. 

Aemond's lips were chapped, face having grown pale, and breathed a ragged breath, his violet eye flicking around the room as rapidly as his weakness would permit, searching for immediate signs of danger.

When he finally stilled, his breathing shallow but controlled, she let her gaze drift lower. His movement had shifted the furs on the bed so she now had a clear view of the wrappings on his chest. She looked over them searching for any sign of split stitches and found them.

Blood had begun to seep from beneath the rags she had replaced from the fish skin, and without even looking up she turned around to gather her supplies.

Behind her, his voice was hoarse, raw with pain and something darker.

"Where am I?"

She did not answer immediately. She was already assessing the damage, her fingers steady as they lifted the bloodied wrappings from his skin.

"Riverlands." She said flatly.

The silence stretched.

"Where?" His tone sharpened, demanding now.

She did not look at him. "Near Harrenhal."

The shift was immediate.

His breath hitched, his fingers twitched, but the worst of it was in his eye. The moment the word left her lips, his expression twisted into something dangerous. Hatred, rage, loathing, all bleeding into one as his nostrils flared, as the muscle in his jaw clenched tight enough to shatter his own teeth.

She braced herself, already anticipating the bite of his fury.

"Are you a Maester?" The question was sharp, calculated. Even now, flat on his back, broken, helpless, he was still testing her.

She did not fear the question, nor the weight of his stare. Instead, she did something unexpected, she laughed. A quiet, breathy sound that barely reached the space between them.

It was not amusement, not quite. But there was something in it; a warning, perhaps.

He hated it.

"As a follower of the Seven, you should know women cannot swear such an oath."

Slowly, deliberately, she lifted her gaze to meet his.

The hatred was still there, simmering beneath the surface, but now it was joined by something else. Something assessing.

He was measuring her.

Calculating.

She could almost see the thoughts turning behind his eye, the realisation sinking in. He was in a stranger’s home, far from his kin, with wounds he could not fight past, and a body that refused to obey him.

And worst of all; he was at her mercy.

The firelight flickered, casting long shadows across his face, making the bruises look darker, the scar across his cheekbone deeper, and him gaunter. He looked like something feral, something barely restrained by the thin thread of his own will.

She wondered, briefly, if she had saved a dying man or a dying beast.

The answer did not matter.

She would soon find out.

“Who tends to me?” His voice was distrustful, thick with uncertainty. Sharp.

Commanding.

She gave him her name and only her name.

“Who is your sworn lord?” Voice thick with impatience.

She smirked as she lifted the bandages from his chest, watching his fingers twitch, wary as if he might lurch forward and grab her.

She hummed, unfazed. “Sworn lord? I’ve sworn no oaths.”

His eye burned into her, “Who holds Harrenhal?”

She had to hold back a laugh.

Men often made demands when they were injured. Often promised vengeance for the shame of their own vulnerability. When she had first taken her mother’s place, it had made her cautious, fearful. But time had taught her something else. Empty words and empty threats were more deserving of mirth than worry.

But this man… this man was different. His reputation alone would have been enough to put her on edge. And yet, more than that, it was the feel of him. The way the air thickened around him, charged with something unspoken.

A warning.

Even still, she answered as she would any other.

“The ghosts that haunt its walls.”

Her fingers pinched his torn skin together, assessing what to do next.

He did not whimper this time.

Aemond gave her a scathing look, the scar over his eye crinkling. “The war...Has it been won?”

She hummed in amusement.

His face dissolved into fury.

He was a prince, and had clearly never spoken to in such a way, least of all by someone lowborn like herseld. But within these four walls, titles held no power.

All men bled.

All men died.

Birth and rank meant naught to the gods.

“There is no winning in a war.”

"Who?" His voice, a blade’s edge, barely restrained.

She held his gaze, unflinching, and it irked him. “The son of the dead Queen. Her blood will rule. The Gods do not favour kinslayers and usurpers.”

Violence flared in his eye, “It is treason to speak her name with victory.”

Aemond tried once again to sit up too quickly, succeeding and she sighed as she watched two new stitches burst, blood pooling to the surface. The Prince tried valiantly to ignore the pain, teeth gritted as his body betrayed him, but she could see that it made his consciousness swim.

He swayed and fell back onto on elbow, wheezing at the agonised angle, one arm coming to clutch his broken ribs. But even in the immense pain he seemed to be suffering, his stubbornness won out, and even she had to admit that he had faired better than men who had suffered less.

"You lie."

If he weren’t so pathetic in that moment, she might have humoured him like a petulant child. She didn’t dignify it with a response. Just inhaled deeply, eyes sweeping the rest of his injuries. She lingered on his leg.

Horror flickered in his violet eye.

He knew.

The loss of an eye had been something to overcome. A wound to be turned into a weapon. A show of his strength. Something to reveal to strike fear amongst his enemies.

But this…

A leg was different. A leg made a warrior. And without it, without the strength to stand, to fight, what was he?

"Answer me." His voice wavered this time.

She wished he would pass out so she could work in silence.

"The false king was slain by his own men," She said coolly, "All your kin are dead."

Silence.

His eye searched hers, desperate for deception, for any trace of a lie.

There was none.

Something in his face shifted. Darkened.

Gone.

All of them.

His mother. His brothers. His grandfather Otto.

Perhaps Criston Cole, too. The man who had been a father in all but name and blood.

But most of all;

Helaena.

Had she been slain with the rest?

His sister.

His gentle sister.

A harsh, bitter breath left him. His lips curled into something between a sneer and a grimace. Aemond was not a man who wept. His grief hardened into fury.

And she had been prepared for it.

"Then I should have died."

She lifted a brow, lazy, “Aye. If the Gods had willed it.”

The sneer returned, but his strength waned, and he collapsed back onto the bed, glaring at her.

"You willed it."

"I do as the Gods command me."

She reached for him and he recoiled.

"I am not some wounded beast for you to keep." Aemond snarled, pink blooming across his cheeks where they had once been colourless.

Amused she replied, "No. You snarl and snap like one. But a true beast still has its claws."

He swatted at her as she reached for his side, shifting away. But she was persistent, stronger than he expected, and he sank, reluctant, into compliance.

At a loss.

At a loss of who he was.

He had lost everything. The war. His kin. His title.

His purpose.

And for the first time, he felt it. The emptiness. The hollow absence where Vhagar had been.

The ache of the bond was silent. And he just knew to his bones she was gone.

The one being who understood him.

Gone.

And now, after all he had done, after Lucerys, after Sharp Point, after every drop of blood spilled in his name, his half-sister’s son sat the throne.

And when they found him?

It would be public. Very public. A trial. A spectacle.

A kinslayer’s fate.

"How long have I been here?" His voice was quieter now, loss leaking in at the edges.

She knew what he was thinking.

Could he still fight? Could he still win?

Would there be any left who would fight for him?

Unlikely.

She met his eye. “Several days. You’ve been asleep for most.”

His teeth clenched. “Days…”

Frustration sparked in his voice, and she readied herself for cruelty.

"Why did you save me?" He sneered, and she ignored his question, "I suppose you expect me to be grateful. What do you want, coin? Gold? A jewel to buy your way out of this hovel?"

There it was.

She ignored him again. Dipped a rag into boiling water, wrung it out, and reached for his wound. She met his eye briefly before pressing the cloth to his skin.

His stomach clenched beneath her hands.

"You lie." He hissed again.

"I don’t have time for lies."

"Say it again."

She flicked her eyes up to his, unimpressed, "Have you gone deaf, m’lord?" She mocked his now lack of title.

His voice was low, dangerous, “You will say it again.”

Coolly, she obliged, "You have lost. Your family is dead. The war is over. The Blacks sit the throne. And you… you are alone."

His jaw tightened as he inhaled sharply.

"And I am expected to take the word of some common healer in some nameless hut?" His eye flicked around the cottage in distaste, “Who’s to say my brother hasn’t won and you are a sympathiser to the whore Queen?”

Now she smiled, and despite the hatred he felt for her, he noted that it was a pretty smile.

"My word means nothing, Aemond."

His eye narrowed at the sound of his name on her tongue.

But she continued, for the first time speaking longer than he had expected, "I could tell you many things. Promise you more. But it wouldn’t change my station or yours."

She leaned in, voice calm.

"And if I were the sympathiser you accuse me of being," Her voice dipped almost to a whisper, almost sultrily, "I would have slit your throat where you lay."

Aemond laughed, humourless, "You think I will stay here? That I will rot in this hut?"

Her eyes flicked to his leg, then to the door, "You’re free to leave, kinslayer."

His breath caught.

He went utterly still.

"Say that again."

She raised her brows, "How many times are you going to ask me to repeat myself? I'm not a parrot from High Garden, m'lord. You don’t like the truth I speak?"

With her hands, she pinched his wound together and readied her needle, not asking if he was ready. She could feel his heated glare atop her skull.

The healer could admit that she had stitched the first stitch more roughly than she could have, knowing it would have pained him. She felt his stomach clench beneath her as she worked, the heat from his skin almost scolding her hands like the water in the basin.

Lips curling, seething, he hissed lowly in threat, "Watch your tongue, woman."

A large hand snapped out and wrapped around the wrist holding the needle and squeezed painfully.

We have finally reached the threats, she mused to herself dryly and hummed an amused laugh.

Aemond moved to sit up again and she managed to move a well placed, albeit cruel, hand against one of his broken ribs and pressed, which made the prince gasp in pain and stiffen against the bed stilling.

"If you’re going to undo my work," She said smoothly, "I should’ve left you to die as your men did."

She paused for a moment.

She knew his distrust of her would prove to be an issue with him now being conscious. He would fight her at every turn and spit vitriol her way. She no doubted that he would test her patience and she would consider dosing his food with a sleeping draught. Perhaps even some milk of the poppy.

She would have offered it to him sooner if he had not been so aggressive in his questioning. 

"You knew who I was."

Her lips twitched into a smile.

His eye narrowed, "Why?"

Why did she save him?

Why did she tend to him?

What was her motive?

The mystery surrounding her set his hair on end.

She tilted her head slightly, studying him. He was not sure he liked it, the way she looked at him. As though he was a question to be answered, a thing to be fixed. Rather than a man to be feared.

“Would you have preferred to die?"

Aemond did not answer.

He should say no.

Should say he still has vengeance to take, a name to reclaim, a war to fight. A throne to win. But the truth sat thickly in his throat.

There was nothing left.

“You want me to trust your word?” Aemond scoffed, the colour in his cheeks fading again.

With a sigh she worked his wound, stitching it back together methodically, "You may recall I never asked for your trust. I couldn’t care for your thoughts of me." Her tone cool and emotionless, "Feel free to die now if you wish, it would save me the trouble and herbs.” She tied shut the final stitch.

There was a brief moment of silence between them, only the sound of the cracking fire.

He was left to stew in his shattered pride and frustration, the knowledge that he would never be the same, and the added humiliation that he now depended upon a woman such as her. 

His voice was a blade at her throat. "I have killed men for less."

A smirk played at her lips. "And yet here I stand," She straightened, looking down at his broken body to prove her point. He could not stand, not without help.

Not without her.

"And there you lay."

Thanks so much for reading along with me, if you wish to be added to the tag list please let me know :) Likes and reblogs are greatly appreciated ! Enjoy <3

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[one-eyedalmond]

Watercress - Chapter 2

Warnings: She/her pronouns. Descriptions of injuries, blood and broken bones, stitches. Tags will be added as the fic goes along.

Pairings: Aemond x She/Her

Word Count: 6k

Summary: Raised in the Riverlands, near the shadow of Harrenhal, her life was one of endless toil and quiet resilience. Every day was the same—scraping together food, tending to the ill, and surviving the harsh realities of a land marked by struggle. But when war came, it brought horrors beyond anything she could have imagined. The skies blazed with fury, the waters of the Gods Eye churned with the echoes of battle, and then—just as suddenly as it began—the world grew eerily quiet. She believed the worst was over. That was, until a fateful discovery in the woods shattered her fragile peace and set her on a path she never could have foreseen.

Notes: Firstly I want to thank you all for your patience on this series, I had some insane writers block but I think I'm back! I also want to thank you for all your kindness with the first chapter and your excitement, I feel terrible for not being able to get this out sooner but hopefully it's worth the wait. I'm thinking this miniseries will be about 10 chapters long! It's a bit of a hefty chapter because I couldn't help myself. I did way too much medieval medicine research, Oops! Again, thank you all for your kindness and patience, I really love writing for you all. Enjoy <3

The earth moved beneath her, pines and dirt sliding out from under her feet as she tugged with all her might. Pulling and dragging, the remnants of her net hooked beneath the mans armpits. His unconscious body was limp and heavy as he was moved along the dirt floor, the sun descending from the sky, darkness beginning to blanket the realm.

She hadn’t had too much of a second thought to bring him with her. At first she had assumed that he would die from being moved in the manner he was, but she couldn’t leave him. Something compelled her to drag him from the trees back to her home.

It was in her nature to heal, it was what the Gods gifted her with. Something that she had only known her whole life, and despite her reservations about him likely dying, and her likely wasting her hard earned and homemade remedies, she couldn’t do it. The Gods would look down upon her if she did. She could feel it.

They wanted her to find him, for what, she did not know. It was like a faint scratching in the back of her head, this urge to do it. She wondered if she had access to the Weirwood tree in the ruins of Harrenhal itself if she could make sense of it all there.

But for now, all she could do was follow her instincts.

Death was no stranger to her. And she hadn't raced back to his side, instead taking languid steps, calm and unrushed. If he had survived this long, he could survive another moment.

And if not, the Gods willed it so.

She found him where she had left him; broken and cold, silver hair matted and bloodied—an insult to what he'd been.

Though he was tall and slender, his mass was dense with muscles from swordsmanship. At times the man would moan softly, his swollen yet sharp features furrowing as the broken leg would catch or bump along rock and root, yet she couldn’t feel sympathy for him, only a dull sense of duty to do what she could. Not to him or his family, but to life—to the Gods.

For years, people of all stations sought her out—Lords, Ladies, and small folk alike. She had lived in solitude, trading medicines and knowledge for coin, goods or food. She was bound to healing, like her mother before her--by choice, or by design she did not know. The forest was her wisdom, her hands were her tools, and her skills were her coin.

With each step backwards, head cast over her shoulder looking to where she would step, she dragged the silver haired man through the forest. Her thighs cramped, her feet ached, and her back protested from the heavy weight, but still she pressed on. By the time she finally reached her home, she let the net slacken lowering the mans torso to lay flat on the earth. Fresh blood leaked from the wounds she could see—mouth, ears and nose alike. 

He would be lucky to survive the night.

The door creaked when pushed as she entered, the man left at the threshold. Stretching, she felt her spine crack, an ache steadily creeping further into her muscles.

The fireplace was a steady glow of embers, and the need to light it came first. Kneeling at the hearth, she coaxed the embers to life, feeding them twigs and moss until flames caught before placing some logs atop.

Her stone and wood cottage was simple yet well kept. It was a large open space with shelves lined with jars of dried roots and flowers, metal tins sealed with salves and oils. The fireplace dominated the room, a great iron pot hanging above it. Herbs, flowers and bark strips were hung from the beams of the ceiling to dry, whilst tools and books cluttered the shelves.

There was a sturdy wooden table that bore the marks of time—knives, flames, and countless memories. Memories of old with her mother, her father. Memories of new, meals spent alone, or with those she healed. People sat or laid atop it as she had tended to their wounds or sickness with unwavering care.

Her bed was nestled against the farthest wall, softened with pillows and blankets from a distant trader and furs she had both bought, and prepped herself.

She was by no means poor, her long years of work and keen skills meant that she had steady business and flow of coin. It afforded her luxuries that many had not, though she wasn't materialistic. She had what she needed, and only that.

On top of the table lay the long sword and her basket of fish and foraged items. She moved the basket to a bench and set the sword in the corner by the fireplace before stepping back outside to check on the man.

The Targaryen looked like the Stranger had finally come to call. His skin was paler and mottled with bruises and blood, hair matted and dirty, crusted against his scalp, his leg bent at an unnatural angle.

And yet still, Aemond One-Eye lived. 

Pulling him atop the table was no easy task. His long limbs seemed to go anywhere but where she wanted him to, and by the time she was done, she was coated in a light sheen of sweat and smears of fresh blood. The Prince had groaned softly as she jostled him without repentance until he lay flat atop the wood.

With scissors collected by the fire, she began to cut off his leather robes, deciding that it would be easier to take them off this way rather than worrying about preserving his modesty or the well made clothing. The scissors in her hand were sharp, and cut easily through the stitching—tunic and undershirt coming off first. The leather and linen was dropped to floor in a heap of ash and blood, as she scanned his body for notable injury. 

Blues and purples bloomed across his ribs on one side, a jagged cut moving up his hipbone to sternum. Coagulated blood and rusty flakes littered his skin as his chest rose and fell shallowly. He could breathe, a good sign, but beneath his swollen flesh, there could be a danger. 

