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scorpionrising · 6 months

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there's an ache in you, put there by the ache in me (pt. 1: the road not taken looks real good now)

pairing: aemond targaryen x velaryon!oc word count: 8971 content warnings: explicit sexual content, major character death, cheating/infidelity (not really, but also kind of – it'll make sense when you read it), will add to this list as needed read part 2 here

notes: this is also cross-posted to ao3, as that is my primary place for posting, if you would prefer to read there. this author is fully team black, so proceed with caution. background relationships include cregan/jace/baela and luke/rhaena. feel free to read heavily into daena and rhaenyra's interactions too if you so choose

before reading, please be aware that this is an AU of a completed fanfiction i have written called fireplace ashes. you really don't need to have read it though to read this, as it's pretty self contained. all you need to know at the start:

daena velaryon is the youngest daughter of rhaenys targaryen and corlys velaryon; the same age as aegon. she claimed vermithor when she was eight and laenor was her favorite person in the world growing up, so she loves her nephews very much. she is betrothed to jace and neither of them are happy about it. when rhaenyra sent luke to storm's end, daena went with him. when he chased after luke, she stopped him, and this is where we leave off...

edit, 12/18/2023: because i forgot to mention this before posting — re: any references made to sarya. sarya is an oc from the fic i wrote that this is based on. she is daena’s handmaiden with whom daena has had a clandestine relationship that is so doomed by the narrative that they are both entirely aware of it

Daena and Aemond spoke more and more with each passing day. Mariyah was still sick, confined to her bed and face growing paler as the storms raged outside. Aemond had grown surprisingly competent in dealing with the barn animals, so she spent a majority of her days attending to Mariyah.

“Perhaps it was a miracle,” Mariyah said in a croaking voice as Daena wrung out a cloth to lay atop her forehead.

“What was?” Daena asked.

“Stumbling upon you,” Mariyah said, closing her eyes as Daena laid the cloth down. “The gods knew.”

“What did they know?”

“That I would die, and they ensured I would not die alone.”

There was a faint smile on her deeply lined face, as though she were at peace.

“Oh, don’t say that,” Daena said, taking care to smooth down Mariyah’s gray hair.

“Ever since my Royce passed three years ago, I’ve been waiting for the gods to take me. We never had children, you know.” Mariyah’s muddy green eyes sprung open and she reached out a wrinkled hand to touch Daena’s face. Tears began brimming as she spoke once more. “I’ve been alone for so long. It’s been wonderful, having you and your husband here.”

Daena partly hated herself for lying to Mariyah, but if it gave the old woman comfort in her last days to think she was providing aid to a happy couple in love, she would continue the charade until the moment the storms broke.

“I’d like you and Jack to keep the house,” Mariyah whispered. “Let it be your shelter. Go to Essos if you wish, but let the house remain standing, I beg. Let it still be filled with love even once I’m gone.”

Feeling tears in her own eyes begin to well, Daena nodded. If this was a way to settle her debt with Mariyah, she would declare this house as royal property. It would be a hunting getaway for her ancestors for years to come. It would never crumble as a way to pay thanks to the woman who saved her.

“Of course,” Daena said finally. “We’ll take care of your home.”

“Make it your home,” Mariyah begged. “Make it yours.”

“We will,” Daena promised. “We will.”

Mariyah nodded, contended by Daena’s words, and her eyes fluttered close once more. Her chest stuttered, but then began to rise and fall in time. Pursing her lips, Daena pulled the covers up the Mariyah’s chin and removed the damp cloth from her forehead. She let the water pitcher rest on the bedside table and filled a glass with water in case Mariyah woke up thirsty.

When she went down the stairs, Aemond was sitting by the fire in the main room of the house reading. The candles were dim, burnt down to the wicks around him. They would have to replace them on the morrow with the new ones.

“What are you reading?” she asked him.

He glanced up from his book and pressed his lips together. “A book of Lysene poetry. The old woman is more learned than I thought.”

“Her name is Mariyah,” Daena said, scowling and taking a seat in the chair across from him. She pointed her feet out and let the flames warm her bare ankles. “You ought to have some respect, you know.”

He scoffed at her but did not look back down at his book. Instead, he met her eyes brazenly. Despite herself, she delighted in the way the flames licked at the sapphire embedded in his eye socket. The question was on the tip of her tongue, begging to be asked, but she could not find the words in actuality.

“Our families think us dead,” Daena whispered instead, staring into the flames.

“And whose fault is that?” he retorted.

She flexed her fingers and clenched her jaw, wondering what it might be like to fling her fist into his jaw.

“What if we stay dead?” she asked him.

“If you’d like me to kill you, just give the word,” he said through his teeth.

“Not like that,” she snapped. “I just— Mariyah told me when she dies she wants us— or Alyse and Jack, rather— to keep the house… and I can’t help but wonder what it would be like to stay here and live a simple life.”

“You wouldn’t like that,” Aemond said. He closed his book and set it aside on the floor by his feet. “It would bore you senseless.”

“You said the same thing about my marriage to Jace,” Daena pointed out. She flexed her feet and tilted her head back to stare at the dark ceiling. “It would seem I am destined for a life of dreadful boredom.”

She sighed loudly and pushed her braids off her shoulder to fall over the back of the chair. Aemond’s eye was trained directly on her face, seeming to see through her to her very soul.

“Would it not be better to be bored on my own terms, living my own life rather than forced into a loveless marriage?”

“That would mean abandoning your family,” he pointed out, “which you would never do.”

She huffed and dropped her hands onto her lap. “You’re right. But it’s nice to pretend, I suppose.”

“What’s the point in pretending?” he asked her. “We are not children.”

“You’re infuriating,” she snapped. “We’ve been stuck here for days on end with nothing to do, knowing our families are preparing for war! What’s the point of any of it? Why shouldn’t I imagine an easier life?”

“Because it makes you a coward,” he told her as though it were the simplest thing in the world, voice too placid for her liking. “You cannot run from your destiny, Daena, no matter how hard you might try.”

“I’ve never run from my destiny,” she said defensively, remembering the way Helaena looked at her and whispered ‘Dragonslayer’ all those years ago.

He hummed and turned to the flames, barring the sapphire in his eye from view. All she could see was the unmarred half of his face, and she could see the strange little boy in his bones. She had quite liked that boy, but she thought he might be long dead by now.

“I hope they betrothed Jace to Baela in my absence,” she confessed in a small voice. “She could love him in a manner I could never bear to, I think.”

He slid his feet forward. The house shoes Mariyah had provided for him were neatly placed at one of the chair legs, but he wore thick woolen socks all the same. The heal of one of the socks was fraying and the other was drooping so low that she could see his bony ankle poking out from beneath the pants that were too short for him. It made him look disgustingly human.

“Which Baratheon girl were you going to marry?”

“I do not know,” he said. “Whichever one I found the most tolerable, I suppose.”

“How romantic.” She smirked a bit to herself and adjusted her weight in the seat for a more comfortable position. “I envy the smallfolk in this. They are allowed to fall in love before they marry. We must make an attempt at love only after the wedding, if at all.”

“I’d take a castle and not having to cook my own meals and slaughter my own animals over love any day,” Aemond said.

She frowned, pitying him not for the first time and likely not for the last.

“That’s terribly sad, Aemond.”

When he did not respond, she sighed and stood up.

“I will be going to bed now, I think…” She made her way across the room and faltered, turning back to look at him. He was staring into the empty seat. “Goodnight, Aemond.”

He turned. “Goodnight, Daena.”

With a strange, heavy feeling in her chest, she settled into the bed she made for herself on the floor and laid her head down. Tonight, sleep would not come, no matter how strongly she yearned for it. She tossed and turned, trying to find an acceptable position. Sometime later, Aemond entered and blew out the candles. She listened to him shuffle around and settle down. Once he laid down, he was still. She heard his breaths turn deep as sleep took him over. Irritated by that, she groaned into her pillow and flipped to attempt to sleep on her back.

“Just come up here.”

Her eyes sprung open despite the total darkness. She had thought him fast asleep by now.

“What?” she asked. “Don’t be absurd, Aemond. That would be—”

“I do believe we are far past what is and is not proper at this point,” he told her. “The bed is plenty large enough for two.”

She thought of what her mother and father might say, of what Sarya would believe, of what Jace and Luke might think of her. To share a bed with the enemy was bordering on treason, but was Aemond truly an enemy? Not to her, she thought a bit shamefully.

“You are just saying that to lure me in with false pretenses so that you might sully my name and reputation later on,” she accused, though she knew it was rather halfhearted.

“Gods be good,” he grunted. “Daena, just come up here and sleep.”

“Fine,” she muttered, hating herself for being so weak.

It was merely because her back was beginning to ache all through the day from sleeping on the floor for the last two weeks. That was all. Nothing more.

