sapphirewritesx

[sapphirewritesx]

DREAMFYRE — 1.06 | "The Princess and the Queen"

[sapphirewritesx]

I MISS AEMOND TARGARYEN.

[sapphirewritesx]

Kinslayer - Aemond Targaryen x OC (Naerys Velaryon)

“Tell me, sweet niece,” he says, leaning closer, an arrogant grin tugging at his lips as his thumb traces the Velaryon sigil brooch on my dress, “do you speak to all your relatives in such a delightful manner?” “Just you,” I retort. “How gracious of you, my lady.” He places his right hand over his heart, feigning emotion. “What a privilege, to be singled out for your sharp tongue.”

summary: After being disposed of her weapons, Naerys is defenseless. Dealing with her anxiety and fear of fire, she must attend to supper with both her family and that of the King's. Prince Aemond, her betrothed, is determined to ruin his father's attempts to end the enmity between Rhaenyra's children and his own.

word count: 5.4k

tags: enemies to lovers, slow burn, strong!oc, niece!oc, arranged marriage, pyrophobia, lots of banter, eventual smut

warnings: anxiety attack, mention of bugs, fear of fire (I guess that's it)

ao3: Kinslayer by sapphirewritesx

Long chapter ahead, Aemond is mentioned throughout but appears at the end.

English is not my first language, so I'm sorry if you see any mistakes.

Naerys

The doors of my new chambers close behind me, leaving me in much needed solitude. I pace around the room, taking in the space I will soon be forced to call home, though I’m inclined to believe it is naught but a cell in fine garb. I try to focus on the carved, ebony wood that encloses me, absorbing the light coming from the open balcony. Not a piece is amiss. Every detail, from a humble stool to the grand table and the headboard bear the same dark hue, whittled with the usual dragon theme.

Still, the fine arrangement of wares is not enough to distract me from the stifling truth: from this moment on, my safety is no longer mine to preserve. Should I face peril, I must trust someone else to save me. No, not just someone else—him. It’s not only my weapons I’ve lost, but also the reins of my own fate, if they were ever mine to begin with.

Ants coil in my entrails, writhing restlessly as they advance towards my throat. My clothes cling too tightly, the pins in my hair bite into my scalp, the leather bodice suffocating. I want to rip them off—to pull myself free.

My hands fly to the half-up my maid wove at sunrise, moments before our departure. I yank out the pins, sending them clattering to the floor. My fingers tear at the bands, releasing the four sections of hair, then plunge into the loosened strands, unraveling the careful pattern of waves. The fickle thrum of my heart deafens me, turmoil gripping every fiber of my being. My hands roam over my belts, finding only the hollow absence of the weapons I once called my own. I unbuckle them, biting down the urge to scream, before hurling them both across the room.

Everything itches. Their legs skitter down my spine as I tug at the laces of my bodice, fumbling with the ribbon at my chest, desperate to ease the knot tightening in my throat. I know there are no bugs wandering my flesh—it’s just me, failing to get a hold of my wistful frets. And yet no matter how much I strip away, the choking feeling lingers, clawing at me with invisible talons.

I rush to the nearest wall, pressing my forehead to the cold stone, hoping in vain to smother the heat that afflicts me. Without a second thought, my fist slams into the rough surface, much harder than I intended. A sharp sting blooms across my knuckles, skin splitting as a smear of blood gathers between my middle and index fingers.

By the Gods, I must calm down.

Taking a staggered breath, I turn, resting my back against the stone as I try to ground myself. My eyes set on the silk curtains leading to the balcony, flowing with the early evening breeze. The sun has begun its descent, but there is still light—enough to see words etched with black ink on worn parchment. I walk to the piled crates beside the bed, hand over my heaving chest, searching for the one packed with my books. If there is anything that can pull me from this feeling and carry me to another realm, it is a story. So I bend down, unlatching one after another, until the unmistakable woody scent of bound pages rises to meet me. My fingers grace along the spines, my eyes drifting close as I caress the leather of the volume I have yet to finish.

With the book in hand, I push myself upright, my limbs still trembling from the remnants of unrest. I tread forth to the cushioned bench by the nearing arched window, sinking into its embrace as I cross my legs beneath me. The coral sunbeams filter through the pane, casting a warm glow upon the painted haunch above me. The fading gleam catches the gilded details, deepening the hues of its ornate depiction: seven interwoven circles, one for each god.

Leaning against the marble pillar, I let out a pained sigh, willing the tension away from my shoulders. Then, I pry the book open, finding the dried rose I placed where I last left off. I set the crimson flower aside, its petals bearing the same shade as my wound, and begin reading. After a couple paragraphs, my pulse steadies, though the meshed skin of my knuckles throbs with every turn of the page.

I lose myself in the tale, clinging to the fantasy as it unfolds—pretending, if only for a while, that I am someone else entirely. That perhaps, one day, love might yet find me. But not in this life. And there is no use mourning what I have never truly known.

The sky dims above me, the sun now gone until dawn. Still, I don’t stop reading. My eyes itch from the strain, the letters blurring before me in the growing dark. A knock at the doors startle me, but I do not answer. Let them try again. I remain where I am, fingers locked around the book as I reach the last passage.

Wood croaks as the doors abruptly swing open, letting the light into the chamber. My mother stands on the threshold, a candle flickering in her grasp. I recoil in my seat instantly.

“Calm,” she hushes into the stillness, setting the candlestick upon the main table. “I will leave it here.”

Her lilac eyes drift around the rooms before settling on me. “The maids said you wouldn’t answer,” she crosses

her arms beneath her chest, though her tone is gentle. “I see you’ve lost track of time.”

I set the book down on the cushions and rise to my feet at once. I must look a mess—hair undone and tangled, clothes half-loosened. My left hand moves to cover my right as I lace them in front of me, hiding the raw wounds blooming across my knuckles. “I’m sorry.”

“No,” she shakes her head, her fair brows knitting together. “I am. I shouldn’t have let them go through with it.”

I glance down, catching the faint shimmer of her gown as she steps toward me. She is already dressed for supper. Silk skirts billow around her feet, the fabric accentuating her form, making her pregnancy even more evident. Half of her ivory hair braided into a crown, adorned with golden pins that match the fine jewelry at her throat.

Her words do nothing but stoke my anger, yet I swallow it down. “But it has been done,” I reply coolly. “There’s no use dwelling on it.”

A knowing sigh escapes her. Over the years, she’s learned there is little use in coaxing me to voice out my thoughts. She rolls her eyes, a small smile appearing on her lips. “Tell me, how many pages left?”

I follow her gaze to the book sprawled across the cushions behind me, letting out a quiet chuckle. “I just finished it.”

“How convenient then,” she moves closer, “because you are in dire need of a bath. You reek of dragon and sweat.”

Before I can respond, she strides to the door and pushes it open wider. “Come in.”

At her command, four maids rush into the chamber. We follow behind them, entering the bathing room. Even in shadows, they move through the space with practiced ease, carrying steaming pitchers of water and jars filled with soap and oils. One of them sets a small stand beside the tub, neatly arranging the various flasks, while the others begin pouring the water into the basin.

“We shall illuminate the bath for you, princess—”

I cut the maid off. “That won’t be necessary.” 

The four of them pause for a beat, hesitation flickering in their eyes—confusion, or perhaps curiosity. My tone comes out harsher than intended, but they know better than to question me. “I much prefer this dim light,” I add, my voice softer. They only nod, sharing a quick glance with one another before resuming their task.

I wait until the last ripple settles in the wide copper tub before I begin undressing. My hands move to the laces of my bodice, already half-undone, and pull it off. The leather vest comes next, leaving me in my white linen underchemise. Their eyes remain downcast—whether out of shyness or respect, I cannot tell. Still, their presence halts me. The thought of baring myself before them is intolerable.

My mother clears her throat behind me, drawing their attention. “The princess will bathe alone.” After a brief curtsy, they leave at once.

“Thank you,” I mutter, then continue to discard my clothes.

