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lady-thorn · 2 years

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The Dragon’s Hoard

Summary: In this one, the dragon protects the princess.

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x OC!fem

Warnings: Smut. Fluff. Enemies to lovers trapped together. Part 2 might follow. ESL, please be patient. What am I doing on Tumblr?

Word count: +15k

Disclaimer: Feedback appreciated. Just wanted to share this unedited story with fellow Aemond fans.

***

“What are you doing, my love?” Queen Alicent approached her daughter with a smile. She should be planning the feast to celebrate Helaena’s marriage to Aegon, but when she looked out the window and saw her only daughter standing among the flowers, she decided to join the princess.

Helaena didn’t take her violet eyes off the animal she was watching, but there was a faint smile on her mouth as she said, “It has our colors.”

“It’s beautiful. I’ve never seen a red butterfly before,” Alicent said. She didn’t understand her daughter’s fascination with bugs and similar animals, but she tried. Most days, she despaired of forming a bond with Helaena, blamed herself for it. Their relationship was so different from the one the queen had with Lady Ravella, her ward… but then, she was an adult woman with three teenaged children when she met Lady Ravella.

At least, Helaena’s newest friend was a butterfly, instead of some spider or beetle… Alicent shivered, looking at Ravella, currently kneeling in front of the weirwood. Her being there explained Helaena’s presence; the two were inseparable, despite their ages. Their relationship reminded the queen of her early friendship with Rhaenyra, Helaena’s older half-sister. She hoped Ravella and Helaena remained stronger than herself and her now stepdaughter.

What surprised Alicent was Aemond being there as well. Her younger son always took pleasure in calm and tranquil places, though he and Ravella were anything but when together. And yet, he was sitting with his back against the white bark, the gash on his face still healing, visible from a distance. To her, it looked like he was waiting for Ravella, and she was torn between interrupting them before they could start arguing or letting them back, and only acting if necessary.

“It’s very rare,” Helaena agreed, cutting into her mother’s thoughts. She was able to entice the butterfly into flying closer, until the stunning animal settled on her palm. Only then, the princess turned to her mother, a concentrated frown on her face. “She’s bigger than I thought.”

“What a lovely sight,” Alicent smiled, and reached out to touch her daughter’s silver hair. Her heart stopped in her chest, and tears filled her eyes, when Helaena didn’t recoil from her touch. The princess disliked physical contact, which made it difficult for Alicent to console her or show affection. This time, Helaena accepted it, as if being touched were something she welcomed. “I admit I’m surprised to find you here. I expected you to be in your chambers.”

Helaena looked up and smiled back. “I had a dream last night. I think it’s the end of that one I told you about.”

“Really? The great dragon snarling at a hatchling?” Alicent was glad when Helaena nodded. Sometimes, her daughter’s dreams scared her, almost as much as they did Helaena herself. This one in particular was one Helaena had been trying to get to the bottom of for almost two years now.

Relieved, the queen sat on the bench — after chancing a last glance at her son and ward; thankfully, they seemed to be laughing together —, and motioned for her daughter to do the same. “Now I’m curious.”

“It wasn’t a hatchling with the dragon…” Helaena started, her fingertips brushing the butterfly’s red and black wings.

***

“LET ME GO!”

The scream echoed in the woods. Prince Aemond Targaryen looked around, trying to discern where it came from. He knew the owner of that voice, so the best course of action was to go the other way. Lady Ravella Whitmore was a prickly rose — she had too many thorns to be worth plucking — and quite enjoyed prickling him.

She was also a ward of the Crown, he thought with a defeated sigh. He couldn’t just walk away and leave her. In theory, he had the advantage: the kingswood was enormous, and no one could accuse him of being complicit in what was obviously a kidnapping. He could always say he didn’t cross paths with Ravella. After all, he came here a few weeks before the tourney to celebrate his father’s nameday, to be alone. The Red Keep was… crowded these days, after his older half-sister’s arrival with her family.

On the other hand, he wouldn’t ever forgive himself if any harm befell Lady Ravella because of his failure to act. He was cynical and aloof, yes, but he was also a knight. He had duties. He could tell right and wrong apart. And letting a woman be violated in any way went against his nature.

So, mourning the peace he was about to lose, he sighed, and followed her screams.

***

Ravella’s kidnapper was “kind” enough to provide her with a tent, where she was expected to “get ready” before he… consummated their love. She wanted to run, but there was a guard positioned on every side — she was surrounded. Those men would tackle her to the ground and let their lord rape her to force her into accepting his marriage proposal.

She’d rather die.

By now, her disappearance must’ve been noticed. She’d heard Sunfyre and Dreamfyre soaring in the sky, screeching, some hours ago, when King’s Landing was still close, but couldn’t tell if it was because their riders were looking for her, or merely because Prince Aegon and Princess Helaena were out there, having fun. If they were looking for her… she choked on air, swallowing the tears. She didn’t think the king, her guardian, would order Ser Philip Montford intercepted. For all intentions and purposes, the man and his party were coming home from his seat in the stormlands to attend the tourney. The truth was, they had been waiting there for a few days, while Ser Philip and two of his people kidnapped Ravella on her way to an orphanage the queen patronized. As one of Queen Alicent’s ladies-in-waiting, Ravella was expected to handle some business for her, as was common knowledge.

Even if her maid, Rosey, had notified her guardians of her going missing, it still gave Ser Philip at least three hours of advantage. They were deep in the kingswood. And dusk was— “My lady, are you decent?” a man asked from outside.

“Yes!” she turned around with a frown. The flap of the tent was revealed to show — she sucked in a breath — a septon.

“Ser Philip—” the septon started.

“Is mad if he thinks I’ll marry him. Go back and tell him that,” she sat on a chair, her arms crossed over her middle. She didn’t expect her denial to deter him for long, because it should’ve detained him a long time ago, at her first rejection. The problem was, Ser Philip was obsessed, and he wanted her compliant. Ravella couldn’t tell if it was a result of his vanity or his fear of what the king would do if she had complaints. There was a slight chance he might end up gelded for raping her — and she’d make sure all the Seven Kingdoms knew it was rape.

The septon tried to plead with her, by listing all of his lord’s qualities, none of which mattered to her. Ravella had an idea of what she expected in a husband, and Ser Philip wasn’t that man. Finally, the septon sighed and said, “As you wish, my lady. What is—?” he shrieked when a screeching sound came from the back of the tent, as if someone was tearing it to shreds. “Prince Aemond?”

Ravella got to her feet, staring at the merciless one-eyed prince. He had a sword in hand, and the blade was running red with blood, as was the sailcloth he’d cut. Aemond’s right eye wandered all over her. “Are you alright?”

“Physically, yes. Ser Philip’s going to try to rape me.”

A smirk. “Ser Philip has strange tastes.” Her fists clenched. Aemond looked out. “Come on, I’ve killed the guards. The others are soon to follow.”

She rushed to join him. Aemond stared at the septon. “Tell Ser Philip he’ll have to face justice. We’re coming after him with fire and blood.” The older man nodded, his face pale.

Aemond took Ravella by the hand, keeping her to his left, so she wouldn’t be injured if he were attacked — the right was his dominant side, and he’d lost use of his left eye a few months after she moved into the Red Keep. What most people would call a death sentence, Aemond demoted into an inconvenience. They ran into the woods, and Ravella looked back towards the tent, and caught a glimpse of the septon making a “shoo” gesture at her. “The septon is stalling,” she grinned.

“Good. We’re too far from the capital, however. We’ll have to set up camp.”

“Don’t you have a horse?” she grimaced at the thin green branch that struck her across the cheek.

“No. I came on Vhagar. She isn’t here.”

After what seemed like hours, Ravella was gasping for breath. It was cold, and she was tired. The air felt like ice cutting at her throat and lungs. “Aemond, I can’t—”

“Drink this,” he paused to give her something. “Slowly. You don’t want to get drunk. I won’t carry you.”

The wine was too sweet for her taste, so she merely took a gulp. It was cold, too. She wiped her mouth with her forearm as she handed the canteen back. Aemond took it, before he took her hand. They walked now, carefully. The last thing they needed was falling and breaking something. “Look, a hill!” she pointed.

Aemond watched her finding. Apparently, he deemed it safe and took her up there. Climbing was difficult — the ground was muddy, and the mud was soft and falling apart when they stepped on it; they took three steps forward and slid two back. The stones on the top of the hill were slippery, worn out by time and the elements. It’d be a nasty fall.

“I was hoping for a hut or something,” she confessed. Looking around, she saw only a weirwood stump, a beacon of white wood turned into stone with some faded pinkish blemishes from the tree sap. That was good enough; no one would approach without them seeing — unless it was dark. “At least, the old gods will protect us,” she smiled.

“I have a tent in my bag. Help me with it.”

It was a small tent, made of sailcloth. The dark fabric would also provide a cover, especially after Aemond turned it so the three-headed dragon of his House faced the mountain wall, instead of the direction they’d come from. It’d also provide a refuge from the rain and the cold — it’d be better if they weren’t soaked already. The wind complicated things, so it was almost dark when they were finished setting it up. “You don’t happen to have blankets with you, right?” she asked as soon as they went in, her teeth chattering.

“There’s one in the bag. Shed your gown so you won’t get it wet. We’ll have to share later.”

It was difficult to hold the blanket and remove her dripping gown, but Ravella managed. Aemond facing away helped. When she was finished, she said, “It’s done. But I’m still cold.”

“Yes, there’s no wood here, though. We’ll have to make do,” he replied, matter of fact, and removed his coat. It was made of thick linen instead of the usual leather he favored. His boots were next. “We’ll have to lie side by side and leave here as soon as dawn breaks. Maybe Vhagar will be around.”

“Do you want the blanket—?”

“Keep it for now. I’m not freezing yet.” Ravella begrudged him that dragon blood Targaryens were reported to have. Having it in her veins now would be welcome. “How did Ser Philip get you?”

“He was disguised as a beggar outside the Keep. When I approached to offer him some coins, he covered my face with something. I woke up outside King’s Landing.” Her fingers traced her wrists and calves. Her skin was protected from the ropes by silk, so there were no marks. It chilled her to think of all the trouble Ser Philip had gone through to kidnap her.

“He shall be brought to justice. Are you sure he didn’t rape you?”

“I can’t say what he did while I was unconscious. I believe he fondled me whenever possible, but there was no blood or pain between my legs,” she blinked the tears away. She wouldn’t cry in front of Aemond, even under the cover of darkness. He was her childhood enemy and she was his; it was a position she’d earned for being unfazed while everyone else was scared of him.

“He’ll lose his hands as well as cock,” Aemond said. It was a promise.

“I won’t marry him.”

“He’ll be dead before that,” he assured her.

***

There were two pelts in the bag, which Aemond had meant to use as rugs. He gave one to Ravella, and took the other, each one spread side by side on the cold, hard ground, his sword between them. He wouldn’t be accused of taking advantage of her — not that Ravella would do that. Her attacks were always grounded in truth. She considered lying beneath her. But still, when they returned to the Red Keep and told his family about her rescue, he wanted everyone to know he’d been honorable. More for her sake than for his — men didn’t suffer the consequences of those situations. Ravella, however, would be ruined.

Fulfilling his promise of seeing Ser Philip punished would be a challenge. His father wasn’t the most determined person. King Viserys didn’t deserve his crown. He dealt with problems by pretending they didn’t exist, hoping they’d go away. It never happened, and indeed, the problems became worse sooner rather than later. Aemond prayed they’d arrive in King’s Landing to find his grandfather, the Hand, sitting the throne. Otto Hightower would be influenced by his daughter, Aemond’s mother, to serve justice. He’d understand Ser Philip’s action as high treason.

His father? Viserys might as well as reward the man by marrying Ravella to him.

Clattering broke his chain of thoughts. He glanced in Ravella’s direction. “Drink more wine. It’ll warm you up.”

“I don’t want to get drunk,” she stuttered badly from the clanking of her teeth.

“It’s just a sip. Take it,” he insisted. “Are you feeling better?”

“N-no.”

Aemond sighed. They couldn’t make fire, so heat should be found another way. There was only one thing to be done. “Sit. Remove your smallclothes — they aren’t helping. Give me your arm.”

“Which one?” she asked after sitting. It was dark, so he couldn’t see if she still had her smallclothes on, but he supposed she didn’t, due to the sound that had filled his ears of wet silk rubbing against skin.

“Either one,” he found her left arm in the dark, and began rubbing it with vigor. From her wrist to her elbow, until it felt like his palms would ignite. “The other,” he repeated the gesture, and asked, “Have you had lunch?”

“No, I was taken a little before lunchtime. This isn’t working. I’m still cold. I’ll get frostbite.”

“You need extreme cold for that,” he smirked in the dark, although he was furious over having to add hunger to the list of ills Ser Philip had forced upon her. What sort of dolt didn’t properly woo a woman?

“I feel extremely cold,” she coughed.

“I know. At least, this will keep your blood running in your veins. You won’t be in pain,” his words were enough to entice her into offering first a foot, then the other. His callused hands travelled from her delicate toes to the middle of her soft, silken thighs. The sound of his skin scraping hers was oddly discomforting. “How can you walk on these tiny, small little feet?” he asked.

“They’re not. I’m too tall for that.”

“You barely reach the middle of my chest, Ravella,” he shot back.

“I’m taller than your mother.”

“Hm. One or two inches, at most,” he scoffed. “But then, tiny little feet for tiny little butterflies, right. Is your skin numb? No? Good, come here. There’s a way we can avoid getting colder. It’s a hard one to stomach, but we don’t have a choice, now, hm.”

She knew exactly what he was talking about. “I won’t—”

“Or you can wait for frostbite to catch up with you. If I wake up in the morning to find you dead from the cold, I won’t bother dragging your corpse back to the Red Keep,” he rolled his eye. “I won’t brag about it, if that’s what worries you.”

“I know. It’s just… I want to go my marriage bed a maiden. What if we do something and there are… consequences?”

“You will leave this tent a maiden, as fresh as fallen snow, pure as a lily,” he shook his head, irritated, but not surprised. “I won’t lose control. It’s just some petting to make the cold go away. If I had a way to build us a fire, or feed you, I would, but right now, I don’t.”

Rationally, he knew Ravella was one of the most beautiful women in the Seven Kingdoms; it was why her unmarried status came as a surprise. However, Aemond wasn’t attracted to her. He didn’t want her. He preferred his women to be sweet and pliable, which his parents’ ward most definitely was not. She was a respected enemy. Too much his equal to whet his appetite in such a way, which was exactly why he looked forward to trading provocations with her.

But, with the cold starting to bother him as well, they didn’t have a choice. If they were in the middle of the kingswood, he might’ve tried to lead her to the coast, and follow it until they came across the Wendwater; some storm lords would be bound to travel through it, to get back to the kingsroad. From there, Aemond and her would be able to return home.

Until that time came, though… “Come here,” he ordered after retrieving his sword and putting it away. He found Ravella’s hands in the dark and brought her closer, helping her lower herself to the ground between his spread legs. The first brush of her skin against his shouldn’t have been so good, but it was. Aemond made her kneel on the rug, her knee against his balls. “I swear to the old gods and the new that I won’t ruin you, Ravella,” he said.

She inhaled. “Thank you, Aemond.”

That settled, she relaxed against him, not wincing when his cold fingers began wandering over her back. Some sounds escaped her throat, and she tilted her head. He took the opportunity to kiss her neck, applying pressure on a spot that made her moan and clutch to him. His lips traveled forward, ready to claim hers, but she halted him by saying, “I’ve never— I want to save my first kiss for my husband. Is that alright?”

“You’ve never been kissed?” he couldn’t hide his surprise. Her plump, red lips were made for kissing; even he knew that.

“No. As I said, only my husband shall do that. Kissing looks so intimate,” he could hear the embarrassment in her voice.

Aemond weighted her words, saw the truth of them. “Alright, then. No kissing on the mouth.”

She let out a shaky breath. “Thank you.”