Pillows in hand, she climbed up and made herself comfortable on the bed. She was deeply conscious of Aemond laying stock still beside her, pale skin exposed. Heat from his body radiated towards her and she was mindful not to curl into it, instead turning her back to him and squeezing her eyes shut. She prayed for the storms to end early and for Vermithor to finish healing soon to take her away from this place.

Forgetting she had not gone to sleep on the floor, she was confused when she woke up to warmth and soft cushions and a weight thrown across her middle. She opened her eyes to find Aemond’s head tucked into her shoulder, hand splayed over her stomach. Instantly, she stiffened. This was an intimacy she had only known with Sarya. A traitorous part of herself was glad for it, having missed the feeling of falling asleep wrapped up in another. She quickly murdered that thought and turned onto her side to attempt to slip out of Aemond’s grip. Thankfully, he was a deep sleeper and did not awaken from her efforts. If it were up to her, he would never learn of this.

Mariyah passed four days later in her sleep, and Daena found that her heart was broken. Mariyah, who had been so deeply kind and had taken in two strangers without a thought, was dead and the world was worse off for it.

“We have to bury her,” she insisted.

“Look outside,” Aemond said, gesturing to the raging rain and wind. “You want to dig a grave?”

“It’s either that or we let her rot in here,” Daena argued. “Don’t be so cold hearted, Aemond.”

“Fine,” Aemond hissed. “You can dig the grave yourself. I want no part in it.”

And so she did. Wrapped in the cloak Mariyah wore the night she took them in, Daena marched outside with a shovel and began digging. The grave was shallow, but it would have to do. With all the rain, wind, and mud splattering up onto her face, it was nearly impossible to see what she was doing. Lightning cracked through the sky and a branch snapped off the tree just to her left.

When she turned to go back to the house, Aemond was already walking out with Mariyah’s body wrapped neatly in one of the blankets from her bed. Clearly, he had changed his mind. She was sure she was crying, but she was thankful to the rain for obscuring it from Aemond. Her throat closed as he gently laid Mariyah into the grave she dug. She had never seen him capable of such gentleness before.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

If he heard her, he offered no response. Instead, he took the shovel from her hands and began to cover Mariyah’s body. He moved quickly and methodically and did not even spare her a glance. With every day they spent together, she realized that she understood very little about the prince. He kept his motivations so close to his chest that she was constantly, utterly befuddled by him. Once he was done covering the grave, he stood at Daena’s side—as though waiting for her to move.

“I wrote to you,” she heard herself say, voice hushed in confession. “After that day on the rocky island, I wrote to you.”

“Yes,” he said.

Something within her shattered. She had hoped ceaselessly that the raven had been lost, or that someone else had gotten the letter and kept it from him. That day on the rocky island with him had been one of the best she ever had since Laena’s death, and now they would never ride dragons together again. Her eyes burned.

“Why did you never write back?”

“It seemed pointless,” he said, very pointedly not looking at her.

“I must confess,” she said, “I do not understand your reasoning.”

He flexed his hand, splaying his fingers out. He rounded on her, shoulders set back. The cloak’s hood was low on his forehead, but she could see the deep indigo of his eye clear as day. There was confliction written in his iris, and then determination as a muscle in his jaw ticked.

“Three years ago,” he said, voice hard and cold as sharp steel, “I had intended to ask for your hand.”

It should not have surprised her, with everyone around her back then telling her that he was attempting to court her, and yet it did. The dragon brooch he had gifted her was proof enough of that, but she still had been so blind to it. She had thought it a friendship, and him no more than a boy with a crush. She had no idea that his feelings had ran so deep.

“After that day on the island, I went to my mother and told her my plans. She forbade it and told me I was not to see you again, on account of your allegiances.”

“Oh,” she whispered. “Aemond, I—”

“It matters not,” he said.

“Of course it matters,” she said.

A great gust of wind hit her directly in the face and blew the hood of her cloak off, but she made no move to fix it or run for shelter. This seemed too important.

“No,” he snapped, “it does not. Why bother fixating on the past and things that will never be?”

“Tell me something, then,” she said, pushing her shoulders back. “That stone in your eye. Is it not the sapphire I gave you?”

“It serves as a reminder.”

“What could it possibly remind you of?”

He stepped closer to her. “The things I will never have.”

“Why would you want constant reminders of that?” she asked him.

“Because so long as I am reminded of what I cannot have, I will not be so foolish as to think of what could have been.”

Again, she found him terribly sad. Hesitantly, she reached out and touched his arm.

“You must allow yourself to want things,” she insisted. “Constant restraint is no way to live. Take what you want, Aemond, and let yourself feel.”

Unable to bear it any longer, she backed away from him and reentered the house. She ripped the cloak off and left it to rot on the floor. She was covered in mud and soaked to the bone. It was terrible, disgusting, infuriating. She was not entirely sure what it was, but it was just as likely to be the muddy clothes as it was Aemond’s attitude. She could not fathom how he could possibly be so cold about matters that deserved only warmth. He was sharp, cutting and slicing with his words, as he spoke about wanting to marry her. In this moment, she would have liked nothing more than to skewer him.

Pulling at the strings on her dress, she began the process of disrobing for a bath. She wanted to be rid of him. She wanted to be clean.

She relaxed in the tub until her fingers shriveled and the water turned cold. She dunked her head one last time and stood to leave, but then realized the flaw in her plan. In her haste to take a bath, she had neglected to collect a towel to dry off with or fresh clothes.

“Shit,” she muttered, knowing she would have no choice but to call for Aemond’s aid.

Surely, he would never let her forget this. Especially not after what he just admitted to her. Would he think she was trying to seduce him? Grimacing to herself, she drew her knees to her chest and called his name until she heard his footsteps approach the door.

“What is it?” he asked, sounding just as irritated as she had expected.

“I—” It was already humiliating. “Could you please bring me a towel and chemise? I forgot.”

He made a noise that could have been mistaken for a snort behind the door. Without voicing his assent or denial, he walked away. Gnawing on the inside of her cheek and absentmindedly scratching at her clavicle, Daena debated her options. She glanced a bit disparagingly at her discarded gown from before. She could put that back on, but the thought of it was entirely unappealing.

Then, without warning, the door flew open. Jolting in surprise, Daena quickly drew her knees even closer to her chest to attempt to save her from even more indignity.

“Here.” He held out a bundle of fabrics. “Where do you want them?”

“Um, just… The floor is fine. Thank you.”

He nodded and she watched as his eye flickered from her face to the harsh scar on her shoulder, visible no doubt from the manner in which she was hunched over to prevent him from seeing her more intimate areas. Having let him see the scar, now, she perhaps would have rathered him see the other parts of her. Somehow, the scar felt leagues more intimate than her breasts.

“It happened in the Stepstones,” she said, unsure why she kept him in here.

She really ought to have sent him away, and perhaps in every other life she did. But, in this one, she did not.

Aemond’s cheeks darkened in a flush.

“How?” he asked.

His eye was trained so singularly on her face that she knew he was making a concerted effort not to look elsewhere.

“I was fighting on the ground,” Daena explained. “Turned my back on an opponent I thought was dead.”

Could he hear the undercutting questions in her words? Can I turn my back to you, Aemond? Can I trust you? Once, she might have said yes easily.

“I hope you gave the craven the death he deserved,” Aemond said, nodding sharply. “There is no honor in that.”

She looked at him, and he her. Slowly, she felt the barest of smiles tug at her lips. Each and every day, he surprised her. Whether it was good or bad, she did not know, and she suspected she would not know until it was far too late.

Without another word, he left the room. Left alone, she dressed herself slowly.

Three years ago, I intended to ask for your hand. If he had done it, she would not have wanted it—and yet, she could not help but think about how different things would be if he had. Would things be better? Perhaps so; she could have bridged the gap between Luke and Aemond. That alone would have certainly changed a great many things.

Perhaps the time on the island had driven her mad, but she felt her bare feet pad along the floor until she found Aemond in the bedroom. Again, he looked achingly human. His bony ankles were visible beneath of cuff of his breeches, and his soft tunic was bunched up at the elbows. She stood in the doorway, merely watching. If he was aware of her presence, he gave no indication, and even if he was; he was surely unaware of how entranced she was by the way his hair fell in silken sheets around his shoulders. He was as severe as he was beautiful.

“Answer me this,” she said, breaking the silence.

His shoulders drew taut as he slowly turned to face her.

“What makes you believe you could never have me?”

He scoffed. “Our families are at war. Even before, it would have never been possible.”

She would have agreed to it, had the matter been raised. Seeing him in such mundanity, tending to animals and reading under the low light of the candles, made it impossible to hate him. He was no enemy. He was merely a man led astray, but his heart was good and his soul nowhere near as black as he would like her to believe.

“Do not think of our families,” Daena said. “Think only of yourself and how you feel. That is how you take care of yourself. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to go to bed.”