“Life at court won’t be the same as it was back at Dragonstone,” she warns. “You must get a hold of… certain aspects, if you wish to blend in.” Her gaze drifts to the main room, where the burning candle melts, its feeble shadow swaying with the breeze.

I don’t answer. I know exactly what she means.

At my silence, she turns on her heels. “I’ll be outside,” she says, leaving me alone with the steaming tub.

I let the last of my rags fall to the floor, and sink into the water. The heat prickles my skin, but I relish it. My knuckles sting, the fresh wounds pulsing as my fingers skim across my legs. The florid shapes of the various jars beside me draw me in, so I start opening them one by one until I settle on the one to use. The sweet scent of vanilla and cinnamon mingle with the mist in the room, momentarily sweeping me into oblivion. But soon, it all comes crashing back.

Violet dances in the corners of my eyes. Long, deft fingers trail down my face, painting a twin scar. Soft strands of silver brush against my cheek. A distant, low rasp whispers my name—then laughs at me.

I plunge my head underwater.

I stand wrapped in thick towels beside the bed, droplets racing down my back from my damp hair. My teeth clatter as I shiver from the cold, though the fire crackles in the hearth, spreading its warmth through the chamber. I refuse to go near it.

“I’m surprised you barely fall ill,” my mother murmurs, her hands poised over the swell of her belly. The firelight catches the golden rings on her fingers, the rubies gleaming like fresh-spilled blood. “Come,” she reaches out, palm upturned. “Just a little closer.”

Despite myself, my eyes shift towards the flames, watching the embers collapse into ash. The heat licks at my skin from across the room.

I tighten my grip on the towels. “No.”

She drops her arm resignedly, her patience growing thin. We have gone over this too many times before. I know well the look on her face. She may worry for me, but she cannot hide her disappointment whenever I refuse to bend. Partly, because she wishes to help. Mostly, because she cannot fathom how a child born of Targaryen blood could ever grow to fear fire. Even if she knows why.

“Have it your way, then.” Her lips press into a thin line, her gaze slipping from mine.

Spread neatly across the bed, lies the gown I am to wear tonight—midnight blue velvet, imported from Qarth, its heavy skirts half-parted, displaying the finest silver-threaded silk. Along the squared neckline, a row of woven pearls frames the Velaryon sigil at its center, each bead glistening like seafoam at Driftmark’s shores.

A dress worthy of a real princess—a true Velaryon. And yet, it does not feel like mine.

I have spent my life clad in the colors of the House of the Dragon. It was easier that way, to wear black and crimson and know they were truly mine. My name may one day be etched in history as Velaryon—arguably Targaryen—but I know the truth. Bastards do not claim the blue, red, and green of House Strong, much less wear them with pride.

Fire and blood have been my armor. Yet tonight, I will wear salt and sea.

Letting the towels slip from my shoulders, I take the laced undergarments from the bed and pull them on with ease. Then, I reach for the tights, their smooth, glassy fabric gliding gracefully up my round thighs.

My mother steps forward, wordlessly lifting the gown from the bed. The dark, flowing sleeves drape in a soft bell shape, parting to reveal a fitted mesh of silver—the same shade as the central panel of my skirts.

I swallow, steeling myself as she holds it open for me. “Step in,” she says softly.

The lustrous gown cascades over my skin, shielding me from the creeping chill of the night. I slide my arms through the sleeves, faded scars disappearing beneath the delicate mesh as she begins tying the laces at my back.

“They all must be there already,” she says, adjusting the fabric over my shoulders. “You will sit beside your betrothed, as is customary. The Queen believes the two of you ought to… start anew.”

“I’d rather not,” I murmur, tucking my knuckles under the blue velvet as her hands ghost down my sleeves. His presence alone is dreadful enough. Enduring his proximity—purposefully after the outcome of our very first encounters—is utterly futile.

She hums, seemingly indifferent. “Don’t bother hiding your wounds. I’ve already seen them.” Her fingers wrap around my palm, drawing my hand into the light. Fair lashes flutter as her gaze lifts to my face, searching for some unspoken explanation. But she is only met with my dark, hostile stare—a reminder that not only her blood courses through my veins.

“I know he is not the husband you would have chosen,” she admits. “Still, I hold faith that, with time, you may learn to tolerate each other.” She releases me then, reaching for the beaded girdle—pearls and silver stars intertwining as she ties it around my waist.

“Tolerate,” I echo under my breath, my limbs growing stiff. Will that be enough? To resign myself to nothing more than a marriage built on mere toleration, if ever achieved, with a man of my own kin who refuses to see me as such?

“Yes,” she insists. “You are my heir, Naerys. I know the burden is heavy, but I trust you will do what is expected of you.”

I could protest, offer a handful of witty retorts—but it would be no use. So instead, I settle for a simple, “Of course.”

Her fingers graze my cheek, unexpectedly tender. Beneath her gown, her chest swells with a breath she does not release. “It pains me, more than you know, that it must be this way.”

She reaches for my hairbrush, a silver comb with a modest oval shape, engraved with a dragon, its wings spread wide over a bed of clouds. I say nothing. Those words have been repeated a thousand times for the last ten years. Instead, I let her brush my damp hair, the gentle bristles gliding through the brown locks she once said reminded her of him.

There is no time for intricate braids and delicate adornments—my dark mane falls loose, long ringlets sweeping past my waist. Behind me, my mother pulls out a crystal case, revealing a woven circlet, its edges crowned with gray pearls. She places it atop my head, the cold steel settling like a wreath of thorns.

I turn to face her, my heart fluttering at the sound of her approving sigh. A glassy sheen coats her eyes, a sliver of woe running across her irises. 

“Go,” she muses. “Get your boots on.”

My lips twitch into half a smile. “How’d you know?”

Ever since my fifteenth Name Day, I have worn boots beneath my gowns. I own dozens of dainty slippers, but they will never feel like hard soles do. They cannot grip the ground the same way—not if you ever need to run.

She exhales, hands resting over the swell of her belly. “Mothers always know.”

“May the Mother smile down on this gathering with love. May the Smith mend the bonds that have been broken for far too long. And to Vaemond Velaryon, may the gods give him rest.”

The Queen ends her prayer.

May the gods give him rest, indeed.

I focus on my plate, piled with roasted venison and sliced cheese, as I try to grow accustomed to the wavering flame of the thick candle before me. I’ve counted ten on the long table, fifteen more scattered throughout the room. It’s the only way I can keep myself steady. It’s a need—a compulsion I must obey if I am to find even the slightest relief in the presence of fire.

“Well, don’t you look the part,” Aemond’s husk wanders the tender spot between my neck and shoulder. “One might almost mistake you for a proper lady.”

Ah, there he is.

He hadn’t uttered a word since I stepped through the Hall’s doors. But his eye had twitched, his fingers shifting over the leather strap of his eyepatch. Surprised, I reckon, to see me in a gown. Likely disgusted—just as he’s made clear—that I am draped in finery above my true worth.

I ignore the pricking of my flesh as I do his remark. He is not entirely wrong—I have a part to play, and I must play it well. Lifting my fork and knife, I begin cutting the venison into smaller pieces, though hunger eludes me tonight.

The King sits at the head of the table, presiding over his family. The Kingsguard carried him into the hall, his legs probably too frail after the effort of walking to his throne earlier. A golden mask covers half his ruined face, yet it does not fully conceal the rot beneath. Leaning back against his grand chair, he sweeps his gaze over the table, as if in quiet disbelief at the sight before him.

“This is an occasion for celebration, it seems.” His voice cuts through the silence. “My grandsons, Jace and Luke, will marry their cousins, Baela and Rhaena, further strengthening the bond between our houses.”

The room remains hushed, all awaiting his next words as he gathers his breath. I catch the exchanged glances between my brothers and cousins—their smiles timid but proud.

“My granddaughter, Naerys, will soon marry my own son, Aemond. And…when the time comes, they will rule together, sharing the weight of the crown, as Queen and King of the Seven Kingdoms.”

Soon.

