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Of Dragons and Maelstroms

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

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

Chapter Seventy-Six

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ooof!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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fanficapologist · 5 days

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Of Dragons and Maelstroms: Aemond POV

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

Chapter Seven

“It appears your suspicions were not unfounded, my Prince.”

Within a day, the Master of Whispers had answers for the One-Eyed Prince. In truth, he attempted to avoid Lord Larys as much as he could. Not only did Aemond find the Lord’s looks towards his mother distasteful, but he did not trust the Lord as far as he could throw him. Larys was a powerful ally but could also make a powerful enemy, if displeased. Clubbed foot or not, the man was dangerous. Even Aemond could admit that.

The room exuded an air of secrecy and intrigue, with shelves lined with dusty tomes and scrolls, their faded spines bearing witness to years of accumulated knowledge and clandestine dealings. The walls were adorned with maps and charts, depicting the intricate web of alliances and rivalries that defined the realm. A solitary candle flickered on the desk, casting eerie shadows across the room and illuminating the scattered parchments and scrolls that littered its surface.

Seated opposite Larys, Aemond surveyed the table between them, strewn with parchments, scrolls, and journals. The documents were meticulously arranged, yet the sheer volume of information hinted at the depth of Larys’s knowledge and the scope of his network. The Master of Whispers was engrossed in the journal he held, his wavy brown hair falling in loose strands around his face. His piercing eyes, framed by dark lashes, held an air of mystery and unease, hinting at the secrets he harbored within.

“Ser Reginald Penrose started the allegations I believe, after the Lady Maera and her father rejected his proposal of marriage,” the Lord of House Strong revealed, a twinkle in his eye. “He claimed a guard in Lord Jasper’s service, Ser Olyver Trant, was her lover and took her maidenhead shortly before the proposal.”

Aemond‘s fingers drummed impatiently on the armrest of his chair as he awaited the moment when Larys would get to the point. The Prince already knew this information; about Ser Reginald starting the rumours, about the Trant knight who supposedly took Maera’s virginity in the stables. What he needed to know was how to disprove them! The tension in the room was palpable, each passing moment stretching the anticipation to its limits. Finally, Larys leaned forward, the journal in hand, and presented it to Aemond.

“But there was no way of him knowing that. According to the ship’s records, Ser Olyver was long gone to Essos before Penrose even arrived at Rain House,” Larys explained, causing Aemond to study the page before him with his single violet eye. There, in black and white, was the name of the Trant knight and the date he boarded the ship. The revelation the Prince had been seeking was now before him, and procured by a trusted source.

Yet Aemond furrowed his brown in confusion. “Then why would Penrose name Trant specifically?”

“My guess was to make the rumours more believable,” the Lord replied with a shrug. “The right information can be purchased for the right price. Ser Reginald was looking for a male close enough to the family that the rumour would have truth to it. And no one spent more time with Lady Maera or her brothers than Ser Olyver.”

Aemond leaned back in his chair with a contemplative hum. “And if I were to challenge these false accusations about Lady Maera in front of the court, would I have your support?”

The Master of Whispers took a moment to reply, no doubt perplexed as to why Aemond had taken such an interest in his own enemy. Nevertheless, Larys agreed. “I could hardly dispute it, my Prince. The information here is clear.”

The one-eyed Prince thanked the Master of Whispers sincerely before retiring to his own chambers, a smile on his sharp-edged face. She remained a maiden, and would now be seen as more eligible for marriage. And to make it all the more sweeter, Aemond could not wait to tell her that he knew she was a liar. That despite her attempts to lead him astray, he knew better and relished the opportunity to show her.

The next day, Aemond waited at dawn in the courtyard, ready to spar with Maera as no doubt she had heard of his return, and their routine would return to normal. He anticipated proving himself more intelligent than her once again, and in the process, become one step closer to the great prophecy being fulfilled. However, as the sun rose higher into the sky, conveying the morning time, Maera failed to show. Nor did she appear the day following.