He licked the side of her mouth. He hadn’t promised not to. The contact of his tongue made her jump, then press her body against him, her fingertips sinking into his shoulders. He liked the rawness of that, almost as much as he liked the way she moaned his name.

He took a fistful of her lush hair to keep her throat exposed, and lavished it with languid, soft kisses. He had to be careful to avoid leaving bruises, because if he did, her honor would be questioned.

“Aemond, what— what should I do?” her fingers opened and closed against his skin, as if she wanted, but wasn’t sure about how, to caress him.

“Just what you’re doing. Don’t worry,” the truth was, she was colder than him. His blood was boiling. Just the feeling of her breathing upon him was enough to make him hot.

His hands circled her back and settled on her buttocks. His fingers sank on her flesh, and he groaned in approval. He hadn’t imagined her ass was so plump. Aemond used the momentum to have her sitting on his spread thighs, straddling him. His erection was pressed between them, the head resting on her stomach. While she moaned out her surprise, he lowered his head, trying to find her breasts in the darkness. When he did, and circled a nipple with his tongue, Ravella’s hand fisted his wet hair, and her hips jerked against his cock. She was so wet, the way she moved a caress in itself. Their juices blended together, making her slide easily along his cock.

In no time, he was moving from a breast to the other, kissing and sucking, leaving bruises and marks behind, for he wanted to mark her flesh. It was mad, this desire to brand her, so she’d know no other man could ever make her feel like this. It was like the enmity between them was giving way to something else, a small concession meant to keep them alive so they could resume their bartering come morning.

He loved the taste of her skin. The texture. The way it adapted around his mouth as he tugged at and sucked her nipples, making them turn harder and more sensitive. He let go of the one his tongue was wrapped around and closed his teeth on the flesh under it, his fingers playing with the wetness between her legs. Ravella screamed, her grip on his biceps tightening as she rode that first orgasm.

Aemond didn’t waste time; while she was shrieking and thrashing, he laid her down and settled his upper body between her silky inner thighs. Her scent was dazzling. His nostrils inflated to take more in. Inside his mouth, his tongue… itched, wanting a taste, as if it had a mind of its own. He indulged — and positioned the tip at her entrance, to gather as much of her flowing juices as possible. They both moaned; Ravella panted, and he groaned deep from the back of his throat.

She was delicious, he thought. How were they supposed to go back from this?

In no time, his lower face was coated in her juices. His thumbs held her lips spread, and he licked each inch of skin. She trembled beneath him, when he licked around her entrance — such a small, tight little hole… he hardened his tongue to thrust in. As she clamped shut around him, her hand found his hair again, keeping him in that position so she could ride his mouth onto another orgasm, his tongue inside her, licking the inside of her walls, his nose pressed on her mound, inhaling her intoxicating scent, his chin a mess from her juices.

He had a flash of laying down on the ground and her sitting on his face, and while the position was too submissive for his taste, it was one he wouldn’t mind practicing with her. She tasted so good, and was so passionate, he wouldn’t mind baring himself like that. He wanted her to fuck his face, to take her pleasure of him. As long as those sweet juices kept pouring out.

As the orgasm approached, her legs threatened to close. He couldn’t have that, so he put her thighs over his shoulders, to keep her spread. “Oh my— gods, Aemond—” she moaned, and it sounded like she was crying.

He should tell her to let go, but no power in the world could make him remove his tongue from her sweet cunt. Unable to respond, he began drawing shapes inside her, realizing it was his name, over and over again. He’d die a happy man, he thought when her hips arched and she let out another scream, her feet curling into balls. After her buttocks fell on the rugs again, and she remained a limp, sated, panting mess, he took it out from her, and hurried to lick her juices, not wanting to waste any. Her flesh was a bit sensitive, her body still shaking from aftershocks… but he wasn’t done.

His next target was her clit. His fingers began massaging the lips, leading up to it— “Are you trying to kill me?” she gasped, trying to hold his wrists.

“No. Why you ask?” he smiled.

“I can’t take another,” she blurted out.

“You can give me at least one… or one hundred. I’m not done yet,” with that, his lips placed a kiss on her swollen, wet clit, before closing around it and sucking, carefully.

Ravella swore, but didn’t voice a complaint, so he continued what he was doing. He kept his pace unhurried, knowing she was sensitive. But his good intentions didn’t mean anything when she continued to make those maddening, needy sounds, sweet whimpers that sounded like music to his ears. The more she shuddered, the hungrier he became for her, the more he wanted this night to never end.

It was dangerous. Seeing her in this light, wanting her, it would drive him insane.

Only, he wouldn’t stop. It was too late for that.

His left arm settled on her hips, pining her down, while his right hand began drawing circles on her inner thigh. His mouth continued its relentless assault on her clit, his pace quickening when she began sobbing, unused to the intensity of those sensations. For a moment, Aemond considered slowing down, letting her rest. She was a virgin. This had to be shocking.

However, his unwillingness to cease went beyond that. He needed her to climax at least once more. So, he made her. It was fast. And sexy. Though he couldn’t see her, his brain insisted on picturing her cheeks flushed, her eyes — “deep pools of molten indigo,” a fitting, albeit tacky, description made by a besotted singer — snapping shut as, with a strangled scream, Ravella surrendered to the immense pleasure he gave her.

When it was over, she was boneless, utterly satiated, and laughing. Aemond, on the other hand? He was about to explode. He kept his head between her legs, puffing hot air on her wetness, his fist closed around his cock, his teeth clamped down on his lips at the feeling of the amount of pre-come leaking from him. It was like a waterfall. Still, he failed to suppress the guttural growl that left his mouth as he touched himself, the sounds he produced obscene, the engorged veins— “Let me,” her hand, so soft, so silken, covered his.

“You don’t have to,” he panted.

“I do. I must learn.”

“For your husband,” he guessed with a growl.

“Yes.”

The word was enough to make him let go, but not before showing her how he liked to be touched. Let her future husband wonder where she’d learned to caress a man, he thought with a thrust of his hips, wroth. Let him go mad with jealousy, searching the faces of every man in court in an attempt to find out who’d taught Ravella that, who she was thinking of when he fucked her.

There was no doubt in his mind Ravella would find marriage unsatisfying. It was more than pettiness saying another man couldn’t please her the way he did — to the point she was shedding her shyness to explore, with both hands, every contour of his cock, pulling on its tight skin, cupping his balls with her hands… the only thing she didn’t do was suck him, but— Aemond’s fingers dug into the earth when her lips placed a kiss to the leaking slit. “Oh, yes — do it again!” he begged. She had more mercy on her than he did, because she obliged. She placed a trail of close-lipped kisses along the shaft, rubbing her mouth on the fluid.

She had to be tasting it, it was impossible not to. And if she had continued to do that, then it meant she liked it. He allowed his mind to wander, to think of what it’d be like to be explored like that in a brightly lit room, where he could watch her reactions. He knew what she looked like when something caught her attention, and wanted to see that when she studied his cock’s responses to her touch and gaze.

“I’m close,” he announced, and took her hand, holding her wrist to still it so he could fuck her fingers. In the end, he shuddered more than she did — the jets of come like lava, it wouldn’t surprise him if there was steam coming off; he roared each time his balls contracted. He screamed her name. And, he was sure, he made a mess. That was for the morrow, though.

He collapsed on the rug and brought her closer, holding on to her hip. “Are you warm yet?”

“Yes. There’s some of your, eh, on my belly… it’s hot,” he could almost hear her blush.

“You won’t get pregnant from it,” he said. “We’ll take a dip in the river to wash off before we continue our journey, hm. Did I hurt you?”

“Aside from trying to kill me? No,” they laughed together.

“Good. I can list at least one hundred different worse ways to die. If you feel cold again, do not hesitate to wake me up,” he said. “Good night, Ravella.”

“Good night, Aemond,” she replied, and fell asleep immediately.

***

It always got a little colder after three in the morning, so Ravella didn’t feel an ounce of guilt for waking him up. Aemond announced dawn was close, so they agreed to not delay. They stroked and caressed each other until each one exploded, because they’d need it — their clothes were still soaked. Aemond had sworn he’d try to hunt something for them to break fasting, so they’d not starve until they met with a storm lord or happened upon an inn.

Her body was oddly languid when she fell on the pelt, resting her head on his shoulder. His eyepatch was gone, the water having ruined the leather. “Won’t your eye hurt if you try to fly without it?”

“Maybe. But I don’t have another,” he replied, getting tense when she touched his cheek just under the scar.

“I can give you a sleeve of my gown. It isn’t much, but at least, it’ll protect your skin from the wind and cold. I hate the cold,” she shivered.

“If you need more warming up—” he started, laughing, his fingers closing on her hip… only to be interrupted by someone opening up the tent.

Ravella screamed, as he reached for his sword. They both stared, dumbfounded, when Princess Rhaenys Targaryen, Aemond’s cousin, closed as much of the tent around her leather-clad body as possible to keep the others — possibly an army — outside. “Morning, cousin. I see you’re fine,” she smiled, before shifting her gaze to Ravella.

This wasn’t ideal, she knew as she dressed up. Aegon’s voice could be heard outside — him, Aemond could convince to keep quiet. Helaena, his sister, the same. But Princess Rhaenys? She was sure to tell the king what she’d seen, even if she didn’t have the context. Ravella would be ruined.

“Don’t worry about it,” he touched her elbow.

She nodded. He was lying about the implication of solving that problem, but she appreciated his trying. Aemond also had a reputation, which would be tarnished, because everyone believed him without vices — she knew better, however; she’d overheard more than one lady giggling to her friends about their ‘arrangements.’ Aemond was a man, after all; he had needs. But he also cultivated the repute he had. He wouldn’t suffer same as she, but still… “Cut off the sleeve so I can wrap it around your eye.”

He did. Her suggestion obviously angered him, but he obeyed, and she tied the sleeve around his head while he crouched. She quite liked the way his silken silver hair, a little tousled as a result of getting wet and — she sighed — their exercise, looked in contrast to the blue silk. After that, she gathered one of the pelts and folded it, to put it in the bag, while he did the same to the other. She hesitated before leaving the tent behind him. What was Princess Rhaenys thinking about Ravella?

“Brother,” Aegon greeted, shifting his body to peer at Ravella, “Lady Whitmore. I thought to call out, but you sounded busy,” he grinned.

Aemond’s hand tightened on the sword pommel. “That was very considerate of you, brother,” he glanced around. Ravella’s blood froze when she noticed Princess Rhaenyra’s oldest son and Prince Daemon’s daughters standing to the side with their grandmother. The four of them studied her and Aemond with curiosity, discussing something in whispers. “How did you find us?”

“I followed Vhagar,” Ravella’s mid-section bent like Aemond, and they found the dragon behind the tent, watching and judging. Or was it a fruit of her imagination? “Actually, I landed to ask you to help search for her. I thought to let you finish whatever you were doing,” his lips curved with malice, “and then you said her name… so I figured out you were together. Two rabbits, one stone.”

If possible, Aemond’s face became sourer. “And the others?”

“They must’ve seen the tent, too. You’d left the Red Keep without notice, and didn’t come back. We got worried.”

“Did you?” Aemond growled.

Aegon merely laughed. “Can we go now? Mother was almost laying an egg. I’m sure she’ll be relieved to discover Lady Whitmore was with you, instead of some ruffian.”

“Aegon,” Aemond’s voice made him stop on the way to his dragon. “Ser Philip kidnapped her.”

The older prince frowned, but nodded, before resuming his walk. As he did, Ravella noticed Princess Rhaenys and her granddaughters were already in the air. The grandson, Prince Jacaerys, walked past Aegon and stopped four feet away from them. She was surprised at the hatred burning in his gaze as he glared at his uncle. “Lady Whitmore, are you alright?” he asked.

She felt, more than saw, Aemond tense. She knew what the question meant, and also knew of the difficult relationship between Princess Rhaenyra’s sons and her half-brothers. “Yes, my prince. Thank you for asking.”

“Give me your coat,” Aemond ordered.

“Why would I do that… uncle?” Jacaerys sneered.

“It’s not for me, but for Lady Whitmore, sweet nephew.”

“Why don’t you give her yours?”

“Because mine is damp, your little imbecile,” he snapped. “Her clothes are soaked, she can’t be allowed to be on dragonback as she is, or she’ll freeze.”

Prince Jace sighed. He tossed his coat to Ravella. Aemond caught it in the air and put it around her — it was enormous, which he deemed good. When he was finished, his nephew was flying away already, and she began to feel lethargic. “We have ten minutes to get to King’s Landing. Try to nap on the way there,” he instructed, helping her walk to Vhagar. He unmade the tent while she waited, leaning against the perfectly warm beast. His bag on his shoulder, he then helped her climb the rope stairs up, until she was sitting between his legs. Her head was heavy as he wrapped a rope around their waists, so she wouldn’t slide off while they flew.

It was her first time on a dragon’s back, and she wouldn’t appreciate the sight. She didn’t even notice when Aemond all but carried her down, with the aid of the dragon masters that guarded the Dragon Pit. She didn’t see when he carried her to the wheelhouse, where the rest of his family waited. Someone helped her take a seat, and her head lolled to the side, her forehead glued to the window. Their conversation reached her ears as if from a distance. “What happened to her?” someone asked.

“Ser Philip made her inhale that potion made from poppy seed,” Aemond replied. “I believe it’s still affecting her.”

“Why hasn’t it affected you?” Prince Jace snarled.

“Because I didn’t inhale it,” Aemond’s weight made her lose her balance, and she fell against him. “I read the effects can last for three days.”

“Why did he kidnap her?” Princess Rhaenys.

“Because he’s been trying to woo her for the past year and she refused his advances. In the beginning, he was sure she was trying to charm him, but then he realized she was serious. That bloody idiot.” He snorted. After that, no one else said anything.

***

“Ravella, wake up,” Aemond beat his fingers against her cheeks. It was the most delicate way he knew of waking anyone who wasn’t Aegon up. She startled, looking around. “We’re expected in the throne room. Let me talk, hm?” he held her shoulders until she nodded, still confused.

He held her elbow as they walked to the room, escorted by Ser Willis Fell of the Kingsguard. Outside the empty room, Grand Maester Orwyle waited with a cup of steaming tea, which he held out to Ravella. “Princess Rhaenys said she was given a sleeping drought. This should help,” he explained to Aemond, who held it for her.

“It’s warm,” she said.

He couldn’t help but grin. “It does help, maester. Thank you.”

The heavy doors closed behind them. Aemond’s gaze locked on… shit, his father was sitting the throne. Still, they approached. When they were close enough, his mother asked, “Is Lady Whitmore—?”

“Ser Philip befuddled her. We’ll have to ask Orwyle more about it later, because I’ve never seen Lady Whitmore like this.”

“I’m getting better,” she moaned beside him, rubbing at her temples. “My head’s going to explode.”

“The very definition of getting better,” Aemond drawled, then turned to the throne. “That man kidnapped your ward.”

“Ser Philip’s intentions—”

“Were to rape her, then force her to marry him. He should be gelded and sent to the Wall.”

“Did he rape her?” Viserys asked.

“Not while she was conscious. Gods only know what he did when she wasn’t.”

“Don’t you know?” his father scoffed. “Luke told me he heard you partaking in… unmarried liberties with Lady Whitmore.”

Aemond glared at his nephew, until his smirk died and he had no choice but to hide beneath his mother’s skirts. Rhaenyra embraced her son, whispering something. “It was dark,” was all he said. “She sustained she was a maiden when he took her.”

“Then septas should be summoned to assess her state,” his mother said.

“If she is, Ser Philip shouldn’t be punished for rape. He didn’t touch her,” Viserys justified.

Aemond exhaled. He was too tired to deal with his father’s ineptitude, so he wasn’t cordial when he said, “Lady Whitmore is your ward, Your Grace. She’s under your protection. Surely, you aren’t as feeble-minded as to not understand whatever you fail to do to bring her kidnapper to justice will reflect badly on you, as well? It won’t matter if the Maiden herself takes form and proclaims her maidenhood, the lords and ladies will disparage her all the same and gossip about your failure to protect her.”