I shift in my seat, unsettled by the implication of the word. Beside me, Aemond stirs, his right leg brushing against my velvet skirts. When I glance down, I find his pale hands curled into tight fists.

Does he know when soon is?

The King raises his cup. “A toast to the princes and their betrotheds.”

We follow suit, hoisting our cups in celebration, genuine or not.

Hearing my grandfather speak of my impending marriage with such joy only breathes life into the ghost that has haunted me long enough. The kind you’ve grown fearing—the one that will catch you, though you never know when. That is how this betrothal has always felt. A part of me still longs for a way out. But duty is a cage, and once inside, the key is never to be found.

A handful of servants stride into the room—some carrying more food to our table, others refilling our wine. I am not the only one made to sit beside my betrothed. To my right, Helaena sits with her brother and husband, Aegon. Next to him, Jace is joined by Baela, and across from us, sit Luke and Rhaena. All are now engaged in conversation, indulging eagerly in the feast. I take a measured bite, content that my betrothed has once again chosen to bless me with his silence.

Metal scrapes against the floor. Chattering halts as the King stands, leaning heavily on his cane. For a moment, I expect him to summon a guard to escort him back to his chambers—but then, he speaks.

“It both gladdens my heart and fills me with sorrow, to see these faces around the table. The faces most dear to me in all the world…” He sighs, his gaze dropping to his feet. “Yet, they have grown so distant from each other in the years past.” His hand reaches for the golden mask, fingers trembling as he tears it off.

I brace myself for the unpleasant sight.

“My own face…is no longer a handsome one…if indeed it ever was. But tonight, I wish you to see me…as I am.”

As I draw a long breath, my gaze locks onto the now-exposed half of his face. This is worse than I ever imagined. It’s not just rotting flesh—this is decay laid bare. The bone of his jaw juts starkly through wasted skin, the insides of his mouth visible as he speaks. My lips part involuntarily, but I press them shut. By the Gods, his left eye socket is nothing but a hollow void.

“Not just a king…but your father,” he goes on, tired eyes dragging across his children. My own mother. Aegon. Helaena. Aemond, who stares directly into the hole where his father’s eye once was. I cannot help but wonder, is it the same for him—this fragment of his face, greedily consumed by death? Yet even if it were, there’s no pity in that cold, lavender gaze. Only detachment, as though he’s grimly satisfied that his father is missing the very eye he refused to avenge.

“Your brother, your husband and your grand-sire…Who may not, it seems, walk for much longer among you.” His free hand strikes the table, unintentionally, yet it startles those who had been avoiding his gaze.

“The Crown cannot stand strong if the House of the Dragon remains divided. Set aside your grievances.” His weary eyes drift from Alicent to my mother, as if his words are meant for them more than for any others. “If not for the sake of the Crown, then for the sake of this old man… who loves you all so dearly.”

He stumbles back into his chair, his body flinching, a sharp hiss of pain slipping through his teeth. A quiet, collective sigh follows, as though we had all been holding our breath since he first stood.

A sudden understanding washes over me.

My grandfather knows he is dying, and he wishes to leave this realm in peace—surrounded by his family, free of the quarrels that have long divided us.

Mayhaps that is the true reason he refuses to break my betrothal to Aemond. A union between Queen Alicent’s son and Princess Rhaenyra’s daughter—a final attempt to mend the rift between his two warring bloodlines. Doomed as it may be.

I raise my cup, letting the liquor settle on my tongue before swallowing. Beside me, my betrothed resumes eating, as does everyone else, as if their father and king had not just forced his way into their conscience. I, however, cannot regain my composure so easily. For a while, I merely push my food around with my fork.

“Skoros iksis pirta, vaogro anōgar?” Aemond rumbles, reaching for his goblet.

What’s wrong, tainted-blood?

When I do not answer, he presses, “Zūgā hen dīnilūks?”

Afraid of marriage?

I take another, longer sip, letting the bitter taste of wine stoke my irritation. Vaogro anōgar. And my mother expects me to tolerate this man.

“Qrimbughēs,” I sigh, my voice meant for him alone. His eye widens, momentarily taken aback—but I understand why. He has addressed me in Valyrian before, more than once, and none have I answered. Not until now.

And I have just told him to choke on his wine.

“Tell me, sweet niece,” he says, leaning closer, an arrogant grin tugging at his lips as his thumb traces the Velaryon sigil brooch on my dress, “do you speak to all your relatives in such a delightful manner?”

“Just you,” I retort.

“How gracious of you, my lady.” He places his right hand over his heart, feigning emotion. “What a privilege, to be singled out for your sharp tongue.”

My teeth sink into the inside of my cheek, holding back the urge to make another scene—to show him just how sharp I truly can be. I might have succeeded, probably, if not for the way his fingers tauntingly tap against my circlet.

“Hobr—”

“—I wish to raise my cup to Her Grace, the Queen.” My mother’s voice slices clean through my insult. She remains seated, though her cup is hoisted high. “I love my father, but I must admit that no one has stood more loyally by his side than his good wife.”

Grandfather’s attempt at peace, it seems, has not been entirely in vain.

I cannot deny—I did not expect this. Yet her words ring true. She may have her differences with the Queen, and the past is not so easily forgotten, but no one has endured the King’s illness more closely than his wife.

“She has tended to him with unfailing devotion, love and honor,” my mother continues, almost on the verge of breaking. “And for that she has my gratitude and my apology.”

“Your graciousness moves me deeply, princess.” The Queen forces a tight smile, even as her amber eyes glisten with the presage of tears. “We are both mothers, and we love our children. We have more in common than we…sometimes allow.” She stands up from her place, her drink in hand. “I raise my cup to you, and your house. You will make a fine Queen.”

Once again, we toast to mend bonds that had been broken. But will they ever heal, truly?

Daemon meets my mother’s gaze, his expression mirroring my own. I know he wonders the same. He has never trusted Queen Alicent’s intentions—let alone her father’s. I have heard him say, more often than not, that a Hightower is nothing but a snake draped in sheep’s wool. They present themselves as defenders of the Faith while weaving poison into the mind.

My attention shifts back to Aemond, his wine still untouched. He watches his mother with thinly veiled disapproval, his refusal to drink a small act of defiance.

No, he does not hide beneath soft wool. He is a dragon, and he won’t pretend otherwise.

Jacaerys’ fists slam against the table, sending plates rattling from the impact.

“Jace,” Baela says, her hand wrapping around his arm. He ignores her attempt to steady him, masking his anger behind a tight grin.

Patting Aegon on the shoulder—whom I assume to be the cause of his outburst—he lifts his goblet. Beside me, Aemond rises, his stance rigid, imposing, as though he means to command my brother to sit.

“To Prince Aegon,” Jace starts, “and Prince Aemond. We have not seen each other in years, but I have… fond memories of our shared youth. And as men, I hope we may yet be friends—and allies. To you, and your family’s good health, dear uncles.”

One more pat to Aegon’s shoulder, then he sits.

“To you as well,” Aegon blurts, lifting his cup and drinking alongside the rest. His younger brother lowers himself back to his seat, his jaw tight. Disappointed, no doubt, that the confrontation he so clearly craved has slipped from his grasp.

“Let us have some music.”

The instruments begin at once, obeying the King’s command without hesitation, filling the hall with another form of entertainment. I was done with the toasts after the first.

Grandfather leans back in his chair, his face even paler than before, his remaining eye struggling to stay open. It isn’t long before the Queen calls for the guards, instructing them to escort him to his chambers.

No one objects.

As he is led away, a servant hurries in, carrying a roasted pig upon a gleaming silver platter. She sets it down before us.

The candle’s flame flickers, the pooling wax sliding down its candlestick, trickling toward my plate. My nails dig into my palms.

Then—the flame dies.

Aemond’s fist smashes against the table. Wine spills from my cup, tinging the clear wax red. A river of blood.

Across from us, Luke presses a hand over his mouth, surprise etched across his face—but I know that look. He’s stifling a laugh. It takes me a moment to understand why.