Feeling with her fingers along his ribs, she looked for signs of splintering—a pierced lung does little good to a dying man, and despite her years of healing, she dreaded those injuries the most. She probably should have checked for this first before she dragged him along the forest floor and heaved him atop her table, but if she had found it then she would have had to treat him where he was, or risk getting help from someone in a nearby village. And being who he was, she hadn't wanted to risk it.

She felt his cold skin until she reached his lower most ribs. Fingertips felt along his swollen flesh, the bones loosened with raised ridges—broken. An ear to the chest confirmed blood in his lungs, wheezing shallow breaths from trauma, but breaths nonetheless. 

Broken ribs, but no pierced lungs. Fortunate.

Next was his head. Silky silver tresses, knotted and dry, passed through her fingers as she felt along his skull where the silver turned red, searching for the wound. A broken skull could mean he never woke again, until he slowly withered away into nothing and became another dead man amongst many. Wetness met her searching, and a gash on his scalp was re-disturbed, fresh blood rising to the surface. She pressed deeper into the wound, his skull did not move nor creak in the way it would if it was broken.

Relief.

As she looked down at the dragon rider, she noted what was needed; Water from the creek to wash the wounds, boiled above the fire and herbs. She wondered momentarily if she had any honey from the last months trader—it filled wounds well enough and assisted in healing.

Her observation continued down to his clothed legs and shoes. The broken leg would need focused care, and with his condition she wished to leave the worst until last. He may wake and become violent, difficult to control, or he may die from the pain of her setting the bone. She wished to work from the minor to the major, cuts and bruising first, then work her way up. An odd way of working, but a way to ensure that he stayed unconscious and pliable, in the rare chance that he did wake.

Mortar and pestle and a jar of dried marigolds was carried over to the table where he lay, placing them in the space beside him. Behind her, her water pales were mostly full, but there was a need for fresh running water, not water that had been stagnant for washing. 

It was dark when she left her home, her eyes adjusting to the low light. By the time she got back, her skirts and dress had almost dried, and her home had been warmed from the fire she had stoked. She lit candles for light, and took the pale to the fireplace to boil.

In a jar by the kitchen was a murky oil which shone in the light of candle and flame, its colour a slight yellow. She remembered as a child her mother showing her the pink or sometimes yellow flowers with care—Evening Primrose—and that the oil from the leaves—never the flower— can have pain relief, and help to heal. Together combined with the thick honey that she eventually found by the kitchen, she could seal his wounds together and give him some relief should he wake. 

Would they look for him? 

Or would they believe like all others that he was dead? 

She did not recall seeing any men nor dragons above searching the lands after his fall. No green and gold banners were seen to march through the fishing ports, and no message from the small villages and communities nearby came to warn or reward those of the missing monarch. In fact, not a single Green banner had been seen, only Black. The Green army was defeated.

To everyone but her, he was dead. 

Beneath the lid of his single eye, his lashes fluttered and shifted with a faint, weak groan escaping his lips. All else remained unmoving, as if in death, while she continued her work undeterred. She added drops of the oil to the powdered marigold and spoonfuls of honey to the mixture, grinding the pestle into the mortar to mix it all together into a thick paste. The soft, rhythmic sound of stone against stone filled the quiet space.

She washed his head first, hands not in the slightest bit gentle, but precise. The dried blood lifted from the silver locks, and soon it turned a soft pink, water dripping down off of the table and onto the floor below. It would be a lengthy process with the man having such long hair, that she wondered if it would be quicker to cut it all off. 

He needn’t a mirror to gaze upon. Hair can regrow; life cannot. 

Holding his hair in her hand, she took her scissors beside her and cut through the silver. Several inches of god-like hair was hacked away as easy as his life could have been, the silver strands offering no resistance. If he stood, it would come to his shoulders. She let the locks fall to the floor in a wet heap amongst his clothes before resuming.

One by one, she stitched his wounds, steady and practiced. Her needle had seen hundreds of injuries; this time was no different. Each stitch was precise. Not too tight, not too loose.

Her paste was smeared atop the wound thickly, until the stitches were covered. Then this she had learnt from her mother; fish skin which had been dried a moon before was cut into a strip with her blade atop the wooden table, it was soaked in the hot water, and then placed atop the sticky wound. She flattened it down until it became almost like a plaster, wherein she smeared more salve atop.

She repeated the process to the rest of his wounds, from the cut upon his face, a gash on his arm, to the jagged cut from hip to chest. Some wounds needn’t the needle or thread and so she simply smeared the salve into the cuts or bruises until all injuries had been accounted for.

All that was left now was his mangled leg. 

The skin of his shin was swollen and purple, red veins crawled across the flesh like streams, short silver hairs shining in the low light. The break itself was just below the centre of his shin, the bone having moved skin, flesh and bone to the side. The point of the break was visible to the eye, though it did not break the skin. With her fingers she pressed against and around the wound, feeling the bone and swollen flesh, hot to the touch. Perhaps the beginnings of infection.

Standing back, she looked over him. The wounds on his face and head had stopped bleeding and the one upon his side was settling with the fish skin and salve she had made. She had done all that she could, and after this final task she could rest and leave his fate to the Gods for the night. 

The hardest part was now. 

She positioned two wooden splints at the sides of his leg, securing them with tight cloth strips.

Hands on either side of his shin, she pushed with all her strength the bone back together, feeling the ends grinding against each other. The man groaned loudly, his swollen face scrunching up as his chest rose and fell rapidly. She kept on, no cares for his pain, pushing until she felt the tension give, and a gut turning crunch send a click into her hands.

The man gasped a wheezy moan but did not wake.

It done. 

His life was now in the hands of the Gods.

She rose with the sun as she always did, its warm light shining through the open windows. Rising from her bed, she stoked the embers of the fire, placing a small log atop the ashes to let it smoulder.

The man hadn’t moved from where she had placed him the day before, the parlour of his skin still ashen. The wounds she had tended to were sealed by salve or fish skin, and had not bled nor wept through the night, the skin around his wounds pink, but the heat from them didn’t indicate dangerous infection.

He had survived the night, and would hopefully another.

There was an abrupt knock upon the hollow door of the cottage. She stood in the kitchen looking down at the silver haired man atop her table, and felt a small seed of dread in her gut.

Had someone seen her? Dragging the body of the man through the woods to her cottage?

Or perhaps they had seen her dragging the long sword through the forest ground before him? 

Another knock.

She stepped to the door, inhaling deeply.

“Yes?” she whispered through the crack, eyes flicking to the unconscious man. If he woke, if he made a sound—

“You the healer?”

A gruff voice. A man.

She hesitated, then, “Aye.”

“I have coin.”

No urgency. No proclamation of Knighthood or King’s Guard.

She unlatched the door, opening it just a sliver. The man outside was older, broad-shouldered, with deep lines of worry carved into his face. He did not try to peer inside, and only met her gaze.

“My daughter. She’s sick.” His voice wavered, brows furrowed. He seemed out of breath.

“What ails her?” The woman asked, noting the girl was clearly to unwell to travel to her as she was not with the father.

He huffed, “Well that’s why I came to you, isn’t it? I’m not a bloody Maester.”

Ah. The telltale irritation that most people who worried for the sick had. It didn't bother her anymore as it once had.

“Fever?”

"Aye."

“Cough?”

He nodded.

“Blood?”

“No.” His head shook violently.

“Where is she?”

He shifted, revealing a man worn thin by sleepless nights. His boots, though well-made, were scuffed from wear. His clothes, fine but unkempt. A father, desperate. He was taller than her by a foot, but had a thick build to him. If she were to guess he would be a tradesman of some sort. Perhaps a fisherman.

“Not far, I’m in the fishing village just over to the east.” A large calloused finger lifted and pointed east of the water where her cottage resided. 

She hummed, “How far?”

It wasn’t that she didn’t know where it was, it was more that she didn’t know where he was. His dwelling could be on the outskirts of the village like hers or dead in its centre.

“About an hours walk.” His posture indicated growing fear and impatience.

She hummed again, that would mean she would likely be gone for 3-4 hours then, depending on the state of the girl.

“Horse?”

“Foot.” He confessed with a small inkling of shame. 

She nodded. Most people she dealt with didn’t own horses, nor the coin to pay her, but if they could, she would take what they could offer. No person was turned away, and trade was often a payment. Furs, blankets, knives, clothing; whatever the person could offer was taken without reluctance.

Before he could speak again she turned around and went back inside closing the door behind her. The basket she had used for foraging and fishing was filled with tinctures and herbs, oils and creams. She was sure it was likely another case of the fever that seemed to roll around in the colder months, but she liked to be prepared otherwise.

The journey to the man’s home and village was swifter than she had expected, but quiet. He didn’t speak unless to direct them or ask if she could help his sick child.

As they traveled, his questioning became increasingly impulsive, circling back to the same concerns. She answered him patiently at first, but when he repeated himself a fourth time, she chose silence instead.

As they neared the village, its presence became unmistakable. Foot-worn paths grew more defined, and scattered huts at the outskirts became more frequent, until they stood only a stone’s throw apart. A well-worn cobblestone road split the town through its centre, leading toward the river which connected to the Gods Eye. A sturdy yet timeworn dock penetrated the water, small fishing boats littering the shore.

The scent of fish clung thickly in the air, though the villagers had long since grown used to it. At the docks, merchants bartered with customers over the day’s catch, while others tended to small boats or repaired fishing nets. She felt the weight of fleeting glances as she followed the man through the town, basket in hand. Some villagers recognised her, others merely noted her presence before returning to their tasks. The older ones, she knew, had once sought out her mother for guidance, just as they now came to her instead.

The man’s pace quickened as they entered the heart of the village. Upon reaching his home, a modest wooden dwelling, he pushed the door open with little effort, its hinges well oiled.

Warmth greeted them at once. A fire blazed inside, casting flickering light across the walls. He strode straight to a bed tucked against the far side of the room, where a small figure lay curled beneath thick furs.

The healer took a moment to scan the space. A simple table and three chairs sat near the hearth, where food would be prepared and eaten. Strips of dried fish hung from the rafters alongside a large net to dry. The air held a faint briny scent, but she hardly noticed it after a few breaths. The fireplace, larger than expected, was built from blackened stones perhaps darkened by soot, scavenged from an old ruin nearby.

The man spoke down to the poorly child, breaking her observation, “I’ve brought the healer for you. She’s going to make you better.”  His large hand pushed back the sweaty darkened hair upon a paled face. 

The girl was comely but bore the clear signs of illness. Shadows darkened the skin beneath her eyes, and her complexion had taken on a gray pallor. A fine sheen of sweat clung to her skin, and though her damp curls were tangled, they held the promise of beauty when well-tended.

She placed her basket beside the bed and moved the worried father out of the way, feeling his eyes watching her as she observed the girl. Her hand brushed against her forehead, the skin hot and clammy . Despite the plentiful furs and raging fire, she shivered slightly. 

“Are you in pain?” The woman asked softly.

The child’s dark eyes, so like her father’s, fluttered open with great effort.

“No.” Her voice was thin, barely more than a breath. “M’cold.”

The woman hummed, pulling the furs down from the girl who whined softly in protest, the man behind her shifted.

“I’m looking for sores.” She told them both, but mostly for the benefit of the father who seemed to moved closer to his daughter as an action of protection.

The chemise that the girl wore was old and worn and almost soaked through with sweat. She carefully looked at the girls arms, neck and legs, pulled the chemise up to look at where her glands lay beneath her skin. She thankfully could see no sores.

She nodded to herself and hummed again, opening the girls mouth to look inside her throat. With the help of the fire she was able to see that the back looked red and sore. 

“How old is she?” The healer asked, eyes not moving from the girl.

“Ten.” 

“Has she had Redspots before?”  She asked, a common and non-fatal sickness to children. 

“Aye, when she was three.” The father replied.

Immediately she was sure of what ailed the girl. The father moved again and spoke, concern lacing his voice, “What is it?”

“A simple fever.” She retrieved a cloth from her basket and dipped it into a jar of tincture, the rag absorbing the golden-hued oil.

“Shivers?” Dread in his voice.

“No.” She had to hold back an endearing smile as she began to wipe the oiled cloth on the girls face, neck, arms and legs, “Shivers takes quickly. And she is not shaking.” 

The man shifted nervously beside her, leaning over her to watch as she treated his daughter, “There have been men.” He breathed quickly, a new fear creeping into his voice, “-Sick. I’m surprised you haven’t been called to town sooner.” 

She didn’t stop as she worked, not once lifting her head as she smoothed the hair from the girls face back, “Everyone gets sick. No one is immune to illness.”

“No.” The man said with a more fearful tone, “It’s different, this one. I’ve never seen anything like it. Two men came back and dropped dead. Not even the grey have seen it.”

This peaked her interest, “Two?”

“Aye.” 

She frowned, “Shivers most likely.”

“No." He insisted, and this insistence made her heart beat faster, "These men were hale and healthy. Hardiest men I’ve ever seen or known. Fishermen like most of us. And they died. Dropped like flies. Ain't no one seen anything like it before.”

She let herself look at the man, his nervousness made the hair on the back of her neck stand up, “Fevers are not uncommon during winter.” 

He began to shake his head to argue again but she interrupted him, “When did these men die?”

His eyes looked away as he thought, “Six or seven days past now.”

“And has anyone else grown ill?”

The man thought about it, “No. None but my Ceryce.” His eyes dropped to his daughter.

“Does she fair as they did?”

"No." He shook his head, more to convince himself than the healer, “They were red in the face—swollen, mad. Raving about things, seein' things that weren’t there. Couldn't understand a thing they was saying." His eyes looked to his daughter, "But she’s pale, tired. No visions.”

The woman exhaled, “Then there is nothing to fear.” Even so, unease curled in her gut.

“Is s-“

“-Apply this,” she handed over the small jar of oily substance to him, “upon her skin twice a day. Once at dawn, once at dusk. Make her drink,” she looked around, “have you ale?”

“Aye.”

“Good. Make sure she drinks.” Fingers reached into her basket again as she looked for a small cloth bag. Once found she lifted it and opened, showing the man its contents, “Make her tea, three times a day. When her fever begins to break, make a stronger dose.”

Inside the sack were seeds, “What is it?” He asked, uncertainty in his voice.

“Coriander for the fever.” She stood, the bed shifting. 

The girl groaned quietly before her eyes fluttered open again to look up at her, “Am I going to die?”

The woman’s heart clenched painfully. In truth, she did not know. Some fevers stole their victims away; others burned through in a day. But the girl was young, and for now, the Stranger did not linger at her door.

Pulling the furs back up on the young girl, she gave her a small reassuring smile, “No. Your da will make you better.”

She handed the man the oiled cloth, her small roughened hand passing over his. He looked down at her gratefully and smiled in a way that most people did after she treated them.

With relief.

With thanks.

With worry. 

“How much coin?”

The woman thought about it, instead remembering what she had spotted when she first walked inside the home. 

“No coin.”

The man’s eyebrows rose, a refusal on the tip of his tongue.

“-But,” she continued, “I'm in need of a new net. I’ll take the one you have hung instead of coin.” 

“A net?” His brows furrowed, he had such an expressive face.

A nod.

She knew it was a much cheaper deal than he had anticipated. But he wasn’t going to argue. He nodded with vigour and moved to the wall where it hung and handed it to her, and with a second thought, pulled down 3 dried fish for her, tied together with string. She nodded in thanks and placed it inside of her basket.

“Thank you.” He gave her a sad smile, “ Fever took her mother after she gave birth. She’s all I have of my Deyan.”

She let herself give him a small sad smile back, “The stranger comes for all. If she gets worse, cool her with rags. If the rags do not help, send for me, I will come."

The man’s hand shot out before she could react and grasped her hand in his squeezing, “Thank you.”

She nodded and made her way to the door, the sun outside lowering in the sky. If she moved quickly she could make it home before the sun had set. As she stepped outside, the man called out to her again.

“It’ll be dark soon.” Barely having left his daughter side, “It’s dangerous to be a woman in the dark." His voice held little concern, and more of a warning, "There’s raiders now, more than before the war. People are desperate.”

Without replying, she simply nodded and went on her way. 

Of course it was dangerous to be a woman walking alone at night, but then again, it was dangerous to be a woman anywhere. Nowhere was safe, especially after the war. Desperation clung to men like filth, more pungent than sweat or unwashed clothes. But she trusted in her own caution, in the knowledge of when to step into the shadows and when to keep moving. She knew the land better than she knew herself.

And she was right. Her home was dark once she finally arrived, the trees surrounding blocking out what little light there already was.

And he was still there. Not that he could have gone anywhere.

She thought momentarily that he was dead--he was so still, so pale that it was hard not to mistaken him for a corpse. But once she stood beside him, she touched his neck and felt warmth and the slow and steady thump of his heart. 

The longer she looked at the young prince however, the more she realised she would likely need her table back, and surely having him elevated was not safe. If he woke and thrashed, he would fall to the hard floor. She would need to move him, and to her bed. But if she did this, she herself would have nowhere to sleep.

Regret pricked at her for not taking the fisherman’s coin. Cloth for a makeshift cot would have been useful. A blanket, too.