Aemond was furious, the knot of anger in his chest tightening with each passing moment, fueled by the belief that she was purposefully avoiding him. He felt betrayed by her absence, interpreting it as a deliberate snub. Seeking answers, Aemond turned to his sister, Helaena, hoping to glean some insight into Maera’s whereabouts. However, the Queen’s explanation that Maera was sick and not accepting visitors only served to further enrage him.

The sense of betrayal gnawed at Aemond’s insides, exacerbating his frustration and anger. When they were young, Maera had always made time for him when she was sick. She had even said that his presence made her better. The fact that she was now shunning him fueled his resentment, the walls around his heart slowly rebuilding and his view on the world turning even more grey. He harbored the urge to storm into her room, demanding answers for her perceived insult to a Prince of the Realm. The lack of communication from her, even through a servant, left him feeling slighted and disregarded.

After three days Maera finally appeared in courtyard at dawn, clad in her sparring leathers and her brown and silver-streaked hair braided out of her face; clearly she had not been that ill, or else she would not have come. As she drew closer, Aemond scrutinised her further; there were dark circles under her eyes and her skin was paler than usual, yet her green eyes were fixed on him, glowing with an equal amount of anger.

"I see you decided not to give up," Aemond remarked as she finally stood before him.

Maera's response was quick, laced with an equal amount of agitation. "I'm in no mood for pleasantries.”

Aemond smirked. "Neither am I."

As they began sparring, Aemond couldn't help but notice a distinct change in Maera's fighting style. Gone was the calculated logic and strategy he had grown accustomed to; instead, her attacks were fueled by pure, unbridled fury. Despite the intensity of their confrontation, Aemond found himself strangely drawn to this raw display of emotion, a side of Maera she rarely showed to the court.

Their swords clashed violently, each strike echoing their escalating tension. In the heat of the moment, Aemond decided to reveal what he had discovered: Maera's purported indiscretions were nothing but rumors, and she remained a virgin. With each word, he could see her anger mounting, and he took a perverse delight in stoking the flames. As their duel continued, Aemond relished in Maera's loss of control, feeling a sense of vindication for what he perceived as payback for all she had put him through.

The Lady’s fury drove her to launch a ferocious strike aimed at his face, and Aemond recognized the opening she unwittingly created. Seizing the opportunity, he swiftly moved to capitalize on her lapse in defense. With his height giving him a distinct advantage, Aemond deftly intercepted her attack, his hand closing firmly around her wrist. In one fluid motion, he twisted her arm back over her head and behind her back, using the momentum to pull her close to him. The sudden movement brought them chest to chest, their bodies pressed tightly together in an intimate, albeit confrontational, embrace.

She screamed. Not a frustrated growl, or a defeated cry. It was a scream. A scream of pain. Maera had never screamed like that, not as a child when her hair was pulled, certainly not when they had sparred before. Aemond’s grip was firm, yes, but it was not so much that it would cause her to yelp like that. Releasing her arm, he watched in bewilderment as her dagger clattered to the ground. Maera held her right arm with her left hand, her face contorted with agony as she attempted to soothe the pain.

Frustration and confusion reached a crescendo within Aemond as he pulled her close once more, determination etched on his features. With a swift motion, he rolled up her sleeves, his heart sinking as he beheld the sight before him. The deep purple and blue bruises on Maera's arm formed distinct handprints, a stark testament to the violence inflicted upon her. Fury surged like a tidal wave within the Prince, eclipsing any semblance of control he had managed to maintain. Someone had hurt her.

Attempting to steady himself, Aemond took deep breaths, but the rage continued to simmer beneath the surface, refusing to be quelled. His single violet eye flicked up to meet Maera's gaze, only to find her avoiding his stare, her expression a tumultuous mix of anger and shame. It was a moment he wished he could erase from existence, but the reality of the situation loomed heavily over them both.

Finally, Aemond's voice broke through the quiet. "Who did this to you?" he demanded, his tone intense.

Maera pulled her arm from his grasp, her expression a mixture of defiance and frustration. She let her sleeve fall, concealing the evidence of her ordeal. "It doesn't matter," she replied curtly.