The roasted pig.

The memory of The Pink Dread resurfaces from our childhood. When we were younger, they presented Aemond with a pig as if it were a dragon. He had been almost ten by that time, and no egg had hatched for him.

I pitied him, wanted to intervene then. Because I understood his pain better than anyone. But as I glance at him now—a man that has seen twenty springs, a sharply skilled swordsman, the rider of the largest dragon alive—I don’t feel compassion anymore.

“Final tribute.” Aemond raises his cup, his mother’s disapproving stare and his grandfather’s weary gaze upon him. “To the health of my nephews—Jace, Luke and Joffrey. Each of them handsome, wise…”

My pulse races.

His lips curl, malice gleaming in his eye. “Strong.”

Silence descends. 

Across the table, Queen Alicent exhales a quiet sigh, while my mother fights to keep composed—as do I.

“Come.” Aemond raises his cup higher, his voice laced with mockery as his gaze fleetingly grazes mine. “Let us drain our cups to these three Strong boys.”

Aegon follows eagerly, lifting his goblet with a smirk.

“I dare you to say that again.” Jacaerys steps forward, chest heaved in challenge. He should know better by now—but I can’t bring myself to stop him. Not when I’m already at the edge of my seat, fingers twitching uselessly for the weapons I’ve been stripped of.

Alicent warns her son, heeding his name with a cutting scold—though it’s too late for him to back down. His eye returns to Jace, mischief glinting in his devious smile.

“Why? ‘Twas only a compliment.” He shrugs, feigning innocence. “Do you not think yourself strong?”

Jace moves quickly. His fist flies, swift as a loose arrow, landing straight against Aemond’s cheek. And it doesn’t so much as make him blink.

Damn him.

With a single push, Jace is sent stumbling to the floor, grunting in frustration.

Aemond merely laughs.

He laughs as he walks away, as he drinks from his cup—as if he had never been struck at all.

I drop to my knees beside my brother, searching for any sign of true harm—but the stubborn fool is already hauling to his feet, ready for more. Two guards seize his arms, holding him back, giving me just enough time to take in the chaos unfolding around us.

The Queen clutches Aemond’s arm, her voice sharp with reprimand, as though he were still a child. Across the table, Luke struggles beneath Aegon’s grasp, his head pressed firmly to the wood.

This is absurd.

Why aren’t the guards stopping that?

Why are none of them being held back?

“I was merely expressing how proud I am of my family, mother.” Aemond says, abruptly breaking free from her grip. His gaze locks onto me as he takes slow, deliberate steps to stand before me. “Though it seems my nephews aren’t quite as proud of theirs.”

My palm collides with his cheek, striking just beneath the edge of his scar.

He doesn’t recoil.

He only smiles, fingers grazing the spot where I struck him, as if savoring the sting. In a heartbeat, he surges forward, his arm snaking around my waist as he leans his head down, his breath raking over my flesh.

“Your behavior bares the truth faster than any words I can say, little bastard.”

Before I can react, he jerks away at the sight of Jace breaking free from the guards. I rush to place myself between them. I rush to place myself between them, as I should have done in the first instance.

Broad shoulders block my path.

“Wait!” Daemon’s voice alone is enough to halt Jace in his tracks.

I seize my brother’s arm, steering him toward our mother, who is already ordering the guards to release Luke.

Across the hall, Daemon stands motionless before Aemond, yet every part of him is a threat, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

A dragon he might be, but against Daemon, Aemond knows better than to bare his teeth.

“To your quarters!” My mother’s shout rises above the tension. “All of you!”

Jace and Luke obey at once, but I linger, waiting to see Aemond walk out of the room with his tail between his legs.

I don’t get the chance. My mother’s hand clasps my arm in an iron grip, dragging me back.“You too, Naerys. Now.”

[sapphirewritesx]

I couldn’t fix him, but I could fuck him, and that could fix me, and that’s more important.

[sapphirewritesx]

tags/warnings: targcest, unclexniece, bastard!oc, arranged marriage, pyrophobia, enemies to lovers, slow burn, eventual smut

ao3: Kinslayer by sapphirewritesx

[sapphirewritesx]

“One of these Strongs put out Aemond’s eye, never forget.”

“I will have your eye or your life, Strong.”

“Pay the debt you owe me.” | “There is a debt to be paid.”

“The rats play when the cat is gone, but my son Aemond will return with fire and blood.”

“No trueborn Strong was spared, nor any bastard” \ “Bastard blood, shed at war.”

[sapphirewritesx]

I had the theory that Kylo girls are Aemond girls and this is proof!!!!

Thank you so much for reading <3 (and you're right, mean Aemond is the best) writing his pov right now!!

Kinslayer - Aemond Targaryen x Naerys Velaryon (oc)

tags/warnings: targcest, unclexniece, bastard!oc, arranged marriage, pyrophobia, enemies to lovers, slow burn, eventual smut

ao3: Kinslayer by sapphirewritesx

[sapphirewritesx]

Kinslayer - Aemond Targaryen x Naerys Velaryon (oc)

tags/warnings: targcest, unclexniece, bastard!oc, arranged marriage, pyrophobia, enemies to lovers, slow burn, eventual smut

ao3: Kinslayer by sapphirewritesx

[sapphirewritesx]

𝘈𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘢𝘳𝘮𝘰𝘳

hope to see him wearing it in s3

[sapphirewritesx]

Kinslayer - Aemond Targaryen x OC (Naerys Velaryon)

His fist digs onto the nape of my neck, forcing me so excruciatingly closer that I cannot escape the molten light of his iris. “Do you know what you’re truly crying out for?” “No,” I breathe, unreasonably lost in shades of violet. “Enlighten me.” “A fitting punishment for your severe lack of discipline,” he says, the absurdity of his speech twined with discernible virulence.

summary: Princess Naerys and Prince Aemond clash in a tense confrontation that nearly turns violent. Their heated exchange is interrupted by Ser Criston Cole, who announces Queen Alicent has summoned them. In the Council Room, Naerys is stripped of her weapons and placed under Aemond’s authority for training and protection.

word count: 3k

tags: enemies to lovers, slow burn, strong!oc, niece!oc, arranged marriage, pyrophobia, lots of banter, eventual smut

warnings: I guess none really, Aemond is being Aemond (bastardphobic)

ao3: Kinslayer by sapphirewritesx

English is not my first language, so I'm sorry if you see any mistakes.

Naerys

“And what is it that you will do, my prince?” I taunt, letting my newfound desire to vex him take over my better judgment. Our hushed whispers are no longer a secret this dim corner can keep. They are laid bare, for the spiders on the wall to hear and recite. From afar, perhaps this might have seemed like nothing more than a betrothed couple getting acquainted. Not anymore, as our rising tempers fill the sacred quietude of the library.

“I have several ideas in mind.” His voice sharpens, honed by what little restraint he has left. A signal of his waning patience, if he ever had any. “You do not want to test me, pet. Fix your behavior before it’s too late.”

Ah, but I do want to test him. This unexpected hunger for disobedience—to know just how far he is willing to tolerate it, threatens to devour me alive. I cannot fight the need to know exactly where his breaking point lies. To see what he is truly capable of.

“I am not your servant,” I counter, lifting my chin. “Nor your property.” My eyes shift to the annoyed crease of his forehead, then to the awry line of his scar. “You have no right to order me around.”

His laughter erupts suddenly, loud and condescending, echoing through the stone walls that surround us. He inclines, his nose nearly brushing mine. “Haven’t you been paying attention?”

“Not quite, I’m afraid.” I remark, my head tilted in defiance. If it’s submission he seeks, he will not find it in me.

His fist digs onto the nape of my neck, forcing me so excruciatingly closer that I cannot escape the molten light of his iris. “Do you know what you’re truly crying out for?”

“No,” I breathe, unreasonably lost in shades of violet. “Enlighten me.”

“A fitting punishment for your severe lack of discipline,” he says, the absurdity of his speech twined with discernible virulence.