Hands on her hips, she surveyed her home. The furs on her bed were plentiful and would be enough to soften the floor. If she laid by the fire, it would keep her warm too.

It would have to do.

She dragged the furs from her bed and onto the floor beside the fire for warmth. She knew that she would need to change his bandages soon, and so she went to him.

With a deep breath, she braced herself. Hands beneath his arms, she pulled him upright. His face went bone-white, his lone eye rolling beneath its lid, lips parting in a strained whimper.

She twisted so that his chest leaned against her back. It was risky with his ribs, but she had no choice. He was dead weight. She hooked one arm under his broken leg, then hoisted him from the table.

The effort nearly sent her toppling.

His body tensed against her back, muscles locking as another sound of pain escaped his lips. She staggered, knees nearly buckling beneath his weight. And though he was lean, he might as well have been made of iron.

Quick unsteady steps and more groans which grew with intensity behind her she made it to the bed dropping him as gently as she could on the surface. He lay awkwardly, the broken leg on the bed, the other hanging off the edge, his skin had taken a green tint and she worried he may be sick. 

She hurried to fix his position, heart hammering when she noticed the fresh bloom of red on his bandaged side. Not enough to be dangerous but enough to tell her the jostling had torn at the wound.

Even in the low light of the fire, he looked worse, but she knew it was for the best. Her fingers felt his ribs, and all seemed to still be in the places where they should be. An ear to his chest confirmed a lack of punctured lung. Small mercies, she supposed.

His face was taut with pain, the most expression she had seen in the days passed. His brows were furrowed and his eye seemed to roll vigorously inside its socket. 

With a cloth she had used before, she wet it and came to his side, soothing the skin of his forehead in an attempt to settle him again. But as soon as the cloth touched him, his eye shot open. She was met with dazzling violet, which despite his weakness burned with what little strength the man had left. His pupil struggled to focus on her face, growing and shrinking, the violet disappearing and reappearing. 

She gave him what she thought was a unthreatening smile, and continued on the path of wetting his forehead with the cloth in soft gentle strokes of reassurance. 

She prayed momentarily that he didn't attack her. Men on their death beds have surprising strength when cornered. The bodies last burst and attempt of survival.

Aemond blinked sluggishly up at her, and she was surprised that he had even stayed conscious this long despite the pain the marred his face. The white of his lashes dusted his cheeks, and she saw that the muscles surrounding the missing eye tried also to blink what was left of the other lid. 

“Sleep.” She cooed at him, brushing against the side of his face where sweat had begun to settle.

His lips parted, cracked and dry, 

“Mother.”

Thanks so much for reading along with me, if you wish to be added to the tag list please let me know :) Likes and reblogs are greatly appreciated ! Enjoy <3

Taglist: Please ask if you would like to be added to the taglist

@thewriterthatghostedyou @sepherinaspoppies @insufferablelust @osferthswifey @persephonerinyes @ihadlife @aemondsfavouritebastard @misspinkonmars @aelora-mills-targaryens @nina2697 @dahlias-and-marigolds @callsigncrushx @fivefeetsnark @sarcasticwitch11 @aemondtargaryenwifey @lynnbell @adurnat01-blog @livmondcole @sillylittlepenguin181818 @misfitbimbosblog @blackswxnn @idontwanttoloveanymore

[one-eyedalmond]

My graphite pencil portrait drawing of Aemond Targaryen

[one-eyedalmond]

Watercress

Warnings: She/her pronouns. Smallfolk OC, mentions of death and war, descriptions of injury and blood, slowburn. Tags will be added as the fic goes along.

Pairings: Aemond x She/Her

Summary: Raised in the Riverlands, near the shadow of Harrenhal, her life was one of endless toil and quiet resilience. Every day was the same—scraping together food, tending to the ill, and surviving the harsh realities of a land marked by struggle. But when war came, it brought horrors beyond anything she could have imagined. The skies blazed with fury, the waters of the Gods Eye churned with the echoes of battle, and then—just as suddenly as it began—the world grew eerily quiet. She believed the worst was over. That was, until a fateful discovery in the woods shattered her fragile peace and set her on a path she never could have foreseen.

Notes: Hello there my sweet angels! Thank you so much for your patience in me writing this. It has been such a long time since I have written anything and I am so excited to finally have a burst of energy (and the inspiration) to do it! As I'm writing this I'm like, is this similar to Lighthouse? And you know what, potentially? Lmaoooo. I'm not sure how many chapters this bad boy is going to be, but it will be a miniseries hehe. If you want to be tagged in the taglist, let me know, otherwise I hope you enjoy! <3

Chapter 1: Broken

Still and brittle air. A body of water that had rippled with anger, now calm and without falsely made tides. In the woods beside the ever stretching lake, there was food to be found, herbs to be foraged, and animals to be hunted. What she hadn’t accounted for was the discovery of a man.

As she moved through the nearby woodlands, her eyes diligently scanned the forest floor for edible plants to gather and bring home. She followed a slender stream that wound its way like a vein through the lush greenery. Below her, she spotted some watercress and knelt down to collect it.

The plant was easy to identify, its round, dark green leaves gleaming with a healthy shine, growing in plump clusters that resembled clover. A common enough find, watercress was versatile—its peppery flavour could be enjoyed raw or cooked, adding a subtle kick to various dishes.

With gentle precision, she cut the stems at their base using her blade, then placed the watercress into the small basket she held at her hip. The air filled with a faint peppery scent as her fingers began to feel the familiar tackiness from the leaves. She took care not to harvest too much, arranging the watercress atop the rest of her foraged goods before continuing along the well-worn path toward the lake. Beneath the cloth in her basket lay a worn net, neatly folded, its ends weighted by sinkers like the delicate strands of a spider's web.

A lot of trouble the lake had seen in the few days past. Troubles from highborn nobles who cared naught about the smallfolk who outnumber them. But now that it was still, it was almost eerie from how so much chaos can suddenly halt in its tracks from the actions of just two; how much destruction just even one could make. 

The soft chirping of birds echoed through the gaps between the trees, mingling with the gentle creaking of branches swaying in the breeze. As she neared the shore, the bushes and trees grew sparser, revealing the familiar lake’s edge. Stones of varying sizes scattered the bank, and the water lay calm, a deep shade of blue.

Her cottage was tucked behind her, deeper within the woods from where she had come. It was close enough to the village—a few hours walk—but far enough that few ventured to this secluded corner of the lake. There was an unspoken respect for the boundaries each had claimed, and everyone faithfully followed their familiar, ancestral paths.

Though autumn rapidly approached, and the nipping of the cold chilled her through her skirts, the woman still stripped her feet of her shoes and stockings, pulling up her skirts and apron to knot at the side, leaving her legs bare to the open air. 

With a swift flourish, she pulled the net from the basket and waded into the lake until the water reached her knees, disregarding the cold that bit at her skin. In the frigid depths, her feet slid over and between the rocks beneath, occasionally unsettling her balance and sending small ripples across the surface.

She stood motionless for a time, waiting for the disturbed fish to be lulled back into a false sense of safety. Once the water had settled, she cast her net, its pointed corners spreading like the limbs of an octopus before sinking below the surface. She gripped the long rope attached to the center and began to drag the net back toward her.

At first, the net yielded only a few stray leaves and a couple of twigs. Undeterred, she carefully ensured that the net was untangled before tossing it back into the water. Again, she pulled it in quickly, only to find the same meager catch. She repeated the process until her toes had grown numb and a dull ache crept up her shins from the cold.

Moving to a new spot, she threw the net once more, watching the weights sink swiftly as she pulled it in. This time, there was resistance.

The water rippled and splashed as she hauled the net up, revealing three small fish trapped inside. Their silvery bodies thrashed side to side, desperately trying to escape. With swift, steady steps, she walked back to the shore and dropped the net onto the dirt bank, watching the fish flop and struggle. Taking out her hunting knife, she carefully avoided cutting the rope as she held each fish down, driving the blade into their heads. The frantic thrashing slowed to a dull twitch, and then ceased altogether. She slit their bellies open, removed the guts, and flung them into the water, hoping to attract more fish—or perhaps even larger ones.

She placed them in the basket, but their sizes were nothing extraordinary. She thought that she could dry some for later, store them to eat dried or to soak in a stew with a thick bread. And though the coldness was beginning to get to her, she continued, walking straight back into the water to throw her net back in. 

Casting the net out far and pulling it back in, she managed to get four more fish which she killed, gutted and placed in the basket beside the other. Though not greedy, she knew that the winter months would soon be upon her and it was best to be prepared with an ample store of dried fish and foods, even more-so now after the war had ravaged so much of the Seven Kingdoms. She decided that if she was to have ten, she would be able to eat well that evening as well as have a fair stash to have ready whenever needed. 

Once more she stepped out into the water, though this time daring to wade deeper, the water coming to her mid thigh, the bottoms of her skirts and apron slowly became saturated, the weight pulling her body down. 

Another cast of the net, she watched as the weights sunk into the dark depths, the sun bleached rope disappearing into the lake before she began to pull at the rope, only this time the tension of the rope pulled taught and the net became stuck. 

With a huff, she blew a stray strand of hair from her face and yanked on the net, trying to dislodge it from whatever it had snagged on—a branch or perhaps a rock. But the net wouldn’t budge, and her frustration grew. She pulled harder, and the net finally came free, but the force sent her stumbling backward, her foot slipping into a small dip in the lakebed. Her hips plunged into the cold water.

"Fuck." she hissed as the icy water soaked her gown up to her waist.

In a surge of anger, she wrenched the net toward her, only to find her frustration deepening when she saw a rip in the netting. The frayed rope left a gaping hole, one that would take considerable time to mend—or perhaps force her to start anew.

“Fucking cunt.” She flung the net back to shore, the weights making a wet thud on the soil, as she looked to where the her net had got caught. 

With her dress already soaked, she made no quarrels with walking deeper, the icy lake now coming up to her chest as she tried to peer down into the dark depths to see what her net had gotten snagged on. Why she looked, she did not know. Perhaps to curse out whatever rock or object had ruined her perfectly fine net. At the very least she had caught enough fish to last her until she could mend the torn net, or start anew. Gods forbid she had to walk to a nearby town to buy one.

With careful feet she waded in the water, reaching her toes out first in search of the sunken object. Hands balancing her atop the waters surface, she reached further forward in search. Her toes touched small rocks, their broken edges skating against the sides or sole of her foot-- but still it was not what had ruined her net. There were many rocks in the lake, she knew this, the fishermen who had boats on the lake and drew trade knew this, but she frequented this spot enough to know that there was something new there that shouldn’t be.

Rough and smooth all at once she felt it, something before her nestled between boulders. As her toe searched the foreign object, a sharp sting radiated up from them. She hissed, pulling her foot backwards, wondering if there was something new within the lake that could swallow her whole. Her curiosity took over. Tentatively, she pushed her foot out again, finding the smooth yet bumpy object that seemed to be colder than the water itself. The more she touched it, the more she realised that it was not what she had thought at all. In fact, she was surprised to come to the conclusion that it was manmade. 

With her dress already soaked, she dipped her arm into the water, shoulder and breast dipping beneath the surface halting her breath as her fingers sought out what her toes had found. Cool metal met her hand, her digits wrapping around a cylinder shape, the feeling of spirals beneath. With all her might she pulled it, the weight of what she held making her strain, but as she lifted it she was able to see the glinting of steel beneath the water as it got closer to the surface. 

The sword hilt was black and gold, a sort of spiral shape at the top, its cross guards gold and in the shape of a head, a bird perhaps? Or a dragon? It was long and heavy, and just when she thought the rest of it would come to the surface, she was wrong. It was far too large and too heavy for her to pull it up out of the water. Stepping back carefully with the new found object in hand, she dragged it behind her, the point dragging over rocks and sediment alike until finally she was back on the shore. 

The make of the sword told her that it was worth its weight in gold, and even had gold upon it to prove her observations further. It would have belonged to a nobleman, or perhaps even a knight, though the closer the looked at it, the more features she could see that resembled symbolism of House Targaryen. 

So it was one of theirs, then. 

She let the sword drop to the sand, hands on her hips as she looked at both her basket full of food and fish, the broken net, and finally to the sword. The sword would be worth much, but she would have to travel far to sell it to anyone with the coin to buy it. But then comes the trouble of travelling with such a large, and if she was correct in what she thought it was, recognisable item. It would risk raiders, or worse, some overzealous loyalist who deigned her a thief and cut off her hands. 

Eyes drifting behind her towards the lake, she wondered what had happened those days past. 

She remembered the sound, the ear piercing shrieks from the sky, heat of fire, the smell of smoke and crashing of water. But she had run as fast as she would once she saw the great green beast fly overhead.

Nothing good ever came to the Riverlands when She was near.

Eventually though, having nowhere else to go, the woman had returned in the night, hidden amongst the forest and trees, listening for the sounds of roaring and flame which had ceased quickly as it echoed around the lake. And when she arrived back to the lake, it was quiet once more.

The dance of the two dragons above Gods Eye was no more, and she could finally go back to living her life; uninterrupted. 

She scanned the shoreline surrounding, eyes narrowing in the distance to see if she saw any signs of the dragons. Perhaps they had crawled out from the lake on the other side and had made their way towards her end? But the lake was so large and so deep, that none could even see to the other side.

Turning to pick up her basket and the sword again she was halted by the flickering of something shiny in the distance, the setting sun reflecting off of metal amongst tree root and rock. She wondered briefly if it was going to be another sword, or perhaps a helm. That would be easier to sell at the nearby town; a smith would certainly pay handsomely to melt down the steel and turn it into whatever wares he desired. She kicked soil over the blade and placed the basket full of greens and fish atop the hilt, covering the gold and reflective surface entirely before making her way towards the flickering light. 

Her dress pulled down on her shoulders heavily, water dripping from the hem with each step as a chill rose upon her flesh. But something compelled her further, despite all other instincts within, she pushed on, making her way towards the glinting metal which snaked along the rocky shore. The closer she got, the more she recognised that it was chains, draped and shining in the sun, some covered in dirt the rest leading towards the water. 

She thought of the many things she could do with the chains, what their worth could be, and whether or not it was worth going further to collect them, and yet still she persisted, feet muddy and wet, a slight sting from where the blade of the sword had cut at her toes.

She bent down to gaze upon them, strong, good quality steel it seemed. They had not tarnished, nor were their many marks upon them. The chain links were half the length of her arm and triple the width, its weight likely more than her own. They were far too large for her to carry alone.

A breeze rolled through the forest and across the water, sending goosebumps to rise over her body with a shiver. It was getting dark, she was drenched, and the best option was to leave the larger find behind and come back for it on the morrow, perhaps with a plan on how she would move the chain from water, to shore, to forest, to door. 

She turned to face the forest and was greeted with evidence of the destruction dragons could inflict. Trees older than her grandmother had ever been, their trunks as wide as horses, split down the centre and broken from the impact of a large body. Further within she could see the singed tree tops, where ash that had settled down atop the canopy. The eeriness of a broken forest and a broken realm, far too close to home.

And yet she was drawn to it, this destruction. It was unlike anything she had witnessed before; she was pulled forward. Feet crunching on the pine floor, the crunch of her steps deafening in comparison to how quiet it was amongst the carnage. The animals had not yet returned, the ones that had once been there dead, silent. 

Even with the trees that had somehow managed to survive, to stand tall despite the terror that had reigned above them, their trunks and leaves were covered in the evidence of what was. Ash, streaked each surface, and with a curious hand she place it atop the bark of a tree, brushing her finger along the ridges of the wood, watching as they turned grey. A quick rub of forefinger and pointer together made the ash smear, and as she stood by that tree, taking in the scene before her, her eyes focused upon a darkness behind the tree that should not have been there. 

Something that was not born of ash nor bark nor fur. 

Something human. 

Uncertainly she took a step around the tree to see the beginning of a boot, a leathered boot at that. And attached to it a leg, and then hips, and finally;

A man. 

Dressed head to toe in dark leather, now grey with ash, the man lay on his side. Her heart raced in her chest, though she had seen the dead before, this time was different. This time it was not a sick merchant, nor a child who had gotten the winter fever. It was not her father dying at the hands of a drunken fight, blood trickling from his mouth. 

This was one of them. 

Long silver hair lay knotted across the mans face, ash streaking the pearlescent tresses grey. His skin much the same, though the parlour was similar to a corpse; so pale, so almost blue that she could have mistaken him for one of Harrenhal’s ghosts.

Was he the man who had slaughtered the Strong family at Harrenhal?

Or was he the one who commanded the brutal rape and murders of those who opposed the Blackwoods? 

Did it matter? She thought to herself, They were all the same.

The leg she had discovered was bent at an unnatural angle, the shin snapped in two, broken in a way that if he had lived he would have been crippled for the rest of his days. The rest of his body did not fair well either, tears in his leather tunic and breeches given way to an attack, or a fall, or Gods knew what else. The famed silver hair which obscured his face from view was red at his skull, slowly seeping into a rust colour where blood had dried from a wound. 