Fingers curling into the material of the chemise at her thighs, Daena pushed past him and began to pull at the bed covers. Whatever she had been thinking before, it was a spark of delusion and madness. Clearly he could not see past his inflated sense of self, and he never would. And she was merely entertaining it because she was bored. Grimacing, she fluffed violently at her pillow.

His long and slender fingers wrapped around the crook of her elbow, and he pulled her towards him without any sense of warning. She was not proud of the gasp she let out in response; sharp and high-pitched. The sapphire embedded in his eye socket—the sapphire she had given him—glinted in the candlelight. He was so close.

“Could I have had you?” he asked, voice low and rushed.

“I would not have minded if you asked,” she answered.

Aemond’s grip on her tightened, and if he clenched any harder she was sure bruises would begin to take form. She considered, briefly, smacking him away, but she did not mind the weight of his grip in all truth. She and Sarya often gripped one another in far greater passions. Besides, she liked seeing Aemond unfurled.

“I have always known what you are, Aemond,” Daena whispered.

“And what am I, my lady?”

“A strange boy with a crush,” she said, tilting her head back. “But I have always been more than fond of strange things.”

She really ought to have expected it after goading him, but his kiss shocked her all the same. His lips landed on the corner of her mouth, sideways down her chin, as though he were unused to the act. Adjusting, she tilted her head to the side to turn the kiss into a proper one. His hands, clutching her hips in a vice, burned at her skin through her chemise. Enthralled by the feeling, she curled her fingers around the sides of his neck, bringing one hand up into the roots of his hair.

However inexperienced he was, he made up for it in enthusiasm. Aemond grasped at her, trailing all across her body as though he were attempting to create a map of her bones. She pushed up onto her toes, tightening her grip on his hair, and gnashed her teeth into his mouth. She took his bottom lip between her teeth and bit down just beyond gently. When his mouth fell open, she slipped her tongue against the roof of his mouth. His hips jolted against hers as a sharp gasp tumbled from his lips.

“Are you going to take me or not?” she mumbled against his neck.

“Please,” he gasped out as she scraped her teeth against his skin.

“Do you want me, Aemond?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me,” she whispered, tugging on his hair. “How do you want me?”

He groaned, low and guttural; rigid against her. His grip only tightened.

“I want—” His head fell forward, atop hers. “I want to taste you.”

Daena pulled away from Aemond, a wicked grin spreading across her full and swollen lips. Holding eye contact, she stepped backwards until she was sat upon the edge of the bed. Then, with Aemond’s attention captured entirely, she spread her legs and pulled the hem of her chemise up slowly, tantalizingly.

“Get on your knees, then,” she said.

Aemond fell without a blink. His fingertips traced along her ankles and then slowly crept up her leg, flexing his entire palm against her skin once he reached her thighs. She could feel his breath against her, his mouth open but still so terribly far from latching onto her as she wanted him to.

“My prince,” she groaned, reaching for the top of his head. “Please.”

He complied, pressing his tongue flat to her. There was no hesitation in his actions; he licked with confidence and precision, shocking her because she struggled to imagine him experienced. He groaned against her, hooking his arms beneath her thighs and pulling her as close to his face as possible. She was unable to keep the shrill moan from escaping her throat.

“Aemond,” she gasped. It was a breathy sort of thing, pulled in a wisp from her lungs. “Use… fingers!”

Ever the apt listener, he dipped a single finger into her. The moan she let out then was a pitched and trilling squeal. His single finger was the size of two of Sarya’s and reached to far deeper places than Sarya’s petite hands had been able to reach. He pumped the finger in and out, slowly and surely, and grinned against her. Two more fingers then, shoved inside her at once. She collapsed backwards onto the bed with a loud moan. He was relentless in his ministrations, going at a rapid pace until she was writhing and squirming and gasping for air. Swiping her arm over her forehead, she pushed herself up to look down at him.

His face was covered in her, glistening in the flickering, dying light. She swiped her tongue across her bottom lip. She grabbed a fistful of his tunic and yanked at it to get it off him. Catching on, he moved to help her. There was a heavy silence between them, but he moved onto the bed—hovering over her—without her even needing to tell him what she wanted.

She stared up at him, lips parted ever so slightly. His hair hung down in a silky curtain, framing his face. Palms shaking, she reached up and pressed her hand to his face. She arched her neck up and brushed her lips softly, gently, tenderly over his scarred forehead. The sapphire buried within his eye socket seemed to glow, keeping her attention rapt. Her thumb trailed along the underside of his eye, brushing against his long lower lashes. He was silent in her arms, stoic above her.

Afraid to speak, lest she say something too intimate, too weak, too revealing, she pulled his face down and licked herself from his lips. His teeth gnashed against her lip as though he wanted to swallow her whole. Briefly, as she fumbled with the buttons on his breeches, she thought she might let him. They did not speak, not even as she pushed him up against the headboard and sat herself on his lap. He was hard against her inner thigh, but she ignored it for the time being. Instead, she tugged his mouth down to her neck. He licked, bit, and sucked at the flesh, drawing heavy gasps for air from her lungs.

Chemise sticking to her with sweat, Daena pushed him back to begin ripping at the strings to get it off her. Aemond picked up on it and yanked the shift roughly over her head. His eye flickered down to her heaving breasts and a spike of confidence shot through her when she noticed how his cheeks flushed a darker shade at the sight.

“Daena,” he gasped out, voice heady and broken. “I… want—”

“I’ll give you whatever you want,” she promised, moving her hands to cradle his face.

Pulling him in for another angry kiss, she shifted her hips so that she could sink herself down onto him. It was a sensation she had never felt before, reaching places she had never known existed. Tears she did not quite understand burned in her eyes, but she continued to sink down until there was nowhere else for her to go. A groan that sounded more animal than human burst from her as she collapsed against his chest. His hands were hot as coals against her thighs, fingers sure to leave burnt impressions.

Delirious, she dropped her forehead against his and began to move her hips in slow, rocking circles. He swore quietly, tightening his grip on her legs.

“Seven… hells,” he grunted.

She continued until she found a pace that cut her breath off at the base of her throat, where the tip of him hit a place deep within her that caused her vision to go black and her jaw to go slack.

“Aemond.” She exhaled his name, unable to think of anything else but the man beneath her. She wanted to burrow herself within him and find a home within his bones, tucked into his ribs. Every bit of him had invaded her, and she was loath to let it end. This bubble they had created; she wanted it to exist for as long as she could sustain it. Here, they were leagues away from the people they had been and the circumstances that brought them to this island. Here, they were just Alyse and Jack. Here, they were free.

She let him spill within her after she reached her peak, and then collapsed once more against him. It was easy to fall asleep, exhausted and spent, within his arms.

Daena awoke with the first light of morning, as she always did. Naked and sticky with the dried sweat of the night before, she and Aemond were still tangled together; his face pressed into the crook of her neck. She was flooded with a wretched sort of feeling, unable to bear being within his grasp. As gently as she could, she removed herself from his arms and reached down to the floor for her chemise. She dressed quickly and sprinted away from the room.

Unsure if it was more shame or guilt that was flooding through her, she tucked herself into one of the armchairs by the unlit fire and stared into the blackened hearth. If she ever got away from here—if they ever got away from here—how could she possibly hope to look her family in the eye? How could she face Luke, knowing she had sworn to give the uncle who tormented him anything he wanted whilst in the thralls of passion.

A mistake, she decided. That is all it was. A mistake driven from flaring tempers and boredom. That was all it could be; nothing more.

Even so, she could not help but wish in the deepest and darkest depths of her soul for the opportunity to make the mistake again.

A noise from the bedroom informed her that Aemond had woken up. When he came into the main room of the house, their eyes met. After perhaps a moment too long, he tore his gaze away from hers and grabbed an apple from the bowl on the table and stalked back into the bedroom with that infuriating slow strut of his.

They did not speak that day, nor the next. Daena resigned herself to sleeping curled up in the armchair, drawing idly on loose slips of parchment she found around the house until she fell asleep. She mourned the tenuous friendship they had begun to restore in the days past as she did her best to ignore the growing knot in her neck from sleeping in the chair. It truly felt as though they were destined to be on opposing sides, never to truly know each other. She wished he never told her he wanted to marry her. Now, her mind was consumed by thoughts of what could have been and what could still be. It was also how she knew him a liar; if he did not dwell on the past, then he would have forgotten the matter entirely. But he had not, and so she knew he did care.

She would have agreed, she thought to herself as she drew Vermithor’s scales. If he had asked her, she would have married him. It was a terrifying, fleeting thought— and perhaps it was a betrayal of Luke, of Sarya, and, now, of Jace. Still, she could not deny that she liked Aemond well enough. She had been fond of him even when they were children and he smashed her head with a rock. She enjoyed his presence, despite his generally unpleasant demeanor. He was a friend, and she would have liked to marry a friend. She could have been happy in a marriage of friendship. If he had been allowed, she would have accepted.