“Aemond!” Alicent snapped.

“No, no, Alicent, let the boy talk,” his father chuckled, his voice raspy. His right side was covered by a mask, his eye eaten away by the mysterious disease that made his body rot — Aemond found it oddly poetic, as he’d refused to act after Luke blinded Aemond. His left side had a sardonic smile turned in Aemond’s direction. “Do you deny you took liberties with her?”

“No, Your Grace.”

“Why did you? Surely, you aren’t as feeble-minded as to not understand taking advantage of your parents’ ward would reflect badly on you?” he vomited Aemond’s words back.

Aemond could appreciate the sarcasm, and inclined his head, acknowledging the truth, “It was a desperate measure, Your Grace. I couldn’t build us a fire, nor was I prepared to have company for the night. It rained, and Lady Whitmore and I were drenched. We had to generate heat somehow.” He glanced at Ravella’s ashen face. “As for what people will say about me, I challenge them to say anything. Whether it be good or bad, about me or, more importantly, about Lady Whitmore. It just won’t matter if the Crown just lets Ser Philip walk away without punishment.”

His father burst out laughing. He swirled his right hand up in the air, just three fingers moving, the other two spaces in the black glove empty — more casualties of his disease, sustained before Aemond was born. “You have a way about you, boy… you don’t even bother hiding it anymore, do you?”

Assuming his father was talking about the disdain he felt, Aemond confirmed, while everyone else stared, wondering what the king meant, “I find that holding back is a waste of time and energy, Your Grace. And lying is beneath me,” he smiled.

The king nodded. “Fair enough, Aemond. Lady Whitmore, you were saved from Ser Philip, but did you need saving from Prince Aemond?”

“No, Your Grace,” she replied after sneaking a look at him. “The prince didn’t force me.”

“His not forcing you is a result of a long, secret affair?”

“No, Your Grace,” tears of humiliation burned in her eyes.

“How did Prince Aemond save you?”

“He killed two guards standing vigil outside the tent I was being held in.”

“How did he happen to just walk upon you, Lady Whitmore?”

“I believe he heard me screaming for help.”

The king nodded. “Ser Philip has made several offers for your hand. Why didn’t you accept them?”

“I dislike Ser Philip and would rather die than be wed to him.”

“I see. You’ve always had a curious relationship with Aemond. Would you rather die than marry him?”

She lowered her head. “I believe I informed you and the queen I’d only marry for love.”

Another nod. Aemond wondered when she’d had that conversation with his parents. “Because of your parents,” Viserys said.

“Exactly.”

“That’s no longer an option,” the king warned. “You have a choice: Ser Philip or Aemond.”

“Lady Whitmore and I shall marry,” Aemond spoke up.

“I didn’t know you were so fond of her,” his father chuckled.

“You do not know a lot of things about me, Your Grace. Lady Ravella has been severely compromised because of me. I won’t run from my responsibilities.”

“Very well, then. You shall marry a week hence,” the king decreed.

He was about to get up when Aemond’s voice interrupted him, “What about Ser Philip?”

“You can seek justice in your betrothed’s name, Aemond.” He shook his head. “What did you expect me to do?”

“Honestly, I don’t know. I just knew whatever you chose to do, Your Grace, it’d be another variation of what you always do — not enough.”

***

“You shouldn’t have said that,” Ravella said as Aemond all but dragged her to her chambers.

“He’ll survive,” he growled.

“Aemond… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for this.”

“I know. Go rest, Ravella. We’ll talk later, if you want. Right now, I want a bath and a meal. I believe Rosey has had one drawn since she got word you’d been found.”

“Yes, I… I didn’t thank you for saving me from that man’s clutches. I’m sorry I—”

His expression, when he looked down at her, was kind. “There’s no need to thank me. I did what was right. Go rest,” he repeated, squeezing her shoulders.

She was nodding when the door opened to reveal Rosey. There were fat tears running down the plump older woman’s face. “My heart, you’re safe,” she sobbed, holding Ravella close. She smelled of flowers and honey, a smell so comforting, Ravella closed her eyes and started crying, too. The shock and fear of this past day was finally catching up to her. She was so busy sobbing, she didn’t hear Aemond’s soft order that Rosey let her rest as long as she needed.

When she walked into her room, it was to find the most delectable scent of lavender permeating the air. Rosey took her to the tub, placed in front of the creeping fireplace, and helped her undress. She said nothing when she saw the white stains of Aemond’s seed on Ravella’s gown and belly, just set everything aside to be washed. While Ravella sat in the tub, soothed by the scented oil, she washed and brushed Ravella’s hair, which had begun to smell. Two towels were used to dry it as best as possible.

Then someone knocked. Ravella saw, from the corner of her eye, some servants walk in with covered platters, the first one telling Rosey something, and all of them leaving. “Look, sweet one, he sent you food. Eat something before you sleep, you hear. You’ll feel better.”

Ravella did. She didn’t even bother to put on a nightgown — the heavy robe felt warm and fluffy around her, almost as good as Aemond’s arms. She’d have to remember to thank him for this, too — everything was to her taste; her favorite fruits, bread and cakes. Even the cheese and jelly were ones she favored. Too bad, her hands felt too heavy to lift the food to her mouth. Thankfully, Rosey chose that moment to help her into a comfortable, thick nightgown. “I’m going to marry him, Rosey.”

“I know, my love,” the woman smiled. She’d spent Ravella’s entire life teasing her about Ravella’s ‘secret love for Prince Aemond’.

Ravella was going to explain why she was going to marry Aemond, but she didn’t have time — her eyes fluttered close as soon as her head hit the pillow, stuffed with some scented herbs, and Rosey covered her with a blanket.

Mid-afternoon, she woke up, headache-y and ravenous. Rosey was nowhere in sight — though two guards stood outside, watching her door. The queen’s orders, they said, when she asked after hearing someone (Maester Orwyle, bearing more tea) knocking —, but she’d left the platters so Ravella would be able to eat. She took the tea, and sat down to eat, having changed into a simple gown which she left unlaced. Her chambers offered a view of the godswood and training yard, and she was curious if Aemond was in either.

“Good thing you’re up,” Rosey said, closing the door. “Prince Aemond said he’ll meet you in the godswood if you want to talk.”

“Good. Sit down so I can tell you what happened,” she answered, coughing into her fist. Her voice was husky. Rosey, her mother’s former maid, obeyed, helping herself to a slice of orange cake. There was a… paste made of some dark, exotic fruit exported from Essos drizzling down the cake, and Ravella simply loved it. As she told Rosey what happened yesterday, she noticed as her maid’s hands clenched, how she was on the verge of tears. “I promised Monica and Addam I’d protect you,” she sniffed.

“Rosey, you have,” Ravella circled the table to hug her. “You aren’t a warrior, but you’ve protected me — fiercely, I must add. And you’ve showered me with all the love my parents couldn’t give me since the gods took them. Please, don’t cry. I’m alright,” she kissed Rosey’s brow. The sight of her tears unsettled Ravella. Rosey had raised her, since Ravella’s mother died after having her. It was enough to make Ravella want to feed that little leech Ser Philip to Vhagar. Aemond would agree if she asked… exactly why she wouldn’t ask.

“I’m so glad Prince Aemond found you,” Rosey sobbed.

“Me too. I’ve never been happier for seeing him,” she laughed. “Do me a favor? Tell him I’m going to the godswood now, if he can meet me there. I must pray.”

They left the room together, each one going in a direction. In the godswood, Ravella ignored the speculative glances thrown in her direction, and knelt on the ground in front of the uncarved weirwood. It wasn’t common for Houses south of the Neck to worship the old gods, but hers did. And now that she was the last Whitmore alive, it was her duty to keep her family history going. Gods, she had so much to speak to Aemond.

“How long have you been there?” she smirked, her eyes still closed, when she finished preying.

“Some minutes. I didn’t want to disturb you,” he said from his position leaning against the tree. His sword was stuck on the ground to his right. “What did you ask for?”

She made a gesture and he removed the sword, sinking it on the ground between his legs. “I was thanking them for keeping us safe last night. And… I was thinking of my parents. I’m the last of my House.”

“Father said your parents influenced your decision to get married. What did he mean?”

“My father was a minor lord. His estate was rich, his lady wife would have a comfortable life, and he was a wonderful man. But his wealth didn’t compare to what my mother stood to inherit as Lady of Starfall.”

“Your mother was a Dayne?” Aemond asked, his voice louder than she’d ever heard — his screaming of last night discounted.

She nodded. “She was the eldest, and upon her mother’s death, would’ve succeeded her as Lady in her own right. She gave up her birthright in order to marry my father. It was…” Ravella sighed. “The way he talked about her, he said they fell in love at first sight. They met one day, the next she was announcing she was leaving for the Reach, and as soon as they got to the Park from Dorne, they got married. And they never regretted it. She never regretted choosing him. I heard every story my father had to tell, and I knew I wanted that for myself. Not marrying for love would be spitting on them, I thought. And, after he died and I was brought here, I felt so lonely, I needed someone to feel about me the same he did about her. It was the only way I could be whole again.”

“But you’ve been saddled with me instead,” he pointed out.

“It was a vain hope, anyway. What my parents had is rare. Now that I’m older, I believe it was a gift. So, when the subject of marriage first came up, I told your parents I’d settle on an honorable man, who were willing to take up my name… all the better if he worshipped the old gods, too.”

“Only, you got me,” he repeated.

“You’re an honorable man. You not only saved me from Ser Philip, but you also kept your urges under control,” she coughed. “I don’t think most men would have.”

He glanced away. “I made a promise. If I can’t remain true to my word, then what does it matter?” he sighed. “About taking up your name… I’m afraid it’s nonnegotiable — I’m a Targaryen. There’s a slim chance I—” he trailed off. “It doesn’t mean our children can’t be raised to treasure and respect your family’s history. Maybe one or more of them will take up your name and continue your line. I’m not opposed to that.”

“Really?” she sighed.

“Of course. I’m a second son, Ravella. I don’t have a lot to offer. It wouldn’t be honest, or fair, to deny our children the best opportunities, which only you can provide.”

“That’s not true. You’ll be a great father—”

“How? I don’t know what a good father is. The only thing I have is my yearning for a father who loved me. One I buried after mine refused to offer me a single word of comfort when I lost my sight. Ser Criston and my grandsire did their best to step up when a man was needed, but they weren’t my father. You must’ve noticed he never called me ‘son’, only referring to me as ‘boy’ or ‘Aemond’. He keeps us at a distance, as if afraid of being called our father, so I don’t know what fathers must do to be considered good. You do, because you had one.”

She swallowed. She wasn’t used to this side of Aemond — the stoic, jaded prince who exchanged barbs with her to their hearts’ content was the same Aemond everyone knew, only perceived by others as scary. Ravella wondered if anyone considered what lay under the surface that was his impassive face.

“I didn’t have a mother, Aemond. I missed her all my life. Now that I’m about to get married, and maybe to have my own children, I miss her all the worst. Rosey tried, and she was great, but she isn’t my mother. I don’t know what a good wife does, or a good mother. I just wish she were with me, to teach me, and to take care of me, because I know childbearing is hard,” his hand gripped hers, and her chin trembled. “I had the best father in the world. You, the mother,” her sudden brightness made him chuckle. “So… will you protect your children? Teach them how to fight? Share your favorite books? Teach them about riding dragons?” He answered ‘of course’ to each question, so she allowed herself to sit next to him. “Then I think you’re going to do great. We can use what we learned from my great father and your great mother, can’t we? That should suffice. Our children won’t grow up feeling unloved nor unwanted.”

In response, Aemond took her hand and brought it to his lips. “Thank you, my lady.”

She grinned, blushing. But her enthusiasm faded when she realized, “It’s a pity I can’t invite my family for our wedding. I’d love to have them here.”

“A week isn’t enough to sail from Dorne to King’s Landing,” he agreed, expression blank.

“No,” she sighed. “And I wish I could also retrieve my family’s wedding cloak. The one I should wear.”

“That can be done. We take Vhagar and fly to your home. You can send a raven now, asking that it be made ready for you.”

“Would you do that for me?” she asked. “But what about the tourney?”

“I don’t give a shit about tourneys,” he scoffed.

“Is that an excuse to avoid crowning me the queen of love and beauty, Prince Aemond?”

“There’s snot during running down your nose, Lady Whitmore. That’s hardly beautiful.”

“There isn’t—” the sneeze cut her off. Mortified, she covered her face with both hands, her eyes wide. “By the gods—”

“Calm down, Ravella. I was just teasing you,” he laughed so hard, he fell on his side.

His mirth at her expanse angered her, so she hushed him. Aemond held her arms, and flipped her so fast, she barely had time to turn right before she sneezed again. He laughed again, loud. When she made it to slap his hands away, he lowered his head and kissed her. His lips felt just right against hers. She didn’t have a choice but to allow him to continue. The fight left her, and Aemond let go of her. She raised her hands to circle his neck.

The kiss ended too soon. True enough, they were breathless, but it was too soon. The idiot was grinning down at her when she opened her eyes. “You were right about something,” he said. “You did save your first kiss to you husband.”

Ravella blinked. He was right, she thought. They weren’t married yet, naturally, but having declared their intentions in public, and in the godswood, just made the ceremony a detail. The realization disarmed her, and made her join him in laughter.

The next time he kissed her, it wasn’t to keep her quiet, but just because they wanted to kiss.

***

Ravella’s cold, then another issue — which he suspected strongly was her moon’s blood — ended up postponing the wedding in three weeks. It was plenty of time for Aemond to prepare a few surprises. While she was on her sick bed, receiving daily visits from him, both of them exchanging insults back and forth even if she were feverish, he flew to her estate, close to Tumbleton, to retrieve her wedding cloak. There, he was shown a portrait of her mother, Lady Monica. The similarities between the two were undeniable. The only difference was the nose, which Ravella inherited from, by the looks of it, her father.

“Lady Monica’s death was hard on her husband? He never blamed Ravella for it, did he?” he asked Maester Gaius, the castellan.

“He… no, Your Grace. Lord Addam worshipped the ground Lady Monica walked on, and he considered Lady Ravella the living proof of their love. He wouldn’t taint their love like that, especially after they spent the better part of two decades trying to conceive. Besides, Lady Monica didn’t die in childbirth.”

“Ravella said—” Aemond frowned.

“Childbirth was difficult on Lady Monica, but it didn’t kill her,” the man insisted. “Two days after Ravella’s birth, she resumed her duties as Lady Whitmore, even though we insisted she did not. We were all fussing over her. She sentenced a guard who’d been trying to rape a maid to be gelded and sent to the Wall, and the man didn’t accept her decree — he attacked her. She killed him, but he had poisoned his blade, thinking he’d have to face Lord Addam. When the wound began to faster, she understood what was happening and asked to be granted mercy. Lord Whitmore… did it himself,” the maester sighed, sad. “A part of him died with her, and he lived only to raise the baby.”

“Gods!” Aemond shook his head. “I wonder how she got the idea that her mother died in childbirth.” That wasn’t exactly what she’d said, but what she’d implied.

“The servant was afraid Ravella would grow up to blame her for her mother’s death, so Lord Whitmore decided to tell Ravella her mother was attacked and killed by a man fleeing justice. I suspect she never believed it, because there was no way Lord Addam would’ve allowed his wife to just wander about a few days after her labors. She must’ve decided he didn’t want to say anything that would make her feel guilty about her mother’s death, either,” the older man laughed. “Ravella was a smart child. She understood from an early age that her father loved speaking of her mother, but doing that always made his heart bleed. So, she paid attention and didn’t question him, to avoid making him suffer. He shared everything of his own volition, though.”

“Poor Ravella,” he shook his head again. Somehow, he’d have to convince her of the truth of the maester’s words. “Why did he do that? Surely Ravella would understand…” a thought occurred. “The servant was Rosey, right?”