Bare toes stood beside the pale mans head as she dipped to her knees, her wet dress sticking to the ash and pine coated floor. She observed him for a time, admiring the stitchwork of the tunic he wore, noting that it would likely be-- despite its conditions-- the nicest thing she could own. But she was no grave robber, and she had no desire to be haunted by his spirit after desecrating his corpse. 

Her curiosity however won out, and with an unsteady hand, unsure whether it be from the cold or the man, she reached forth to brush the blood crusted hair away from his face.

Despite its appearance, ash, blood and leaves tangled in the locks, his hair was as soft as silk as she brushed it with her hands. The skin of his ear was cold to the touch. She swept the tangled heap away from his brow and cheek, revealing a bruised and cut cheek, though that was not what had made her breath skip in her chest. 

The space where his eye should have been was empty, though not from this battle, but from one many years ago she supposed, the skin of the brow and cheek scarred deeply down his face. She could see to the back of where his eye would have once sat, the flesh darkened and scarred.

Aemond One-Eye.

Following the scar on his cheek, she looked to his lips, where dried blood had crusted at its opening and down his other cheek to the forest floor. His nose, aquiline and strong had bled too, as did his ears from what she would see, and through the centre of his face a cut sliced through the bridge where bruising and bone were visible. 

It was weird, to sit so close to a corpse of royalty, and she were sure that if he were alive he would have stuck her for daring to even touch him. For daring to even touch his pure blood, and his pure hair, and his purer skin. And this thought alone made her touch him all the more, tracing curious fingers across his cheek, his nose, the scar running through his cheek, and down to his neck, where his tunic had been torn and the pale expanse of his neck was visible. 

Her finger trailed down past his jaw, underneath it, wondering what in the world separated the two of them. They died just like everyone else. Whether that be in the birthing bed, in cups of ale, or fighting one another. What made the Targaryens so far removed from her? Besides their silver hair, their lilac eyes and their dragons, they were merely men, and all men died.

The King was proof of this.

A faint fluttering beneath her fingers made her lift her hand in shock, her digits hovering over the mans face as she looked at him in disbelief. 

He couldn’t…

She leant down, dipping her ear beside his lip as she rested a hand against his ribs. 

And there it was, a rattling breath so weak, so quiet, that had his lips not been pressed against her ear she would not have heard it. 

He was alive.

Thanks so much for reading along with me, if you wish to be added to the tag list please let me know :) Likes and reblogs are greatly appreciated ! Enjoy <3

Taglist: Please ask if you would like to be added to the taglist

@thewriterthatghostedyou @sepherinaspoppies @insufferablelust @osferthswifey @persephonerinyes @ihadlife @aemondsfavouritebastard @thaisthedreamer

[one-eyedalmond]

THE PINK DREAD - CH. 37 (Masterlist)

Chapter Summary: Breaking up ain't easy, regardless how you do it. Word Count: 5806 CHAPTER WARNINGS: Fatphobia, bullying, mild ptsd themes, Aemond got 99 problems and bitches be all of em

Series tags: Aemond x Plus size!OfC, Aegon x Plus size!OfC, Celtigar!ofc, Plot with Smut, mdni 18+, Aemond End Game, Angst, Comedy, The Dragons Don't Dance, slow burn, friends to enemies to lovers, enemies to friends to lovers.

Credits: Lace Banner by V6que pearl divider by Pommecita

Notes: I just proof read this before publishing it, so grammatically, it'll probably be sussy. Also, IMPORTANT NOTICE AT END OF CHAPTER

“I need you to forgive your father; I need you to retire your resentments towards Rhaenyra and her sons. I need you to do what you’ve been wanting me to do for you. Aemond, please.” 

Valeana’s request had been plaguing him all night and all morning. Of all the things she could’ve asked of him, she found the very thing he believed impossible to do. At the time, the only thing he could say was that he would try, and that was the honest truth of it. Aemond would try, but he was not confident about it, ultimately making him nervous he would fail and lose everything. It put him on edge, which probably wasn’t the best possible position for him to be in when there was a task he’s been putting off that needed to be completed as soon as possible. 

 It was probably the worst possible timing, given what happened with Shyla and his reckless younger brother, Daeron. The relationship between the Targaryens and the Baratheons was already very fragile, but it had to be done. Aemond fully intended to give Daeron hell for making this even more difficult for him than it needed to.

He would have to approach this with even more caution than normal, given the circumstances.So, Aemond deemed it wise not to come to the North Tower to seek Maris out himself, but rather send an envoy with a message to meet her somewhere instead. Neutral ground, he decided, particularly where eyes were sparse and yet it was an appropriate place to meet up for them. The library, he decided, since that is where they met and where they spent most of their time conversing. 

Aemond stood in front of the stand where the large book of his family line sat proudly. The sight of it had become bittersweet, as it was both a reminder of his pride for his blood and name, but it also reminded him of that day in the library when he saw Valeana reading it. His face twisted in a grimace at the intrusion of his heinous crime, when his ego got in the way of him simply acknowledging his emotions, and had resulted in him physically hurting her. Even if it was not a conscious effort on his part, it was still a knee jerk reaction, one that could have been prevented if he just talked to her like a human being and not snapped at her in the first place. 

It was also that night that pushed her into Aegon’s arms; the muffled sounds coming from his bedchamber door still wiggled around his eardrum like a bothersome earwig. 

Luckily–or perhaps unluckily–his morose thoughts were interrupted when the library door opened, and he turned in time to Maris Baratheon enter. She was wearing the colours of her house: a mustard yellow gown with a black underskirt and neckline. Her hair was pulled back, parted in the middle, and plaited in a single braid. 

Not as long as Valeana’s.

“Prince Aemond,” she greeted with what could be perceived as an apprehensive smile. He expected the apprehension, and would wager that she was smart enough to deduce that this conversation could swing in either direction. He had been distant with her, and Maris would have likely picked up on the shift of interest ever since the Maiden’s Day Ball, and started to suspect if not straight up assume, he intended to end the courtship. Which, yes, that was his intention, but the added complication of Shyla’s usurping Floris Baratheon’s beau complicated things politically. Aemond would not put it past both Maris or her father to assume this blunder would put both his and the King’s feet over the fire, giving them no choice but to propose marriage in order to rectify the insult. 

But that is not what is happening here. 

And, with Aemond’s promise to Valeana about keeping peace with his family, the Baratheon’s allegiance to the greens was no longer paramount. It was far more important to him to keep Valeana safe, and away from the grey area she would be put in had the dragons danced. 

Maris looked around the library, scanning to see if they were properly alone.It was near empty, aside from them and the Maester, who was far too preoccupied with dusting old tomes on the second floor to even realize that there were others there. They had privacy, but at least Aemond had one witness should things become confrontational. When her brown eyes landed on the prince, her head tilted a fraction and her eyes peered at him with an unnerving amount of perception. 

“You wished to see me, my Prince?”

“I did,” Aemond nodded, his face unreadably neutral, which likely annoyed Maris if anything. The Prince gestured towards two wooden armchairs that flanked a squat table. “I have something to say.”

Maris tried to keep her expression as neutral as Aemond’s, but her facade was not made of gold, but rather pyrite. Which was an apt metaphor for Maris, who was the Fool’s Gold to Valeana’s Lannister Gold. Without saying a word, she sat down, her eyes sharp as she watched Aemond settle in the other arm chair. 

“Does this have to do with your brother’s slighting my baby sister?” She posed the question in an attempt to sound impassive, unbothered, to not entirely show her cards, but it came out as sharp as her eye, exposing her brittle exterior and how it is chipping away.

If she thought she could make a dent in Aemond’s expressionless armour, she was mistaken, because he responded to that with nothing more than a head tilt. 

“An unfortunate event to be sure but, no, this has nothing to do with my younger brother’s juvenile mistakes,” Aemond’s tone was more clinical if anything, but his natural base tends to be deceptively benign. If Maris didn’t know any better, she might have perceived it as sympathetic. Alas, Maris wasn’t a fool, at least not in the obvious ways, and Aemond was aware that this battle of words would not just be fought with politeness and passive aggression. Maris would make her opinion known and Aemond was prepared for that. 

Maris’ lips thinned before she spoke, “You know, my Prince, my father is quite insulted and angered by your brother’s juvenile mistake, because now my sister is beside herself with heartbreak over the rejection.” 

There was an unspoken threat that Aemond was already aware of. He was already on thin ice with the Stormlord for not officially aligning himself with Maris, and actively avoiding her these last few days. The inevitable rejection just so happened to occur during the worst possible moment, but it had to be done.

“As I said, what Daeron did was regrettable, though his actions have no relation to why I called you here.” 

“Perhaps not, but I am inclined to believe they are similar in nature.”

“I am a man, not a six and ten year old welp who cannot control his baser needs.”

“That is not what I’ve heard.”

Aemond’s eye narrowed at her. She was baiting him, to get her to tell him all the nasty rumours that have been circulating about him, likely in relation to Valeana. But Maris has mistaken him for a man who cared about court gossip, as if it has any sway in his reality at all. 

“I know what you are trying to do, Maris. It isn’t going to work… I’ve already made my decision, and I’m not willing to change it by thinly veiled threats.” 

It was subtle, but noticeable; Aemond could see her nostrils flare momentarily, her lips curling. The composed facade was cracking, giving him a broader glimpse of the real Maris Baratheon underneath. The real Maris that he spotted in her slip ups during their hours long conversations, when she would make comments or remarks about people specifically. It was that very same Maris Baratheon that insulted Valeana’s body out of jealousy and a bruised ego.

“And what is your decision, Prince Aemond? Are you going to spit it out or do you lack the balls to say it out loud?”

Aemond hummed after a beat following her jab; the only indication that her comment might have gotten under his skin was the slight twitch of his bottom eyelid. 

“I regret to tell you, Lady Maris, that I have concluded we are not compatible, and decided that this courtship has run its course.” 

Maris scoffed, shaking her head and looking away from him with a mocking smile on her face. She knew this was coming, but face-to-face rejection was harder than imagining it a thousand times over. Plus, Maris believed to the point of delusion that she could trap him to her by using Floris’ betrayal to her advantage. Alas, she wasn’t getting what she wanted, and that made her see red. It made her see vermillion. 

“That is a load of horseshit, Aemond,” the loss of his formal title didn’t go unnoticed by him, nor was the tone it was spit out in. “We both know it has nothing to do with compatibility. It’s that Valeana Celtigar. She has ensnared you, put you under her Valyrian-witch spell like her bloody sister has done with Floris’ beloved Prince.” 

Aemond fought the urge to roll his eye at the final statement; as if anyone had ownership of a bloody prince. Did the Baratheons all collectively forget that the Targaryens were their sovereign lords? Truly a testimony at how arrogant that entire house was, and it only made him dislike them considerably more.

Aemond sighed exhaustively, already wanting to swiftly remove himself from this conversation. He had said what he needed to, there was nothing left to discuss. Maris would have to just accept it… and yet she just had to open her bloody mouth and bring up not only Valeana, but she also spit on the dignity of the crown. 

“You’ve forgotten your place, Lady Maris. My brother and I are princes of the Realm, not prized stallions to own. It is not within your right to make assumptions or question our actions, let alone have the audacity to claim ownership of us like this Conclave runs on some unspoken first-come-first-serve rule.” 

Maris gave a haughty sarcastic laugh, “You and Daeron are not above honour and dignity. My father is already insulted that one daughter has been rejected by a Targaryen Prince. What do you think he will do when he learns that another did the same to the other daughter? Especially to another Celtigar whore. A fat one at that.” 

And that is what sets him off. 

In an instant he is out of his seat and before she could react, Aemond’s hand is planted on her shoulder, pressing her back securely against the chair. He took care in not being painful, but firm, a reminder that he has power over her in ways other than political. With his other hand he is pointing at her, looming over her now stunned form, his one eye widening threateningly. 

“You dare threaten the crown?!”

“I wasn’t threatening–”

“Do not,” he punctuated the word by pushing her harsher against the back of the chair, making her wince and shrink in on herself. “Insult my intelligence by playing innocent, Maris. You know exactly what you are implying, which by itself is an act of treason, enough for you to be hanged publicly. But I will be merciful this one time and one time only, Maris, as I remind you why your connotations are foolish beyond belief.” He moved his other hand to the back of the chair behind her free shoulder as he lowered himself at eye level, his nose poised over her like a wolf crowding the space of a small, wounded prey animal. 

“Aegon the Conqueror brought the Seven Kingdoms to their knees with only two wives and three dragons. Today, his descendents have a total of ten dragonriders who all have full grown dragons. What do you think will happen to your father’s little corner of Westeros should he dare raise his banners against the Throne, hm? Especially over something as petty as two jilted daughters. Your house will be eradicated, erased from the waking world just like House Durrandon before it.  

“I trust your father is smart enough to understand that, Maris. He can puff and huff all he wants, but at the end of the day… We have the real power, and I have no qualms reminding Borros and yourself of this fact by myself. So if you value your life, Maris, it would be wise of you to not direct passive threats in the direction of those that could incinerate you and your kin in seconds

“And if I ever hear you speak of Valeana Celtigar in any other way other than absolute reverence, I will personally cut out your tongue.” 

Twenty-four hours had passed since Maris had spoken with Aemond in the library, and Maris’ fury grew with every passing hour. Her initial fear dwindled to pent-up frustrations, resentment and jealousy, overshadowing her common sense and effectively ignoring Aemond’s very real threat. She was a woman possessed with retribution, and her mind reeled with various scenarios and possibilities in which she’ll get what she was owed: a royal marriage and respect. 

Before Aemond had even spoken to her, Maris was aware of the trajectory her supposed courtship with him was going. Ever since the public execution of Vaemond Velaryon, the whispers about Valeana Celtigar secretly courting Prince Aemond (on top of publicly courting Prince Jacaerys and Prince Aegon) had increased ever since people saw her cling to the prince’s arm. Then the whispers amplified these past couple of days after the castle servants had leaked some interesting tidbits about the private dinner with the Valyrian houses (something that Maris believed the Baratheons should have been a part of, but her opinions fell on deaf ears). Due to all of this, Maris had already started out her plotting, depending on the direction she needed this to go in. However, after yesterday in the library, Maris was now desperate and seeing red. 

For the better part of the mid-day, Maris had been watching Aemond train in the lower courtyard, alongside some other lordlings and the Hightower cousins. The tourney will be beginning in a few day’s time, and all the men that were competing were getting as much time training as they possibly can. She was lurking in the shadows of the second floor loggia like many of the other women, watching from afar. Her patience paid off when Aemond wiped his brow, face, and hands, and then sheathed his sword. When he parted from the others, Maris moved away from her position against a pillar and walked towards where she’d surely cross paths with him. 

As predicted, she intercepted him just before he made it to the spiral staircase that would lead him down to the entrance of Maegor’s Holdfast. As soon as Aemond made eye contact with Maris, his jaw went taut and his shoulders tensed. Maris already knew what he was thinking, knew that her presence was the last thing he desired, but Maris didn’t care. She didn’t care, because once she was done with him, he won’t be able to get rid of her. 

“Lady Maris–” Aemond cut himself off when two lords walked by, sparing them a single glance. Aemond’s eye watched them leave before returning it onto the brunette. “I thought I made myself clear yesterday, that I did not want to entertain this–”

“Oh, I remember what you said, Prince Aemond,” she spoke with an air of nonchalance, of innocence. Her eyes flickered over his shoulder where she spotted her sisters rounding the corner. “But I elected to ignore it.”

And just before Aemond could react beyond the look of incredulity, Maris gripped the front of his doublet and pulled him down to her level and crashed her lips onto his. She knew from this angle, from behind Aemond, it would have looked like Aemond had leaned down to kiss her.

Taking a leaf out of the Celtigar handbook, Maris thought smugly. 

Wedding prepping was stressful, that much Valeana understood, but wedding planning under a time constraint for a royal was even worse. Not to mention the Cetligars, Targaryens and even the Hightowers were doing damage control over the gossip. Though there was little they could do about that, given the fact that the gossip was true, and people weren’t stupid enough to believe that they were rushing the wedding because Daeron and Shyla were so madly in love. It was obvious to everyone in all of the Seven Kingdoms that Daeron couldn’t keep his dick in his pants, and Shyla was… well, there were mixed opinions. Given her overall sweet, naive, demeanor, some people believed she was tricked into a coupling, others who were more close to Prince Daeron and a few other healthy skeptics believed that Shyla was the one who tricked him. Even going as far as to assume Shyla’s nature was due to having “Valeana as an older sister”. Of course, their assumptions were correct, that Shyla was the trickster, but it had nothing to do with Valeana. 

Now, this would become Valeana’s problem anyway, because even if the spotlight was no longer directly on her, her name was frequently evoked as if she had some kind of hand in it. Yes, her ‘courting’ three royal princes, while her younger sister managed to bag the other, didn’t look very good. And yes, Valeana slightly resented her younger sister for making her life even more difficult, because as soon as the excitement dies down around Shyla and Daeron’s nuptials, people will rear their faces her way again, waiting to see what and who her next move is.