But perhaps he was correct, and there was no use on dwelling on these things. What did it lead to but unhappiness?

She was curled up in a chair by the fire while Aemond tended to the barn animals, proving once more that he cared far more deeply for things than he liked to pretend. She flipped the page of the parchment back to the portrait she had drawn of Aemond while he slept. In the sketched plains of his face, she could see the strange and innocent boy beneath the cruel man. Pursing her lips, she tore the page and crumpled it. Just as he said, no use in dwelling on things she could not change.

He entered in with a wet gust of wind behind him. He made a grumbling noise as he kicked off his boots and undid the cloak, which really only served to make her laugh. He glared in her direction and stalked off, likely to wash up from being in the barn. Heaving a great sigh, Daena got out of the chair to scrounge together a meal for them. They ate like the smallfolk in Flea Bottom, and Daena was miserable for it. Their lack of communication made the bland food all the worse.

She brought the pot of stew to the hearth and let it come to a boil. Mariyah, in all her elderly wisdom, had planned on a long hurricane season and had gathered enough produce to last them the entirety of it. Aemond emerged from the washroom just as she was removing the pot from the fire. She offered him a tight smile and averted her eyes to began spooning stew into bowls for them to eat.

They sat silently on opposite sides of the table, pointedly not looking at each other. It made her want to scream and cry and rip her hair from its roots and throw the bowl at him. It was suffocating, and she just wanted to be done with it.

It was he, who broke their days-long silence, pushing his bowl away from him and leaning back against the chair. “I apologize,” he said stiffly, “for taking advantage the other night. It was… unworthy of me.”

Daena stared at him blankly, astounded. Then, a laugh that could be classified as nothing other than a cackle burst from her lips. His lips pursed at the sound, clearly displeased by her reaction.

“That is what you apologize for?” she asked, gasping for breath between words. “Oh, Aemond… I am hardly a blushing maiden.”

At that, a flush crept up his cheeks.

“The other night might have been a moment of weakness that can and will never happen again, but you did not take advantage.”

“Well, I apologize nonetheless.” His cheeks were flushed with blood. “And, yes. Never again.”

She bit the inside of her cheeks as her mind cycled through all the motions of their mistake. As far as mistakes go, it had been her most enjoyable one.

“You ought to sleep in the bed again,” Aemond said after another long silence as they cleaned up the kitchen. “I can tell your neck is bothering you.”

Her hand flew to the crook of her neck on instinct. She ripped it away just as quickly.

“I’m quite fine.”

“Then allow me to take the chair or floor.”

“No, that is not necessary,” she insisted, turning away from him to stare out the window. The rain beat mercilessly on the glass. Like it was trying to bring not just the home, but the entire island down. “You sustained more injuries than I did in the fall, and the fault for that lies in my hands.”

She chose to leave out the fact that it was his actions that forced her hand, because at this point that was neither here nor there.

“Then perhaps I sleep in the other room—”

“Mariyah just died on that bed!” Daena exclaimed, half scandalized. She was tired of this conversation. “We will continue as we have.”

“Daena, you cannot—”

“And yet, I will!” she shrieked. Instantly embarrassed, she sucked in a long, slow breath and turned back around to face him. “It is different for me.”

He said nothing, merely staring at her. Gods, how he infuriated her, how he wiggled beneath her skin and stuck there, how he could see right through her.

“If anyone were to discover we were here alone, you would be perfectly fine. I would be…” She thought back to what he hissed at her when he woke. “Ruined.”

He opened his mouth to speak, but she pushed on.

“Our mistake, for you, is a story to tell someday. For me, it is nothing less than betrayal.”

“Betrayal.” He scoffed, a sudden glint of venom in his iris. “And what do you call my part, then? Do I not betray my family every moment you remain breathing?”

“Kill me, then, and be done with it!” Daena threw her hands up. “Please, I beg you. Do it, because I will never be able to kill you as I know I ought to.”

He blinked at her, stunned into silence by her manic plea. Frustrated tears brimming in her eyes, Daena stomped away from him and into the washroom. She sank to her knees and remained there until she heard no sounds of movement. Praying that it meant Aemond was asleep, Daena crept out and back into the main room.

She was stopped in her tracks, however, by the sight of Aemond fast asleep on the very armchair she had made her bed the last few nights. One leg was propped up on the cushioned footrest while the other was sprawled onto the floor. Even in her hatred of him— if she could call it that— she was touched by the display. There was hope for him yet, goodness that bubbled beneath the surface. In an effort to repay the kindness, she grabbed a quilt from the chest by the fireplace and laid it over his lap.

They had perhaps left things worse than they ever were before between them, but Daena would deal with those consequences once morning came. Now, she was bone weary and just wanted to sleep. She slept like the dead once her head hit the pillows, though in her dreams Aemond’s face taunted her. In the morning, she woke with a deep, aching need between her legs. Disgusted with herself, Daena kept herself confined within the walls of the bedchamber until she thought she might collapse from hunger. When she pulled the door open, however, she found herself face-to-face with Aemond—a plate of food and mug of mead in hand. His mouth fell open just a bit as she tripped herself to avoid walking right into him.

“You have not eaten,” he said in a hoarse voice. “It is getting late… I thought you might like some food.”

“Thank you,” she said, unable to do much anything else than focus on his lavender iris boring into her. “How very thoughtful, my prince.”

“Aemond,” he said suddenly. “Just— Call me Aemond.”

Oh.

“Very well,” she said. “Aemond.”

“I wanted to thank you… for the blanket last night.” He shuffled closer infinitesimally. The mug was shaking ever so slightly in his clenched fist. “And, I was thinking… here, we can just be…”

She pulled the plate and mug from his hands and dropped them onto the small table in the room, discarded to be forgotten. Sighing, she pushed her braids over her shoulder and turned back to him. Did she haunt his dreams as he did hers?

“We can just be… what, Aemond?”

“I—” He opened his mouth and closed it thrice. “You said to take what I want.”

A whirling thrill spiked in her blood, the ache inside of her leading her straight to him.

“A mistake it might be, but what does it matter?” he asked. “We are alone.”

“I suppose it doesn’t,” she admitted.

Taking him to her bed once, twice, or however many times mattered not so long as it ceased once they returned to where they belonged. She just liked to see him finally breaking free of that hardened shell he encased himself in. He kissed her, then, and she forgot all about her hunger for food. All she hungered for was him. His fingers yanked at the curls at the base of her skull, forcing her head back so that he could kiss down her jaw and neck.

There were no words shared between them. Perhaps that would be too personal, too indicative of their wrongdoing. Neither took the time to undress, merely hiking up her chemise and shoving down his breeches. They fell backwards onto the bed just as he pushed himself inside her. She gasped into his mouth, digging her nails into his cheekbones and looping her legs around his waist to pull him close.

They continued at that pace until they were fully spent; collapsed upon one another. Daena yawned loudly, reaching her hand out to grab hold of the apple Aemond put on the plate for her. The generosity of it did not escape her; those apples seemed to be the only thing that made him even a shade of content. She took several bites of it before offering it out to Aemond. As though it were a natural sort of thing to do. And he took a bite from her hand, half convincing her this were a dream. When the apple was nothing but a discarded core and the bread nothing but crumbs, it was Daena who pounced on Aemond. Now that she had been given a taste, she was insatiable. And it seemed, so was he.

But, it was more languid this time. He did not hurry himself as he mouthed at her neck and began to pull at the strings on her chemise. She wanted to touch him, but quickly lost all means to do so when he pulled her chemise off and began to kiss down her torso. Her breath hitched at the base of her throat and delirium flooded her veins as she became enthralled in the pleasure she wrought from him.

“Seven Hells,” she groaned out, tossing her head back against the pillows.

She could feel Aemond’s lips curl upwards into a smile as he traced his tongue along her hip bone in response.

Much later, when they had tired themselves out entirely, he laid himself down beside her, resting his head on her bare chest. It was strange, how easy it was to simply be with him— and it terrified her as much as it befuddled her. But, then, it had always been easy with Aemond. They fell asleep like that, tangled together, pressed closer than close. Daena had never slept better in her life.

“I would never ruin you,” he spoke quietly against her collarbone one night some weeks later. She had long since stopped keeping track of the days as they passed, dreary and thunderous as they were.

Daena stilled beneath him. “What?”

“Your reputation,” he said, “I would never allow it to fall to ruin.”

For some reason, she believed him and kissed him hard on the mouth for the first time outside the thralls of passion. He returned the kiss with vigor and they fell asleep in the middle of it, which she had also never done before.

When morning came, she awoke to a thunderous roar outside her window. Gasping, she shot up and looked around, scrambling to pull her chemise over her head. She knew that roar. Barefoot and without any protection from the weather, she sprinted outside, past Aemond who was slowly blinking his eyes and sitting up from the commotion she caused. Toes digging into the mud, Daena ran from the house to Vermithor.