A nod. “We told her Rosey was dedicated to her because she was Lady Monica’s maid, which she was, but Ravella grew up thinking Rosey came from Starfall. The truth was, Rosey was determined to repay Lady Monica for saving her, but since she couldn’t do it, she decided to look after her daughter instead.” The maester shrugged, and his chain rattled around his shoulders. “Lady Ravella is an easy person to love, as you must know.”

“Yes,” he nodded, thoughtful. This explained Rosey’s reaction when Ravella returned, the way she’d almost knelt by his feet in gratitude for saving her ‘sweet heart’. “Maester, I need a favor, if you don’t mind.”

Maester Gaius didn’t mind. He did exactly what Aemond asked — not because it was a prince asking, but because it’d make Ravella happy. Aemond had forgotten she spent some months of the year traveling to Dorne, to visit her mother’s family, and to her estate, to keep close to her people. It was at his mother’s suggestion, he was told. On the maester’s insistence, he also took a few days to oversee the estate himself, since he was supposed to rule it as Ravella’s husband. There was nothing wrong, of course — every living person here was devoted to Ravella. They considered her a good lady, just like her parents had been good. It’d make her happy when he returned to King’s Landing and teased her about it.

Not as happy as the surprise he’d planned, he thought a day before the wedding as Vhagar, followed by Sunfyre, landed. He helped his passenger climb down, while Aegon showed his where to step. It was close to dinnertime, so he had an overly emotional Rosey show their guests to their chambers, where they’d change to join the royal family for dinner. They were going to their ward when his mother appeared, escorted by Ser Criston Cole. The Kingsguard blinked several times when he saw who was there, which only made Aemond grin. He introduced the parties, then asked, “Mother, is everything ready?”

“Yes, Aemond. Let’s just hope it doesn’t rain. I’ve also had the sept cleaned, because if it does—”

“It won’t, mother,” he assured her. “Ravella worships the old gods. The godswood is where we shall marry, come rain or shine.”

His mother sighed. “You’re so lucky the High Septon considers this a most romantic wedding gift, Aemond. I swear, if it rains and that poor girl gets drenched and sick, I shall put you on my knees!” But she wouldn’t, and they both knew it. “Now, it isn’t time to argue. I’m sure our guests are tired after their trip,” she opened up a smile and escorted them to their rooms herself. For his part, Aemond was animated for seeing she was accepting of his decision to take Ravella for wife in the godswood. That had to be the world’s worst-kept secret, which explained his mother’s nervousness.

Hours later, he was standing close to the table, talking to Helaena. There was an absent, almost oblivious gleam to his sister’s eyes, but she snapped out of whatever vision she was having, and said, “You’re happy, brother.”

“Yes, dear. It’s strange, isn’t it?” he smiled, caressing her cheek. “Tell me what Ravella did when she found the gown.”

Aemond had flown to Whitmore Park not only to get her wedding cloak, but the gown her mother had worn the day she married her father. Rosey had told him of it, insisting it’d fit Ravella. And, when his eye settled on it, he realized it was perfect. The lilac and silver silk gown would suit her just fine — it bore the colors of her parents’ Houses, after all. As would the necklace he was going to give her.

But he wasn’t a fool. He knew the greatest gift was one she couldn’t hold.

The doors opened and she walked in, stopping by to greet Princess Rhaenys and her husband, Lord Corlys Velaryon. For some reason, his father had insisted on summoning the entire family to watch Aemond’s wedding. His half-sister was there, as well, with her bastard sons and their uncle, though they were already seated, Rhaenyra speaking to their father. While his bride spoke to his cousins, Aemond made a discreet gesture to Ser Criston. The man nodded, and disappeared from view.

His mother walked towards Ravella and joined the Velaryons in conversation. His breathing hitched as she made her way to him. He found that he couldn’t wait, so excused himself and left Helaena alone. These past weeks, Aemond had courted Ravella, to let her know their wedding wasn’t a burden. Only, he courted her his own way, in a way she’d appreciate. Not even after his grandfather snapped that he was going to drive her away, Aemond ceased. He knew she looked forward to their verbal battles with the same anticipation as he.

“My prince,” she made a curtsy. “I looked for you these past days. You were running an errand, I was told.”

“I was, my lady,” he confirmed. “I wouldn’t have gone, if I had suspected my absence would peeve you, my sweet, blushing bride.”

She narrowed her eyes. “I wasn’t peeved. I just thought it was so sad that you felt the need to run and hide from me. I’m not the dragon here,” she shrugged.

“Run? Lady Ravella, the only one about to run is you,” he glared at his mother. Alicent’s smile died when she saw the look on his face. Apparently, she told the Velaryons to take their seats, for dinner would be served soon, and walked to join him and Ravella. “Mother, my bride is under the impression I was running from her.”

“She—? Excuse me?” Alicent blinked, confused.

He repeated his words, adding, “Please, tell her she’s only one about to run.”

“Aemond, no,” his mother pleaded.

“Aemond, yes,” he corrected with an evil glint to his eye. Then, he glanced down at Ravella. “Go ahead, Ravella. If you do consider me such a craven, go away. I won’t stop you.”

“You’re being incredibly childish. How am I supposed to raise my children with a child for their father?” she stomped her foot, then looked at Alicent. “I swear, Your Grace, your son is absolutely impossible.” It didn’t help that his mother was agreeing, although he saw her trying to fight a giggle. “Who guarantees I won’t be dragged back if I do decide to go?”

Aemond leaned forward. “Ravella, let’s be honest — you wouldn’t get past those doors if you tried to leave,” he pointed to the doors, but she didn’t turn. “Try it. I promise I’ll give you half an hour before I set up in pursuit. Surely, you mustn’t deserve the present I spent these past days securing you.”

“Present?” she tilted her head. “What present? No one said anything about presents!” her face contorted. “You were riling me up, Aemond!”

“Was I, though? Try to find out, little butterfly,” the despised nickname, a mockery of her height and House sigil, made sure her temper was triggered. “Go,” he made a shooing gesture.

“Aemond!” his mother held his wrists.

“Why would I go? So you can accuse me of being a coward? I wasn’t the one who disappeared three days before my wedding, Aemond!”

Alicent took that declaration as invitation to excuse herself. Flabbergasted, Aemond realized Ravella was hurt. “Oh, Ravella — were you really upset? I did go away to get you a gift. Your heart’s desire. What were you thinking, silly?”

“I don’t know,” she shook her head. “I just… I wasn’t the bride of your choice. I thought you didn’t want to marry me. And the way everyone behaved, as if they knew something I didn’t…”

“They knew something you didn’t,” he caressed her cheek, smiling. “You couldn’t just do what I expected you to do, right? Had to do things the hard way,” he shook his head, irritated. “Turn around and try to walk past that door, see I won’t let you go. Unless something stops you first.”

“Aemond, this fabled present is behind me, isn’t it? This’d better be good, because—” she swayed to the side, her equilibrium faltering. “Grandma? Uncle Arthur?” she breathed before looking up at him. “I don’t understand—”

“Go to them,” he said, lightly touching her shoulders. “You wanted them here, so I brought them. Good present?” he grinned.

“The best!” she said, pulling him down for a kiss. His mind was still reeling when she suddenly let go and hurled herself at her uncle. The Sword of the Morning caught her with a deep bout of laughter, then kissed her cheek. Aemond watched in silence while she exchanged hugs with her grandmother and uncle, hooking their arms together.

“—of course I will stand there, you silly goose,” Arthur, an older man in his late forties, was saying. “It was why Prince Aemond brought me. He brought Mother because she was important, but me? I’m here to represent your father.”

“Precisely,” Aemond took her hand, grinning. “I’d have brought your entire family, but that was a difficult thing to accomplish. Several ravens were dispatched to negotiate Vhagar’s landing and who’d come. I was most diligent, and expect to be duly thanked, little one.”

“Uncle, if he calls me that again, cut his tongue off,” Ravella ordered, her voice sweet.

Arthur, who was taller than even Aemond, sighed. “Darling—”

She screeched low. “Dear gods, is there one or one hundred harpies somewhere in your family tree?” Aemond asked her grandmother. Ravella blushed, understanding what he was hinting at.

“No, but apparently there are going to be dragons,” the woman’s eyes, a shade closer to purple than to Ravella’s, gleamed.

“Speaking of them, allow me to introduce you to my family,” Aemond smiled, offering his arm. The white-haired woman took it, while Arthur took Ravella’s. They stopped in front of the table, “Your Graces, I’d like to introduce my betrothed’s family. Lady Ravella Dayne of Starfall, and her son, Ser Arthur, the Sword of the Morning.”

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Lady Dayne,” the king said. “I confess I’ve always been curious to meet the woman who had such scathing words to write to me.”

“You didn’t let my granddaughter live with her family, Your Grace,” Lady Ravella said, drily, as Aemond helped her sit. “You mustn’t have expected thankfulness.”

“Of course not. I was merely respecting her House’s history. She’s a Whitmore, not a Dayne.”

“She’s a Dayne in every way that matters.”

“Mother—”

“Oh, be quiet, Arthur!” Aemond had the feeling this argument was older than Ravella. “But I can’t complain much, Your Grace. If my granddaughter had been sent to Dorne, your son wouldn’t be drooling over her.”

“Excuse me?” the son in question murmured.

“True,” his father’s agreement only added to his shock. “In fact, you have no idea how grateful I am for your granddaughter. This is the first time in years I’ve seen my son happy, and that’s all thanks to her,” he raised his cup. “I’d like to toast to Lady Ravella… Whitmore,” he added, glancing at the older Ravella, before looking at Aemond’s bride. “I’m very pleased to see you joining the family, dear child. Rejecting all those wedding proposals these years was worth it, wasn’t it?” he asked Alicent, who was nodding with a grin, also holding her cup while they all drank.

“Excuse me?” Aemond insisted, louder this time.

“Explain it,” Viserys told his wife.

“Of course, my love,” his mother sipped her wine to buy time. Her face sheepish, she sighed before looking at Aemond. “I… grew very fond of Lady Ravella over the years. She became like a daughter to me. In the beginning, I was worried about the way you two always clashed, but then I realized you both enjoyed it. I was convinced you carried a torch for each other — a dragon-sized torch, really. I just couldn’t force you into anything. I wanted you to conclude it on your own. So, I convinced your father to reject the proposals made, hoping you’d realize what you felt for each other.”

“… What about Ser Philip, Your Grace?” Ravella asked after exchanging a glance with Aemond.

“Oh, that rat!” Alicent growled. Aemond arched a brow, glancing at Aegon. He didn’t know his mother, so meek and sweet, had a temper — but Aegon did. “I’m sorry, Ravella. If I’d known he was so infatuated, I’d have arranged a marriage for him. I’m glad Aemond found you before he could hurt you.”

“So… you didn’t plan this?” Aemond asked.

“Of course not! Why would I do anything to hurt her? I wanted her to marry you, not run the other way at the idea of it!” Alicent shook her head. “You see, Aemond, I’m not the best mother in the world. I make mistakes, but I’ve always wanted what’s best for my children, and I believed Ravella was it for you — you met before you lost your eye, and after it, she never flinched when she saw your eyepatch or the scar. She wasn’t afraid of you. The arguments you had gave you a vigor nothing else did. I had to keep her close. I prayed every day that neither of you would say anything to drive the other away, because the gods know, you can both be impossible. But it has worked out. Not the way I envisioned, but I’m not complaining.”

Aemond stared at her. “It explains the jests,” he inclined his head to Ravella.

“Bloody right it does,” she agreed. “Rosey was your mother’s accomplice.” At that, the queen grinned. “I feel played. Cyvasse pieces don’t feel like I do right now,” she downed her cup.

“And I was thinking myself the smart one,” Aemond drawled, raising his cup. “In this case, I’d like to toast my mother, the most cunning, patient woman to ever grace these Seven Kingdoms. May the Crone continue filling her head with these evil ideas — Daeron is next, I believe. Thank you, Mother,” he grinned, letting her, and only her, see his gratitude.

They drank again. Ravella took her turn, “I’d toast two of the most remarkable women I’ve ever had the honor of meeting. Everything I know about being a wife and a mother… and it isn’t much, I know… I learned from watching you,” she looked at her grandmother. “I spent my entire life hearing about what a wonderful woman my mother was, and I know it’s thanks to you, Grandma. There’s not a day that I didn’t wish to have met her. And then, there’s the queen, who went way beyond what was expected of her to give a child who was, well, a burden, all the care she needed after suddenly finding herself an orphan. You treated me the same as your own children, Your Grace. As things are, I’m incredibly lucky for having you both, because I have a lot to learn yet… and since my mother isn’t here, I can’t think of better teachers,” she swallowed. “And now you’ve entrusted me with your son’s happiness, which I know is a show of the esteem and the respect you feel for me. I swear I’ll do everything in my power to make him happy, Your Grace.”

Aemond downed his cup, as he watched his mother whisper, ‘I know,’ at Ravella, her eyes brimming with tears. He was glad she was at peace with herself — her idea to marry Aegon and Helaena off had backfired in the worst way. This way, she could at least know her foster daughter and one of her sons were happy, because Aemond and Ravella would work to be just that. Happy.

More toasts were made, and Aemond ended up having his and Ravella’s cups filled with diluted wine. “We can’t be seen drunk tomorrow, my bride,” he whispered to her.

“I know, future husband,” she whispered back. “Besides, I swear my head still aches from that stupid concoction Ser Philip forced on me.”

Aemond smiled. He wanted to be in the room when she found out her uncle had pursued the man and killed him. Aemond had been angry with Arthur, but the older knight, cleaning the blood off his sword, explained the killing belonged to him, because, “I’m still Ravella’s closest male kin. You are not. After you’re wed, you can kill anyone you wish, if I don’t catch them first.” It made sense, and more important, Ser Philip was dead and fated to become just a bad memory, so Aemond didn’t raise a fuss.

Still, being killed by the Sword of the Morning himself was more honor than that rat had deserved.

Oh well.

***

Next morning, Ravella was woken at dawn break to get ready for her wedding. She’d slept late, after having excused herself and her family from dinner so they could talk. Aemond had accompanied them. Now, Rosey was scrubbing her scalp and applying a sweet-smelling soap to it. Per her grandmother’s instructions, Ravella was to rest until it was time to leave for the sept.

She stood in front of a mirror as Rosey laced up the beautiful gown her mother had brought from Dorne and wore a few times — the day she married Ravella’s father and the days they commemorated the anniversary of their wedding with a feast. Her hands hovered over it, and she smiled at her reflection; this was the closest she’d ever felt to her mother.

Next, came the beautiful necklace of sapphires set on a shiny black Valyrian steel foundation — Aemond’s wedding gift. He’d told her it was part of the same sapphire he wore in his empty eye socket. Ravella had teased that the gift was an attempt to mark her, and he didn’t deny it, so it filled her with pride to wear the jewel.

Rosey curled her hair, and Ravella decided to let it loose, cascading down her back. Aemond liked her hair, almost as much as she liked his. Last night, while they said their farewells, he embraced her to whisper how anxious he was to see her hair spread over his pillows, so she decided to torment him.

“Your parents would be so proud of you, my sweet,” Rosey smiled at her.

“I like to believe so, Rosey. I miss them. But they left you to take care of me. In a way, they’re still here,” she kissed Rosey’s cheeks, almost asking her to quit crying.

Rosey held her face between her calloused hands. “You finally have what you’ve always looked for,” she said, and it was true. Perhaps Ravella and Aemond weren’t in love the same way as her parents, but it was undeniable they felt something for each other. Maybe everything they went through together had always been fated to lead them to this, she thought.

“Do you think he’s wearing my gift, Rosey?”

“Yes, I’ve seen it on his finger. Prince Aemond shall be a good lord. I’m going to call your uncle now. Wait here,” as if Ravella would dare leave.

“Where’s Rosey, uncle?” she asked a few minutes later.

“She’s with your grandmother. They’re waiting for us,” he replied, serious. “Lysa,” their cousin from High Hermitage, “has sent you a gift. She’d like it if you could wear it.”

“What is it?” Ravella studied the simple gold chain. But then she saw the star and sword pendant.