The mere thought sickens my guts. “And you believe you can deliver it?”

“Oh, I don’t believe,” his thumb pulling down on my bottom lip, the touch deceptively gentle. A delicate display of dominance. “I know.”

“Hardly.” I fight the urge to bite down on his finger, wishing my jaw had the strength to ensure he could never wield the longsword sheathed at his hip with his right hand ever again.

“By all means, darling niece, continue with your insolence.” His lips briefly graze my ear, his breath boring into my skin—I feel the soft, tormenting graze of his teeth as he implores, “Give me a reason to erase your spurious existence.”

“If that is your wish let’s get it over with,” I push against him, feeling a powerful pull to further fan the flames of his anger.

“Oh, come now,” he grins, a sinister gleam dancing in his eye. “Not so soon. Where’s the fun in rushing, little bastard?”

“Careful,” I shove my hand hard into his chest, my rings prodding into the leather of his vest, as the other instinctively drifts down to my waist. Heat floods through my body, muscles taut and primed for defense.

“Or what?” He chuckles, smug with the knowledge that he can pique just as easily. “What is it that you will do, my lady?”

My eyes flare in recognition of my own words, shot back at me. 

His threats have been harsh, yet empty thus far. He will see that mine are not. My fingers close around the cold, silver hilt of my dagger, and in the span of a breath, the tip of the steel blade is lightly pressed to his heart. And yet, not a sign of startlement on his part. As though he had anticipated this all along.

“Like father, like daughter, am I right?” he sneers knowingly. “Same short temper.”

My pulse quickens. He is right—so right. But that can never be said aloud. “What you are implying is treason,” I warn instead.

“Is it?” he grips my wrist, his hold oppressing my bones until my fingers can no longer keep my grasp on Nightshade. “Because as far as I can tell, your beloved mother has been nothing short of a harlot.”

The silence of the library grows heavier. His own sister—the Heir to the Iron Throne. My mother, called a whore for a second time, and by her own blood. 

How dare he?

I tussle against him—but no matter my strength, he still overpowers me. The blade slips through my fingers, landing directly on his hand. Without a second of doubt, he poises the sharp end to my throat, just as I did him in the training yard. The very same weapon pointed right at me.

“Do not,” he pauses in a failed attempt to get a hold of himself, his one eye blazing with coiled rage. “Do not demand the respect she does not deserve. The fact that she still holds her titles is an insult to our house.”

“And yet your father, the King, would rather remove limbs of a thousand men and have a pile of dead bodies at the gates of the Keep before reconsidering his choice,” I spit in return, my voice quivering as I ease my flesh to the short blade, almost wanting to let it pierce through. “Before choosing any of you.”

A subtle flush paints his pale cheeks with the testament of his ire, and I revel in the undeniable truth that I have been the one to set his blood aflame.

“You are to marry me,” I press, drawing him in. “If what you claim is true, what will they say about you, bound to a princess whose title you deem to be false?”

His lavender gaze flickers, darkening at the reminder of our reality, the impending union that looms over us both. “That I pitied my innocent niece, who had no choice but to be born out of the adultery of her mother and the former Lord Commander of the City Watch.”

He needs not say his name.

The former Lord Commander of the City Watch, often called Breakbones. Ser Harwin Strong.

My chest heaves erratically, air evading me completely as I search for an answer that refuses to come. The blade glides down my throat, purposely tracing a path to my chest—then, he pauses right over my heart, tapping lightly. Once, twice. His composure returns once again as he extends the dagger back to me.

“Go on, Naerys. Hurt me,” he says in a low rasp, inching his own chest forward. “You know you want to.”

At first, my suspicion warns me to tread carefully, but I silence it, ripping my dagger from his hand. For the Seven, I would delight in plunging this blade deep into his pale, ghostly flesh. My molars grind sturdily, the tips of my fingers pulse with the itch to strike. But for all my might, I fail to deliver.

“Pathetic,” he pouts, reaching to catch my wrist in his fist. My veins pulse against his palm as his grip tightens like an iron shackle. Once more, the slim hilt of Nightshade slips from my grasp, clattering to the floor. Its name evokes the purple petals of the poisonous flower—delicate, but deadly. Fitting, how his eye bears the same haunting shade, a reminder that allure can well disguise threat, and pull you to your grave. The silver blade glints, spinning like a sliver of moonlight in the dusk of this half-hidden part of the library.

The heavy footsteps and the sharp clink of metal slice through the thick air between us, yanking our attention towards the entrance, where three white cloaks now gather. Odd place for the Kingsguard. Aemond does not yield, his body caging me against the shelf—until Ser Criston’s grating voice startles him.

“We’re searching for Princess Naerys,” the Commander declares, making his way to the main table, where a maester observes quietly. His question hangs in the air, and all I do is blink, my mind scrambling for a reason why they might be looking for me, specifically.

The elder man, strange as it may be, doesn’t give us away. “She entered the library a while ago,” he says. “She must be around.”

Ser Criston then nods to his guards, and they part ways without a word to start their search. It’s only then that Aemond finally loosens his hold on me, stepping back only to bend down and retrieve the dagger from the cold stone floor. I remain rooted in place, tension straining my muscles, curious as to why my presence is demanded, yet unwilling to bring the guards’ attention to our secluded spot.

He raises, Nightshade in his hands, and approaches swiftly, not giving me a chance to recoil from his unwanted proximity. Derisively, he twirls the dagger, flaunting his precision before sheathing it back at my waist.

“My prince,” the Commander speaks behind us, acknowledging Aemond. His whetted features shift despite his effort to keep his expression schooled, betraying the faint surprise in his warm-colored eyes as they dart between us.

“Cole,” Aemond nods curtly, even as his tone does nothing to hide their amity. “May we be of service?”

“We came in search of the Princess,” he announces, his focus now drifting to me. “The Queen demands your presence.”

“What for?” I inquire, my voice steady, as though the entire fray with the prince has never happened at all. I stand my ground, straightening my spine, the palm of my right hand resting on the hilt of my sword—pretending none of his words linger.

“That is for Her Grace to say,” the kingsguard snaps. My reluctance to follow him without questioning has stirred his defensiveness, his unwavering loyalty to Queen Alicent rising to the surface. “But I do suggest you do not keep her waiting.”

“Very well,” I glance between Ser Criston and the prince, uncertain if I’m merely trading one danger for another.

“Come on, then,” Aemond blurts, seemingly indifferent to his mother summoning me. “We will meet again soon enough, princess.”

“Oh, no need for separation, lovebirds,” Ser Criston interrupts dryly. “Your presence has been required as well.”

Aemond’s grin falters for a heartbeat, before he masks his expression back into careful neutrality. “Has it, now?” he muses, tilting his head slightly.

“Less than a day.” The Queen rises from her seat. “Less than a day in King’s Landing,” she repeats, turning her attention to my mother, who stands silently before her, a silent warning flickering in her eyes.

The Council Room’s doors are sealed, its members absent. Yet, there are still seven of us—mother and son, mother and daughter, Criston and two of his guards.

“What were you thinking?” Alicent turns towards me, her pointed glare demanding an explanation that I cannot give, because I simply do not follow.

“I’m afraid I do not understand, Your Grace.” I search my mother’s face for any indication, a hint as to where this is headed, but for the moment, she remains unreadable.

“Don’t you?” she insists, her gaze passing over the weapons strapped to my body before turning the same question on the prince. “And you, my son—are you just as unaware?”

Aemond does not respond either, his shoulders sinking as he exhales a low huff.

“This morning,” the Queen paces around the room, unable to calm her unease. “You two have caused an absolute scandal.”

Ah, so that is what she finds so dire.

“We were simply making up for lost time, Mother,” Aemond offers, his tone laced with feigned ease, the smugness beneath it unmistakable.

“Sparring with your betrothed like common brutes?” She halts right before him. “And here I thought you knew better.”

I shift my stance, gripping the pommel of my sword to steady myself, forcing down the satisfaction that swells within me at the rare sight of his mother scolding him.