His bronze scales were like the rays of the sun amidst all the rain. Grinning, she flung herself forward.

“My brave boy,” she wept, pressing her forehead to his snout.

He snuffed and knocked his snout against her head. Laughing, she kissed one of his horns and stepped back to examine him.

“How is your wing, hm?” she asked, walking around to take in his form.

He flared his wings out as though to prove he was in perfect condition. She reached her hand out to stroke the wing that had been injured when they took down Vhagar. She could see the scar tissue, but the tendons were healed and strong. She could go home. As though sensing her realization, he tilted his head back, opened his jaws wide, and screeched so loud that the trees shook. His hind legs stomped the ground, as though he were preparing for takeoff. It was everything she wanted to hear.

“What are you doing?” Aemond shouted, standing in the threshold of the doorway.

Vermithor’s neck snaked around and he positioned himself firmly between Daena and Aemond. He remembered Aemond from the attack, and he did not trust the prince. Laughing at her dragon’s protection, she stepped forward and placed her hand on the underside of Vermithor’s jaw. He grumbled quietly and settled.

“Umbagon,” she ordered before walking back to the house.

Aemond was staring at her like he found her mad. At least that had not changed. She pushed her wet braids from her face.

“Vermithor is healed,” she said.

“I can see that,” he said. He held out a large blanket for her. “Come inside.”

Feeling the chill suddenly, she stepped in and allowed him to pull the blanket over her shoulders. His hands stayed on her shoulders, rubbing over her upper arms to help warm her. She furrowed her eyebrows and stared up at him. His face was pulled taut and there was concern evident, his lips pursed as he took care to help her dry off.

“What?” he asked, seeing that she was staring.

She cleared her throat and averted her gaze. “It’s nothing.” She smiled to herself and tilted her head to the side. “Well, it is nice to see you care.”

He frowned. “When have I ever given you the impression I do not care for you?”

That response took her by surprise. It was shockingly earnest, coming from him— but that had been a running theme with him in the last few days.

“Aemond,” she whispered, lifting a hand to his scarred cheek.

It was absurd and utterly mad of her, but a sudden shot struck her like lightning. It would be so very easy to love him. Her love for Sarya had not lessened in her time on the island, but there was merely more space in her heart than she once thought. She would never be able to pursue it, of course. She was betrothed and he… Aemond was a traitor and an attempted kinslayer. And all that to say, she still wanted him. Something sinister had overtaken her in the last three moons, sunken its claws into her skin and dripped its poison onto her tongue.

She was fond of him, desired him, enjoyed him, but she had a duty now that Vermithor was in flying condition. Aemond was a traitor and an attempted kinslayer, and she needed to bring him to justice.

“I will come quietly,” he said softly, reaching out and gingerly curling the loose end of one of her braids around his finger. She had a keen memory of her own fingers wrapped in his hair. “I will surrender and bend the knee if that is what you wish.”

“What I wish?” she echoed. “And what of your wishes?”

It was as though the island emboldened him, pulled apart his strong defenses and left him bare but more confident than she had ever seen him.

“I wish for whatever will keep me in your life, my lady.”

“You can’t mean that,” she whispered, hardly daring to believe it.

She was not immune to the effects of dashing confessions made, easily swept up in the romance of it all. It was her most foolish trait, but being aware of it did not subdue it. It only made her aware of the breadth of stupidity she was capable of.

“You took my eye. You took my dragon. Take my heart as well; it is yours.”

Her cheeks burned under the weight of his gaze and words. Mouth dry, she crafted the most intelligent response she could muster.

“I did not take your eye.”

He shrugged, as though his reasoning were the only sort that made sense. Perhaps he would have preferred it to have been her. Their injuries were settled like scores, canceling the other out— even if he had gotten off far worse than she had. In his mind, it should have been her, and so it was it seemed. Or that he held her in just as much blame as he did Luke.

“And as for Vhagar—” Her own voice betrayed her, choking off in an unbecoming squeal. “I wish I could have stopped you without killing her.”

Aemond looked away from her then, finally pulling his face from her palm. She tucked her hand back under the blanket he provided her as quickly as she could so as though it were never there in the first place. Then, he surprised her yet again.

“I know.” It was a simple thing. “I forgave you a long time ago.”

She furrowed her brow, a million and one questions racing about her mind, but she kept them to herself.

“You will come without fight or argument?” she asked slowly.

“I will,” he confirmed.

Bewildered and pleased alike, Daena observed him for a moment before ultimately deciding he seemed honest.

“Then we must dress. It is at least a half day’s flight from here to Dragonstone.”

They did not speak again as they readied themselves for departure. What was there to say, really? They had, for better or worse, betrayed their families and themselves by falling into bed with one another, and now fate had come knocking. They both knew that on Dragonstone he would likely face imprisonment at best. There was always the threat of execution, but Daena was not sure Rhaenyra, even at her most bloodthirsty and vicious, had it in her to be a kinslayer. No, Rhaenyra would not take her brother’s head, but she might strip him of all titles and inheritance and send him to the Wall where he could never be a threat to her again. And rather stupidly, Daena did not wish for that. Perhaps this was what Aemond wanted all along; for her to trust him, to vouch for him, to be more than fond of him.

That decided it for her. Upon arriving to Dragonstone, what happened here on the island would fade into the past. She would dedicate herself to whatever war effort there was and accept her fate as Queen after Rhaenyra. “Whatever claim to the throne I have left, you are it’s heir now. Both of you.” Daena would never be able to forget the sheen of sweat covering the older woman’s body, the way her face was scrunched up in pain and her voice quivered as she laid out commands for her oldest son and Daena.

There was a truth about Daena Velaryon that Sarya had always seen: For her family, Daena would sacrifice anyone and anything, including herself, and let the entire world burn to ashes. And as Aemond perched himself behind her on Vermithor’s saddle without complaint, she wondered if he saw it too. An unstoppable force meets and immovable object, and whatever happens in the aftermath is only nature. And yet, Daena did not think she would go so quietly if the roles were reversed.

“Sōves, Vermithor!” Daena yelled as loud as she could over the violent winds and rain, already soaked through to the bone.

Without complaint or hesitance, Vermithor roared and took to the skies.

Aemond and her did not speak for entire flight, and Daena was glad for the silence as the black sand beaches of Dragonstone grew ever nearer. It had been a year’s quarter since she left Dragonstone for Storm’s End, and war had been brewing when she did. There was no telling what they would find when they landed.

#aemond targaryen fic #aemond targaryen x ofc #aemond targaryen x reader #team black #hotd au #house of the dragon #hotd fanfic #aemond targaryen #rhaenyra targaryen #jacaerys velaryon #cregan stark #jace x cregan #jacegan #jacaela #fic: fireplace ashes

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scorpionrising · 6 months

Text

there's an ache in you, put there by the ache in me (pt. 2: it's a war, it's the fiercest fight of my life)

pairing: aemond targaryen x oc word count: 5822 content warning: same as part 1 read part 1 here

notes: feel more than free to read whatever you want into rhaenyra and daena's relationship

Daena and Aemond had barely breached the mouth of the cave Vermithor slinked off into before they were met by the screech of a dragon Daena knew all too well. Syrax in all her yellow-golden glory landed hard on the sand in front of them and Daena wondered briefly if she should have bound Aemond’s hands. He had no weapons and the thought of him harming her had never crossed her mind, but perhaps it would have looked better. Less suspicious. He was supposed to be her prisoner after all.

When Rhaenyra dismounted, Jaehaerys’s crown gleaming atop her head, Daena watched as the older woman’s face betrayed every one of her feelings. Confusion being the most prominent. But that did not stop her from rushing forward and pulling Daena into a crushing embrace. At the same time, Syrax maneuvered herself into Aemond’s path even though he made no attempt for escape. For the time being, Rhaenyra paid no mind to her half-brother.

“We thought you dead,” Rhaenyra whispered, eyes glassy as she took in Daena’s appearance. “Luke told us…” Syrax growled, baring her sharp teeth at Aemond. “He said you sacrificed yourself for him.”

“It was my intention to,” Daena admitted. “But when we fell into the bay and I realized Aemond and I were both still alive, I felt I had no choice but to keep it that way.”

Rhaenyra raised an eyebrow and hummed with the same tone and sharpness that Aemond did. Daena felt vaguely ill for it.

“I cannot put into words how dearly glad I am to see you alive and well,” Rhaenyra said. “Though you’ve gotten very thin. I’ll arrange for a hot bath and meal for you as soon as we reach the castle.”

“Thank you,” Daena said, on the verge of tears herself. And then, because she simply could not seem to help herself when it came to him. “What of your brother?”

Rhaenyra’s eyes were sharp and cold as she finally turned to her much younger brother. Aemond stood tall, glaring at her with as much vitriol his single eye could muster. The clouds shifted and a beam of light hit the center of his sapphire eye. The sapphire she gave him as reward for saving her life. She left her mark upon him as he did her, and she touched her scar gently. Were they even now? An eye for an eye, a life for a life.