The Prince’s instincts sharpened, sensing that something was amiss. In the past, she would have regaled him with tales of valor and triumph, but her silence now spoke volumes. Aemond’s mind raced, trying to piece together the puzzle of what had transpired.

Observing Maera’s movements across the courtyard, Aemond couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that noblewomen like her were often surrounded by guards, making an attack seem unlikely. Yet, if someone had targeted her, the guards would have intervened—unless the perpetrator held a position of power that superseded that of a mere lord. The pieces of the puzzle began to fall into place in Aemond’s mind, hinting at a sinister truth lurking beneath the surface.

"Was it Aegon?" he asked, his voice low. Aemond’s heart was hammering in his chest, fearing the worst as Maera avoided his gaze, which in turn gave him his answer. Aegon had once again succumbed to his urges and had attempted to force himself on her. But she was no mere servant or noblewoman. Maera was Aemond’s friend, the woman he was bound to through prophecy. She was his.

Summoning courage, he pressed the matter again. "Did…did he violate you?"

Maera's reply was sharp, her voice laced with venom, "He did not get as far as he wished."

There was a fleeting sense of relief when Maera admitted that Aegon hadn't succeeded in his despicable intentions. However, any semblance of comfort was quickly overshadowed by the gravity of the situation. Watching Maera express her frustration at being unable to defend herself against the King's advances, Aemond realized that the extent of Aegon's actions didn't diminish the severity of the violation. The mere fact that he had dared to lay hands on her was an unforgivable transgression.

As Maera stormed away from the courtyard, leaving behind a trail of frustration and anger, Aemond took a moment to collect himself, his emotions roiling within him like a tempest ready to unleash its fury. With every step towards the Red Keep, his resolve solidified, his anger simmering just beneath the surface.

Upon entering Aegon's chambers, Aemond's gaze fell upon his elder brother, resplendent in his regal attire, the Valyrian steel and ruby crown atop his silver head gleaming under the flickering candlelight. Aegon seemed utterly unperturbed, engrossed in conversation with their grandfather, Lord Otto Hightower. Yet, as Aemond crossed the threshold, both men turned to regard him. Aegon even had the gall to smile at his younger brother, the audacity of the expression only fueling Aemond further.

“Ahh, brother, how goes—” The King’swords were cut short as Aemond’s fist connected with his face, the force of the blow causing Aegon to stagger backward, clutching his injured cheek. The suddenness of the attack silenced the room, the servants halting their tasks to witness the confrontation unfold.

Lord Otto’s voice broke the tension, his tone laced with shock and disapproval. “Are you mad? You have just struck your King,” he admonished Aemond, his gaze piercing.

Aemond’s response was defiant, his expression hardened. “He would be no king without the backing of me and my dragon,” he retorted, his voice dripping with contempt.

In a swift motion, Aemond closed the distance between himself and Aegon once more, seizing his brother by the collar and pulling him close, their faces mere inches apart. “You do not fucking touch her, am I clear?” he growled, his eyes blazing with a fierce intensity.

Even as Aemond's grip tightened, Aegon's demeanor remained infuriatingly nonchalant, his snickering ringing out in the tense silence. "Sounds like someone is jealous," he mocked, his tone dripping with condescension.

Aemond's nostrils flared with anger at his brother's dismissive attitude. "Have you no honor or integrity? She is the companion of your wife. She is the only person who can get through to Helaena!" His words were laced with frustration as he turned to their grandfather, seeking validation. "Did you know about this? About how he attempted to defile her?"

Lord Otto's gaze swept over the room, his expression unreadable, before finally settling on Aegon. "Is this true?"

Aegon, unfazed by the scrutiny, freed himself from Aemond's grasp with a swift movement, smoothing his rumpled doublet with exaggerated nonchalance. "What does it matter? I am the King!" he declared arrogantly, his smirk widening.

With a mocking gesture, Aegon placed his hand on Aemond's shoulder, taunting him further. "My little brother simply does not wish to share his toys."

Aemond shook off Aegon's hand, his eyes flashing with a mixture of anger and determination. "Touch her again and I am gone. You won’t be a King for long without me."