“What impression does that give to our people?” She presses further. “Prince Aemond and Princess Naerys, soon to be wed, pointing weapons at each other’s throats.”

“Hardly more than a harmless duel, Your Grace,” my mother breaks her silence, trying to soften the situation. Her calmness doesn’t budge, even as I catch the faint trace of humor behind her pursed lips.

“Harmless, you say?” Queen Alicent’s voice rises, her eyes widening as she takes a quick step toward my mother. “No clashing of swords is ever harmless, Rhaenyra.”

“Alicent—” she begins, using her true name, but is immediately cut off by the dismissing wave of the Queen’s hand.

“Why is your daughter armed in the first place?” The question instantly rouses my defensiveness, and I cannot hold back from answering myself.

“The King gave his blessing on my training, almost twelve years ago.”

“I remember that,” she says, settling back into her seat. “And I also remember that the exception of his blessing was to last only until you were wed.”

For a moment, my focus is drawn to the man before me—his stare brimming with sheer contempt. It’s a strange relief, knowing he wants this no more than I do.

My mother’s words pull me back to the gravity of the implication. “Surely, you don’t mean to strip my daughter of her weapons,” she interjects, her fair brows rising in quiet defiance. “You know well the dangers that might find her at any moment.”

A spark of outrage ignites in my chest. My hands twitch with the urge to reach for my blade, to hold it closer, lest they come and take it from me right this instant. I cannot be left defenseless—but neither can I allow them to see me falter.

Alicent gives no reply, though her silence is answer enough. She truly means to leave me unarmed—vulnerable in a way I haven’t been for so long. For as far back as my memory reaches, I have never known true safety. My very existence has always been a challenge. The firstborn of Rhaenyra Targaryen, heir to the Iron Throne. A princess—a woman, to put it plainly. And most importantly, a bastard. The weight of the steel at my sides has been my only certainty, the faintest illusion that I can stand against a world determined to see me kneel.

“I have not spent all these years training only to be denied my own sword now,” I say, my eyes sweeping across the room.

“The purpose of your training has come to an end,” Alicent asserts. “My son will be the only sword you need. He will be your blade and shield.”

My blade and shield. This must be some sort of cruel jest. Aemond will not be the one to guard me from danger—he is danger.

“Is that truly your decision, my Queen?” My mother inquires audaciously.

“I won’t risk further incidents,” the Queen decrees, her resolve clear. “Ser Criston, please.” With a single nod, she commands him forward, and Ser Criston does not hesitate. He moves toward me with purpose.

I unsheathe my sword—Bonebreaker—my fingers clenching around the hilt as though trying to carve its shape into my palm. I remember the day Daemon brought it to me, a gift for my tenth Name Day. Its length almost surpassed my own height at the time, but he assured me, I would grow enough in the coming years to wield it with strength and might, like my father before me. And after him I named it. Not after Daemon, the man who had it forged. Not Laenor, the man who had raised me. But Harwin, the man who first taught me how to swing a blade. The man who sired me.

“Naerys,” my mother warns, but I do not heed her. I cannot.

The dagger is next. I was eight when Laenor placed it in my hands, promising I would never feel helpless again, only a few days after the incident that took Aemond’s eye.

I guess he was wrong.

My thumb drags over the small seahorse etched in its handle—a silent farewell.

“Cargyll,” the Commander mutters, summoning one of the guards. I’m instantly flanked, the two of them moving behind me, their presence like a cage threatening to fall right above me.

I will not let them lay a finger on me.

“It won’t be necessary,” I snap, tightening my hold on both weapons before throwing them at Ser Criston’s feet. “There. Have them.”

“Naerys—” my mother persists, but the Queen cuts her off once more.

“She has your wits, I see.” Though she addresses my mother, her gaze flickers—just passingly—to her son. “Very well, then. I will grant her the possibility to train,” she pauses, letting the weight of her next words settle before delivering them, “but only under my son’s instructions.”

He allows himself to smile, triumphant, as he nods to his mother’s orders. He has just seized real control over me. I’m never to be armed unless he pleases, never hold my sword unless he permits it. And for the Queen, that is meant to be mercy.

My mother’s glare forces my reply, leaving me no choice but to swallow the scorching fury in my throat, to pretend I cannot feel the wet coldness of my tears trailing down my cheeks. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

The Commander picks up my weapons, lifting them into the air as he inspects them. He weighs the sword in his grasp, almost surprised by its heft.

“Good,” Queen Alicent settles on her seat, grabbing her goblet of wine. “You may leave.”

My mother rushes to my side, looping her arm through mine to guide me out of the Council Room, yet I stay motionless, just enough to catch sight of Aemond standing from his chair, victory seeping from every inch of his body.

“Ser Criston,” he finally speaks, turning towards the Kingsguard. “Bring her sword to me.”

[sapphirewritesx]

My Pinterest when I happen to be starving

ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🐇་༘࿐

[sapphirewritesx]

He is perfection.

[sapphirewritesx]

EWAN MITCHELL As AEMOND TARGARYEN | House of the Dragon 2x08 | The Queen Who Ever Was.

[sapphirewritesx]

EWAN MITCHELL as AEMOND TARGARYEN House of the Dragon 2.01

[sapphirewritesx]

AEMOND TARGARYEN House of the Dragon S02E03 - "The Burning Mill"

[sapphirewritesx]

Kind of want to see him as a king (for my personal satisfaction)

[sapphirewritesx]

Kinslayer - Aemond Targaryen x OC (Naerys Velaryon)

A low chuckle escapes him, his thin, rosy lips parting slightly. “And pray tell, my lady, what is it that you know about me?” He steps closer, deliberately, like a hunter prepared to pounce on his prey. One that he knows he has caught, already ensnared between his body and the soaring shelves. “What is it that you know of my taste?”

summary: Luke inherits Driftmark at the cost of bloodshed. Those who would dare accuse Rhaenyra's children of being bastards know they will pay speaking truth with their lives. Naerys comforts her younger brother after the death of Vaemond Velaryon, then ventures into the library of the Keep, where Aemond confronts her.

word count: 3.7k

warnings: death & mention of blood, grief, banter, Aemond is actually mean (and I say this as a good thing), oc is kind of a brat

tags: targcest, enemies to lovers, slow burn, strong!oc, arranged marriage, pyrophobia, lots of banter, eventual smut & dom/sub dynamics (+ lots of kinks)

ao3: Kinslayer by sapphirewritesx

Naerys

King Viserys sits upon his throne, the Hand standing dutifully at his right. To his left stand the Queen, flanked by three of her four children, deliberately arranged in order of birth—Aegon, Helaena, and Aemond. Each member of the family wears demure, impeccable attires with varying shades of green, honoring House Hightower. All but the youngest, whose black leather doublet sets him apart.

The solemn expression on their faces soon matches that of the courtesans as they take notice of their father rising from his seat, shakily aiming for his dagger.

“I…will have your tongue for this,” he breathes, his trembling hand gripping the hilt of his blade with what little strength he has left. Gasps ripple through the high walls of the Throne Room at his words, but not to the ones that ignited his fury. Vaemond Velaryon has brazenly called my mother a whore, and us her bastards before the entire court—yet not a sound was uttered at the insult. Because for them, it is no insult at all. It is solely the truth.

Before the King has had time to even walk down one step to the dais, silence reigns once more at the sound of Daemon’s sword sliding out of its sheath. A swift nod from my mother is all he needs to act. The simplest gesture, announcing that Vaemond’s life has come to an end. With a precision only his war experience can give, his sword cuts off his head with a single strike just below the ears, leaving his tongue intact. Fresh, crimson blood pools from his fallen body, flooding all the way to our feet.

“He can keep his tongue,” Daemon retorts, a proud sneer on his face as he admires his work. The King falls back to his throne with a deep sigh, content with his brother’s response.

I press my lips together, trying to conceal the sliver of contentment that ripples through me as his blood spreads all over the cold marbled floor. I stare at it, lost in its color. Red. Same as mine. Red. Trueborn, or not.