“Brother,” Rhaenyra finally said, breaking the heavy silence.

Aemond sniffed. “Sister.”

Their voices dripped with the same casual indifference, though Daena knew there was more hurt between the both of them than either would care to acknowledge. Once, Rhaenyra told Daena, she had been quite fond of Aegon and Helaena, trying in earnest to get to know them. But, by the time Aemond came along there was more than enough bad blood between Rhaenyra and Alicent for Rhaenyra to lose nearly all access to her young and impressionable siblings. There had never been a chance for them to be a true family. Daena pitied them all— even Aegon, if only mildly.

“You are lucky for Lady Daena’s gentle heart,” Rhaenyra said.

“Is that what we’re calling dragonslayers these days?” Aemond retorted.

Despite herself, Daena flinched. Vhagar’s death would be a ghost haunting her legacy for all of time, but what pained her more was that she took something irreplaceable from Aemond when he had longed for a dragon for so very long. It was she who encouraged him to lay claim to Vhagar, and thus set forth the circumstances that led to him losing his eye. And it was she who took his dragon from her. He had said he forgave her, but how could she believe him when he slipped into the facade with so little trouble?

“Her stopping you from murdering my son is the only reason you still draw breath, brother, make no mistake,” Rhaenyra said in an even and calculated tone.

“He has agreed to bend the knee!” Daena blurted. Then, added in haste, “My queen.”

Rhaenyra’s fondness for her was what allowed her to get away with such irreverence. She shot Daena a look that Daena recognized well as a look Jace was often on the receiving end of when his temper and pride flared.

“Does she speak the truth?” Rhaenyra asked.

Aemond nodded barely imperceptibly. “If you’ll have me, dear sister.”

It was the same tone as that last dinner the night Viserys died. “Let us drain our cups to these three strong boys.” Insecurity made flesh, a cornered dog lashing out. Daena wished she could take it all away from him and make him see that his family were not so bad. She was, most unfortunately, impossibly and irreversibly fond of Prince Aemond.

“You will remain weaponless, under constant guard for the time being,” Rhaenyra said icily.

A luxurious prisoner; Daena was almost sure he would rather go to the Wall. But surely he had known what awaited him when he decided to change his allegiance. Daena had to believe Aemond knew what he was doing and welcomed the uphill climb he faced. Aemond went quietly, walking silently between Rhaenyra and Daena the entire hike back to the castle. When they reached the courtyard, all the servants, knights, and royal attendants stopped and stared.

Ghosts walked the halls of Dragonstone now, and Aemond would haunt her every waking moment until the day she died, she was certain. He had wormed himself into her heart, and he would stay there forever, for that was how Daena loved. But all that was to say, really, that she did not love Aemond.

Jace intercepted them in the entrance hall. His hair had grown longer in the time Daena was gone, long enough for the natural wave of his hair to loop into rich curls that tumbled past his chin. A stalwart and true prince, a worthy heir to the throne. His dark brown eyes flickered from Daena, to his mother, to Aemond, and then back to Daena. As his mouth dropped open, Daena thought he might say something, but he quickly closed it and rushed her at full speed. She was lifted from the ground into his arms as he embraced her with strength she did not remember him having.

“You’re alive,” he whispered into her ear through her hair. “I wept for days when Luke told us what happened. I’m furious with you.”

Daena laughed wetly as her nose threatened to begin to run. Being so cut off from family had been harder than she realized. At least in the Step Stones, her father, uncle, and cousins were there with her. Though Vaemond, Daemion, and Daeron were all prideful idiots, they provided the comfort of familiarity, of home. There had been no trace of any of the sort on Hog Isle.

“I will tell you everything,” Daena said, knowing it was a lie as she spoke. “And I wish for you to tell me everything.”.”

She and Jace parted and that was when he noticed Aemond. Whereas Rhaenyra’s face had betrayed her confusion, Jace’s face showed nothing short of rage. His hand went to the sword strapped to his hip, a new development for him on Dragonstone. He had never done that before and her heart broke just a bit for him. He would never be a boy again.

“Ser Lorent,” Rhaenyra said, addressing the Kingsguard that trailed after Jace with a healthy breadth. “Please locate Ser Harrold for me and tell him to meet us in the council chambers.”

The knight eyed Aemound warily, but nodded. “Yes, my queen.”

“Why is he not already rotting in the cells?” Jace spat.

“He claims he wishes to bend the knee,” Rhaenyra said.

Aemond stood a head and a half taller than her, but she seemed to loom even taller than him. Daena chanced a glance at Aemond’s face, pulled tighter than she had ever seen it before. This was humiliating for him, clearly. Was he really doing this all because he thought it was what she wanted? Though, she also supposed he had no other choice, really. It was either bend the knee and be a free man only in name, forever bound to suspicion and constant guard, or be sent to the Wall. And she wagered he would rather die than sentence himself to a dreary life in the frozen north. Jace scoffed at his mother’s words but said nothing in argument, turning to lead them further into the castle to the council chambers.

Ser Harrold was already waiting for them at the painted table. His face betrayed nothing.

“Ser Harrold,” Rhaenyra greeted. “I would like you to serve as Prince Aemond’s personal guard. He is to go nowhere alone, ever.”

“Yes, my queen,” Ser Harrold said without argument.

Aemond said nothing. Daena doubted he would until forced. Even then, too, it was not a sure thing. He had always been the silent type, even as a child from what she could remember. While Jace, Luke, and Aegon sprinted through the halls of the Red Keep or the dragonpit, Aemond often lingered behind. There were many times where the two of them found themselves walking together, watching the other boys run themselves into trouble, and it was rare he spoke to her even at the times she initiated conversation. Always sullen and quiet and strange, but she always enjoyed that. Even now, after everything, she enjoyed it. Enjoyed him.

“Tell me,” Rhaenyra said, “what happened in the sky above Storm’s End? I should like to hear it in your words, Daena.”

Daena glanced sideways at Aemond. “I told Luke to keep flying no matter what, to use Arrax’s size to his advantage and go where Vhagar could not, and I would intercept Vhagar.”

Vhagar. Not Prince Aemond. Daena wished she hated Aemond, that she would try and make his actions seem worse than they were rather than trying to minimize his fault. She had forgiven him, where it had not been her place to do so. But then again, Aemond had tried to dissuade Vhagar once he realized he went too far. She squared her shoulders and proceeded.

“Arrax was frightened and blew flames at Vhagar, and that was when Prince Aemond lost control of Vhagar. She began acting of her own accord, and I knew I had to stop them. So, I commanded Vermithor to kill. We fell into the bay and I was shocked to be alive,” Daena explained.

Rhaenyra arched an eyebrow and turned her gaze to Aemond. “From your perspective now.”

He bristled but relented. “Lady Daena speaks the truth.”

“That’s all you have to say for yourself?” Jace snapped. “You tried to murder my brother.”

“He returned home unharmed, did he not?” Aemond retorted with just as much venom.

“If I may?” Daena cut in. “Prince Aemond is too proud to admit this, but I am not and I have no wishes to let animosity grow where it can be stifled. I do not believe it was Prince Aemond’s intent to murder, perhaps to harass and frighten, but he did not set out to become a kinslayer. He tried to stop Vhagar once he realized he had gone too far. I could hear him yelling the commands.”

She could not meet Jace’s eyes as she spoke, and Rhaenyra’s own gaze became far too heavy to hold after a moment. She dropped her eyes to the floor, waiting for a response.

“Ser Harrold, please bring Prince Aemond to one of the guest chambers in the Sea Dragon Tower. Ensure he is comfortable, but do not let him out of your sight… And remove anything in the chambers he might use as a weapon. I will also leave it in your capable hands to see to the making of a guard shift.”

Ser Harrold nodded in deference to his queen and grabbed hold of Aemond’s arm to bring him away. When it was just Daena, Jace, and Rhaenyra left alone, the queen crumbled into a seat with a heavy sigh, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“Jace, go find a maid and have them prepare Daena’s usual chambers with a hot bath, fresh and warmed furs, and a big meal. I will update her on all she has missed out on.”

He cast one long, meaningful glance in Daena’s direction before nodding at his mother and leaving the room. They did not speak again until the heavy door groaned shut.

“Laenor has returned.”

“What?”

Rhaenyra looked down. “After your presumed death, I flew to Essos to retrieve him. It did not feel right to keep him away from your parents in their grief. Or his.” Again, her eyes turned glassy. “Your mother nearly set Storm’s End alight for Borros’s handling of things.”

Daena felt tackled by her guilt. While the people who loved her mourned her, she was whoring herself for the enemy without a care in the world. Whatever gods there were, they would not look favorably upon her. Of that she was certain. Aemond was right. She was a wicked and vile woman. And though he had not let her reputation fall to ruin, she was ruined at her core.