“This belonged to your mother. Monica gave it to Lysa the day she left Starfall. Our cousin thinks you should have it.”

“Tell her I love— no, I’ll do it myself, when Aemond takes me to Dorne. But, tell her I love it,” she smiled, then pointed out, “This isn’t the way to the sept.”

“I know. We aren’t supposed to go there.” She stared at him, quizzically. He didn’t explain further. As they walked, and she noticed the way the crowd was growing, she held on to his arm. “Is this what I think it is?”

Arthur grinned.

It was. Two tents of sailcloth — in the colors of Houses Whitmore and Dayne — divided the godswood in two. Ravella’s eyes filled with tears, because this was obviously Aemond’s idea. He’d planned the surprise and got everyone to follow suit.

When he stepped into view, positioning his tall, lithe body in front of the weirwood, she smiled at him. He’d gone beyond what she expected to show his commitment. He, who disliked jewels, was even wearing her father’s signet ring with her House’s sigil — a silver butterfly in flight —, and a brooch she’d commissioned of onyx and rubies with the three-headed dragon of his. As usual, he was dressed all in black, which only made the jewels extra sparkly under the bright morning sun.

“I’m so glad you’re here, uncle,” she glanced at him. “There aren’t a lot of people in the world that Father would’ve trusted to do this.”

“I know, my love. That’s why I’ve threatened the prince into making you happy. It’s exactly what your father would do.”

They laughed. Ravella couldn’t take her eyes off Aemond, even if she knew the polite thing was to nod at as many people as possible. She could always look at them later — there was something unbeatable about the enraptured look on his face as he waited for her. Some feet before they reached him, he strode forward, impatient, and offered his hand, which she took. Arthur gave her brow a kiss, and slapped Aemond’s forearm, entrusting her to his care.

They took part in each step of the ceremony — singing, praying, and making their vows. When it came the time to exchange the cloak, Aemond removed hers and took the Targaryen one Aegon was holding. He settled it around her shoulders, then clasped it at her neck. When she turned back to face him, she said, “I love you, Aemond.”

“I love you too, my little butterfly,” he said and kissed her. Enthusiastic clapping followed alongside lewd jokes. It was a pity they couldn’t skip the feast.

***

In the garden, after standing in line to receive compliments, Aemond noticed Helaena staring at him. He approached Ravella, where she was speaking with a group of ladies, and announced he was going to steal her for a while, “Helaena wishes a word, dear.”

He took her by the elbow after they excused themselves, and led her to where Helaena was sitting, alone.

“Helaena, I’m surprised to see you here. Are you enjoying the feast?” Ravella asked. His heart warmed at seeing her affection for his sister; having been raised with them, she knew fully well Helaena had issues with large groups of people.

“Yes, Ravella, I’m enjoying the feast. It’s been mended,” she whispered absently.

“What’s been mended?” Aemond asked after looking at Ravella.

“Destiny — the treads were broken, now they are not,” Helaena said, as if it could be explained. At their blank look, she shook her head. “I can’t say much, but I can tell you something. I told Aemond a long time ago, but he didn’t pay attention, now it’s your turn to hear it, Ravella.”

“Helaena,” he cut her off, “you mean that dream?”

She smiled, nodding. “So, you did pay attention. Do you want to tell Ravella?”

Aemond arched a brow, glancing at his wife. Then, he faced his sister again, “It won’t sound so interesting if you don’t.”

“You’re making me curious,” Ravella laughed.

“Alright,” Helaena clasped her hands. “I had a dream about Aemond not too long before you came to court — I saw him lose his eye to get a dragon. After that, I dreamed of a dragon alone in a dark and cold cave. It was lifeless, but for one much smaller flying animal the dragon snapped his jaws at, in an attempt to capture it. At first, I thought it was a hatchling — they’re known to do that.”

Aemond, having already foreseen the conclusion of Helaena’s dream, pressed his lips together and watched Ravella; she looked hypnotized, as if picturing his sister’s words.

“The dragon turned this way and that, trying to capture the animal that dared poke at him. The little flier didn’t care — it just continued coming, making the dragon lose sight of his treasures. They stayed fighting like that for a long time. However, the dragon simply gave up sometime and let his tormentor come closer… my heart stopped beating when I saw the dragon let loose a steaming breath on it, but the little flier got away again, and after that, everywhere the animal flew to, it was illuminated by a soft silvery glow,” she looked down, smiling.

“What happened next?” Ravella squealed.

“Eventually, after poking so much at the dragon, the little animal — which I’d begun to believe was a firefly —, was able to hit him directly. Again, and again, until it just stopped,” Helaena sighed, sounding frustrated, “as if it’d just given up on pestering the dragon. And, everywhere it touched, the scales turned color, gained life. The dragon went from being pretty formless to crouching on the ground, surrounded by his treasures, his scales a dark, bloody red, while he… snapped at the flier, pestering it to get its attention. I try not to get inside the dreams, but I had to walk in, and take a closer look,” Helaena’s hand shot up to her face.

While Aemond offered her his wine glass, Ravella was nodding. She was one of the few people who didn’t fear Helaena’s visions — something she attributed to First Men magic. There were rumors Ravella was a skinchanger, though Aemond had yet to see it.

“I approached the dragon on light feet, not wanting to startle it, and realized he wasn’t just a Targaryen, but Aemond, since his left side was scarred, and he was missing an eye. It isn’t uncommon for Targaryens to appear in dreams as dragons, you know. Upon that realization, I must’ve made a noise, because the dragon turned his head and spread his wings, holding his body up like a winged snake,” she made the posture, attracting more than one curious glance, while Aemond laughed. “He roared at me. The flier showed up again to resume its fluttering around him, and my eyes were fixed on it, trying to guess what it was. Upon noticing this, the dragon’s fist shot up suddenly, and closed around something — the flier disappeared from sight, frightened of the dragon, I thought. And then the dragon lowered his head, his snout so close I could smell his breath, and opened that mouth full of teeth as tall as me, and I saw a column of green fire at the back of his throat, ready to be unleashed.”

Ravella stared at Aemond, eyes wide. “You threatened your sister?!”

“He did,” Helaena confirmed. “I’d heard of dreamers being injured while in the dreams — which is why I watch from a distance —, and knew my mind would be shattered if the dragon burned me… so I began pleading with him in High Valyrian. I reminded him he was my brother, and in response, he turned his back, clenching his fist so hard, his claws teared at his paw. I didn’t give up, like the flier hadn’t, and was able to circle his huge body again, until I was facing him. Then I asked him to show me the treasure he was holding so close to his heart, and vowed I’d leave if he did. I just wanted to see what it was. He rolled his eye, let out a resigned breath and extended his paws towards me. And… he spread them open,” she sighed, still beaming and gesturing like the dragon in her vision. “He relaxed his hold, and I saw the most beautiful, delicate butterfly in his palm. His grip should’ve smashed her, but she was whole. And even though she could fly away to freedom, to the green forest around, she chose not to. She continued spreading her pale tendrils of silver around the dragon, healing him and the once-dead cave right before my eyes, until he was whole again. And the dragon insisted on keeping the butterfly safe, making her his hoard. The butterfly is you, Ravella.”

She was blinking. Although she said “I’m not… I didn’t—” there was a silly smile on her face.

“You most definitely did,” Aemond interrupted her. Helaena nodded with another beam, lightly touching Ravella’s elbow before she walked away, muttering again about destiny being right. As she did, Aemond held his wife’s hands, demanding that she look at him. “You healed my soul. When I was at my lowest, you convinced me my life was still worth living. Do you remember that?”

A few weeks after he’d lost use of his eye — the globe was removed much later, when Aemond was fifteen and the sight of the ruined, scarred eye filled him with equal parts anger and anguish —, Ravella found him crying in his room. She sat on the bed beside him and just stayed there, refusing to be dismissed. The light touch of her hand on his made Aemond recoil, an unwelcome show of vulnerability displayed to his favorite enemy, but for some reason, instead of being angry, he looked at her. She began spreading an ointment on the ravaged skin, and when she was finished, said, “I was jealous when I saw you protecting your mother.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You told your father Aegon had called Princess Rhaenyra’s sons bastards, but it was the queen. And when you saw her cry over your eye, you told her it was worth it, because you had gotten Vhagar,” she said with a pout. “That’s why your mother loves you so much. I wish I could’ve protected my parents, too,” a sigh, as she folded her hands on her lap. “I wish I had a family to protect.”

Aemond had been shocked by her words — each one. Nobody had suspected the queen as the perpetrator behind the rumors of Rhaenyra’s sons’ parentage, and no one, not even his mother, had guessed at Aemond’s distress at seeing his mother cry. A lot had happened that day, and although young, Aemond knew it shouldn’t be his mother seeking justice for him. And seeing her crying and sad was wrong, so he told her losing his eye was a small price to pay for Vhagar.

Of course, after a lifetime trying to claim a dragon, he’d also believed his words. But as time passed, and he began to find difficulties and fear his dreams would die before he’d even had the chance to consider how to fulfill them, Aemond began to feel despaired, hollow. He hadn’t seen a way out of it, until Ravella’s naïve, heartfelt praise awakened a fire inside him. It was when he decided to push himself, to be at his best. He had had to adapt. Each failure demanded sweat and blood, but then, so did each victory. When he was alone, he cried, and he felt better, for he recalled her words. If Ravella, so mercurial and taunting, a non-friend, could see his worth, then it meant it was hidden down deep.

After that lonely afternoon, Aemond began calling her ‘butterfly’, for she was a small thing of beauty, a real treasure. “Maybe that wasn’t your intention, but you offered a lost boy in agony the incentive he needed to be the man he’s become,” he said.

“Oh my gods, Aemond, I—”

He shushed her with another kiss. Her soft hands framed his face, and she stood on tiptoe to kiss him better while he bent his spine, his fingers circling her waist, lifting her several inches off the ground.

Around them, the crowd roared and clapped. Ravella blushed as several guests made loud jests about their relief at finally seeing them settled, but Aemond didn’t mind; he was relieved, as well.

They broke the kiss and he took her into his arms. “Is it me or they were more anxious than us?” she asked as he walked toward their chambers, carrying her. Not a single person dared stop him, or call for the bedding.

He sighed, “They’ve lived vicariously through us, my love. To them, our wedding is like… reaching the end of a very good book,” he compared. “For us, it’s only the beginning.”

“If it’s to be the start of a good book, then we should start writing the prologue. Do you have ink and paper, dragon prince?” she grinned, rubbing their noses together, her hand tangling in his hair. Aemond arched a brow, and suddenly let out a loud roar, before bursting out laughing. The symphony of Ravella’s own laughter made his once weary soul spark to life. Gently, he lowered her body to their bed, a soft, besotted smile curving his mouth as he announced, “I have you, and that’s all I need, my little butterfly,” before they locked their lips together.

#aemond targaryen fanfiction #aemond targaryen #aemond smut #enemies to lovers

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lady-thorn · 1 year

Text

The dragon’s hoard Pt. 6

Summary: The Dragon Prince returns to the Freehold.

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen & Ravella Whitmore (OC)

Warnings: Fluff. Smut and horror. Unedited. ESL, please be patient.

Word count: 10k+

Disclaimer: I’ve been preparing for this since before they went to the Wall. Apologies for taking so long, but I needed time to make this right (every word I typed, I hated and started from scratch several times). I hope it’s worth the wait.

***

Ravella looked down at herself and smiled in silence — fully dressed, in the blue gown Aemond liked so much, the same one she’d worn the day she was kidnapped, modified to make up for the piece she ripped off to make him a makeshift eyepatch. Getting married made one of those nightmares of being naked in public recurrent. They made love almost every day, and when either was too tired for that, they found relief in snuggling together, skin-to-skin. He’d ripped to shreds enough nightgowns of hers that, one day, Ravella simply decided to cease buying them.

Except for the see-through black silk one she’d found in the city and still had to wear. That would drive Aemond mad, she thought with the pleasure of a woman well-loved.

The Red Keep was oddly silent. She couldn’t find Aemond, Helaena or Alicent anywhere. Rosey had faded from view, probably accosted by another servant. The Small Council chamber was empty, as was the Throne Room, where the Iron Throne, like a single rose in a lifeless garden, commanded attention.

Every hair on her body stood on end, the sight of the throne, envisioned by Aemond’s ancestor and forged by dragon’s breath, disturbing as very few things had been in her life. She turned to leave, but as she tried to walk away, the doors to the room closed with a loud bang.

The candles lighting up the room were snuffed out by a fast, chilly gust of wind, one by one.

The sensation that she had to get away intensified. Reaching out in the dark, squinting against the shadows? that didn’t let her see her hands she held out, she took a step forward— and screeched. The ground was falling beneath her feet.

She jumped back, and the falling seemed to stop. She raised her head, trying to see — nothing. Down below, hundreds of leagues down, ran a river of molten lava, a bright red gash that bubbled and blasted. She could feel its heat, but the toxic vapors couldn’t reach her, so she let out a sigh of relief, clutching harder at the thing between her fingers.

It was pitch-black, so she couldn’t rely on her eyesight, but she knew, without being told, she was holding a weirwood seed on a hand.

And a sharp shard of obsidian on the other.

A gasp escaped her mouth when something exploded with a loud crack above her head. A candle. Then another, and another, until the throne room was, once more, cast in light.

Only there was something wrong about these candles, and moreover, about the lights. The candles weren’t the white beeswax found everywhere, including hers and Aemond’s quarters, but glossy black points that looked a lot like obsidian… or Vhagar’s teeth. She really felt the ceiling would close down on her, as if she were a tasty piece of meat defenseless in a ravenous mouth. And the flames—

“Ravella,” she heard a woman’s voice. It was a sweet voice, and made her want to cry, it was so full of heartbreak.

Someone walked behind her. She whirled around, but found no one.

“Who’s there?” she shouted. Her voice echoed around her. Though nobody answered back, the flames became bluer, the light-gold of them disappearing completely.

She shivered at that, and glanced back down once more. It didn’t take a peek to become more frightened — the lava was equally blue. Only, now it didn’t bubble up and explode, but climbed over the bared stone of the ground, dripping upward. A stream of it reached the soles of her feet, and she jumped away. Her toes would freeze.

Or they would burn, she didn’t know. It was too cold. She hated the cold.

“Ravella, go!”

She quickened her steps, running toward that beloved voice, the river of ice closing in on her heels. Of course he’d be near the throne — her dragon prince took pride in being a dragonrider, and felt right at home wherever dragons had been. The Iron Throne had been forged by a dragon, perhaps it still carried the memory of Balerion’s fire.

Why wasn’t the ice melting?, she thought, hysteric. Aemond was hot, because of the dragon blood running in his veins. “Aemond, I can’t see!” she shouted.

He laughed — the sound echoed around her, mocking and… but his hand shot out of the darkness, and closed around hers, so she couldn’t bear to be irritated by his derision, or frightened anymore. He’d make it better. He’d find the way out and fight all the way back to safety, as he always did.

In her frenzy to hold on to him, she let go of the weirwood seed.

“I can’t—” the sudden brightness made her blink. Her eyes tearing up threatened to blind her; even her tears were cold.

“What— Aemond, what’s happened?” His lips were an unbecoming shade of gray-purple. It remembered her of rancid wine. Old blood.

Death.

She ignored that.

“Aemond?”

He smiled, and the smile looked like a garish cut, but blood didn’t seep out. “Let’s find the way,” he held out a gloved hand when she took a step back. The icy river didn’t bother her anymore. “Come with me, Ravella — it’s just a bad dream.”

Truly, that’s what it was. One of those nightmares that started out as a perfectly pleasant dream and changed directions once the dreamer got comfortable.

This Aemond wasn’t her Aemond, but she took his hand anyway, because Aemond would never hurt her. He’d always protected her from anything that wasn’t the lashes of his tongue — and in that regard, she gave as good as she got. Her nightmare wouldn’t turn him into a monster. Mind made up, she bent and retrieved the weirwood seed, holding it between tense fingers that were also holding the dagger.