The reality of it was that Valeana didn’t truly know what her next move was going to be. There was very little vacancy in her mind nowadays that had nothing to do with Shyla and Daeron’s wedding. Her conversation with Aemond the other day still hung fresh in her mind, and since then she chewed down on her nails on whether or not she asked too much from him. Then there was the Aegon of it all… or rather, the lack of Aegon. She hadn’t seen him since he fled her bedchamber that night when they heard her father’s screaming… Not even a glimpse or a note, which was incredibly out of character. It had made her begin to worry that something happened, or some development changed under all the chaos that night seemed to bring. There was also the undeniable speculation of rejection, that Aegon had changed his mind rapidly and without ceremony. Whatever the reason was, it made Valeana’s gut feel ill at ease, but she tried not to dwell on it too much, not when there was already so much on her mind already.

Spending the better part of the morning and midday with Shyla, Floris, and their mother was utter torture. Ursula had made all the choices regarding theme, colours, and styles of everything, but that didn’t stop Shyla from whining and disapproving. While Valeana spent the entire time silent, lost in her world, lost in thoughts of Aemond and Aegon, Floris wouldn’t stop making passive aggressive remarks about everything, and she would always seem to have reason to bring up Lord Larys. It was worse than Shyla’s whining.

 In the end, Shyla got olive green fabrics for her wedding gown, a strategic colour to appease the Hightowers while also maintaining a muted, less eye-catching palette to humble the Celtigars. Valeana knew that had it been under different, more favourable circumstances, the colour palette for this wedding would have been far more vibrant, especially since it was the first child of Bartimos Celtigar that was getting married, and to a Prince no less. 

When they were finished with the day, they traveled back to the Red Keep, exhausted both physically and mentally. Ursula parted from them to go join her husband, the Lord Hand, and the King and Queen in the Small Council Chambers to discuss the marriage contract, leaving the Sirens of Claw Isle to their own devices. 

“Honestly, I cannot believe that Shyla, out of three of us, would be the first to marry,” Floris huffed as they walked past the training yard towards the lower courtyard. 

“So you’ve said…. Thirty times today,” Valeana sighed. “Though, I am not surprised. Out of the three of us, Shyla has been the most… direct when it comes to the opposite sex.”

“A bit too direct,” Floris muttered as she turned to look at Shyla who was walking to Valeana’s right. 

Shyla just looked up with raised eyebrows and an innocent smile, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, sweet sister.” 

Floris narrowed her eyes at her, hummed darkly, then slowly looked away. When she turned forward, her eyes caught a flash of silver above her, forcing her to look up at the loggia that looked down at the small courtyard that led to Maegor’s Holdfast. There, partially obstructed between pillars and the shadows casted by them, stood Prince Aemond and Lady Maris. Before Floris could even point it out teasingly to Valeana, she saw Aemond’s face being jerked down with a sharp dug of his jerkin, and then Maris crashing her lips onto his. 

“Valeana–” Floris’ lip began to twitch upwards in a venomous grin.

Valeana paused her stride, snapping to look at Floris curiously and immediately saw her looking at something with barely contained glee. Valeana followed her gaze, and when she saw it, her heart stopped. 

From her angle, it looked exactly the way Maris had intended it to look… Like Aemond had leaned down and kissed Maris willingly. Of course it made Valeana’s heart twist painfully, of course the colour drained from her face in shock and confusion, of course her world at her feet felt like it was caving in. But that all disappeared in the very brief second that the kiss had lasted, because when she caught sight of Cassandra, Ellyn and Floris Baratheon speed walking towards them, Valeana knew exactly what was happening. 

She gathered up her skirts in her hand, yanking it up to her knees, and then sprinted towards the spiral staircase. With her heart hammering in her chest and her pulse beating against her temple, she could not hear the shouts nor the hurried stampede of dainty feet. She didn’t even fully register that the stairs in which she was climbing up were the very stairs she had fallen down from and broke her leg. Her anxiety had a different, more important priority.

When Valeana reached the top of the stairs, many things happened all at once in two single seconds. The first thing she noticed was how far Aemond had pushed himself away from Maris, with his face etched in stunned fury. The next thing she noticed was the scandalous look on Cassandra’s face, the stunned expressions on Ellyn and Young Floris’, and the flushed and subtly smugness of Maris’. There were a chorus of words being shouted that Valeana didn’t fully register; accusations flung around, outraged on both sides, but immediately that all changed when she had appeared. Heads snapped in her direction, Aemond’s eye widening into a saucer. 

“Valeana– It’s not– this is not–” He stumbled through his words, tangled in his anger, shock, and frustration. 

“It’s exactly what it looks like!” Maris shot back, pulling herself away from her sisters to look at Aemond and then Valeana. “Prince Aemond was ravishing–”

“Maris,” Ellyn hissed, gripping her older sister’s arm.

“Shut it, Ellyn,” Maris hissed back, then whipped her head back between Aemond and Valeana. Maris pulled from her sister’s grip and sauntered closer, her arms crossed over her chest, “It seems that we were caught in a compromising position, my Prince. Now, you must marry me if you wish to avoid a scandal and suffer the wrath of my father.” 

“Oh, absolutely the fuck not,” Valeana stepped in front of Maris, and at that moment more footsteps could be heard from behind her, followed by the sounds of Shyla and Elder Floris’ panting. 

Shyla’s large eyes were darting around the scene in shock, and when they landed on her former friend, Floris Baratheon, her cheeks tinged in the tiniest show of remorse-red before her face snapped to Valeana’s. 

“What is happening–”

“What’s happening, Lady Shyla,” Maris answered instead, her tone clipped and mocking. “Is that Prince Aemond has publicly declared himself to me–”

“Are you mad?!” Aemond barked at her, his face a mask of fury, his hands in tight fists at his sides as he tried his hardest not to strike a woman. “You forced yourself onto me.”

“Me? Forced myself onto you, a dragon? Oh, a likely story that no one will believe, especially since my sisters here had seen the whole thing!”

“Enough of this absurdity,” Valeana stepped up towards Maris, not believing a damn word she said, because it was, as she said, absurd. Ellyn’s words to her a few days ago rang in her ear like the bells of the Sept; the warning of Maris being reactionary, that she might do something explosive. Clearly this spectacle was inspired by Shyla’s, though obviously tampered down to just a kiss as Aemond would have never allowed himself to be seduced by a shrew. “You are lying through your teeth, Baratheon.”

“Am I?” Maris smirked confidently,  her arms still crossed as she strolled into Valeana’s space. There was a dangerous glint in her dark eyes, one that made Valeana a bit unnerved, but she stood her ground. “You would love to believe I’m lying, wouldn’t you? Alas, I have three witnesses. Sisters? Did you not witness the Prince kiss me brazenly in this corridor?”

Maris turned her head over her shoulder to address the other three storms. Cassandra confidently said ‘yes’, gesturing to Aemond that is indeed what she saw. Aemond of course protested and called Cassandra a liar. When the heated stares landed on young Floris, her answer was a meak, almost guilty nod, confirming what she saw. However, when Maris’ eyes fixed on Ellyn, they narrowed as her second youngest sister remained quiet. 

“Well, Ellyn? Isn’t that what you saw?”

Ellyn’s wide eyes bounced between Valeana to Maris, and then finally onto Aemond. Her lips pursed, clearly at war with her thoughts, her morals. From her angle, it indeed looked like Aemond was kissing Maris, though Ellyn knew better to even entertain the possibility of that being true. But before she could even utter a single word, Maris groaned in impatience. 

“Enough with that stupid look on your face. You know what you saw, Ellyn!” 

Ellyn’s face morphed into one of contempt, “What I saw, Maris, was an act of desperation from a scorned woman with an ego the size of the North.” 

Maris’ own face turned into a look of angered offense, and was quick to twist around and point a finger at Ellyn, with her tongue poised like a sword. However, before she could lash out with insults, elder Floris stepped up, vibrating in elation at how this turned out to be. 

“I saw exactly what happened,” She began with her nose arched in the air, though her lips twitched as she struggled to contain her wolfish, smug grin. “Down there in the small courtyard, I witnessed Prince Aemond bowing his head to meet Maris in a kiss.”

All heads snapped in her direction, especially Valeana’s and Aemond’s, who glowered at her like nothing in the world was more offensive. With her head tilted back, Maris gave a guffaw in victory at Elder Floris’ declaration. 

“Does your bitterness have no bounds, Floris?” Valeana furrowed her brow at her step sister, with her hands curled into fists at her sides. Even if she and her step sister were not exactly the best of friends, or remotely close for that matter, it still felt like a betrayal. After all, family meant that they were supposed to have your back no matter what the personal circumstance. “This is not just my life you toy with!” 

Floris feigned a look of innocence, or at least tried. Her wide eyes and twitching lip betrayed her satisfaction over getting revenge against both her step sister and the Prince she had once ‘helped’ and was snubbed in return. “Why, Valeana, not everything I do is about you. I am merely speaking true to what I saw.” 

Just when Valeana and Aemond were about to say something, Shyla spoke up, “Mayhaps you should get your eyes checked by a maester dear sister, for I am sure we both witnessed Prince Aemond push Lady Maris off of her before we ran up the stairs.” 

“Thank you, Shyla,” Valeana reached to grip her younger sister’s upper arm in gratitude, but before anything else could be said or done further, Maris of course stepped forward, crowding Valeana’s space. 

“Oh, please, as if the word of your tramp of a sister has any merit to those that matter,” Maris’ insult didn’t seem to perturb Shyla in the least bit, but it did offend Valeana, who as an older sister, took it like a personal jibe at herself and her family. 

“You dare insult my sister, a future princess of the Realm, after you force yourself on the son of the King? Are you daft or mad, Maris, because I cannot decide which if not both.” 

Maris’ dark eyes flashed dangerously, and for a moment her face blanched at the insult of her being daft. Truly the highest of insults for a woman like her, who prided her intelligence above all things. But then her thinned out lips turned into a wicked smirk, and it made the hairs on the back of Valeana’s neck stand on end, like an animal sensing a storm.

“Oh, little Valeana, this is quite pathetic of you, is it not? Coming to the rescue of a man that cares so little about you that he had pushed you down a flight of stairs just to get away from you–”

“Careful Maris,” Aemond warned, taking a step forward until he was at Valeana’s side. “You speak of things you do not understand, and you already tread on very thin ice.” 

Maris was clearly not seeing common sense presently, her pride wounded, her ego large, and she was living off of the adrenaline of kissing Aemond and having witnesses to it. She was very clearly convinced it was enough of a compromising position to force Aemond’s hand into marrying her. Aemond’s threats from the previous day were likely so far from her mind that it might as well have never happened. 

She scoffed at his words, and then looked at Valeana with abhorred incredulity, “What I don’t understand, my dearest future groom, is why all the damn Targaryen princes are so bloody infatuated with this–”

“Maris, perhaps you should–” Cassandra’s voice of reason was cut off and promptly ignored. 

“Pig in a dress.”

Valeana felt herself bristle all over, a shock of both hot and cold rippling through her body at the offense. That word: pig has haunted her, her entire life and in her dreams. That single syllable was enough to gut her and paralyse her, even if it came from the lips of Maris Baratheon, a person Valeana does not care about in the slightest. Yet still, when she had flung that word at her like a throwing knife, all Valeana could think about were those words spoken to her the second before she was pushed down these very stairs by Aemond. 

“Get away from me, you pig!”

“Maris, I warned you–”

“You warned me about what? Speaking the truth? Why, I’m simply echoing your own opinion, am I not? Because from what I’ve heard, that is exactly why you pushed her down a flight of stairs; you couldn’t stand the thought of being betrothed to a fat pig.”

Aemond took a step threateningly in Maris’ direction, gently pushing Valeana behind him to make his body a human shield against the Storm’s verbal barrage. “You shut your mouth, Baratheon, or I’ll cut off your tongue and sew your mouth shut.” 

“Aemond,” Valeana placed a hand on his upper arm, and though her tone was gentle and placating, her face was etched in a decade long emotional pain that she wished not to relive. Her brow was furrowed and creased in contempt, but her heart rate was starting to increase with each passing nerve-wracking second this stressful scenario passed. “Do not let her provoke you anymore. She’s just bitter and so desperate she has lost all sense.”

Maris practically gasped at Valeana’s words, her hands flew to firmly land on her narrow hips, “Desperate? No, no, no, I am merely claiming what I am owed. The Prince courted me. He chose me.”

“And I ended the courtship yesterday. You have no claim on me, as I’ve thoroughly explained to you, Maris,” Aemond’s eye narrowed at her, the violet of his eye looking like a pale amethyst chip. “Your asinine attempt to force me into a betrothal with you is utterly pathetic, and will be your undoing. How is it that a woman with your intellect cannot comprehend basic speech? Listen closely, for I will not have myself repeating it: You will never be my wife, Maris Baratheon.”

That seemed to have sufficiently snapped Maris. Whatever shred of sanity that was left in that mad, mad mind of hers frayed and disappeared. For what came next no one could have predicted, least of all Valeana, who was still too focused on the situation at hand to realize exactly where she was standing. 

Maris’ lips thinned in a dangerous, tense and false smile, emphasized by her wide, crazed eyes and the subtle shake of her hands at her sides. “I hear you loud and clear, Prince Aemond. I will never be your wife… And neither shall Valeana Celtigar.”

Giving no room for a reaction, Maris lunged forward, arms extended like two javelins as she planted her palms firmly on Valeana’s shoulders. The fair-haired woman’s eyes flew open wide, her pupils shrinking as she felt her own heart pause in shock and panic. Her lips parted to say something, but all she could do was gasp sharply as Maris shoved her back. 

And that is when the world disappeared underneath her, and all she could hear was her own scream and the frantic heartbeat against her temples. 

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT SNEAK PEEK There is no sneak peek. Y'all shall hang on that literal cliffhanger and wonder.

Notes: Maris be crazy, guys I told y'all. She's still my favourate Storm, though, just simply because of her 'no balls' comment to Aemond in the book. It was the comment that started the war, after all. Absolute queen, there would be no dance without her saltiness. Anyway... has anyone seen Aegon? No? Weird. Where is he... hummm Okay but for real talk !!IMPORTANT NOTE!! I am in need of a 14-20 day hiatus. The muse is struggling through these next couple of chapters, and I want to catch up to my quota, and start on that Aegon one shot I mentioned months ago, lol. And honestly, that ending felt like the PERFECT opportunity to leave y'all waiting. I have impeccable timing.

Tag: @queen-of-elves, @keylin1730, @anakilusmos, @weepingfashionwritingplaid, @sugutoad, @desireangel, @t0biasparabatai

( if you wish to be tagged for this story, just give me a reply! )

Please do not re post, redistribute or plagiarize my work. The only other place this story is posted on is ao3 under the same username.

[one-eyedalmond]

𝐎𝐧𝐞-𝐄𝐲𝐞 & 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐫 ║ 1. The One-Eyed Prince ║ Aemond Targaryen x OC!Aylana Velaryon

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Word Count: 3,3k

Synopsis: Aylana Velaryon foresees Aemond Targaryen's fate and assigns herself to alter it.

Chapter Themes & Warnings: POV first person (Aemond's), swearing, angst, high valyrian, dragon riding, blood & violence, friends to enemies. See story master list for full themes & warnings!

Enjoy the read!

Likes, comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated!

Translations:

Sōvēs – Fly

Ossēnagon - Kill

Gīda ilagon, kepus – Calm down, uncle

Iksi sesīr sir, ȳdra ao pendagon daor? – We are even now, don’t you think?

AEMOND

Gravity had nothing on us, my dear. 

You can’t untie red strings of fate. 

This is how it feels to fall in love with the atmosphere. 

The world surrendered to a symphony of wind. 

Turbulence thundered in my ears and whipped my hair untamed as I ascended the skies. Rising higher and higher, the clouds enveloped me in a blinding haze, and the elements of the earth below decreased into a mosaic. 

I conquered the celestial at such speed that I felt like Aegon reborn. 

Vhagar was an extension of myself, her undulating muscles beneath my straddling body felt as if connected to my own, forcing our masses through the heavens with an effortlessness. I commanded her higher still, and she heeded my command. 

We defied gravity in a dance of grace and power.

As we approached the stratosphere where air ran thin, I straightened in my saddle, and my mighty Vhagar leveled out, conforming to every delicate change in my movements. The world below became an inverted dreamscape as we sailed the vague interstice that marked the transition between sky and oblivion - the clouds beneath were the unconquered sky, and the indigo above was the ocean, and I was flying upside down. 

Mirth bubbled in my chest at the idea.

Together, Vhagar and I were limitless.

The memory of when I first claimed her was so potent it eclipsed everything else, real or imagined. It had been life-altering. Like I’d been a blind man suddenly being granted sight. Or a street urchin stumbling upon a hoard of gold. But it was more than that. She chose me. The largest dragon in the world. What was one to do with such power? A power so raw and exhilarating, it consumed. And I admitted, it certainly had consumed me, dousing my blood like liquor. 