“Disarm him!” The Hand commands, voice sharp with authority. The guards move instantly, starting towards him.

“No need,” Daemon replies, wiping Dark Sister clean on his dark tunic before nonchalantly sheathing it back at his waist.

No one but him could behead someone in presence of the king, with no precise instructions or permission to do so—and bear no consequences. Not that some sort of punishment would do anything to subside his impulsive nature, of course. That, I think, both the King and my mother have learned.

A hand tugs at my dress from behind. Luke. His face is ghostly pale, hazel eyes turning glassy as he avoids the sight of blood. His sincere distress pierces through me, making me feel wretched for the thoughts I’ve just entertained.

“It’ll be fine,” I murmur, reaching to squeeze his hand in reassurance.

“I did not wish for this,” he whispers, immediate guilt gnawing at him.

“I know.”

But it was necessary. Vaemond has not only insulted our family. He has also questioned the King, deeming his chosen heir unfit. If he had gone unpunished for his disobedience and false claims, the rest of the court would in time learn to do the same.

“Fetch the maesters! Please!” The Queen shouts, desperately climbing the steps to the throne where the King winces in pain. I glance around the room, searching for any of them who might have been in attendance—then my eyes meet Aemond’s cold stare. He stands utterly still, unfazed by his own father’s affliction. Instead, his gaze is solely focused on me. He needs not speak for me to know what is crossing his mind.

Ilībōños.

That’s all I am to him. All I will ever be.

No true Velaryon. No real princess. No worthy heir.

Bastard, bastard, bastard.

“Naerys, go back to your rooms,” my mother commands, forcing me to snap out of the trance he so easily pulled me in. Her voice leaves no chance for defiance. “The three of you. Now.”

I know better than to protest. So I simply obey, trailing behind my brothers across the hall.

The walk to our chambers has been shrouded in silence, the weight of what just transpired pressing down on the three of us. A man has died, when his only crime was nothing more than voicing out what others dare not. But revealing harsh truths sometimes comes at a cost, and Vaemond has paid the highest price.

A lord who was raised among salt and sea—dead. So that he is no threat to my brother and not the other way around, as history shows it has always been. Bastards were, and still are often slain to prevent them from standing a chance to inherit lands and titles that ideally, should pass down to those born in wedlock. Yet here we are, defying the odds, because we are children of Princess Rhaenyra and not that of some other common lady.

“See you at supper,” Jace mutters, aiming for the door of his own rooms. I simply nod, understanding the need to evade any thoughts for the day. With no other word, he slips inside, leaving me alone with Luke.

I glance at him, noting his still pale face and tense stance before resuming the walk. Jace and Luke’s chambers are nearly adjacent to each other, only a couple more steps away. Mine, however, are on the opposite side, next to what I have been recently informed are none other than my betrothed’s. The King’s orders, the maid told me when they were carrying my things to said rooms.

As we come to a stop at his doors, I turn around to face him. “Go on,” I break the silence, crossing my arms under my chest. “Spit it out.”

“I don’t want the title,” he says lowly, hazel eyes darting out to our surroundings to make sure we are truly alone. “Nor the responsibilities that come with it.”

Well, that makes two of us.

“Luke,” I reach out to place a hand on his shoulder, but he takes a rapid step back.

“I don’t want any bloodshed on my behalf,” he mumbles, his voice barely audible.

My heart softens at the sight of his troubled expression, marked by unshed tears. I know how difficult it is for him to stomach such a gruesome situation.

“The matter is settled,” I tell him. “It already was, before Daemon ended his life, grandfather had already proclaimed your right to inherit Driftmark. Vaemond had it coming for himself when he defied his King and insulted us.”

“And still he would have made a more fitting heir than I do,” he counters. My brows furrow, a mix of astoundment and confusion settling in. He continues, knowing I am about to dismiss what he just said. “The Velaryon fleet needs a strong leader. A capable one, at least. How am I expected to fulfill my duty when I don’t even know the first thing about the seas?”

“You have time to learn, Luke—”

“And what if I don’t? What if the near future brings war, and the largest fleet to ever exist is commanded by someone who is not even good enough with a sword?”

“Lucerys,” I pronounce his full name in a firm tone, putting a stop to his spiral of self-deprecation. He looks at me, biting his bottom lip as he reluctantly wills himself to listen. “You don’t have to be a skilled swordsman nor a master of the seas. You are only fourteen, and still wiser than most. There is no use for such skills without wisdom.”

I put a curled, dark piece of his hair behind his ear. At his unconvinced sigh, I continue, “Kings and lords rarely fight their own wars, whether they be at sea or the battlefield.”

“But you will, won’t you?” He asks, fidgetly pulling at the neck of his vest. “If it ever came to it.”

I tilt my head, disconcerted. “What do you mean by that?”

“That I am not like you, sister. Not like Jace, not like father. I don’t have it in me.” He shakes his head, as though trying to halt the tears that have fallen down his cheeks, leaving a wet trail behind. “But I wish I did.”

A tight, constricting pain grips my chest, knocking the air out of my lungs. My lips part, but for a moment, I cannot say a thing. He has caught me off guard. It has never occurred to me that inheriting this title weighed so heavily on him. Much worse—it has never crossed my mind, that perhaps he lacked that sense of belonging I thought the three of us shared. That below that kind, sweet exterior, he felt truly undeserving of the name we were given.

For as long as I can remember, all we have known is comparison. Judging stares, whispered doubts, and pointed fingers. Enough to convince a child who is barely getting to understand their place in the world that they don’t fit in. Because we were not like them. The true Targaryens. It leaves a wound that I have yet to stitch up, but then somehow expected my brother to escape with barely a scratch.

“Don’t you ever speak so poorly of yourself again,” I finally voice out, giving him a proper stern look that can only be an attempt of mirroring Mother’s. “It was you who defended us that night at Driftmark—and I was the eldest. It was you who struck Aemond, blinding his right eye. You were four, Luke. Four. You knew nothing, and still you knew to defend us.”

His eyes momentarily squeeze shut, as if he could banish whatever is left of that day in his memory. “Now I wouldn’t even try to confront him,” he admits. “I simply stood there with Jace, watching as you fought him off.”

My lungs deflate at the mention of this morning. “I didn’t want either of you to intervene.”

“Certainly, pressing your dagger to his throat proved you had no need for help.” He lets out a bitter laugh, then adds, “I bet your pulse didn’t falter.”

Oh, it did.

I take his hands, gently but firmly forcing him to meet my gaze. “Luke, he let me do that,” I say with a faint, humorless smile. “He could’ve sliced me in half if it pleased him.”

“Nonsense—”

I cut him off by pressing a finger to his forehead, a playful poke meant to hush him. “Enough of him.” At that, he genuinely chuckles. Warmth spreads through my chest at the sound. “Now you listen to your elders.”

I place both hands on his shoulders, a grin spreading on my lips as he rolls his eyes at me. “You are enough as you are. Let that sink into that stubborn head of yours,” my grip tightens, demanding his attention. “You are a dragon, Lucerys. Be careful not to cut your own wings.”

With that, I release him, giving his shoulder a light pat before gesturing toward his chambers. “Off with you.”

Once he ventures inside, I decide to wander around the castle.

The scent of melting beeswax from the burning candles mingle with the aged wood of the towering shelves, bringing a familiar sense of dread. Daylight seeps through the lancets of the library, reflecting the shadows of the flickering flames. Swallowing, I take several steps back. My eyes shift bleakly, studying the nearest shelf in hopes to calm the unease that constringes my stomach.

I focus on the front row, searching for a title I might recognize, though I can easily tell there is none. Going over the second and third row, I realize a pattern. If there are more than a hundred books before me, all of them relate to the Faith of The Seven. I suppose Queen Alicent has not only asserted her influence in the hanging of green banners bearing the seven-pointed star, but also encouraged casting aside the old Gods.