A flicker of realization crossed Aegon's face, his expression momentarily sobered by the gravity of Aemond's threat. Before he could respond, however, Aemond turned on his heel and stormed out of the room, leaving the King to ponder the weight of his brother's words.

Despite his seething resentment towards Aegon for his despicable actions towards Maera, Aemond understood the political implications of a divided House Targaryen. Thus, he begrudgingly attended the organized hunt a few days later, albeit with a heavy heart and a mind consumed by thoughts of retribution. Tasked with the responsibility of locating Lords and Ladies missing from the dinner table at camp, Aemond delegated most of the search to the guards. However, when it came to searching for Lady Maera, he took it upon himself to venture into the dense expanse of the Kingswood.

With each step through the shadowed forest, he scanned the dense undergrowth and towering trees, his senses alert for any sign of movement or sound that might lead him to the missing Lady. After a while, his single violet eye caught sight of Ser Arryk Cargyll, one of his brother’s esteemed Kingsguard, standing vigil beneath a towering tree, his armor glinting in the dappled sunlight filtering through the foliage.

Curiosity piqued, Aemond’s gaze then ascended to the branches above, where he beheld a breathtaking sight. Lady Maera perched gracefully on a sturdy limb, her curvaceous figure outlined against the verdant canopy. Clad in brown riding leathers, her hair intricately braided, she exuded an air of wild beauty, reminiscent of a wood nymph from the pages of a fairytale. With a bow in hand and an arrow notched, she appeared both serene and poised, a vision of untamed elegance amidst the tranquil forest setting.

Upon seeing the prince, the young woman released the tension on her bowstring and sighed in relief. "Gods, Aemond," she called down, her voice tinged with exasperation, "I nearly shot you."

The Prince chortled to himself. Whilst his own skill with the sword was unmatched, Maera had already proven her aim from a distance to be incredible, demonstrated the very first time she had sparred with him this year. She agreed to come down after hearing the summons for dinner at camp and for a while, they walked side-by-side through the undergrowth, Ser Arryk a few paces behind them. The silence between them hung heavy, laden with unspoken tension and unresolved issues.

With a subtle shift in demeanor, Aemond broke the uneasy silence, prompting a hesitant conversation to unfurl between them. Maera was not receptive, understandably so from the Prince’s perspective, the pair exchanging unfriendly retorts and subtle jabs. This caused Aemond to be even more concerned, and he couldn’t shake the lingering concern for Maera’s well-being that gnawed at the edges of his mind.

After a pregnant pause filled with tension, Maera skilfully guided the conversation toward nostalgic reminiscence. Aemond found himself drawn into the comforting embrace of shared memories from their childhood, a time when life seemed simpler and their bond was unburdened by the weight of prophecy and politics. As they walked through the whispering woods, exchanging anecdotes and laughter, Aemond felt a sense of warmth and familiarity wash over his cold exterior.

"I miss who we were as children," she said meekly, her green eyes filled with sadness, "I miss our old friendship."

Aemond's pulse skipped a beat at her words, his own longing echoing hers. The admission stirred something within him, a yearning to reclaim the camaraderie and closeness they once shared. Despite the complexities of their current circumstances, he found solace in the thought of finding his way back to her, bound by fate or not. In Maera's presence, amidst the dappled sunlight filtering through the canopy above, Aemond felt a sense of peace settle over his soul—a welcome respite from the turmoil that often plagued his heart and mind.

As they continued their stroll, the dense trees gradually thinned, revealing the edge of the camp—a sprawling collection of tents nestled amidst the verdant woods. The scent of pine mingled with the faint aroma of cooking fires, creating an atmosphere of rustic tranquility.

Finally, the Prince worked up the courage to ask what had been on his mind. "Why didn't you tell me you were a maiden?" he asked, his tone inquisitive. "And why not refute those rumors?"

Maera's response was both measured and sincere. "I didn't want to breathe life into them," she explained, her voice firm. "I was protecting my family, as I always have."

In that moment, as they stood at the camp’s perimeter, Aemond couldn’t help but marvel at Maera’s resilience. Though she did not explain further, he believed her. It was a testament to her kindness, loyalty, and unwavering determination—a stark reminder that, despite her Wylde lineage, Maera was every inch a Targaryen, just like her mother. Just like him.