And who could blame me? I went from being a fucking nobody… to being the most powerful man in the world. 

I leaned into Vhagar’s warmth, and she folded her wings against me. 

We plummeted back down towards the earth, a thrilling drop that sent a jolt of pure ecstasy through my veins, hotter than dragon fire. My stomach lurched, and beneath my thighs, Vhagar’s thorax vibrated – a deep, primal roar that resonated through my very bones. 

At that moment, I mirrored her, a guttural exclaim of pure, unadulterated joy escaping my lips.

Never had freedom tasted so sweet.

The force of our descent sliced through the nebulous clouds like a knife through cotton, and as we emerged, the Narrow Sea gaped wide, glittering beneath the noontide sun like crystal-embellished silk. I leveled out again and watched Vhagar’s twin loom out of the water. 

In the distance, the seven huge drum towers - proud sentinels of pale red stone - rose out of the sea on their stony summits, and the tolling bells welcomed me back home. 

An unfamiliar fleet of ships coasted down Black Water Rush like wooden beads along a blue mesh - an unremarkable observation since nobles from every corner of the realm had been descending upon King’s Landing for the wedding. 

They had all come through the gates though, by horse and carriage. None by sea. 

Traders perhaps? Arriving just in time to fortify our stores for the upcoming plunder. 

So many fucking mouths to feed. I had seen them endlessly pour through the castle gates in a river of gold, silver, and polished steel – their banners displaying the sigil of House Lannister, Baratheon, Tully, and I could’ve sworn I saw a direwolf banner among them. Would the Starks truly find a Targaryen wedding of such importance that they would bother dragging themselves out of their frozen pits?

It was to be a grand affair, to be sure. A celebration with tourneys, hunts, feasts, and dancing, to last for at least a fortnight.

If I had it my way, I would escape and race the wind on Vhagar, scouting the lands until I’d committed every field, mountain, and terrain to memory. But Mother’s orders were a bittersweet curse. 

‘You are to be on your best behavior,’ she’d told us. A euphemism for me babysitting my nuisance of a brother, ensuring he does not imbibe every wine cask in the Keep, and to hearten my sweet sister who always grew gauche in social gatherings. 

One could hardly fathom I was the youngest.

But the chief of my worries was Aegon. He was already inclined to get unreasonably drunk on a plain day. I shuddered to think of the lengths he might go to in tribute to his own nuptials.

Unease filled my gut.

But it wasn’t the vigil of my siblings that rendered me apprehensive.

As I drew close enough to make out the banners, I realized that these were no ordinary trading ships. In fact, these weren’t traders at all…

I tugged at the reins and Vhagar gathered air beneath her leather, and sprung up high, casting her mighty shadow atop the vessels. 

Memories consumed me like a bad aftertaste. The sigil-emblazoned sails draped across the masts below needed no introduction. The seahorse and the three-headed black dragon caught the wind. 

Straightening in my saddle, a nauseating, breathless feeling tugged at my throat.

It could only mean one thing…

The thought got knocked right out of me as a bone-jarring force shuddered through me, emptying my lungs of air. 

My point of gravity shifted. 

The world went tumbling around me. 

Adrenaline poured into my bloodstream.

Vhagar’s earsplitting roar resounding across the blackwater and the sharp tug at my arm snapped everything into focus. 

My wrist had snagged through a loop in the climbing ropes, from which I was now dangling precariously. Vhagar’s tattered wings fanned at my side and my body swayed as she straightened from the impact.

Had I fallen off?

It took my mind a moment to grasp the idea. This just doesn’t happen. I don’t fall off. 

I gazed up above where the saddle chains that I had once again neglected to attach myself to, draped down Vhagar’s side like a limp appendage. The links rattling. Mocking me. 

I had fucking fallen off. 

A distressed wailing growl tore from Vhagar’s throat, her hunter green head curving sideways. I met her glowing copper eyes. They were silently appraising me, awaiting my next command. Even though we were entirely different species, I could read her just as well as I could read any human. Sometimes I even thought I heard her. In my mind. But it was never anything so simple as a voice or an implication to one. It was a feeling. We were one entity, especially when I was astride her. But sometimes even more when we were apart. It was a bond I knew I would never experience with anyone. 

I could feel her lowering us towards the city, her dark slits pleading with me to hang on. 

“I’m alright, old girl,” I assured her, the thought of anyone witnessing this utterly humbling display suddenly seizing me, sparking my veins like hot iron. I could already feel the whispers clinging to the humid air, dispersing like disease in a brothel. 

Aemond One-Eye was no real dragon rider. 

He could not even stay his ass in the saddle on a windless day.

Gripping onto the ropes with my other hand, my eye aimed at the saddle above. “Sōvēs, Vhagar.” 

I began the climb, my heart hammering against my ribs.

My commands were binding, and though I felt her brief reluctance at first, she conformed, her wings gathering air as I hauled myself back up. Her appeasing grumble thrummed against the back of my thighs as I straddled her, and gave her three firm pats on her hide, feeling sheepish after what had just happened. I pondered the catalyst for its occurrence, my mind skipping between the dreadful thought of a dragon’s ill health to an idea far simpler such as a fault of my own. 

My gut churned at the thought.

I did not need to think for long though, because the reason then struck Vhagar’s thorax with a forceful blow, knocking me aslant. But I did not fall. My hands had gripped the saddle horns by instinct like my body had anticipated what was to come. Vhagar roared, deafening and furious, making the very air around us quiver in the still heat. 

It was a warning.

My senses prickled with apprehension.

We were under attack.

I scouted the skies in a glassy bewilderment, growing acrimoniously aware of my disability. But the firmament was still and empty. 

What in the Seven Hells?

Another blow, my frame unmoving this time. Fury consumed me like poison. Gritting my teeth, I gripped the saddle horn and twisted the thick reins twice ‘round my forearm, perceiving every muscle of Vhagar’s back contracting beneath me, waiting to charge. 

Who would dare challenge the might of House Targaryen?

More importantly, who would dare challenge me?

A flicker of movement caught my eye. 

A shadow, shrouded beneath Vhagar’s wing membranes, was soaring alongside us. And when I turned to look, my eye met a stranger, masked and cloaked, stalking us on a dragon as black and swift as a raven. The beast was miniscule in relation to us, just the age to breathe fire, and yet had nearly forced me to meet the gods. 

Humiliation morphed into a blinding rage that seethed through my veins and marred my vision with a red mist. “Ossēnagon, Vhagar!” I growled, and steered her toward the trespasser. But the figure crouched down in their saddle, and their dragon dove towards the city. 

Fucking craven.

We went after them. Wrath consumed me, shifting my attention to a single point of focus: to allow Vhagar’s jaws to rip them apart until all that was left of them was a cloud of blood. 

Their descent was swift and inaudible, while ours was slow and thunderous like a moving mountain. The pale orange rooftops of King’s Landing, bleached from the summer’s scorching sun, spread out like a vast rust beneath our darkening shadows. 

We pursued them to the Hill of Rhaenys, where we landed opposite each other outside the crypts of the dragonpit. 

Dismounting, I started towards them, each step a measured threat. The steel of my sword sang its lethal warning as I drew it from my scabbard. But the stranger stood their ground, defiance flickering in their shadowed form, making no attempt to engage a weapon of their own. 

From challenging me midair to abstaining from fighting me on the ground had my anger, already a simmering cauldron, boiling over. I closed the distance between us, a growl ripping from my throat, raw and primal before my blade bit their throat.

My whole being demanded their death, but I knew better than to execute a rogue assassin without first extracting some answers. A desperate struggle ensued, but my palm collared the nape of their neck, locking them to the steel. Alarming exclaims sounded in the distance, but the words faded underwater. 

“The Stranger requests an audience. Less you reveal the purpose of your presence here within the next five seconds,” I seethed, the contiguity drowning my voice into a whisper. 

I took pleasure in that I towered over them, feeling their hot, humid breath against me, hitching beneath the sharp edge.

“My prince!” A familiar voice mingling with the sound of clattering metal came from my left. Ser Harrold Westerling, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, was running towards us. His voice, booming like thunder, always sufficed in snapping the whole court to attention at his announcements. But it wasn’t his timber that stirred me this time. “Let her go!” 

His words carried me out of my raging inferno and had me dip into raw curiosity.

Her?

A soft, vibrant laugh with a taunting edge pooled out of the cowl, finishing with a humming sound of satisfaction. 

I blinked through my apprehension and scavenged the stranger’s frame with my eye as if I’d awoken from a dream and seen them for the first time. 

“I see that you’ve lost your sense of humor too,” came a female voice. “Someone told me you get funnier after experiencing trauma. But you look like you haven’t laughed in years.”

Annoyance twisted my features. 

A tug, a rustle, and her cowl fell back and settled around her shoulders. 

A wave of ice ran down my spine. 

It was like seeing a ghost. The protagonist of all my nightmares coming alive, ready to haunt me. 

Aylana Velaryon.

She was a wretched little thing standing before me. Her eyes, the color of sunlit amber flicked with gold, held mine with an unsettling intensity. Mischief danced in them like cinders over a fire, and a knowing smile played on her lips.  

Chagrin sparked hot within me, and she looked so fucking pleased with herself that I had no control of what I did next. 

I grabbed her face. Ignoring the ominous, billowing roar of her dragon. My palm enveloped her jaw, my thumb and index finger digging into the soft, pliant skin of her cheeks, stripping that conceited expression off it. 

“Are you saying that I should’ve found that little fucking ambush of yours up there funny?” I hissed, dubiety weighing my tone. Her dark brows knotted together, and her lips swelled forward, her mouth forced open into an oval shape. “You nearly killed me.”

She rolled her eyes. Fucking rolled her eyes at me. 

“Gīda ilagon, kepus,” she said, a sardonic edge lacing her voice. “Iksi sesīr sir, ȳdra ao pendagon daor?”

 The words hit me like a physical blow, taken aback by the fluency of her High Valyrian and the meaning behind the words in equal measure. 

No… Actually, their meaning stirred me the most. Then, my gaze fell upon the one jarring element which had elicited them, as if it had called to me. A crimson scar that snaked across her left eyebrow, expressing a raw pink sheen beneath a shell of transparent skin. 

Years had passed, yet the wound looked just healed.

My jaw tightened as venom scoured through my veins.

I could still see her crumpled, lifeless form in the dirt, her skull cracked open, every time I closed my eye.

And I was holding the bloody rock.

A torrent of questions, accusations, apologies – years of unspoken turmoil – churned within me. But now, with her life literally in my hands, the words deserted me. My tongue, usually an agile weapon, felt like lead. This was the person who had haunted my every waking and sleeping thought for years, and all I could manage was a stunned silence. Perhaps my countenance spoke volumes where my voice failed, though I doubted it presented anything but bored disinterest.

She echoed the girl I remembered, but time had woven its changes. Her once youthful features had sharpened. Cheekbones higher, lips fuller. She smelt of sea and brimstone. Her head of bouncy, tight curls was now an ocean of dark waves tumbling down her back in drifts… The shade struck a chord in me. Chafed at my benevolence. A testament to who… what… she truly was. 

Tainted blood. 

“No?” Her voice was muffled by the force of my grasp. “Well, if you are planning on killing me, please do try not to get any blood on this cloak,” she said, her chin wagging in my hand at the black fabric that draped her. “I’ve promised it to Jace in the event of my passing.” A sly grin curved the corners of her lips, sending ire tugging at my nerves. 

Time certainly hadn’t woven any changes on the vexing essence of her character.

I let out a guttural sound of disdain as I released her, pushing her back, and she huffed sharply. A bright seam of red welled up at the lip where my blade had kissed her and painted the length of her neck like dark fruit. But she didn’t seem to notice. 

“Don’t worry,” she said, unclasping the cloak and pulling off her leather gloves finger by finger. “I won’t tell anyone.” 

I noted her gaze briefly flicker across my eyepatch. Her scrutiny made the leather singe my skin with awareness. I bristled. A streak of something ludic crinkled her eyes, discouraging me from entertaining whatever it was she was trying to pull out of me. But I couldn’t resist. 

“What?” I muttered, regretting the acquisition as soon as it left my tongue. 

She tipped her head, pulling the gloves between her fingertips. “That you fell off your dragon,” she said softly, like she was sorry it happened. “Granted she is the largest dragon in the world. And you’re so very small. But… I’d wager the court will find it most amusing all the same.”

Red. 

Fire tapped into my spine, setting my nerves ablaze. 

I heard how the self-preserving bond on my madness snapped like a fractured leg. 

There was no restraining what I’d say next. 

I approached her until we were nearly chest to chest and she was sure to have felt the slash I’d made in her neck the way it gaped open from her straining to look up at me. But she just smiled, a dimple flashing on her cheek. As if we were still kids and she had made a humorous jest.

I could choke her.

“Listen to me, bastard,” I drawled, taking savage pleasure in watching her grin drop and the colour drain from her face. “Whatever advantage you think you have over me, my preeminence is tenfold. I know what you are. I know what your filthy brothers are. It’s as plain as day. And though you know as well as I that every living soul in King’s Landing and beyond knows it too, I doubt you’d want the likes of me going around confirming the fact Rhaenyra’s children are the spawn of her whoring.”

She attempted to strike me, but I dodged her swing and the second time I caught her fist in my hand. 

“Don’t worry,” I said, leaning into her, whispering, “I won’t tell anyone.” 

“Fuck. You. Aemond,” she heaved behind clenched teeth, her voice thick with tears and trembling rage. 

A taunting smile quirked my lips, a muscle movement that was foreign to me. I released her hand and stepped back. 

“For however long you are here, dear niece, I’m going to make you wish you and your pretender menage never set foot in this city again.” 

I watched her jaw work, her face contorting into an expression of disgust and such choler that I thought she would start breathing fire, but of which I was content. 

“Ser Harrold,” I called, and the silver-clad guard approached hesitantly, having watched the whole scene play out. “Escort the princess to the Red Keep. Her old quarters should already be prepared for her.” 

“Certainly, my prince,” said Ser Harrold, the Lord Commander who was the very first person to see my face after the loss of my eye. This fact made him remarkably significant somehow. 

Ser Harrold showed Aylana the way to the wheelhouse with a small gesture of his hand. She stood unmoving at first, but eventually started forwards, absently dragging her feet behind her. 

“Oh, and uh…” I added, watching Ser Harrold turn to me again. 

Aylana stopped, her back to me.  

“Make sure she doesn’t attempt murder on anyone else on your journey. Those bastards can be… hot-headed.”

I gave them my back, perceiving what I imagined was the sound of Aylana attempting to launch herself at me, but got caught in Ser Harrold’s grasp. Her vicious mouth spat curses and vile words as I mounted Vhagar and took to the sky, watching the Commander and the princess blur into mere specks on a canvas. 

You are to be on your best behavior. Mother’s voice resounded in my head. Gods… it turns out that would be a mighty difficult command to heed. 

This would be a celebration I was sure to remember…

Taglist: @quinquinwuincy @lumerstar @angelofpearls @darylandbethfanforever9 @prettyduckling22 @lv7867 @lovelynerdytraveler @lasrehsif @fiction-fanfic-reader @ewanmitchellfanatic @momoewn @targaryendestiel @queenmariexx @sayuri9908 @aurelialou @lucycowr @doodle-with-rhy @blushingwueen @dumbbitchenergy17 @cosmicbrownies07 @hrlzy @kitdjarin1 @ravyn94 @kyber4crystal @randomwhovian75

[one-eyedalmond]

THE PINK DREAD - CH. 36 (Masterlist)

Chapter Summary: As Aemond learns, the road to redemption has a toll that will cost him the ultimate price. Word Count: 7343 CHAPTER WARNINGS: Angst, mentions of child neglect and violence amongst kids, an unnecessary amount of bird puns.

Series tags: Aemond x Plus size!OfC, Aegon x Plus size!OfC, Celtigar!ofc, Plot with Smut, mdni 18+, Aemond End Game, Angst, Comedy, The Dragons Don't Dance, slow burn, friends to enemies to lovers, enemies to friends to lovers.

Credits: Lace Banner by V6que pearl divider by Pommecita

Notes: I'm worried Aemond may be a little bit ooc here, just cause he talks a lot in this chapter at length. But it's also a bit of a unique scenario, so idk.

There was a storm passing through King’s Landing, so loud and powerful that the cavernous Throne Room echoed with the sound of the pitter-patter of raindrops drilling the roof and the windows behind the Iron Throne. It was empty this time of the night, dark with only the soft distant orange glow of the braziers that weren’t powerful enough to chase out the shadows.

Aemond stood before the Iron Throne, the sharp spires of swords that melded together casted shadows over his face, right over his left eye. His left eye, which now was gone, and all that was left was a gaping hole that he was told to stuff with cotton to avoid it from festering. The pain was dulled down with dreamwine, but he could still feel pin-pricks along the ridges of the slash down his brow and cheek. 