“There’s more,” Rhaenyra said. “Your mother— Daena, she…”

“Don’t,” Daena whispered. “Please, Rhaenyra—”

“It happened two weeks ago a–at Rook’s Rest. She— She met Aegon and Daeron on dragonback with Baela. Baela is fine, suffered some mild burns when fighting Daeron and Tessarion, but she’s back at Harrenhal with Daemon.”

Daena squeezed her eyes shut. “And my mother?”

“She did not survive her encounter with Aegon. Nor did Meleys hers with Sunfyre.”

“Gods.” Daena let out a choked sob. “And Aegon?”

“Crippled, half-burned, addled on Milk of the Poppy according to reports,” Rhaenyra said. “Sunfyre will never fly again.”

Daena’s eyes stung bitterly, but she did not let the tears so desperate to escape fall. Not now. Not when it was it all could have been avoided if Daena had not been— Well, it felt like her fault entirely.

“Your father continues to patrol the Gullet. Rhaena has gone to stay with my cousin, Jeyne Arryn, as her ward, along with Aegon and Viserys. Luke is at Driftmark currently, but he will be joining Daemon and Baela at Harrenhal in three days’ time.”

“I—” She ran a hand over her face and ran her nails hard down the side of her neck. “I need— My chambers—”

“Yes,” Rhaenyra said quickly. “Of course.”

The moment Rhaenyra offered her approval, Daena tore from the chamber. She sprinted through the gallery of the Stone Drum and burst into the Sea Dragon Tower at top speed. She needed to get to her chambers so she could fall apart in peace, but it was getting harder and harder to breathe.

“Out!” she yelled at the maids, half mad by the time she reached her chambers. “Out! Get out!”

They scurried away without complaint and the door had not even fallen completely shut before she fell to her knees and began to sob. Before she left for Storm’s End with Luke, her conversations with her mother had been short and clipped, filled with disagreements on how their House should proceed in the war. And to hear her mother had nearly scorched her own mother’s home in rage for her cousin’s hand in Daena’s supposed death… Her mother had died thinking she was dead, that they would be reunited in the next life. Another betrayal, another disappointment for her mother at her hands. Daena beat her knuckles bloody against the floor, raging at herself, at Aegon, at Aemond.

She managed to scrape herself out of her rain soaked clothes and sunk into the tub. As she slowly undid her outgrown braids with trembling fingers, the tears came even harder as she was hit by the realization that she would never again sit for her mother to do her braids for her. When Daena was a little girl, she would sit with a doll in her lap while Laena plaited careful braids into her hair, and then when Laena left Driftmark after marrying Daemon, Rhaenys took up the ritual. Now, both women were gone and there was no one to braid Daena’s hair.

She pulled her knees to her chest and dropped her hands into the water, wincing at the sting of her open wounds in the soapy water. The pain would have otherwise been of little bother, but tonight it only made her weeping worsen. Everything felt like a trial, a slight against her, the gods punishing her for abandoning and betraying her family.

When morning came, she even admitted so to Rhaenyra, taking care to not let what she and Aemond had been doing in the last month slip as she bared her soul in the solar of Rhaenyra’s apartments.

“Listen to me,” Rhaenyra whispered, holding Daena as she shook from the force of her own sobs, “you cannot blame yourself. We cannot possibly know what the world would look like today if Storm’s End had gone differently. Perhaps the fight at Rook’s Rest would have been between Aemond and you, or Aegon and myself, or any other combination of us.”

Daena sniffed, lifting her head to meet Rhaenyra’s eyes as her tears began to slow until they dried, sticky and salty, on her cheeks.

“Your mother loved you,” Rhaenyra said.

Daena sniffled again. “At least she’s with Laena now… and Laena’s son.”

And Daena’s twin as well, she supposed. Corwyn, who died in their shared cradle, sometime shortly after their first nameday. At the thought of him, the ache in her chest eased just a bit. She always thought of him alone in the next life, haunting the walls of High Tide for as long as she lived without him. But perhaps he never had been. Perhaps, her grandparents she never met were waiting beyond the veil for her. Perhaps death was nothing terrifying at all, but just like returning home. It was a small comfort in the sharpness of her grief.

“I apologize,” she said as clarity slowly returned. “I— It was unbecoming of me… You are my queen—”

“Daena.” Rhaenyra laughed softly, her thumb stroking the swell of Daena’s cheek. “You are as good as my blood, more loyal than any soul I’ve ever known. You need not feel ashamed for mourning.”

The grotesque display of mourning was hardly all Daena felt sorry for, though she could not confess those sins to anyone but the gods themselves.

Jace found her sometime later in Aegon’s Gardens, staring blankly into the rippling water of the dragon fountain. He sat down on the lip of the fountain beside her and sat in silence for a moment, dipping his fingers into the cool water and pushing around a fallen lily as it floated.

“Is it utterly idiotic for me to ask you how you are?”

Daena snorted and rubbed her nose. “Perhaps, but very kind.”

Jace offered her a crooked grin and knocked his shoulder against hers. “Would you like to train with me in the courtyard? Perhaps it will take your mind off things.”

“Yes,” Daena said, rubbing her palms dry on the skirt of her gown. “I think so.”

It had been far too long since she had a sword in her hands and she was aching to hit something. Jace stood before she could and offered his arm, which she supposed really was the only proper thing for him to do as her intended. They did agree to play their parts as his parents before him did. Perhaps they could even have another man sire their children as Rhaenyra did. That would certainly make things easier.

“What happened to your hand?” Jace asked once she wrapped her palm around his forearm.

Daena scrunched her nose, looking at the matching cuts on her free hand. “It’s nothing,” she said quickly.

“He didn’t hurt you, did he?” Jace asked in a low, suddenly very serious voice.

Daena’s stomach twisted. “No. No, most of the hurting was done by me.”

Jace’s eyes, so typically warm and brown, were sharp as steel. “Whatever it was you did, he deserved it and more.”

She shook her head. “No one deserves what I did. I… I murdered a part of his soul, Jace. Part of Laena’s soul!”

“But Luke is alive,” Jace said.

“I know,” Daena said, every emotion she suppressed over the last three and a half moons threatening to spill out of her. “And that’s the only reason I can still live with myself.”

Jace smiled in sympathy and placed his free hand over hers. He had grown in the time she was gone, now matching her in height and broader in the chest and shoulders. Her dearest friend, the only thing that made her smile after Corwyn’s death as a babe Laenor always said, had become a man right in front of her eyes and she had not even noticed. Sniffling, she pulled her hand out of Jace’s and embraced him instead.

“You will make the finest of kings one day,” she whispered fiercely.

“I must tell you something,” he blurted out, stepping out of the hug and dropping his eyes to the ground.

She furrowed brows together, confused by the sudden shift and the shadow of guilt darkening his features.

“When I was in Winterfell… Well, how can I say this?” He cursed quietly beneath his breath and ran a hand over the light stubble growing in on his chin. “Um, well… Laenor might not have sired me, but I do take after him— if you catch my meaning.”

“Oh!” Daena could not help it, the way her entire face dropped in shock. “I thought— You and Baela?”

Jace shook his head. “I have been fond of her, but never expressed my feelings. I knew Mother wanted to betrothe Luke and Rhaena, so I resigned myself to knowing I would likely have to marry for advantage.”

Daena could hardly blame him. She had been much of the same mind her whole life.

“So, what happened in Winterfell then?”

His cheeks twinged pink. “We received news of your death, and I drank myself half-blind. That was how it started, at least. And then we never stopped.”

“Jace,” Daena whispered, bringing her hands to his shoulders. “Who is this person?”

He squeezed his eyes shut. “I am only telling you because I know you understand the weight of this secret.”

“I know,” she assured him.

“It is Lord Cregan,” Jace croaked. “I know how foolish it is, but— Gods— I love him.”

It seemed that this was to be the fate of any Velaryon-Targaryen child. If she, Jace, Laenor, and Laena were any indication, she could only imagine how Luke, Joffrey, Baela, and Rhaena would turn out. Destined to ache and yearn for what you could never truly have.

“Do not feel shame,” Daena said, grabbing his hands in hers and stepping closer to look him in the eye. Any passerby would likely think it a romantic scene, which only would serve them well in the end once they needed to begin their charade of marriage. “We are in this together, you and I. We can do as our mothers arranged, but we only need to do it in name so long as we are honest and loyal to one another. Cregan is a good man. Take him to bed whenever you please.”

Jace snorted, rolling his eyes. “I have no wish to continue this conversation. Let us make haste to the training yard.”

Daena snickered, a lightness entering her lungs that she had not felt in so long. Still, it was only burdened by the weight of her guilt. For as much as she wished to be honest with Jace about what happened on Hog Isle, the bad blood between Aemond and him was too insurmountable. Maybe, someday, she could confess those indiscretions to him, but it would not be anytime soon. What she needed was for Laenor to return to Dragonstone from the encampment at Rook’s Rest. He was perhaps the only person in the world she could tell the truth to without fear of judgment or resentment. But until then, she would use the training yard to work out her feelings, to fight away the oppressive weight of her lies.