"Besides," she said, her sarcastic voice bringing the Prince’s attention back to the present, "what could you have done, even if I had told you?"

Aemond merely shrugged, smirking as he responded."Oh, I would have made Ser Penrose sorely regret his actions." She only blinked in response, seemingly confused as to what he was getting at. As she was about to question him, Aemond leaned down, inhaling that tantalising scent of vanilla and rain water as he whispered into her ear. "Just like I've made Aegon regret touching you,” he purred before strolling away, a smirk on his face.

The dinner table in the tent set up for the hunt was an impressive sight. A long, sturdy oak table dominated the center of the space, draped with a rich crimson tablecloth adorned with the sigil of House Targaryen. Candelabras cast a warm, flickering glow across the scene, illuminating the array of delicacies laid out before the guests. Platters of roasted game birds, succulent venison, and fresh fruits and vegetables adorned the table, their enticing aromas filling the air.

As the guests took their seats, Aemond found himself seated to the left of his brother. The Conqueror's crown sat atop Aegon's silver hair, a symbol of his authority and power. However, there was a new addition to Aegon's regal appearance—a purple bruise marring his cheek, a silent testament to the altercation that had taken place between the two brothers. Aegon cast a sideways glance at Aemond, his expression a curious blend of annoyance and amusement.

“Is all in order?” The King asked his brother shortly. Though irked by the fact that his younger brother had dared to strike him the day before, he was seemingly not going to address the matter further.

“Yes, your Grace,” Aemond replied respectfully with a nod.

“Good. Let the games begin,” Aegon replied ominously, focusing his attention on Maera entering the tent with her loyal protector. A sly smile was posted across the King’s face and Aemond was unsure what it meant, causing him to feel unsettled.

It became evident quite quickly, as when the final few seats were filled, Maera began spluttering over her wine, the look of shock on her face at the man opposite her caused Aegon to giggle to himself. Aemond clenched his jaw as he set his violet eye on the Lord who had made the Wylde’s understandably uncomfortable- Ser Reginald Penrose. Tensing at the unfolding chaos orchestrated by his brother, the King, Aemond shook his head in silent frustration. It was clear that Aegon was reveling in the spectacle, using Ser Reginald's presence to provoke Maera.

As the knight brazenly insulted Maera's virtue in front of the assembled guests, Aemond felt his anger simmering beneath the surface. The audacity of the man, and the King's apparent enjoyment of the situation, fueled Aemond's growing rage. Watching Maera, a woman of undeniable strength and spirit, being silenced by the oppressive atmosphere of the gathering, Aemond felt a surge of indignation. She was being forced to play the part of a meek and submissive Lady, a role that chafed against her true nature. Unable to tolerate the injustice any longer, Aemond made a decision to intervene. Clearing his throat, he inserted himself into the conversation, prepared to confront Ser Reginald and defend Maera's honor with every ounce of his being.

The One-Eyed Prince addressed the knight directly, his tone demanding answers. "Who, Ser Reginald, in your learned opinion, took Lady Maera's Maidenhead?" he inquired, his voice carrying a weight of authority.

Ser Reginald looked Aemond up and down for a moment, seemingly confused by the younger Prince’s interest in the matter. However the grey-eyed man responded swiftly, his tone mocking and filled with malice. "It was Ser Olyver Trant," he retorted, his words dripping with disdain. "He clung to Lady Maera as if she were a bitch in heat.”

The laughter of some of the men around him filled the air, and Aemond glanced sideways to see the Lady Maera visibly shaking with anger, tears brimming in her eyes from sheer frustration. She needed to remain in control- at least for the moment. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, Aemond reached out for Maera’s hand beneath the table, away from prying eyes. His fingers found hers, and he gently squeezed her hand in her lap, offering a silent gesture of support and solidarity.