Pacing slowly, I make my way towards the last shelf, cloaked in darkness, where only a few stray sunbeams pierce through to shine down upon the dust-laden tomes. Clearly, no one has gone over them for a while. I let my fingers caress their spines as I advance, this time not bothering to read the titles until the feel of a softer leather binding catches my attention. I come to a halt, contemplating the volume as I take it into my hands. It’s black of color. Rare, though not unseen. Most books are covered in plain, natural brown leather and occasionally, they are painted with either red, green or blue tints. Black is often tied to power and wealth, for it is the color of House Targaryen, rulers of Westeros. Nonetheless, black is, in its essence, related to darkness and mourning. Balerion The Black Dread, was named after no other than the Valyrian God of Death. 

I trace the silver threading of its title. The Doom of Valyria. A history book—the first one after hundreds. I brush the dust off its cover before opening it in half. Destruction and agony are all the haunting illustrations I have more than once revisited represent. I know well what little has been written of the centuries-old ruins that now lay across the sea, my instructors have thoroughly ensured it.

I turn the page, meeting the image of two lovers refusing to break their embrace as they resignedly face their end, engulfed in the flames that devour their home. A chill spreads over my skin. In the haze of memory, the melody of a song I learned as a child comes back to me in fragments, fighting to be restored. The lines, sung in High Valyrian, were once no more than another lesson in pronunciation. Now, even as the words escape me, the story vividly remains, a tale that surely etched into the heart of a ten-year-old who, unlike most, had already known loss.

It may be that I was too young, too naive, or too hurt. But back then, I found myself wondering—how does one live, when their beloved has gone to the Gods? How is it that one can find strength to dwell among the living, if the other rests with the dead? I couldn’t—still can’t comprehend how seeking the touch of another could even be a thought. And yet for my mother, it evidently was. Did her pain vanish so shortly? For me, it thus far lingers. Does love fade that easily, or was theirs never love at all?

I tighten my grip on the thick tome, forcing myself out of the dangerous path of my thoughts. It shouldn’t matter anymore. Returning my eyes to the shelf, I look out for other books of the kind. There, between the forth and fifth rows, bound in dark crimson leather adorned with intertwined knots that seamlessly weave into a pattern of dragons. No title. I place The Doom Of Valyria back on its spot, and then I stand on my tiptoes, reaching to grab the spine of the other. Pulling it out, I trace the lining of the design, my fingers collecting the dust along the way. I open the book, scanning the first page, where the title reads in High Valyrian: The Fourteen Flames.

I skim through the first couple of pages, noting how not a single word has been written in the Common Tongue. A small, satisfied smile tugs at the corners of my lips.

Now this will keep me entertained for the evening. Closing the book, I decide it’s time to finally step foot into my new chambers and sit down to read.

“Not so fast, princess.” The commanding, male voice behind me makes my skin crawl. I do not fancy myself a believer, but I would blindly believe that a voice so otherworldly belongs to no other than a God. And yet, I turn around to face a nightmare made flesh.

My breath catches as I take in his effortlessly graceful appearance. Hands behind his back, he stares down at me with a sneer that means nothing but malice. I narrow my eyes, acknowledging how mockingly he has made use of my title as Princess.

“The Fourteen Flames,” he gestures to the book in my hands with a nod of his chin.

He knows it—well enough, I dare say, to recognize it for its binding alone. That’s… unexpected. And somehow, it oddly intrigues me.

“I never imagined Prince Aemond would be interested in Old Valyria, least of all their Gods.” I bring the tome closer to my chest, returning the empty smile as I look directly into his eye. The adornments around the castle are a tangible proof of Queen Alicent’s devotion to The Seven—this very same library contains too many volumes about The Faith—it would only be natural to assume she would pass on such piety to her children.

A low chuckle escapes him, his thin, rosy lips parting slightly. “And pray tell, my lady, what is it that you know about me?”

He steps closer, deliberately, like a hunter prepared to pounce on his prey. One that he knows he has caught, already ensnared between his body and the soaring shelves. “What is it that you know of my taste?”

I remain silent at first, no answer at the tip of my tongue—not one that can be spoken freely under the watchful eyes and ears of the maesters. Fighting the urge to scowl, I finally say, “I would never presume to know you, my prince.”

“Good,” he breathes, his voice edged with gravity. “But do not fret, princess. We will have time for that.”

Not so much a promise as it is a threat. A reminder of our impending union, the inescapable burdens it will bring. I will be his wife, bound to him for eternity. Or, until The Stranger deems it fit. And I do not intend to stand in his presence for longer than it is strictly necessary.

“That we will,” I mutter. Unfortunately, I choose not to add, though I make sure it is implied in my tone. Then, I place the book back on its shelf, itching to step away from his proximity, and I turn to leave. “Now, if you’d excuse me, my prince.”

My feet move with hurry, raring to reach the doors that lead back to the corridor. The agitated beat of my heart hammers against my ribs, urging me to maintain the pace. However, for all of my haste, they draw impossibly further with every step, as if the very floors shifted beneath, preventing me from getting nearer.

Long, deft fingers seize my waist from behind, dragging me back to the same place I have just departed. “Do not run from me.” His whisper brushes the nape of my neck, sending down a thrill that bears through my bones. “You will find it useless, my dear.”

I curse under my breath.

“Let go of me,” I demand, twisting in his grasp. He may be my betrothed, but he is not entitled to retain me.

“Oh, no. None of that.” His grip tightens painfully, unyielding as he forces me back against the bookshelf. The old wood creaks from the impact, irradiating the scent of old parchments that have been forgotten in this dark corner for decades. He towers over me, his jaw locked in, and his nearness is suddenly too suffocating. His darkened gaze is a veracious telltale of the indignation coursing through him. “Not until you tell me what exactly you found amusing about the beheading of an innocent man.”

His truthful accusation makes me pause. I cease resisting, meeting his gaze with no effort to feign innocence. “I do not recall such a thing.”

“Don’t you, now?” he asks, voice dripping with disbelief. One of his hands leaves my waist, trailing upwards to find the corner of my right eye. His touch lingers, tracing the delicate skin with agonizing diligence—a pace so slow, that it borders on torture. “Because I could have sworn,” he murmurs, his breath fanning over my lips, “that there was nothing but satisfaction in your eyes as his blood pooled at your feet.”

“And if that was indeed the case?” I challenge, in a bid to ignore the warmth of his fingertips against my eyelid. “What then?”

Silence.

Then, he draws an imperfect line from my brow to my cheekbone, closing my eye shut on the way down, as if attempting to carve his own scar onto my flesh. His eye, a burning ring of violet, blazes alive with the desire of replacing his finger with the cold steel of a sharp blade. And this time, I know with certainty that he would relish upon such a cruel mutilation, should I grant him the slightest of excuses.

He smirks, savoring the reaction the mere thought of it ignites within me. Yet, instead of indulging his rather sadistic inclinations, he returns to our back and forth. “You truly have no shame, do you?”

“That question is better suited for yourself,” I bite back, teeth gritted. Aemond clicks his tongue, feigning disappointment, his lips pouting with disdain.

“Hasn’t my sweet sister taught you any manners, my dear?” his body presses against mine, caging me against the shelf. He reaches for my hair, his hand tangling with ease through my dark locks. “Because I believe you are in dire need of some lessons,” he spouts, “and I am more than willing to impart some.”

His fingers slide to the ends of my hair, forcefully twirling the strands in a fist. “Mēre,” he begins, pulling my head to the side, leaving the left half of my throat bare, and exposed.“Do not ever think you can defy me without consequence.” He leans in, so dangerously close I am confident he can almost hear my accelerated pulse. “Lānta,” he continues, leaving no chance for me to compose any words. “You will learn your place, because regretfully, you do in fact answer to me. And this is the first and last time I will verbally remind you of that.”

I keep my tongue trapped between my teeth, letting his statement sink in with no retort. There is menace in his expression, but something else flickers beneath. As if, instead of keeping me in line, he is daring me to fight back—to give him a reason to act upon his thirst for violence.

Luckily for him, I have never been one to keep my mouth shut.