Something creaked and broke beneath her foot when they began climbing, Aemond leading the way. From this place, his hair looked almost white. She forced herself to smile up at him when he turned to peer at her, his hand as cold as a block of ice around hers. His eyepatch broke apart due to the cold and fell, and though her heart threatened to stop when the sapphire in the eye socket all but exploded in a cloud of blue dust — could sapphires even do that? —, to be substituted by a bright blue flame, she did nothing. Nightmares about the Wall were a constant in her life since the day she and Aemond had faced the Others.

Aemond had fought. She had fled, like a coward. Now her mind was playing tricks on her.

“Please, stop,” she asked when the skin on his left cheek came undone, flaps of it falling over his shoulders and exposing decomposing flesh. “Aemond?”

“Shh,” he smiled again. The right side of his face remained intact, and the left was a ruin, but it more expressive. She didn’t care for what she could read on his face. His single eye — still purple — spoke more than it usually did, and the words it had to say were terrifying.

“What’s this?” she asked when another large rock broke beneath her foot.

“The path we must walk in my dream,” he spoke, and she realized the smile on his face wasn’t a smile, but a muscle spam that had literally frozen in place.

She arched a brow, looking straight up ahead over his shoulder. The Iron Throne loomed in the distance. Of course it was his dream — the crown, the confirmation of his worthiness. Aemond’s elder sister was the heir to the throne. Then came his older brother. His other sister, if King Viserys’ decree was to be followed. Aemond should come next, but all his siblings had children of their own. He wasn’t the fourth in the line of succession anymore, but the… she scrunched up her face, deep in thought… the thirteenth?

The number made a shiver run down her spine, but she didn’t know why — couldn’t remember why, and didn’t want to.

Not being acknowledged hurt Aemond’s pride. So, naturally in his dreams he had the throne. He had complete dominion over everything.

From this spot, Westeros was at the center of the world. She couldn’t see in details, but its lights shone bright. Every single one was as blue as the one burning on Aemond’s face, or on the candles.

“Where’s everyb—?” She let out a little scream when the rock underneath her sole gave away. Covered in frost, it made her stumble and lose her footing. Air rushed out of her lungs from the surprise.

It turned into a scream when she looked down, staring at Aemond’s mother. Only, instead of the usual dark hazel of Alicent’s gaze, the warm light-gold of her skin, Ravella could only see equally blue flames, blood running down her mother-in-law’s cheeks. “Go away,” the head moved to stare at Ravella, even though it was unattached from the neck.

She was trying to get away, but Aemond dragged her up, and she looked down. Her feet were bloody. She wasn’t stepping on rocks, but on heads. Though they were maimed, she could identify them: Alicent — the voice calling out in the darkness and telling her to go away was Alicent!, her mind screamed —, Helaena, Aegon, Rosey, the King… Everyone. They were all heads, and there were things scrambling in the dark.

“W—?”

“My dream,” the Aemond-who-wasn’t-Aemond said.

“A nightmare,” she tried to get away, and run down the stairs. Ahead, the Iron Throne changed, the dragon-blackened blades that made it the Iron Throne turning into ice. The Others’ swords. “I want no part in this.”

“You do. You love me.”

“Not you!” she yanked at him.

“Me,” he laughed and tossed her around. “It’s cold, Ravella. Warm me.”

His voice made her open her eyes. The man in front of her was the one she loved. His head was tilted to the side in concern for her, though the veins showing through his skin, a sign of his own coldness, gave away Aemond was out of his element. His sapphire was normal, instead of that distressing flame. It wasn’t an Other staring at her, wearing Aemond’s face, but her husband.

She didn’t stop to think. She brought his head down, her fingers clenching at his hair so she could kiss him, willing every shred of her warmth onto him.

The first time, it was Aemond warming her. Now it was her turn to repay the favor. No one and nothing would take Aemond from her, not even the Others in a nightmare.

His lips were almost freezing when they ran down her face, to her neck, but she didn’t care. She was burning. They would generate enough heat between them, she knew — they’d done this before. His hands were equally cold as they undressed her, though she remained strong. It wasn’t his fault. Her own hands ran down his skin, and she smiled in delight at the warmth spreading on his chest and back.

Something moved to her left, and she looked. Two children stared at her — both of them had the same Valyrian looks as Aemond, but the boy had several black tresses that, mixed with the pale-silver, made his hair appear pure silver. And he looked much younger than his companion. Physically, they were about the same age, but the girl, with hair of pure pale-silver, had an aura that made her look more experienced. As if she’d lived — and died — a thousand lifetimes in spite of her young age.

Aemond seemed oblivious to them. He ignored Ravella’s attempts to push him away. They couldn’t make love in front of children. “Aemond, look—” her voice went silent when she saw the blood covering him, steam rising in the air.

Her blood, from a cut on her palm.

“No!”

“Ravella, what’s taking you so long?” the girl asked, a thousand screams in her voice. Suddenly, she was much closer, and Ravella saw the worms wriggling their way out of her pores, falling all over Aemond’s back. Fumbling with his breeches, he didn’t seem to care.

“Stop,” she punched at his shoulders. “Aemond, look! The worms!”

Bastard looked down and smirked.

“Help me,” the girl said close to her ear, bending down from pain. Her skin boiled all over. “You have to save me!”

“I can’t,” Ravella whispered. “I want to. But I can’t.”

She couldn’t save herself. Nor could she save Aemond.

“You must. Please. It hurts,” Aerea Targaryen pleaded, then let out an eardrum-bursting scream before her eyes exploded in her skull.

“You! Help me!” Ravella asked the other child. The one with white-gold-and-black hair, so similar to those of Aemond’s cousin the Princess Rhaenys.

“I can’t. It isn’t time yet. Soon,” the boy said with a sad smile that made his eyes glint. It was when Ravella realized they — both of them — were made of gemstones, like Aemond’s, though the boy could see her. How was that possible if he was essentially eyeless?

Before she could ask, a gust of wind swept over him, taking him away with a whisper of sound.

Her guts in knots, she tried to reach out and hold on to him. Seeing that boy go… it was like losing a limb. Her fingers closed around the mountain of crackling bones that used to be Aerea Targaryen, and clamped shut. On the ground, defenseless against that monstrous version of Aemond, she couldn’t help anyone. She couldn’t even fight when he spread her legs open, his cold fingers all but freezing her flesh.

“Stop,” she said, but lacked the strength to make him pause. “Please, stop.”

“Why?” he lifted his head to peer at her. A heavy crown studded with diamonds perched on his brow, reflecting the glint of the flame in his eye. “Kings need queens,” his hand found the flesh between her legs, and she shouted with revulsion. He was so cold.

“Who are you?” This wasn’t her Aemond. He would never hurt her. This man wearing his face looked like him, but he wasn’t Aemond. Not even the Aemond he’d been before they fell in love.

He smirked. “You know.”

She shook her head, denial making her try to slide out from underneath him. But no matter how hard she fought the words, she knew he was telling the truth — the black leathers he had on, that fucking bloody cursed number… the blue lights shining in his eyes… the crown. “You can’t.”

“Why not?” he tilted his head, the crown remaining in place. With a smirk, he quoted Ravella’s old nursemaid, “He stalked her and found her and loved her. The night king and his corpse bride,” his lips found hers; when they brushed against her mouth, she screamed in pain. “My dream, Ravella.”

“No!”

“Yes,” his cock was erect. Looking down, she realized the hardness wasn’t a result of excitement, but of pooled blood — the shaft black, the rest of his skin a pure white that looked like the Wall under the snowy sky. He pushed into her, and she froze. His smile widened, while she grew more frantic beneath him.

She was giving in to despair, but then she remembered. “I don’t want this.”

“You love me,” he gave her a quizzical glance.

“I love Aemond,” she corrected.

“Aemond is dead. You will see things my way,” he promised with a deep, almost ecstatic smile, bringing a crystal-like shard down, aiming it at her eye.

Before he could twist it home, she raised her own arm, sinking the rest of the obsidian deep into his empty eye socket. His agony-filled scream was still echoing in her ears when she was roused to consciousness.

***

“RAVELLA!” Aemond shouted in a desperate attempt to wake her up. She was screaming loud enough to bring the Red Keep down.

After a particularly forceful shake of their bodies, she opened her eyes. “My love,” he breathed, bringing her closer so he could kiss her brow. “What did you dream of?”

He tried to soothe her, his heart splinting into a million pieces as she sobbed against his chest. Someone knocked on their door. “Don’t leave me,” she asked, desperate.

“I won’t, butterfly. People are worried about you. I’ll just send them away. I’ll be back,” he kissed her brow again, and naked, left their bed. He strode to the door, but didn’t mind about a robe, the eyepatch or the sapphire.

“What’s Ravella screaming about?” his mother demanded as soon as he yanked it open.

He looked around. His family was assembled on the corridor, as were some bystanders. Even his father was there, Berry close, looking like an extra limb as he stood between Viserys and Rhaenyra. The sight of the black hole on his face made more than one person recoil and sneak away.

“Ravella’s had a really bad nightmare,” he forced himself to be calm. “She needs me right now, Mother.”

“Should I send for a cup of sweetsleep—?”

He shook his head. He was grateful his wife and mother loved each other like family, but right now, Ravella needed a tranquility the concoction wouldn’t offer. He’d spend the rest of the night awake to make sure she didn’t have nightmares. “Thank you, but she won’t take it.”

A child cried out loud. Aegon glanced in the way of his children’s room, where his sister-wife Helaena and an army of nannies had to be trying to lull them back to sleep. “They woke up with Ravella’s screams,” he held out a hand, rubbing at his eyes. “I know she didn’t mean it. Tell her to speak to us tomorrow, will you?” With that, his brother walked away, everyone who wasn’t a Targaryen following.

“I’ve convinced her to drink a cup of wine,” Alicent announced, having using his brief conversation with Aegon to slip into the room. Aemond took the robe she handed him, and put it on out of their sight. “If she gets worse, don’t hesitate to call,” she instructed.

“I promise, Mother,” he nodded and, satisfied they were going away — his father helped back to his chambers by the Cargyll twins —, glanced down at Berry. “Was it a nightmare or a vision?”

“Both,” Berry replied with a troubled frown. “Even dreams carry a hint of reality to them, Dragon Prince. Go stay with her.”

Aemond sighed. “Good night, Berry,” he closed the door behind himself and went back to Ravella.

She was wrapped up in three blankets, but still naked beneath them. He could see only her head and a hand, which was clutching at an empty cup. He took it from her. “Tell me,” he asked.

She took a deep breath. “Call me your little butterfly.”

“Little butterfly, you worried me sick,” he kissed her cheek. “Please, tell me what happened in your dream.”

“… you were dead. It was horrible,” her voice was calm, but there were tears running down her face.

Weary, Aemond sat on the bed and reached out for her. He needed the comfort only she could offer, too. Wordless, she sat on his lap, blankets and all, hugging him by the waist.

“I have nightmares about the north, too. Flashes of memories that don’t belong to me,” he was forced to confess. Ravella didn’t know of the moments he was startled out of a restless sleep, hand clutched around the staff… only the lack of the bright-red glow on the obsidian blades made him rest tranquil — that, and the sensation that came from taking her into his arms so she’d be safe.

The wounds given him by the Others were taking a while to fade. Orwyle had said they were healing slow, and once they did, would resemble burns instead of stab wounds. And yet, in his dreams, Aemond sustained more injuries than the ones he had, and they weren’t his — he had to remember the entrails being cut out and steaming in the cold weren’t his, but of a nameless wildling not much older than him; that the head being separated from the neck with a quick, sharp swing of an ice sword couldn’t be his because it would be impossible to look down at his own decapitated head; that it wasn’t him falling to the coldness, smiling weakly as it spread all over him and froze his blood in his veins until his feet and hands turned as black as his and the other crows’ cloaks, because he’d added extra lumber to the fire, for Ravella hated the cold, and men of the Night’s Watch couldn’t take wives.

But then, he shouldn’t get up in the morning and have strange bruises on his body.

Ravella believed the bruises had been made by her hands when they made love, but he knew better. Too bad what he knew defied reason. He tried to find logic in what happened, but when no maester, not even his father’s elderly Archmaester of an uncle could give him answers, he tried to find reason in faith. Another failure, to the point that not even Berry was of much help. All he could tell Aemond was that his ‘third eye had opened’, which always made Aemond smirk — he still had only one eye.

“What’s happening to us?” Ravella asked.

“I don’t know,” he had to be honest. “I was thinking of searching for answers on the library of Dragonstone. Maybe then we’ll be able to—”

“We won’t,” she shook her head. “I’ve been having nightmares since we came back. There’s a girl with silver-gold hair and purple eyes, thin as a corpse, screaming at me to free her. She’s being eaten away by an army of maggots. Their teeth bring forth her blood, and it boils as it runs down her flesh, making her scream in agony. In the beginning, I thought I was just impressed. I thought it’d fade. But as the days have passed, she started to stare at me, asking what was taking me so long. Her tone was that of a person who holds me accountable for her suffering. I’m the only one who can see her, so I’m the only one who can save her. She’s in hell though she did nothing wrong,” she inhaled. “Aemond, I can’t bear to think of that girl trapped in agony for another second. I can’t.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“I want to find the people who hurt her and kill them,” her voice broke, and she covered her face with both hands.

“Me too,” he confessed. Not knowing what to do, Aemond embraced her. He wanted to find Aerea’s killers as well, but that would be a fruitless search. Aerea Targaryen’s had died almost a hundred years ago. The people who’d hurt her had to be dead by now.

And they weren’t the Others. Even if they could give the young princess justice… the Others were still lurking up north.

“And there was a little boy…” Ravella’s body rocked on his lap. “A sweet little boy who smiled when he saw me. He wanted to help me, but couldn’t.”

He took a deep breath. “Maybe… I think we’d benefit from a trip. Some time away could do us good,” he wasn’t entirely sold on the idea, but he couldn’t bear to see Ravella like this. His beautiful butterfly should soar, see the beauty in the world, not the evil of the Others or whatever danger lurked in her nightmares.

Visions, he corrected himself after thinking back on Berry’s words.

“I’ll work out the details, hm?” he kissed her brow. “Vhagar and I should meet our homeland, don’t you agree?”

***

There was a certain rancidity to the air as Vhagar dove in a circle looking for a place to land. The smell didn’t improve when they finally made it down, at the edge of what could generously be described as a forest.

Aemond descended first, sword in hand as he swept his gaze around the dark-green woods. These woods weren’t normal; the trees didn’t have that rich green color due to nature, like the sentinel trees up north, or the luxuriant greenery found in the reach or the kingswood. These trees were wrong.

Twisted, a voice deep in his mind supplied the definition. And not twisted like the Nightfort’s weirwood, which Ravella vowed canalized the magic that had built the Wall. No, everything here was a deformation of nature.

But then, they were on the outskirts of Valyria.

He was an idiot for letting his own fear talk him into bringing his wife here. It was bad enough he’d come, but to bring Ravella? Unforgivable. And yet, leaving Westeros had worked wonders on her disposition. First, they spent two weeks at the Park, which she’d solely missed. Then, upon his father’s request, they flew to Pentos, where they spent three days before setting off for Braavos. It was Aemond’s opinion that the Crown didn’t need to send an envoy to the Iron Bank, however, his disgust was due to having to leave Vhagar behind. Braavosi disliked dragons.

“How far into Valyria is this place?” Ravella asked from his right.

“We’re on a strip of land between Mantarys and Elyria,” he looked at her. “Elyria’s built on an island. This place is part of the Valyrian peninsula, but not part of Valyria itself.” At least, he thought so. The map he’d consulted was very old.

“I imagined as much,” she grinned. “I don’t see monsters.”

He didn’t smile back. “There are rumors of Mantarys being overrun. I wouldn’t give them credit, because the people of Westeros are—” he shrugged. In their countrymen’s minds, everyone who wasn’t from Westeros was a monster; even the wildlings were, if not deformed, then close to it. “That was before, though. We’ve landed because Vhagar needs to hunt. We’ll go to Volantis.”