As he held her hand, Aemond felt a rush of emotions coursing through him. His pulse quickened, and he was acutely aware of the warmth of her skin against his own. It had been years since they had been this close, and yet this moment felt different, charged with a newfound connection. Hearing her taking a deep breath, it appeared the Lady trusted the Prince, and did not move away from his touch.

In that fleeting moment, Aemond sensed a burgeoning sense of care and protectiveness for Maera, mingled with a stirring of something deeper, something he couldn’t quite define. It was a sensation both unfamiliar and exhilarating, leaving him grappling with a myriad of conflicting emotions as the conversation with Ser Reginald continued.

The Prince, with assistance from Lord Larys, began to publicly dismantle the lies spun by Ser Reginald, the tension in the air began to grow palpable. With each piece of information Aemond cited, it became increasingly evident that Maera remained pure, untouched by the scandalous claims hurled against her. The revelation left Ser Reginald visibly squirming in his seat, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment as his deceit was laid bare for all to see. The knight's discomfort was a gratifying sight, a small measure of justice served in defense of Maera's honor.

Beside him, Aemond sensed Maera lacing her fingers with his, her touch a silent acknowledgment of their solidarity in the face of adversity. Sipping her wine with a sly smile, she watched with satisfaction as the lies being told about her were disproven one by one. The look on her face was captivating, a mixture of defiance and amusement that Aemond found irresistibly alluring. In that moment, he couldn't help but feel a surge of anticipation, eager for the chance to stand by her side again and witness her indomitable spirit in action.

"It appears that there might be some discrepancies in your story, Ser,” Aemond remarked coolly, his tone dripping with disdain. The knight fumbled over his words, attempting to concoct a response, only to be swiftly cut off by Aemond's piercing question. "Are you either a simpleton, muddled in your own tale, or so embittered by your rejection that you've woven lies to harm a decent Lady’s prospects?"

The Prince couldn't help but chuckle softly to himself as Ser Reginald lost control, rising from his seat in a fit of belligerence that threatened to escalate into a confrontation. The air crackled with anticipation as the Kingsguard surrounding the table braced themselves, hands on their sword hilts, ready to intervene if necessary. Yet, to Aemond's satisfaction, the knight relented, yielding to the authority of the royal family and retreating to his seat, defeated by the weight of his own lies.

The public humiliation had shifted the tide of the court's opinion firmly in Lady Maera's favor, and Aemond watched with anticipation as Maera's father turned to her, seeking her judgment on how to handle Ser Reginald's transgressions. As Maera squeezed his hand briefly, Aemond felt a surge of solidarity between them, a silent acknowledgment of their shared victory.

With a graceful poise that belied the intensity of the moment, Maera released her hand from Aemond's grasp and leaned forward, propping her elbows on the table and fixing Ser Reginald with a steely gaze. Her chin resting in her hands, she regarded him with a mixture of confidence and amusement, her smirk a silent challenge to the knight who had dared to besmirch her honor.

Yet in a surprising turn of events, the Lady chose to publicly forgive the knight for his transgressions against her, citing the war effort and her late Mother’s tutelage to act with compassion. Maera declared that she would put her duty of serving the crown above her own desires, allowing the traitorous knight to fight on behalf of his King. It was a political move that Aemond admired wholeheartedly. She acted like a Lady. Like a Queen. His Queen.

Aemond observed his brother, the King, rise from his seat with a mixture of annoyance and amusement as Aegon made a grandiose gesture of toasting Lady Maera and her father, Lord Jasper. Despite his inward eye-roll at Aegon's theatrical display, Aemond couldn't help but acknowledge the potential opportunity presented by his brother's decree.

As Aegon declared that Maera would remain in the Capital, Aemond felt a quiet satisfaction wash over him. This decision offered him the chance to mend his relationship with Maera, while also fulfilling his duties to his brother's wishes with diligence. However, Aemond saw beyond mere obedience to Aegon's command.

He envisioned leveraging his efforts in the war effort as a bargaining chip, proposing to his brother that his reward for loyal service would be the hand of Lord Jasper's daughter. With this strategic move, Aemond aimed to not only secure Maera's hand in marriage but also to bring to fruition the prophecy foretold by Alys—the birth of the King of Kings.