All his life, the Iron Throne appeared like an impossible dream, something that he was not destined for at all. Sure, he imagined himself sitting upon it, much like how many others imagined themselves on it as well. Though Aemond understood the impossibility of this dream, even as a Targaryen Prince, even as the second born son of the King, there was no way for him to reach the Iron Throne. Rhaenyra was its intended, and then after her, Jacaerys. And if Jacaerys had no heirs, it would pass to the undeserving Lucerys, and then Joffrey and then, if rumour was true, Rhaenyra and Daemon’s newborn son. Aemond was so far down the list of heirs, that it almost seemed like an act of masochism for him to even daydream about it.

Then there was Aegon, his mother’s heir. There was always the possibility of usurpation, even Aemond was aware of this at a younger age. Otto made it abundantly clear he wanted Aegon to swoop in and take the crown when Viserys inevitably passes. His health wasn’t getting any better, even though Maester Orwyle apparently was testing out new methods to reduce the decay. 

Aegon was wholefully undeserving of this responsibility, constantly dragging his feet about it for as long as Aemond remembered. The idea of him marrying Helaena repulsed Aegon, and he often emphasized how little he had in common with her, how weird she was. Their mother, wanting to change the dynamics between them, had Aegon spend more and more time with Helaena against his will in hopes to change that, even by a fraction. 

Aemond couldn’t help but lament that he would’ve made a far better candidate to marry Helaena, and to be his mother’s heir. Especially now when he had made a great sacrifice to be more than worthy of the title. An eye for a dragon… And not just any dragon, but a Conqueror’s dragon; the largest and oldest dragon in the world. 

The idea of marriage though, even to Helaena, stirred something uncomfortable in his stomach. A feeling that he had tried and sometimes successfully pushed aside and ignored. How long had it been? Six years? No, it was more, possibly seven. Aemond was turning seventeen soon, a man grown. And yet whenever those intrusive memories came creeping up on him, he felt like a child again; scared and nauseous and filled with an unwanted feeling of regret.

Another intrusive memory invaded his mind as he gazed up at the Iron Throne. One of her.

She stood at this very same spot next to him, a mischievous little glint in her eye as she turned to him with a smirk. 

“We should sit on it,” She told him conspiratorially. 

Aemond looked at her shocked, but slightly amused, “Are you mad?”

“A little,” she grinned cheekily, but rolled her eyes at his hesitancy. “C’mon, no one is around to see.”

“The Throne see’s,” Aemond pointed out.

She fixed him with a deadpan stare, “The Throne isn’t a person, Aem.”

He grins despite himself, shaking his head, “Obviously, no. But it’s said that the Throne cuts anyone who sits on it and is unworthy.”

She raised an eyebrow at that, “Is that so?” Before Aemond could say anything, she was already climbing up the dangerous stairs up the dais that led to the royal seat. 

Aemond’s eyes flashed wide, “What are you doing?!” He tried to grab on the back of her dress to stop her, but it was too late, she was settling onto the Iron Throne like it was just any old armchair. 

She placed her hands on the armrest and adjusted herself in the seat, eyes darting around as she contemplated sitting there, on the greatest seat in the world. Aemond eyed her with almost eagerness and trepidation that they might be caught. He even looked over his shoulder to make sure they were still alone. 

When he turned back towards her, his eyes bounced from her face to the Throne itself, “Well? How does it feel?”

“Uncomfortable,” she shifts in her spot again, “I don’t know what I expected.”

“Uncomfortable,” Aemond repeats dryly, his head tilting. “You’re sitting on the Iron Throne, a chair made out of swords, and you’re complaining it’s uncomfortable.” 

“They really ought to throw some furs on. Your poor frail father has to sit on this thing? Gods…” She shifted again, this time moving flush to the side to give more room. Lifting her hand, she gave a pat on the empty spot she made, “Come, join me and feel for yourself.”

Aemond was hesitant, but also excited. He climbed up the stairs carefully, and turned to sit down, squishing himself between the armrest and her side. Once he settled, Aemond looked around the Throne Room with a new perspective; he could feel the power emanating from beneath him, from the swords of fallen kings, lords and soldiers during the Conquest. But, more overwhelmingly was the heat radiating off of her body pressed against his side. 

The Throne hadn’t cut Aemond then, nor had it cut her. 

Shaking his head, Aemond rid himself of the bittersweet memory, his attention focused on the presently vacant Iron Throne in front of him. His fingers curled into his palms as his muscles became taut with determination, with desire and ambition. He strode up the dais, climbing up the narrow stairs of iron swords until he made it to his destination. The young prince turned around and slowly descended onto the Throne, his back slowly rested against the regal back and his posture relaxed as he eased himself into it. 

This… This right here, it felt right. It felt like he was–

“Fuck–” Aemond hissed as he sharply retracted his hand from the arm rest. He looked down at his pointer finger, seeing a red slice going down the digit from one knuckle to the next. 

The room was so silent, you could hear a fly fart. Valeana’s eyes flickered between her parents to Shyla several times. Every once in a while she would share a look with her brothers and even Floris. Breaking fast began late that morning, since everyone was predictably reluctant to face Bartimos Celtigar’s wrath. Shyla, however, seemed fearless in her unconvincing innocent pretense, acting as if she had not been caught with Prince Daeron balls deep in her at all. 

Ursula shifted uncomfortably in her seat, clearing her throat as she pushed around her food on her plate. “We will have to take a trip into the city for more fabric,” She spoke, breaking the deadly silence with her gentle, placating voice. “I did not factor in a wedding gown when I packed the fabrics we have.”

Shyla beamed, the mention of shopping for her wedding lighting her up like kerosene soaked brazier, “I would like a beautiful lavender dress, mother! To match Daeron’s eyes.” 

The mere mention of the offending prince’s name causes Bartimos’ eye to twitch. 

“As long as it isn’t white,” Arthor muttered, making Valeana choke back a giggle when she took a sip of her juice. 

Bartimos shot them both a sharp glare, instantly wiping the smirks off their faces. 

“You will wear what I choose, Shyla,” Ursula sighed as she picked up her tea. When Shyla made a noise to protest, the older woman gave her a sharp glare of her own, instantly shutting the girl up. 

There was a brief moment of heavy silence before Floris ended it by clearing her throat, thus bringing everyone’s attention to her. 

“We may as well buy extra fabric, Mother. For a second wedding dress.”

Valeana paused midway with a spoonful of porridge, the utensil hovering just above her tongue. She furrowed her eyebrows in confusion as everyone looked at her with equal parts surprise and mortification. 

Floris gave a loud scoff, “Not Valeana. Me.”

“You, dear?” Ursula asked, just as bewildered as she was skeptical. Blinking widely at her eldest daughter, she looked over at Bartimos, who seemed to be in the same state as she was. 

“I–” Barty cleared his throat, battling with his shock and the residual anger from earlier. “I was unaware you had a suitor.”

“Wel, I do,” Floris prickled under everyone’s skeptical tones, her face heating up at her cheeks and ears. 

Valeana leaned back into her chair, looking around the room as if searching for something or someone. When her attention returned to the table, she gestured in a short circle in front of her as she asked, “Is this a suitor… We can see?” 

Arthur made a noise that was a cross between a sputter and a snort of laughter, but he quickly covered it up by slapping his hand over his mouth. Then, Valeana felt Clement smack her with the back of his hand underneath the table, followed by his pointed look of disapproval.

Floris bristled; feathers ruffling like a disgruntled pelican. Her eyes were wide and heated as she fixed her eagle-like glare onto her step-sister. “He is very much real, I assure you. And he is a lord of a noble and ancient house,” Her beak-like nose raised haughtily as she turned towards their parents.

Ursula’s eyes were still wide with skepticism as she tried to digest this new information like it was a chunk of very dry steak.

“Well… That is wonderful news, dear, but…” She shared a look with her husband. “We were unaware that you were even courting anyone.” 

“Yes, you’ll have to excuse our shock, Floris. We just haven’t seen you with any suitors since we arrived,” Bartimos added, his voice carefully controlled as if he was treading through lands unknown.

Floris clearly did not like the incredulous reaction she was getting. She was hoping – no, expecting – excitement and elation, not dubiety.

“Yes, well that is because my lord is a man who prefers subtlety and values his privacy,” She defended, her hackles still raised. 

Clement – bless him – cleared his throat and tried to at least sound engaged and supportive. “He sounds like quite the mysterious character. If he treats you right, sister, then I am happy for you.”

Floris smiled and preened under Clement’s approval, “Thank you, brother. My lord does treat me very well.” There was an implication in her words that went over everyone’s heads. 

Valeana, though, was staring at Floris with a shameless look of doubt. She shared a look with Shyla, who was doing a better job at concealing the same feeling. Slowly, Val turned back to Floris, “And who exactly is this… ‘mysterious lord?’ You have yet to tell us a name.” 

Floris shifted in her seat as if she was purposely stalling, which only deepened the table’s disbelief. However, a new type of disbelief took over the Celtigars when Floris finally opened her bill.

“Lord Larys Strong.”

There was a very brief pregnant pause before it was broken by the on edge father of 5. 

“L-Lord Larys?! The cri—” His agogged sputtering was immediately cut off when Ursula placed a hand on his arm, coupled by her mute look of warning. Barty closed his eyes and gave a deep exhale through his flared nostrils.

He was trying to keep his cool. The events of the last twelve to sixteen hours had already aged him by ten years already, and at this point, he was on the brink of madness. He had seen Larys recently, a few times in fact in small council meetings. The clubfooted lout had failed to mention his interest in his step daughter, and being that Lord Larys is of advanced age, Barty would have expected the man to have approached him first to ask for his permission to marry Floris. A man his age should know better!

Bartimos ran his hands over his face, inhaling deeply as he tried to calm his frail nerves. “And… How long have you been courting… Lord Larys?”

Floris fidgeted uncomfortably, suddenly apprehensive and regretful for bringing this up. “Since Maiden’s Day,” her voice was weaker then, betraying her crumbling confidence. 

“Since Maiden’s Day?” Surprisingly, Arthor was the one to speak, his tone thick with confusion. He had not seen her at all with Larys that day, nor any time after that. Well, there was the moment when she got up and left, but he had assumed she went back to the apartments. “That was nigh even a sinnight ago, Floris, how is it you already have achieved a marriage proposal from him?”

It was a good question and judging by everyone’s expected looks, they were also curious at how that could possibly happen in a short period of time. As it happens, it was the wrong question—at least to Floris— because she sputtered and flustered in her seat, suddenly not liking being the center of attention. 

“Well–” She began with a struggle, her hands fidgeting on the table where her food sat long forgotten. “He hasn’t… proposed, exactly. But he has shown keen interest–”

“So he has not asked for your hand?” Bartimos interrupted her so he could get clear answers. 

“No, but–”

“Oh, Floris, my darling,” Ursula interrupted, her fingers pressing into her eyes. “You mustn't make such quick assumptions, especially this early. Especially when your father’s nerves are frayed enough as it is.”

Floris huffed and crossed her arms firmly across her chest, her lips pinched and her chin dimpled. Her eyes shift off away from the table, her cheeks pink from both agitation and embarrassment. For she knew that Larys fully intended to have her as his wife; after all the sweet things he’s said, all the… tender touches. Floris will be Lady of Harrenhal, she could feel it in her bones! 

There was another moment of silence, thick with unease and tension. And immediately ended by Shyla’s hoggish interjection. 

“I was thinking, if possible, could the wedding be held in the Dragonpit, and I can ride in on a–” 

“No!” Came the unified voices of both Ursula and Bartimos. 

With Bartimos’ undivided attention fixed on Shyla, and his mind still reeled with the news regarding Floris and Lord Larys, Valeana no longer was his priority— or rather, not his number one problem child. This made it easier for her tip-toe around him and his overbearing presence. Now, her being pulled between two princes wasn’t that much of an issue, not compared to Shyla debasing herself and getting caught, not compared to Floris admitting to secretly courting a man that was not only old enough to be her father, but was a colleague of her step father. 

Not to mention, and more importantly, the news about the hasty betrothal between Prince Daeron and Shyla Celtigar spread fast. By the time the sun set for the day, the rumours and conjecture were whispered at such frequency, the name ‘Valeana’ was all but forgotten. While it was paramount to keep Daeron’s… “crime” under wraps, it still somehow leaked through the grapevine that the betrothal and hasty wedding was in due to them fornicating and being caught. Which was true of course, but the Crown, the Celtigars, and above all else, Otto Hightower was trying to make it seem like it was a marriage out of love.

No one believed it, clearly. Hasty betrothals and weddings generally do not mean there is love, only lust.

Valeana was walking through the corridors of Meagor’s Holdfast with her brother, Arthor, when they passed by a couple of whispering ladies, and the words “Stormlord”, “Lady Floris”, “Heartbroken”, and “livid” were heard. As they passed them, Arthor craned his neck to look back, as if straining to hear more tidbits of their conversation. 

“I do not think even the most seasoned seer could have predicted a war between the Celtigars and the Baratheons,” Arthor spoke, his voice only above a whisper as they continued their promenade. He turned back around to lean back against his half-sister’s shoulder.

Valeana deeply frowned at the word ‘war’, because it made her head fill with the worries that she fretted over with Aegon last night. He had successfully dodged the topic, but her anxieties were not eased, especially now that she was reminded, especially now when civil unrest was stirring between houses… And her house was one of them. With the Stormlord, of all bloody people too. The most prideful man in the Seven Kingdoms, and head of one of the Seven Great Houses. Picking a fight, even an indirect one, with Borros was a foolish one for a lesser house, like house Celtigar.

Arthor noted the frown on her face and gave her arm that was laced in his a little squeeze, “You may very well be the one to save us from such a fate, dear sister, if you choose to marry Prince Aegon over Prince Aemond.” 

Valeana liked the thought of her being burdened with the outcome of the future of her house much less than a war with Borros Baratheon, or even a war of succession. She casted her brother a withering look and sighed when she returned her gaze to the flagstone floor.

“I know you are pulling my leg–”

“Only the lame one,” he quickly quipped, his tone dry. 

She sighed, trying to contain her smirk at his dark joke, “But, I really do not want to have that burden.” 

“So, I take it that you still haven’t picked?” The question sounded rhetorical, especially how he lifted his head up in contemplation, “What’s making you so indecisive?”

That was an interesting question, one that she wasn’t really expecting from her younger brother, and one she didn’t entirely know how to answer.

“I have feelings for both, I suppose,” Valeana started only to pause when she had to wait for a few courtiers to pass by; they looked rather curious when they caught Arthor and her eye. When they were out of earshot, she picked up again, though now her voice was just above a whisper, “I am afraid of breaking someone’s heart or ruining a friendship.” 

Arthor seemed to consider this of all of three seconds before he responded, “Then choose both?”

Her dream from the other night flashed in her mind again, making her slow down her pace and look at her brother. Shaking her head, Valeana dismissed this notion, “I cannot marry two men.”

“Yes, you can,” He turned to her as he stated this matter-of-factly. “We are Valyrian, not Andals. Aegon the Conqueror took two wives, Maegor had six–”

“Maegor was insane.”

“I’d be careful saying that in his own halls, Valeana,” Arthor chastised un-seriously. 

She rolled her eyes at him, deciding to rein the conversation back before they digressed. “Even if your hair-brained idea of a polyamorous marriage was approved by father, or the Queen for that matter, Aegon and Aemond would not agree to it.”

Arthor made a sound that conveyed he agreed with her, his head tilting as he did. “Fair point. They are far too competitive, and honestly, I can see Aemond murdering Aegon in his sleep…”

Valeana hummed in agreement. 

Speaking of the devil, when Valeana lifted her gaze from the floor, she saw Aemond down the corridor. His silver hair flashing as he walked past a loggia where the dying sun shone through. When she slowed her gait, so did her brother, forcing Arthor’s gaze to follow hers. 

“Ah,” he gave a small smile of knowing, then tilted his head in her direction. 

Valeana looked over to her brother with an expression conveying her silent plea, “Please do not tell father.”

He gave a sigh as if he was considering his options; truthfully, he would rather be at the pavilions with his lovers, than be chaperoning his sister and talking to her about her tragic love life. “I won’t. Only if you don’t tell father that I left you to go to the city.”

“Deal,” she nodded. 

Arthor unlaced their arms and gave her a brief ‘have fun’ before departing. 

Aemond’s gait also slowed down when he caught sight of her. though he waited until Arthor walked away to make a move. He stood in the shadow of a pillar at the loggia, just out of sight to those that walked by outside. Then, Aemond nudged his head to the side, signalling for her to follow him.

Valeana watched him turn a corner, then she looked around to make sure the coast was clear before moving to follow his trail. He was walking languidly, like usual; Aemond tended to occupy a space as long as possible, but this time it felt like his slow strides were meant for her. So, she followed him from a safe distance, just in case someone was watching or caught a glimpse. Her heart thudded in her chest at the anticipation of speaking to him. After the disaster of the dinner yesterday, she knew that Aemond had questions about her mood and heated departure, much like Aegon did. And knowing this conversation was to be had, her anxieties about a civil war amongst dragons came bubbling back up to the surface. Aegon did nothing to ease it last night, and she felt Aemond would have more of a stubborn opinion about it. 