“Is it too far?”

“Two hours or so. It’s to the west,” he grinned when she groaned. “I want to see the Black Wall.”

“And…?” she wiggled her eyebrows.

“Father wants to know if his aunt Saera lives. She’s one of Jaehaerys and Alysanne’s youngest children, not too older than Father. He wants to welcome her back into the family fold or something.”

“Aemond,” she scowled.

“I’m sorry, I can’t pretend bad ideas are actually good. Saera has spent years away of her own volition. Bringing her back would only muddle the waters further.”

The woman had at least three bastards. What if his gullible Father’s offer of friendship was met with a demand for dragons for her children? Viserys wasn’t strong enough to say no. And if Saera and/or her children had ambitions… things would get bad.

“I liked going to Braavos,” Ravella said instead.

“Me too.”

“I understand the need to leave Vhagar behind, but I missed her. I’m unused to traveling on horseback, and that’s your fault,” she laughed.

He’d let her blame him for every woe that befell the world as long as that smile remained pasted to her lips.

“Vhagar is returning!” she said suddenly, pointing.

Aemond bit back a smile when his dragon landed, dropping a huge shark on the ground between them. With her snout, she pressed at it, then stared at Ravella with intent. “What… Aemond, does this mean?”

His shoulders shook as he wiped at his lips. “Vhagar is feeding you.”

“No!” she covered her mouth with a hand, but there was a look of absolute adoration on her face. “Is she? For real?”

“Yes, for real. She—” he frowned. “Vhagar sends me images of eggs. I don’t understand why, but she wants you to eat. She knows you like fish.”

“My sweet, beautiful, Vhagar…” Ravella said, exchanging Valyrian and the Common Tongue so the old dragon would know her efforts were appreciated. Closing her eyes, Vhagar grumbled, ecstatic. She let out a stream of fire when Aemond directed her to, heating up the meat and cooking it enough for Ravella to eat.

Satisfied to see Aemond’s mate partaking of the offering, his dragon clamped her jaws shut around the shark, all but inhaling it.

“Needs some herbs,” Aemond said, swallowing.

“Yes, but we can’t break Vhagar’s heart,” she agreed, holding up a canteen. “Water?”

He shook his head. “Thank you.” Any more water and he’d have to delve further into the forest. He didn’t trust to leave Ravella for even a second, even under Vhagar’s guard, not in this place. He’d wait until they got to Volantis.

Once Vhagar was done eating, he took the time to watch Ravella play with her. It warmed his heart — dragons knew the souls of their riders, was what his Father had said several years ago. He didn’t remember why, but Alicent had grown calmer, as if assured. Aemond remembered the words because of his mother’s reaction; the queen didn’t like dragons, so she shouldn’t look so pleased.

Because of that soul-bond between him and Vhagar, he knew what he felt for Ravella was reflected on the dragon. Vhagar saw her as his mate — Viserys even insisted she’d picked Ravella for him. Berry agreed in parts — they were mates brought together by the gods. His dragon could feel it and acted accordingly.

Another vision of an egg flashed in his mind, and Aemond looked up. Vhagar was blowing hot air in Ravella’s direction, but her eyes were fixed on him. With a grin, he nodded. Let Ravella connect the dots herself. He’d love to see her face when she realized Vhagar wanted to be a grandmother, perhaps to the point of laying a clutch of eggs herself, something she hadn’t done in decades, since his grandfather, Prince Baelon, lived.

This wasn’t the right time for children. He knew that. Only, there was a yearning deep in his soul… he wanted everything. The sun and the moon. It was selfish to satisfy his desires knowing what waited for them, how dangerous things were. But he wouldn’t lie to himself. And Ravella wanted children as well.

His lips curved as he watched his wife play with his dragon, and he admitted to himself that her wishes mattered more than his misgivings. Ravella ached for a baby, and Aemond had vowed to give her all her heart desired.

***

Vhagar’s arrival caused an uproar amongst the Volantene. Ravella laughed when the dragon perched upon the great Black Wall, a stone-like structure forged from dragon fire, was thicker than the walls guarding Storm’s End. She could picture dragons flying over the city and landing here. Back then, before the Doom, the air must’ve been hotter and drier. Vhagar looked like to be sucking off moisture into herself, but that was fine. Ravella enjoyed the heat.

She took Aemond’s help to dismount. He kept her firmly tucked between himself and the dragon, and she knew, from previous experiences, that Vhagar would attack and then move to protect her if necessary. She hoped it wasn’t. She loved the dragon, but didn’t look forward to getting reacquainted with the hot, slobbery interior of her mouth.

A low warning sound came from the back of Vhagar’s throat when three people approached. The older man’s eyes were wide. He and the woman were of Valyrian descent — they had the common traits, and she couldn’t help but wonder if, like the majority of House Targaryen, the Volantene also committed incest —, but the other, dressed all in red and with several flames tattooed on his face, was a red priest. A shiver ran down her back. Of course the worshippers of R’hllor would come. Dragons were fire made flash, and the red priests worshipped fire.

“Prince Aemond Targaryen,” the light-haired man said, accent thick. “Welcome to Volantis. I’m Tessario Edoryen. This—” his lips curled when he glanced at the red priest, “is Alios, the High Priest of the Red Temple.”

“Well met, good men,” Aemond replied, charming and diplomatic. “This is my wife, Lady Ravella.” The men bowed, and she nodded in acknowledgment. Better to let him do the talking. “We’re on a honeymoon of sorts, and I hoped to be able to meet my great-aunt, Princess Saera?”

At that, the woman laughed, voice full of derision. “What do you want with me, child?”

Ravella blinked. The woman didn’t look older than King Viserys. She didn’t look younger, either. It was like she’d frozen in time in her mid-40s. Well, except for her hair. It was fully white, no hints of that Valyrian silver. There were very thin lines of displeasure around her eyes and mouth while she all but scowled at Aemond, but that aside, Saera Targaryen was a very beautiful woman who didn’t look her age.

Aemond ignored her rudeness. “Princess, I have questions I’m afraid only you can answer,” he said in the Common Tongue.

“Do you, now?” Queen Alysanne’s last living daughter asked with a smile, venom under the sweetness.

“Yes. If you could spare a few hours of your time, of course.”

The princess watched Ravella. Then, seeming to dismiss her, snapped something to the men. Tessario Edoryen nodded and bowed, walking away after saying something in High Valyrian. The red priest did the same, though he didn’t bow — he addressed Aemond, but his gaze was fixed on Ravella.

“Naturally, the religious fanatic liked you,” Saera said with a roll of her eyes. Perfect eyes the color of amethysts. Like the boy’s, Ravella thought, recalling her dream. Picturing the boy again made her heart skip a beat. She watched Saera’s eyes go up, past them. “My mother hated this beast.”

“Whatever Queen Alysanne felt for Vhagar, it didn’t stop Prince Baelon, my grandfather, from claiming her. Silverwing and Vermithor—”

“Do not speak of them to me!” the Princess snarled with a hand imperiously held out.

That was… interesting. Ravella thought of everything she knew about the children of King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne. Sadly, there wasn’t much to be known about Saera, since she’d left Westeros before she was twenty and never returned. Everything they knew of her came from gossip made by sailors or foreigner dignitaries.

“As you wish, Princess,” Aemond acquiesced. “Are you going to talk to me?”

“And your wife, is she mute?”

“Not mute, merely not a Targaryen,” Ravella replied.

Saera showed her teeth. “Are you a Stark? A Blackwood?”

“I’m a Whitmore of—”

“I know,” again with the dismissive hand gesture. “I knew you had First Men blood in you. You smell of it, girl.”

Ravella burst out laughing. “Are you trying to offend me, Princess? Because, if you are, at least I don’t get lost while explaining my family tree to anyone. I know exactly where it begins, since it isn’t a circle.”

Beside her, Aemond stiffened — she couldn’t tell if he was offended or enraged at her flippancy.

After a minute of stunned silence, Saera burst out laughing. “To have met you when I was younger!”

“I’m relieved you didn’t,” Aemond mumbled under his breath.

Lips twitching, Saera said, “I might be willing to speak to you, nephew, if I like the answers to some questions. Is your father still a dimwit?”

“As much as I wish to say he’s matured with age, he didn’t. Yes, he’s a dimwit,” Aemond said, ignoring Ravella’s gasp.

Saera nodded. “He was more Alyssa’s than Baelon’s, you know. My brother shared his nature with me. He wouldn’t have fathered a weak-willed, dimwitted child like your father,” she looked up, sounding wistful. Ravella blinked several times. Was that good? Every account about Saera’s nature said she was mean-spirited, downright evil. Her sisters had hated her. Queen Alysanne knew she was false. “He asked our sister Alyssa to fight Vaegon once. He wanted to ‘man him up.’ Alyssa won. Does Vaegon live?”

“As an archmaester of the Citadel,” Aemond supplied.

“The old man’s bones must be rattling in a pile of dust to know Vaegon and I are the only ones left,” she laughed, merrily.

“Queen Alicent said King Jaehaerys called your name in his deathbed,” Ravella cut her off.

Saera sobered. “I know. I received the missive.”

“The… missive?” Aemond asked, inclining his head.

“I still lived in Lys. One day, one of my slaves—” she said the word so casually, Ravella’s hands fisted “—said there was a Targaryen demanding my presence. It was your father’s brother, Daemon. That one is Baelon’s son,” she praised. “He’d been dispatched by the Small Council to fetch me so I could say my farewells. The letter said that bastard had lost his mind and attacked your mother while she read to him. After Ser Clement Crabb was able to pull her free, he reached for her again, in tears, this time, sweet apologies on his lips.” Saera laughed with derision. “I told your uncle to turn away and not bother me anymore. He was furious that I dared deny him.”

“But he left,” Aemond guessed.

“Yes. He didn’t have a choice. The letter was a summons disguised as an invitation, and I reminded him I wasn’t a slave of Jaehaerys’s whims anymore. Years before, after my son’s return from Harrenhal, he’d tried to tell me of Jaehaerys, of the rumors he missed me and would take me back. I threatened to cut his tongue off if he continued that stupidity,” a frown. “Your uncle arrived not too long after we had the last argument about it. In hindsight, I wish I’d gone back. I’d have liked nothing more than to tell him with my own lips that I was as great a whore as he’d called me. Pissing on his corpse would’ve been much better. Does it shock you?” Saera asked, all sweetness, when Ravella gasped.

“My wife considers it desecration,” Aemond supplied.

“It is desecration. Which is exactly why I wish I’d done it,” Saera shook her head. “I had to debase myself to escape that man.”

“I heard Queen Alysanne missed you a great deal,” he said.

“Not enough to fight for me. Or for any of her daughters, either. I was exiled, Alyssa and simple-minded Daella killed in childbirth… Viserra preferred to die rather than marry that disgusting fat oaf… and Gael—”

“There aren’t reports of King Jaehaerys mistreating your younger sister,” Aemond supplied, his voice sympathetic.

“He couldn’t use her, so he forgot all about her,” Saera scowled. “That’s mistreatment, too.”

“You’ll hear no complaints from me, Princess,” Aemond said. Ravella gave him an askance look. Her poor husband!

“Gael’s death destroyed my mother. I begged him to let me go to Dragonstone to be with her, but he wrote back that a whore like me couldn’t be of service to a queen,” her face contorted with hatred. “Then they dared to summon me to King’s Landing because that coward wished to make peace before he died. The Others take him.”

“Don’t say that!” Ravella shrieked.

Circling her shoulders with his arm, Aemond brough her closer. He kissed her temple. “My wife’s a patroness of the Night’s Watch. She really dislikes the Others, especially after our visit to the Wall.”

“She isn’t as stupid as she appears,” Saera smirked.

“I don’t understand. What does it mean?”

“It means nothing,” Saera shrugged one shoulder. “I’ve just heard tales from sailors who’d escaped the Watch while trading with wildlings. They had some colorful stories to tell. Dead things in the water, blue-eyed shadows walking under the snow, screaming caves…” she giggled at each one. “This last one came from my second-born son. My septas would often threaten to send me north, as a sacrifice to the Others, if I didn’t behave. I dared them to do that.”

Ravella wondered what Saera Targaryen would’ve turned out as if she’d had adults better suited to deal with the likes of her.

Probably still spoiled. But she’d have been with her family, instead of living in isolating for the better part of her life.

“Do you have many children?” she forced the words out.

“I had seven. Three boys and four girls. One from each father,” she smiled, but there was no venom in it. It was a normal smile, but then got serious… sad. “It’s because of my youngest that I knew my mother was dying.”

“Why? Did they have dragon dreams?” Ravella asked, leaning forward.

“Dragon dreams like Daenys the Dreamer?” Saera arched her brows. “Gods above, no! They weren’t cursed like that. It wasn’t that. None of my children looked like me. They had my hair, or my eyes… sometimes, my eyes and my hair, but they looked more like their fathers. Had their tempers. We argued a lot because of that,” she conceded. “I knew my youngest would be mine. Then she got sick, when she was seven, and died within a day and a half. I knew then I had to be with my mother.”

Ravella had heard that story before. “Why?”

“My daughter’s name was Alysanne,” Saera closed her eyes. “When I held her in my arms the first time, I was surprised to be holding a copy of my mother, so I decided that, if I couldn’t have my mother back, then I’d have my daughter, and she would be mine. No one would take her away from me. Only the gods, and they did.”

“I’m sorry for your loss, Princess,” Aemond said, solemn. “I know it doesn’t help much, especially because she passed many years before I was born, but I know Queen Alysanne thought of you often.”

“Yes, I know. One of the men she hired to watch over me was Alysanne’s father,” Saera smiled. “He believed she’d wear my father out someday. He never let me second-guess my mother’s love for me.”

There was more depth than Ravella would’ve been led to believe Saera had. The older woman sighed. “After our daughter died, I asked him to sail to Dragonstone and ask my mother if I could visit. I was willing to hide if that’s what it took. I just wanted to see her again. But Jaehaerys was there, visiting. He said she begged on her knees to let me come to her and he said no. Then he threatened to send Anders to the Wall if he returned there again. After the news of my mother’s death reached me in Lys, I decided I had to get farther away.”

“When my mother told me of King Jaehaerys’ last years, I used to think it was a sad story,” Aemond started, “now I’m glad he died in agony.”

Saera smiled a watery smile. “Now, you are Baelon’s grandson. I can see him in you. And Alyssa, too.”

“What about your other children?” Ravella asked. “Are they alive?”

“My eldest disappeared in a foolish attempt to sail the Smoking Sea. His father was a sea captain… from the ship I fled Westeros on. My daughters are well and married, with children of their own, though none live in Volantis. My second son lives here with his family. My third…” she tilted her head. “You must’ve met him. At least I hope so. You said you went to the Wall?” she inquired of Aemond.

“Some months ago,” he confirmed.

“My youngest son travelled to Westeros with his older brother when Harry went there to press his claim. He came back only to tell me he was going to join the Night’s Watch. His name’s Davos.”

Aemond stiffened. He exchanged a glance with Ravella. “Is your son around his mid-forties, with honey-blond hair and blue eyes, and a wine-colored stain on his jaw?”

“Yes. He my mother and daughter’s coloring,” Saera’s eyes lit up, though her brow was furrowed as she shared, “He used to write. His letters made it to Volantis every two or three years. But it’s been five years since I’ve last read a word from him, though the Maester of Castle Black sent word that Davos was alive, but injured after a ranging, when I sent a messenger. Davos must’ve loved seeing your dragon. He was so curious about them.”

Ravella’s heart was beating so fast, she almost didn’t hear Aemond’s reply. “Aunt Saera, we must talk.”