But Aegon had not finished, as he had one more proclamation to share with the crowd. “To encourage her future husband to allow Lady Maera to fulfill her duties to the crown, and as thanks to you as well, Lord Wylde, for your many years of service, the suitor who wins her hand in marriage shall also earn a seat on my small council as the Master of Coin.”

Watching Maera’s jaw drop in astonishment, Aemond felt a surge of conflicting emotions coursing through him. He couldn’t help but feel a pang of jealousy at the thought of Maera marrying another, and recognized the potential consequences this decree could have on their shared destiny.

With anger bubbling beneath the surface, Aemond clenched his fists, his mind racing with thoughts of the Gods’ vision being desecrated and Maera being torn from him. The realization that Maera would now have her pick of suitors, and that she might not choose him, ignited a fire within him. He couldn’t bear the thought of losing her, not when their fates were intertwined by prophecy.

They flocked to her like vultures to a carcass, that much was plain to see. He himself could not tear his violet eye away from her on the night of the Harvest Moon Ball. She looked ethereal entering the hall, holding her father’s arm. With each graceful step Maera took down the staircase, Aemond’s drank in her striking appearance.

She was adorned in an off-shoulder long-sleeved dress, the turquoise fabric adorned with intricate golden swirl detailing that seemed to shimmer in the light of the chandeliers. The low-cut bodice of the gown showcased more of her ample chest, accentuating her natural curves. Her attire was further embellished with golden jewelry, adorned with dazzling diamonds and sapphires that added to her regal allure.

When Lord Jasper and his daughter approached the royal table and greeted the King and Queen, Aemond hated to admit it, but the depraved words Aegon uttered aloud were too swirling around in his own head. And clearly in the head of every other single fucking man in the room, Aemond thought. He was briefly granted a reprieve when Maera approached the table to dance with his sister. However, his respite was short-lived as he watched Maera step back onto the dance floor, where she was promptly approached by a man.

Seething with frustration, Aemond clenched his fists tightly, feeling as though he were enduring a form of brutal torture. It pained him to witness the Lord, Warren of House Tully, touching her. Her hands, her waist, her face so intimately, guiding her through the steps of the dance. The way they looked at each other filled Aemond with a mix of jealousy and resentment. Unable to bear the sight any longer, Aemond rose abruptly from his seat, the need for fresh air overwhelming him.

He stood alone on the balcony, his gaze fixed upon the starry expanse above. In the distance, he could hear the faint call of his dragon, Vhagar, a comforting presence amidst his inner turmoil. With a steadying breath, Aemond closed his eyes briefly, offering a silent prayer to the Gods. He couldn't help but wonder why they seemed to test him so relentlessly, making the path to the destiny fraught with obstacles and heartache. The anguish he felt seemed like a cruel punishment for merely following the path they had set out for him.

As he re-entered the grand hall, his eyes sought out Maera, who stood at the edge of the dance floor, her gaze distant as she observed the swirling nobles. Aemond approached her with a sarcastic remark, and to his delight, she responded in kind, effortlessly falling into their familiar banter. The ease of their interaction felt natural and comforting to the Prince amidst the grandeur of the ball.

As their conversation turned towards the attending nobles, Aemond couldn't resist making cutting remarks and jests about the lords Maera inquired about, eliciting genuine laughter from her. The sound of her laughter was like music to his ears, stirring something warm and tender within him.

“And what of Lord Warren Tully?” She directed her gaze across the hall which Aemond followed, spying the young lord chatting with Maera’s father. Despite her casual tone, he couldn't ignore the subtle blush that tinted her cheeks at the mention of the lord's name. A surge of agitation washed over Aemond, his jaw clenching with a mix of jealousy and frustration at the thought of Maera with another man.

"You can't be seriously considering him as a prospect, can you, Maera?" He asked shortly.

She met his gaze evenly and replied, "Even you, my prince, couldn't argue that it would be an advantageous match for House Wylde." Their conversation hung in the air, a subtle challenge between them as the ball continued around them.