Aemond turned another corner where she knew would end at a set of spiral stairs. While it was not the set of spiral stairs, the idea of trekking up any of the like (particularly when it was narrow) made her uneasy and nauseous. When she turned the corner shortly after him, she hesitated at the bottom of the stairs, her vision tunneled as she looked up, and her throat went dry. Just when Valeana swallowed down her nerves and made the first step, the door to the utility closet under the stairs opened. 

“Valeana,” the sound of her name in a rushed whisper made her head swivel.

“Aemond…” His name was a small cry of relief. 

He gave one look down the hall before reaching out and gently taking her wrist to guide her into the closet with him. It was a narrow space, with the stairs lowering the ceiling, but light was provided through the small arched window along the curved wall. The only things in there were a few brooms, mops and wooden buckets, and the smell of vinegar and lye soap. However, Aemond’s scent was all-encompassing; leather, hearthfire and cedar wood. 

Before Valeana could say anything, his hands were cupping her face and he’s kissing her brow and cheek bones fervently. 

“I am sorry for upsetting you, my friend,” he spoke with feverish desperation between his kisses. His large hand migrated to the curve of her neck as he leaned his forehead against hers. 

“I have no excuse for my arrogance and my petulance, but know it was not my intention to involve you or your family in our feuds.” 

It would be a lie if she said that his words meant absolutely nothing to hear, that her opinions on the matter were greater than any excuse or apology he had to offer. But it did matter, because she could hear the sincerity of his words and taste the repentance on his breath. Perhaps he will be more understanding than Aegon after all. 

“Aemond,” She spoke his name a second time, putting her hands at his wrists. “I need to…I need to explain what upset me.” 

He took in her serious expression, the way her eyes were half-closed, not looking directly at him, but not avoiding his eyes either. It seemed like she was collecting her thoughts, organizing them before being spoken. He kept his hands on her for a moment before nodding, because he wanted to hear her, to listen to her, and hopefully he can ease this newest transgression. 

“Of course, please,” He turned away briefly to grab the wooden buckets and then turned them upside down.

It was a bit awkward, given the small space, but Aemond sat his bucket at her side, taking her hand in his and letting them rest on his knee. Valeana leaned back against the wall, shifting a bit awkwardly on her ‘seat’, hoping it would not break under her weight. She still looked contemplative as she looked down at their conjoined hands, so Aemond patiently waited, his eye examining every muscle of her face, trying to read her thoughts.

“Yestereve made me realize how perilous the position I am in is,” She started finally, her brow had a small crease as she carefully worded out her mind’s tempest thoughts. “The feud within your family is not just a squabble between siblings; it is about the line of succession, and when the King passes and Princess Rhaenyra takes his place, there will be contention and civil division. Half the Realm has already decided that she is not what they want, now that his Grace has three sons, now that she has a reputation for…” The implied reputation hung in the air, one she didn’t want to speak of, even in the privacy of this cramped closet. She just didn’t agree with it, the label of ‘whore’ and insinuating Rhaenyra was loose, when the reality was that she had only one lover during her marriage with Laenor… who also wasn’t faithful for different reasons. 

Aemond slightly pursed his lips a bit, but nodded and remained silent, allowing her to continue. His hand gave hers a light squeeze, though as her mind buzzed, she could not tell if it was him comforting her, or him conveying he has much to say on the matter. 

“The point I’m trying to say is… no matter the position I am in, it will not end well for me. If I marry you or Aegon, it will make my family my enemy in war. If I choose to marry another, it will make you and Aegon my enemy, that of which I do not want either. My father will side with Rhaenyra, he will be on her council, and because of that I will be involved regardless of where my heart lies. And just… even thinking about the possible casualties; the thought of losing my brothers, of you, I just–” Valeana was quickly getting emotional, evident with how rapidly the words were coming out. When she felt the pressure behind her eyes, she pressed her hands onto them. Val inhaled sharply and her breath came out stuttery; a physical portrayal of her frail nerves and troubled thoughts. 

“I just never thought about all of this until now, when I saw how much animosity still remained between you and your nephews, and your sister. Even when…even when your father is so desperate to sow peace amongst you, you and Aegon still resist. I just– I don’t… I just don’t understand—” 

Aemond gently cut her off by wrapping his long fingers around her wrists and pulling her hands away from her eyes. When she blinked against her tears and the invading light from the window, she could see his expression: the sharp lines of his angular face were soft, his eye filled with sympathy and concern, but she could see how he avoided looking at her eyes directly, that he must be conflicted. 

“I will not say that your worries are not valid, Valeana, because they are. Our family’s dynamics are complicated and messy, and it will inevitably leak into political affairs,” his honesty felt validating in a way, especially since Aegon had tried to dismiss it entirely. But Aemond also seemed to be carefully choosing his words, each one coming out as slowly and methodically as his signature stride. “But I wish you to understand… The reason for my and Aegon’s feelings towards our nephews and Rhaenyra are more personal than simple ambition.”

Aemond had her hands folded in both of his own, laying down on her lap and that is where he focused on. His eye stared at her small digits, running his thumb over her knuckles and relishing in the warmth they provided. Speaking about his half-sister, and the strained relationship he had with both her and his father was difficult, because he’s never spoken them out loud before. He barely even allowed himself to think too closely on it either. 

“Father married my mother out of obligation and a mild, distorted version of intrigue. He did not love her then, but rather valued her presence and purpose. He loved his late wife, Aemma, more than anything; that is something I know because I’ve heard him on multiple occasions, when he was still ill, call my mother her name. I had to watch my mother’s heart break every time he did, and could not say anything, because he was not only the King of the Realm, but my frail-bodied ailing father. 

“He loved Rhaenyra more than he ever loved us. You were not always there, when Aegon and my nephews were together, whether it was training or in the dragonpit. Father praised Jace and Luke as if they were his own sons, his true legacy, and was ever more critical over Aegon, no matter how hard he tried–” hearing Aemond actually defend his estranged elder brother made Valeana feel a certain way. She had assumed that Aemond’s dislike towards Aegon was just as strong as it was for Jace and Luke, being that the trio had all partook in his teasing over not having a dragon. Though perhaps she had been seeing things from a narrow point of view, that there was a broader image in this tapestry, and she was focusing too much on one corner. 

“As for me, he barely looked in my direction. Daeron… He was not even on the forefront of his mind, not even when he was born. As for Helaena, he always saw her as too fragile for this world, and never believed she would be more than what she is now; simply a princess, not a bride or a queen. Sometimes I wonder if he ever saw her as a daughter at all,” There was an edge of resentment in his voice that he immediately recognized, but he tried to rein it back before it digressed his thoughts. 

Viserys was trying to make amends, that was for certain. His conversation the other day with him did not go unforgotten, and he would not deny his father’s aid and help, especially when he needed it most. But it was difficult to just get over 20 years of neglect, it was difficult to ignore the favouritism he gave Rhaenyra and her bastard sons.

His face hardened, his eyes still casted down at their hands as he couldn’t help but grip her fingers a little tighter. 

“It became apparent to Aegon and I, and our mother, that Viserys had little concern for us. We had this revelation when we went to Driftmark to attend Princess Leana’s funeral. That is when I lost my eye, and… Luke, being responsible, got away with it without so much as a reprimand.” 

Valeana watched the muscles in his cheek, namely the one on the marred side of his face, twitch. She had not been at the funeral, but heard the stories through her father when he and Clement returned from Driftmark when it happened. 

Valeana furrowed her brow thoughtfully, her eyes trailing down to their hands, at the way his knuckles turned slightly white as he gripped her fingers. “I thought… I was told that it was self defence. An accident in the middle of a childish fight.”

Aemond’s face twisted in disapproval at her apparently misinformed assumption. His grip tightened again, but for a moment, just when he shook his head vehemently. “No, no… That is an oversimplification,” he tore his eye away from her for a moment, his blindside facing her. 

Valeana stared at the scar going down his forehead, brow and cheek. Though it had been years since it happened, and since then the skin had healed as much as it could, there was still a pink line in the grove. This could indicate just how deep the slash was, possibly even grazing and marking his skull in the process. And even though Valeana had not been there to witness it, she can somehow see it in her mind’s eye. Her fresh-faced Aemond, still soft with youth and budding puberty, screaming in agony as he clutched his damaged eye, blood pouring through his fingers and mingling with the tears from his remaining eye. The image her imagination painted made her frown deeply and her stomach twist in knots. She knew it wasn’t her fault, nor was it something she had control over, but Valeana couldn’t stop herself from feeling a deep sense of remorse and shame that she wasn’t there for him, like all the times she had been in the past. 

Before she could say or do anything, however, Aemond continued with a firm jaw and the skin around his eyepatch twitching, “The evening of the funeral is when I claimed Vhagar. It was the happiest I have ever been in a while…I was on the top of the world,” the neutral tone he was trying to maintain wavered into a bitter one, and his jaw clicked at the sheer pressure he was gritting his teeth. 

“When I returned, they were waiting for me in the cavern entrances at the base of the mountain. All four of them, immediately hostile. Rhaena accused me of ‘stealing’ Vhagar, as if she was property… I am not proud of it, but I might have said some things to provoke her. When Rheana came at me, I pushed her, then Baela came after, and I responded in kind in my defence. That is when Jace and Luke got involved, and the real fight began.” 

Aemond slowly turned to her, but his head was bowed, still guarding himself by keeping his one eye downward; the only window to his soul he had left.

“I don’t remember much of the details, but there are some things I knew for certain. They had me on the floor, all four of them hitting me at once, and all I could think about was to fight back. To do everything I could and say to protect myself, especially after the feat I had just achieved. I was not going to allow these children to reduce me to a pile of nothing after I just claimed the largest dragon in the world. 

“I was unarmed, but Jace wasn’t. He had come prepared, and pulled out his dagger when I called him and his brother bastards. It no longer was a fight amongst squabbling children, it became a fight of pride and ego. Not long after that, I was blinded with a fist full of sand. Luke found the knife on the ground after Jace dropped it and sliced my eye before I could do to Jace what he had intended to do to me with that blade.

“I was the one defending myself, Valeana. They attacked me first.” 

Aemond’s head bowed further as he lifted up one of his hands, freeing her fingers so he could ghost the tips of his pads over the ridge of his scare. His face made a slight grimace as if even talking about it brought up the phantom pain he had felt that day, and every day after as it healed painfully slow. 

“But what happened after was far worse. When all the adults gathered to question what had happened, my father focused more on my use of the word ‘bastard’ than he did on my injury. Rhaenyra demanded that I be sharply questioned; me, a boy, who had just been maimed by her own son. There was no apology, there was no reprimand, there was no punishment. The legitimacy of the children of his golden daughter was far more important than the health of his own son.

“That is when Aegon and I realized that our father had no love for us, not in the same ways he had for his daughter from his first wife. He would do everything to protect Rhaenyra and her brood of Strong sons, and they shamelessly basked in that privilege. It did not matter if mother spent half her life caring for a decaying husband, loyally doting on him and allowing that corpse of a man to penetrate her, just to give himself more children for him to ignore. All that ever mattered was appeasing Rhaenyra, out of his own guilt for being the one responsible for killing her mother. And my family suffered for it.” 

Valeana was left in silent tears. This was the most she had ever seen Aemond open up about his feelings, particularly about his family, which he had always been so guarded about. She always knew at baseline that Aemond didn’t have the best relationship with his family, though she had assumed it was mostly because Aegon was a twat, and his father was so ill, he could barely make out half his mind. But the wound was deeper than she ever imagined, and she realized right then that Aegon was right… It was far more complicated than she originally thought. While she still staunchly thought that her situation with her leg was far more black and white, and what had happened at Driftmark was more grey, she had no choice but to acknowledge that the picture was broader than a simple accident amongst kids. The added revelation that Luke didn’t even get a slap on the wrist made her feel almost guilty, because when Aemond had been deemed guilty for pushing her down the stairs, he was given five lashes as punishment. And she was merely the daughter of a lesser lord. 

Jace and Luke were entitled; spoiled by the protection of both their mother and grandsire. At least, they were at the time. Jace seemed to have matured since then, but Luke on the other hand, seemed more keen on reaping the benefits of being in his mother’s light. And while the consequences of their birth were not their fault, it was still not fair that they would inherit things that did not rightfully belong to them. Driftmark, Dragonstone, the Throne… By rights, the first should belong to Vaemond’s children, the second to Viserys the younger, and the last should belong to Aegon the younger. 

A brief thought runs through her mind, and it was if Daemon was bitter that his own full-blooded sons were set to inherit nothing. 

Valeana was pulled out of her thoughts when she felt his warm hand on her cheek, his thumb running over it to wipe away the tears that free falled. 

“Do not cry for me, my friend. For what I’ve done to you, I do not deserve your tears,” he continued to wipe her cheeks, his voice low and gentle, a contrast to the tight bittered inflection he used when speaking the story of how he lost his eye. “I would pluck out my remaining eye if it meant restoring your leg to you.”

“Oh, Aemond,” Valeana sniffed heavily as her hand reached up to place it over his where it lingered on her cheek, where she moved her thumb over his knuckles. Perhaps he does not realize it, but this show of pure vulnerability from Aemond was worth more to Valeana than a thousand eyes or a thousand legs. 

“I forgive you.”

Those three words echoed in that small little closet as if it was a grand chamber. It felt like honey poured into Aemond’s ear, and for a moment he thought he was imagining it. Did she just say what he thought he heard? Stunned in disbelief, Aemond felt his lungs cease to work in the wake of her blessed, undeserving statement. His eye widened, the glossiness of it strengthened as the pin-pricks of his tears finally corroded his shields.

With a hitch in his throat, Aemond asked tentatively, in a voice so small it almost sounded like he was a child. 

“What?”

Valeana gave a heavy sigh, feeling her shoulders cave in as if a great burden had been dropped from them. Her other hand moved to join her first, bringing him to her lips where she kissed his knuckles and the pads of his fingers, “I forgive you, Aemond.” 

He sharply inhaled, like a man who had been deprived of oxygen for far too long. It sent a ripple of tremors through his body, and before he even registered it, a single tear rolled down his cheek. Aemond grasped at her, pulling her face close so he could press his forehead against his. 

“Valeana, I–” He found that he could barely speak, his emotions far too strong and thick. It was overwhelming and unfamiliar, having spent his entire life swallowing them down, telling himself feeling anything other than anger and pride was a weakness. But, here he was, feeling as if he was bare and as defenceless as a newborn babe.

The self-loathing part of him felt so undeserving of those words. He almost wanted to deny her, to tell her that he was not worthy of it, no matter how many times she may say it. And perhaps he wasn’t, and he never will be, but he knows that even with her spoken forgiveness, he will not stop making it up to her. For the rest of his life, it would be his only quest worth purpose. 

When words failed him, Aemond met her with a kiss. He poured all his gratitude and affection into it, everything he could not convey verbally. Valeana responded immediately, her hands finding purchase on the back of his neck, trying to pull him as close as their positions would allow. They might have been in a broom closet, the air pungent with the smell of lye, vinegar and mildew, but for the two of them, it felt like their own heaven, where nothing and no one existed beyond the small space. 

When they at last pulled away, their noses were pressed together, their lips parted as they deeply inhaled each other’s air. Valeana’s eyes were tightly closed, the tears had stopped flowing, but what remained clung to her eyelashes.

“Aem… There is just one thing,” She closed her mouth just to lick her lips. “One thing I need you to do. For me, please. It’s the only thing I ask of you.”

“Anything,” Aemond’s answer was immediate. He would give her anything; his one eye, his own leg, he would give her a thousand and one sapphires, he would fly Vhagar to Valyria and risk his life in the toxic wasteland just to find a bauble to bring back to her. She merely had to ask, and he would do it without hesitation.

“It was no easy feat to forgive you, Aemond. After all you’ve put me through… and that is why I need you to do the same. I need you to forgive your father; I need you to retire your resentments towards Rhaenyra and her sons. I need you to do what you’ve been wanting me to do for you. Aemond, please.” 

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN SNEAK PEEK “Oh, I remember what you said, Prince Aemond,” she spoke with an air of nonchalance, of innocence. Her eyes flickered over his shoulder where she spotted her sisters rounding the corner. “But I elected to ignore it.”

Notes: Ahem. [Singing] And I will do anything for love, but I won't. Do. that. Oi, I wasn't gonna have Aemond just be forgiven, he still has to work a bit for it, y'know? C'mon. Also, where's Aegon? What happened after last night? Well, hold on there feller, a lot is about to happen these next couple of chapters. All that will be revealed in the worst (or best, depending on how masochistic you are) way possible. Now, a heads up, Ch. 41 is taking longer than I expected. The scene I wanted it is gonna end up having to extend into a second chapter, so I MAY have to take another 2 break hiatus after next week just to catch up on my schedule.

Tag: @queen-of-elves, @keylin1730, @anakilusmos, @weepingfashionwritingplaid, @sugutoad, @desireangel, @t0biasparabatai

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