Her knuckles strained under the barely scabbed skin as she wrapped her fingers around the hilt of a training sword— blunted, yes, but still the weight of real metal. She twirled around her wrist to get a feel for the balance and stepped into the packed dirt of the sparring square. In a normal training session, she would wait for her opponent to lunge, but today she could not. Instead, it was she who made the attack, swinging her blade in a large arc towards Jace’s head. He parried just in time, stepping out of the way and trying to land a blow on her side as he pushed her blade away.

But she was a better, more experienced swordsman than he was. Generally, she knew better; she could exert self restraint, but that seemed to be something she was greatly lacking lately. She was furious, so mad with grief that her vision blurred until Jace was no longer himself but just the blurry splotch of an opponent. Later, she would wonder if this was what the histories of the First Men spoke of when they made reference to the bear-men House Mormont was allegedly descended from, who could enter a raging trance before a fight and grow stronger, quicker, more deadly. She did not relent until it was too late and the flat side of her sword smacked Jace across the face and he crumpled.

“Jace!” she screeched, shocked by her own actions. She dropped down beside him and let out a great sigh of relief to find him dazed but still conscious. “Jace! I am so sorry. I— I don’t— Seven Hells, you’re bleeding.”

His nose was crooked now, too; very likely broken. Another thing that was her fault. She needed to get a grip of herself or soon enough she would break. Or hurt someone worse than she hurt Jace, in a much more permanent manner. Gods, was she a mess.

“Let me bring you to Maester Gerardys,” Daena said, helping him into a sitting position. “You have every right to be furious with me, and I have no explanation to offer. It is the least I can do.”

“I would not turn down your company,” Jace said in a strange and nasally voice, cupping one of his own hands over his nose to staunch the bleeding. It did not do much and dark red blood poured from out of his fingers. “But you do not need to apologize.”

“I certainly do,” Daena scoffed.

“Perhaps no more training for a time,” he said lightly, as though it were his job to lighten the mood. “Do you feel better now, at least?”

Daena did not have the heart to tell him she felt worse. They walked to Gerardys’s chambers in silence, and she left him there to go be alone once more.

Dragonstone’s castle had two libraries. There was the main library in the Stone Drum with all the typical histories, manuals, and fables, and then there was the private Targaryen library in the Sea Dragon Tower where all the interesting literature was. In her youth, she once stumbled upon a journal that belonged to Maegor himself. Though, that was quickly confiscated from her by her Septa, and who knew what that old bat did with it. Today, though, Daena was in no such mood for controversial reading material. Instead, she settled on a book of legends of the Faceless Men of Braavos that the Good Queen Alysanne, left annotations in.

And it was there in the stacks that Aemond found her. Ser Harrold was maintaining a distance, seemingly believing that Aemond would not flee enough to at least walk far enough behind him that Aemond could pretend he was a free man. Aemond halted a few feet from her, frozen almost comically in the spot he stood.

“Prince Aemond.” She greeted him with an almost icy politeness. “Pardon me, I was just leaving.”

“Wait,” he said quietly as she moved to brush past him.

Daena was keenly aware of Ser Harrold’s presence. She did not doubt for a moment that anything she and Aemond said that he could hear would get reported back to Rhaenyra. She could not begrudge the knight, as that was his role as Lord Commander of the Queensguard, but it did make her life all the more difficult.

“What is it?” she asked, hoping she appeared uncaring and aloof to Ser Harrold even if she felt entirely otherwise.

“I wish for you to know I will not…” He trailed off, clearly unwilling to even give name to an allusion for the depravity they committed. Then, in a firm voice, said, “I will not hurt you, my lady.”

“I appreciate that,” was all she could say before running off like a coward.

But she could hardly have Ser Harrold reporting back to Rhaenyra that Daena had been staring up at Aemond all moon-eyed. Not when her affection for Aemond needed to stay as hidden and secret as possible. Not when she was already likely to be treated with precise suspicion the next time she met Daemon. Not when she was betrothed to Rhaenyra’s son.

Tales of the Faceless Men of Braavos clutched to her chest, she made her way from the private library on the top floor down several flights of stairs to the floor where her apartments were located, on the same level Jace, Luke, Rhaena, and Baela’s all were. Now, the place just felt empty. Two floors below her were Aemond’s chambers, which she knew from passing by Ser Harrold guarding the door that morning on her way to the gardens.

They were the same chambers Queen Visenya once kept Daena’s great-grandmother, Alyssa Velaryon, prisoner in. Daena wondered if Rhaenyra had done that for a reason, as it was with Visenya’s dragon that Aemond nearly killed Alyssa’s great-great-grandson. Some sort of poetic justice along the lines of Aemond demanding Luke take out his own eye. Perhaps the Targaryen siblings were more alike than they ever wished to admit.

Daena was not called upon for the war effort for another three days, but when she was— it was for a full council meeting. She tried to ignore the scourge of bile in the back of her throat as the men cheered her on and called her Dragonslayer. There, Rhaenyra announced that Lord Cregan Stark had written from White Harbor. He was sailing south to prepare for battle while the full force of the northern armies began their march south. Cregan would reach Dragonstone in two days shy of a fortnight, and the armies in a month if the winter weather permitted it.

At the mention of Cregan coming to Dragonstone so soon, Daena shot a quick glance at Jace from the corner of her eye. He was doing his very best to seem unaffected by the news, but she was sure he was happy.

Until then, Rhaenyra told them, there was not much to do on Dragonstone but wait. Gnawing on her lip, Daena waited until the chamber was emptied to approach the Queen.

“I’d like to go to Harrenhal,” Daena said. “Or to Rook’s Rest. Anywhere, really.”

Rhaenyra frowned. “I need you here for when Lord Cregan arrives. You will be needed then.”

“You just said yourself we have nearly a fortnight until his ship docks,” Daena pushed. “I can be useful.”

“You are plenty useful here,” Rhaenyra assured her.

“But—”

“Daena,” the older woman interrupted softly, reaching out to brush her fingertips over the back of Daena’s hand. “I am ordering you, as your Queen—” Her lips twitched upwards. “—to remain here on Dragonstone until the time comes for us to march on King’s Landing. I, your Queen, if you remember, need you.”

“You need me?”

“Of course, I do,” Rhaenyra whispered. “And not just as a dragonrider, but as a pupil. Someday, you will be Queen, and you must learn.”

Daena forced a smile and wondered if Rhaenyra could see through it.

“Very well,” she relented.

“Wonderful.” Rhaenyra pulled the crown from her head and dropped it onto the Painted Table with an unceremonious clatter. “Now that we’re alone, I must inquire after you regarding Aemond.”

Daena’s mouth had never been more dry. Not even when she smoked a pipe full of crushed herbs that seemed specifically designed to make one lightheaded and more delirious than when drunk with some sailors in the Stepstones.

“Yes?” she asked in a would-be casual voice.

“When you two were trapped,” Rhaenyra began, “he was never cruel to you, was he?”

Daena tried not to sigh audibly in relief. “No. Never… He never tried to harm me either, and there was ample opportunity. Instead, he… He… Well, he was far more reliable in attempting to survive together than I ever thought possible.”

Rhaenyra’s face gave away nothing. She blinked, tapped her ringed fingers on the stone table, and bounced her foot, but said nothing for the longest time. Daena grew itchy just standing there waiting. Finally, Rhaenyra broke the silence.

“Ser Harrold says my brother has been a model prisoner.”

Daena smirked despite herself. “I thought we were not to call him that?”

“Well, I am considering making him not my prisoner,” Rhaenyra said.

That was a surprise. As far as Daena knew, the two of them had not even spoken since that first night. Though, Daena supposed she never had asked, nor had she done more than go from her apartments to the gardens to the private library and back to her apartments. And she had taken all her meals alone aside from supping with Rhaenyra and Jace at night.

“Nothing radical just yet,” Rhaenyra said in a reassuring voice, as though she were worried about Daena’s reaction. “But, I have been thinking— How many times did my father forgive Daemon for his countless, excessive transgressions?”

Daena could only wager a guess, but she would put it somewhere above twenty.

“And how many foul names has Daemon been called? How many have I been called?” Rhaenyra continued, almost seeming to attempt to rationalize her thoughts in real time. “Aemond is young. Far younger than either Daemon or I were when we were making our worst mistakes.”

Daena did not know what to say, so she toed the line as close to honesty as she could. “If I may speak plainly, your grace, I am perhaps one of the only people in the Seven Kingdoms you do not need to convince of that.”

Rhaenyra smiled thinly. “You always did see the best in people.”

#aemond targaryen x ofc #aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen fic #aemond targaryen x reader #hotd au #hotd fic #fic: fireplace ashes

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