After an awkward few moments, Aemond placed himself in front of Maera before finally sneering, "Se zaldrīzes se klios gaomagon daor rholagon.” The fish and the dragon do not mix

And they didn’t, not in this instance, for the Gods had another plan for her. Aemond's hand extended towards Maera's necklace, the atmosphere between them shifting instantly as his fingers brushed against her skin, warm and soft beneath is calloused fingertips. He noticed how her breath had hitched at the contact, but that she made not attempt to stop him. His touch lingered, trailing down to brush against a stray strand of her hair, just above her breast, his boldness evident in the daring gesture. As he met her intense gaze, Aemond felt a rush of desire course through him, his heart pounding in his chest.

In that moment, something within Aemond shifted. Despite their tumultuous history, regardless of their current dynamic, he couldn't deny that he wanted her. He did not care if this was divine intervention from the Gods, or sinful lust, or just an inner longing for connection. He wanted her. It consumed him, a burning longing that pulsed through every fiber of his being, leaving him yearning for more.

Returning to the royal table, Aemond’s encounter with Maera lingered in his thoughts like a haunting melody. As his grandfather, Lord Otto, addressed the crowd, Aemond was reminded of another obstacle he had to overcome in order to fulfill his destiny; his betrothal to Floris Baratheon, who was in attendance that night.

As he reached for his goblet, the cool metal against his fingertips served as a brief distraction from his tumultuous thoughts. His gaze swept across the room until it found Maera once more, her features etched with concern and perhaps a hint of confusion. Despite the distance between them, their eyes met, and Aemond felt a familiar pull, a silent conversation unfolding between them without a word spoken.

The hours dragged on, and Aemond remained seated, engaging in polite conversation with the nobles who approached him. Despite his outward participation, his mind was preoccupied, causing him to simply observe the grand hall quietly, like a hunter. After a few hours, he watched Maera crossing the room to join his sister and mother. Whatever exchange occurred between them seemed to have significance, as Helaena eagerly nodded in response to Maera's words, and they departed arm in arm.

The ball came to life around him with dancers and beautiful music, yet Aemond sat in contemplation. He knew he needed to speak with Maera candidly, to express his desires and perhaps even discuss the prophetic vision he had received from the witch. He wondered if she would be receptive to such discussions, if she believed in such things at all.

As the Prince rose from his seat, he felt a gentle hand on his shoulder, and turned to see his mother, smiling down at him. The dowager queen’s presence exuded grace and authority, dressed in her signature green attire tailored especially for the ball.

"Mayhaps you could speak with your future bride?" Alicent's voice held a soft plea, tempered with maternal warmth.

Aemond grumbled inwardly, feeling the weight of his obligations pressing down on him. "I have a lifetime for that," he replied dismissively.

"Aemond," Alicent's voice took on a firmer edge, but her smile remained gentle, the kind only a mother could offer. Reluctantly, Aemond rose from his seat, acquiescing to his mother's request, and followed her to greet his betrothed.

Lord Borros and his daughter, Lady Floris, stood before them, both adorned in the traditional colors of House Baratheon - yellow and black. As Alicent made the introductions, Lord Borros bowed respectfully, while Lady Floris curtsied with a hint of apprehension in her demeanor.

"My Prince," Lady Floris greeted him, her voice tinged with uncertainty. Aemond nodded politely in response, but inwardly, his thoughts were elsewhere. The Prince couldn't deny the young woman's youth and beauty. Yet, his original reason for choosing her as a betrothed—her ability to bear children a give him an heir quickly—held little interest for him now.

He had no desire to get to know Lady Floris any better, nor did he have any interest in going through with a marriage solely for the sake of his brother’s claim to the throne. He felt he deserved to be honored as a warrior, not merely a pawn in political machinations.

All his life, he had dutifully followed the expectations placed upon him, but now, standing before Lady Floris, he couldn’t shake the overwhelming desire for the one person he truly desired, the one he was bound to by the Gods– Maera. He deserved that much. Aemond knew he had to act decisively to ensure that the Gods’ vision would come to pass, no matter the cost. And the witch was going to help him.

Notes: Todays been a productive day! Next thing I upload will be original ODAM

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

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