***

Aemond was relieved to be brought into Saera’s house behind the Black Wall — her actual home, not the brothel she owned in the depths of Volantis. The relief was partially because he worried about Ravella’s reputation — the snake-tongued of Westeros would have a lot of fun slandering her if rumors were spread, and then he’d have to burn the Seven Kingdoms to the ground —, partially because she’d have a stroke if she came across a bed slave. Weeks ago, she’d nagged at Aegon for taking Aemond to a brothel when Aemond was thirteen, even though Aemond assured her he’d agreed to be taken to the Street of Silk (he insisted the bad part of the whole thing came from being close to Aegon, not from using the services of a prostitute. She didn’t believe him and challenged him to say he wasn’t lying for her benefit. He merely rolled his eye). Slavery offended Ravella down to her soul, and she’d consider making a slave a prostitute as an even worse violation of that person. He was sure she’d feed his aunt to Vhagar herself then.

“Leave us,” Saera told her slaves in High Valyrian, tone clipped. Platters and platters of food were put on a center table between them. She’d asked for refreshments, but her people brought a feast. He wondered if his father’s aunt had hoped a relative of hers would visit. She must’ve felt lonely.

Alone, she asked, “Tell me about my son, nephew. Is he—?”

“Davos is alive,” Aemond said, preparing a plate for Ravella. Once she had it in her hand, he crossed his legs and said, “Physically, at least. This isn’t easy.”

“Just open your mouth and get the words out,” she growled.

“It isn’t simple,” Ravella intervened. “Aemond had no idea Davos was your son. We spent some weeks at Castle Black and no one said anything, not even him. He avoided us.”

He nodded. “Princess, you must’ve heard my father is sick. He’s getting worse with each passing second, and since he was beyond human healing, we decided to find a magical cure. The Wall is…” he shrugged. “Ravella was very concerned about the Night’s Watch ability to protect the Seven Kingdoms, and about the fact that I was risk to my nephew’s continued existence. Since the little shit had maimed me and all,” he caressed his left cheek with a sardonic smile his aunt would appreciate. “So I took her to the Wall, thinking we could research about magic and renew House Targaryen’s endorsement of the Watch. When we landed in Castle Black’s courtyard, however, we were met with reports of missing rangers. Some had come back, but their companions hadn’t — your son was one of those who made it back. But he wasn’t himself. The Brothers thought he’d lost his mind from a hit to the head or something that made him hallucinate he’d seen the Others. It’s been almost two years.”

Saera swallowed. This was the first time she didn’t have a reply, so Aemond went ahead. “My wife had told me the Others were real. I met a child of the forest on the Isle of Faces. The wildling man who taught my wife about the Others — he’s a Black Brother, too — also insisted they were real. Even if I hadn’t met the child or Thoren, I’d have believed my wife. She had seen them as a child. I had to do something, anything to make her calmer. I tried to speak to your son, but it seemed like he had eyes on the back of his head, because whenever I was able to locate him, he’d disappear in a blink. The only time I did manage to cross paths with him, he shouted an Others had crossed the Wall to kill him,” he shook his head. “If I had known Davos was family, I’d have done more for him. But I had no idea. And having realized I frightened him, I decided to leave him alone.”

“Otherwise, you’d have hopped on your dragon and flown all the way here,” Saera demanded.

“Not immediately, no,” he said. “I had the feeling something strange was happening. I also knew it’d take more than my word to convince the others, so I waited. Eventually, the Others did attack. Your son serves under the master-at-arms, training new recruits when his mind is clear. The Lord Commander has done everything in his power to help him, including not sending him north again.”

“Now he doesn’t send anyone north,” Ravella said and took a sip of wine.

Saera glanced from her to Aemond. He nodded. “So, as you can see, the Others are real. I believe seeing you might be good for your son. And seeing your son might be good for you. My father wanted to invite you to King’s Landing, so you’ll be safe if you decide to take it. The journey is long, but I believe a dragonrider could be sent to Volantis for you.”

“I…” Saera coughed. “I’ll have to consider it,” she reached for her goblet, and Aemond saw that, beneath her bravado, she was trembling. “You said you had questions about House Targaryen. What are they?”

“You didn’t meet Princess Aerea, did you?” Ravella asked.

His aunt’s eyes widened. “Why, no. Aerea died ten years before my birth. We weren’t allowed to speak of her. Jaehaerys got upset, and my mother cried. It was always like that when Aerea’s twin sister visited us. I met my aunt Rhaena once, and she flung herself at me and… sobbed. My hair got all wet and I didn’t know if it was because of her tears, snot or slobber. It was nasty,” a grimace. “But I couldn’t wriggle out of her hold. It felt wrong. After my poor, sweet Alysanne died, I understood exactly how my aunt felt,” she rubbed a hand over her breast.

Ravella held his wrist, touched, and Aemond rubbed her hand. “Where did you meet Queen Rhaena?” he asked.

“Harrenhal, of course. My mother was worried about her sister, and took all of us there, hoping Rhaena would be persuaded to take one or two as ward or cupbearer. Rhaena held me, cried and called me a ghost sent to haunt her, though she wasn’t angry. I hated Harrenhal, and in light of Rhaena’s distress, Mother told Aemon to take me to King’s Landing on Caraxes, with the excuse that Jocelyn needed us.” Saera gave Ravella a droll look. “Jocelyn was Aemon’s wife and our parents’ younger half-sister.”

“Your family tree has branches in the soil, not roots,” Ravella answered.

“True,” his aunt conceded the point. “And if you think yours won’t, you’re mistaken.” At Ravella’s look of surprise, she clarified, posed like a queen, “If you think my nephew isn’t planning to marry your firstborn back into House Targaryen, either to a cousin or a sibling, you haven’t been around the Targaryens long enough. Your husband rides Vhagar, girl. His father won’t let a future dragonrider go. It isn’t how we do things.”

“King Viserys wouldn’t do that. He knows how I feel about incest. Besides,” Ravella put her platter on the table, then leaned back on her own throne-like chair, “Aemond has agreed our children will carry my name, not his.”

“Aemond isn’t the king,” Saera replied, impatient. “I assure you, Viserys is already working out the details. The only thing he needs to spring this trap is knowing what you’re having.”

“It won’t happen for many years yet,” Ravella said with a shake of her head, “and I’d rather give my child away to the Faith,” she gritted out.

“Is that so?” Saera arched a brow. “Because— Gods, you don’t know, do you?” Jaw dropped, she glanced at Aemond, “And you didn’t understand.”

“I have to be honest and say I didn’t,” he agreed.

“Do you know what Aelios said? The red priest?” Saera asked Ravella.

“My High Valyrian isn’t very good. He spoke too fast, and since I’m still learning, I could only identify some words: dragon, fire, entrails. I assume Vhagar’s belly was bright while she threatened to blow at you…” Ravella’s voice weakened with each word she spoke with neither of them answering.

In Aemond’s defense, he was dizzy.

“… But that’s not what he meant, is it? Aemond?” she asked.

He shook his head. Aegon at his drunkest had better use of his wits than Aemond did now.

“Oh this is rich! No, that’s not what Aelios meant. I’ll tell you what he said.” She leaned forward, “‘Welcome to Volantis, Blessed Warrior and Soul-giver. The children of the light have hungered for your return, and you’re here, at last, to defeat the darkness and make the Lord’s will prevail. Azor Ahai, with his mighty arm, and Nissa Nissa, who has a dragon’s fire licking her from the inside out, Lightbringer forged at her entrails.’”

Absently, Aemond felt Ravella’s eyes on him. But he couldn’t… do anything. His temples were hurting. He couldn’t breathe. His throat was dry. His mind reeled. He felt like his entire body was made of cotton.

That explained it.

Vhagar had—

“What does it mean? What’s a soul-giver?” Ravella asked.

“You are,” Saera answered for him. “You truly don’t know, child? How far along are you?”

“I… don’t understand. What do you mean?”

“You’re pregnant,” his aunt said, voice gentle. “That’s what a dragon’s fire licking your insides means. That’s how the people of the Freehold said women expecting Valyria-blooded children were. The dragon’s fire made them bold.”

“I’m not…”

“The red priest must’ve seen it in his fires,” Saera shrugged.

“Just because he’s seen me pregnant doesn’t mean I’m pregnant now. I would—” Ravella covered her mouth with both hands, a shocked gasp piercing through the haze in Aemond’s head. “The boy!” she said when he glanced at her.

He was forced to nod. He remembered. The boy from Ravella’s dream, with his black-and-silver hair. His and Ravella’s son. He would have hair like Princess Rhaenys’, the daughter of Prince Aemon and his wife Jocelyn Baratheon.

It made sense.

Vhagar hadn’t been telling him she wanted to be a grandmother. She wasn’t feeding Ravella just because she loved her. She’d been telling Aemond there were dragon eggs reserved for his children, one of which at least was inside Ravella’s body, and Vhagar considered it her obligation to keep Ravella well-fed. No doubt she’d done the same for Visenya, he thought, dazed.

But… the girl. Was it possible Ravella had seen their daughter? Were the children twins? If so, would their daughter suffer the same fate as Aerea?

No, he shook his head, running a hand over his face. Berry had confirmed the nightmare had been a dream and a vision. Ravella had dreamed about the past. Aemond rubbed at his good eye. He had to—

“Well, I’ve always wanted to be a mother,” Ravella was glowing. She was worried about him, too, because he was in shock, but not for the reason she thought. “I thought it’d take years, but now that I’m pregnant, I shall enjoy it. I—”

“I need her cleansed,” Aemond cut her off. “You must know someone who can perform an abortion,” he told Saera.

“Abortion? Are you out of your ever-loving mind?” Ravella got to her feet.

“No. You can’t be allowed to get pregnant,” he stood up as well. “That was a prophecy, Ravella. The red priest said you’ll die in childbirth.”

***

Aemond’s legs were longer, and usually, he was faster, but right now, Ravella was more scared. There was too much at stake, and even if she identified with his fear — she didn’t want to die; she wanted to be safely delivered of many children and raise them into adulthood —, she wouldn’t let him make that decision. Kill their baby. No, he wouldn’t. No one would harm her child.

“RAVELLA!” he shouted from behind her. Risking a glance, she noticed he was closing in on her. “RAVELLA!”

The crowd parted for them. Funny, he sounded just like the night of her nightmare when he woke her up. As soon as dawn had broken, they went to the godswood. Berry seemed to have been expecting them. Even now, she remembered the severity on his face as he confirmed she’d dreamed of Aerea Targaryen… and the night king. The child of the forest had assured her Aemond wouldn’t be turned into the traitor of legend, though he’d also said it was essential that Aemond lived.

That was why they were here. So they could relax and deal with at least one part of her disturbing dream.

Only to be living a real-life nightmare.

She took a sharp turn to the right, hoping that would take her to the Black Wall. “Thank the gods,” she smiled, sliding to a halt. In the distance, she could see the thing, and Vhagar was close, too. Her roar was different, probably because she could feel Aemond’s distress.

“Ravella! Stop!” he shouted from behind her.

She screamed, her steps hardening. She held her coat on her hands, which she’d retrieved in silence while Aemond and Saera discussed “the proceeding”, debating whether to give her a cup of moontea or call for a surgeon. While they talked, Ravella had slipped out, thinking only of getting to Vhagar. She hoped the dragon would make Aemond see reason.

“Sorry, my love,” she looked down briefly at her belly. “Daddy loves you. But he also thinks Mommy is his world. He doesn’t want you to die, not really. But you must know how he gets when he’s worried. Don’t worry, Mommy will keep us safe.”

“Ravella!” Aemond’s voice sounded closer. “Wait!”

Again, she looked back. There were less than a hundred feet between them. She was lucky people hadn’t sprung upon her to hold her in place for him, and unlucky they hadn’t held him in place, as well.

With a frown, she took askance looks at both sides. Volantis was huge, dozens of times bigger than King’s Landing. Each street was incredibly long, and— she knew those people. She’d seen some of those men in Saera’s mansion. They were surrounding the paths leading to the Wall, intercept her before she could leave.

She shook her head, bile rising to her throat. She released her coat, then, locating a fruit seller, took a handful of apples and threw them at Aemond. He dodged each one, and shoved the angered man to the side when he tried to get on the way.

“Don’t,” her husband warned, a maddened glint in his eye.

“You want to kill our baby.”

“I don’t want that! I don’t want to lose you, that’s all. Please, come back and let’s talk,” he stopped running.

She shook her head. “We’ll talk home.” In Westeros, Alicent and Viserys would keep her safe. She’d be secured in her quarters and then smuggled out of the capital, either to the Park or, better yet, Dorne. After she gave birth, Ravella would return to Aemond, and his father would decree that, anyone who spoke of Aemond’s madness to their child would lose their tongue. It was a perfect plan.

She shrieked when three of Saera’s slaves closed the way. If she ran straight to them, they would hold her for Aemond. But going back wasn’t an option.

The dragon roared again. The Volantene people, no matter how great their fascination at their lapse of royalty, were frightened and fled from the scene. It was just Aemond, Saera’s slaves and Ravella. She looked back when the men behind her shouted, seeing only them throwing themselves at a corner. She smiled, relieved, when Vhagar landed. She could feel her scalding heat permeating the air, making the baby in her belly come awake. It was like her child knew there was a dragon close, and was trying to reach out, until something snapped in place.

This one is your father’s, my little dragon, she thought, placing a hand over her flat stomach.

When she looked back up, Aemond was walking slower, fear distorting his paler-than-usual face. “Please, Ravella. Come here. You’re putting yourself and the baby in danger.”

“Am I? You’re the one who wants to abort the baby,” she couldn’t fight the tears anymore.

“I won’t. I swear I won’t. I’m afraid, but I’d never hurt you or our child. We can find a way out of that prophecy. Please, come here,” he held out a hand. “At least, stop walking. The dragon—”

Her back hit the dragon’s paw then. She could only see Vhagar’s black claws. “Come with me,” she asked, reaching behind her to pat Vhagar.

“Ravella—” if possible, Aemond’s got whiter.

“I’ll tell you this, Aemond: I don’t want to fight with you. But I don’t want to mistrust you. I want your vow you won’t do anything harsh—”

“You have it!” he took three steps forward, almost sprinting toward her, and then the dragon rumbled. He stopped. “I won’t do anything. Just come with me, please. We’ll find a way to keep you and the baby safe. Saera says an abortion is as dangerous as childbirth, so even if I really wanted to try that, I wouldn’t. You’re more important. Ravella, please…”

She believed him. She believed he wanted the baby and didn’t wish to harm it. But she also knew Aemond, and how fiercely protective he was of those he loved.

He loved her best. If the stupid man felt anything, even their child, was a danger… he wouldn’t be reasoned with. Her best hope was reaching Alicent and having his mother persuade him. Not that she really believed Alicent could. Still, it was worth a try. It was much safer than hopping up on Vhagar and hoping the dragon took her away, when no bound dragon accepted another rider but its owner. The day Vhagar saved her from the wights, Ravella hadn’t tried to ride her — and she doubted she’d be able to now.

Maybe she could spend the next nine months in the hot, dark confines of Vhagar’s mouth, she thought, slightly hysterical. When she next saw Aemond, she’d have a baby in her arms, instead of molten snow covering her.

“I have to go, Aemond. You aren’t being yourself,” she said, walking to the left of Vhagar, Aemond coming closer. “Tell Vhagar to take me to the Red Keep and then come for you.”

“I know. I know. Please, Ravella. The dragon—”

“You’re so different you can barely form words. Can’t you see? You aren’t sane right now!”

“I’m losing my mind here,” he agreed. “Ravella, get away from the dragon. It isn’t Vhagar!”

At that, she burst out laughing. “You think I’ll fall for it? Please, Aemond,” she shook her head. “She won’t let you do anything harsh. She wants to be a grandmother, remember?”

“Vhagar does,” he nodded, then pointed at the dragon. “That isn’t Vhagar, however. That is—”

“Can you believe it?” she asked, turned to look at the dragon, laughing. “He says you aren’t—” the words and the laughter died in her mouth, substituted by a gasp, because Aemond was telling the truth.

The dragon wasn’t Vhagar. It wasn’t Dreamfyre or Sunfyre, either.

Ravella didn’t know that dragon.

***

Part. 7 coming on Saturday!

#aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen fanfiction #more aemond

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