#friend's oc: veda | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

goodeapple · 1 year

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i had all and then most of you / some and now none of you

"It's been 84 years..."

What can I say? Sometimes a girl just needs a 6 month hiatus, more than one breakdown, and an entire chapter rewrite to come back SWINGING.

I really hope you bitches like this. I feel like I just birthed a child.

pairing : Aemond x Ysilla (Rhaenyra'sDaughter!OC)

warnings : oh yeah, they fuckin'

word count : 12,000+

masterlist

tags : @erensfreedom221 @aiyaiy @gknj9495 @saintaliasblog

Ysilla hisses, feline-like and ferocious, as her auburn haired companion pulls the laces around her waist impossibly tighter. Her air is thin and her head spins in circles, and she misses the apologetic wince her handmaiden gifts her.

“I’m sorry, milady, we’re nearly done.” Veda’s voice is pained, as if she’s the one being squeezed together until her guts pour from her mouth.

Ysilla bites her tongue, exhaling the little breath she has, before unscrewing her eyes. The corners of her vision twinkle in pinpricks of black, before fading away to reveal the faded stone of her walls. She pats Veda’s hand delicately, trying to calm her maid’s worry.

“It’s alright, no need for apologies. Let’s just…” Ysilla pauses, attempting to speak without breathing. It’s more trying than one would think. “Finish with this, and get on with this blasted day.”

Veda lifts the corner of her mouth in an attempt at an agreeing grin, but the apprehensive tremble of her fingers betrays her unease. The Princess has had to be handled sensitively as of the last few weeks. Ever since returning from her ancestral home, with the newest heir to the crown held tight in her arms, the maids that doted on the young beauty for years noticed a drastic change. Motherhood alters each woman who undertakes it, but Ysilla seemed to carry a heavier load than most. Veda had to blot away countless tears on numerous nights, and she had long ago lost track of the hours spent holding the Princess’s hand, lending a listening ear to her lady’s worries while they both strived to calm an ever fussy Daenerys. The dark circles under Ysilla’s eyes matched the violet of her irises. A powdered paint the tone of her skin had to be tapped into the hollowness, lest she were to arouse worry within her close circle. And by strict order of their mistress, whispers of Ysilla’s struggles would never be heard by any other Targaryen, with special emphasis placed on a certain one-eyed devil. The women fought the burning urge to argue, only wishing for what was best for their lady, but worries of causing further cracks in the young heiress had their lips sealed like a tomb.

With a final yank and a hasty knot, Veda smooths down the cream colored shift layered over the rigid corset and steps away from the Princess.

“Thank the Gods,” Ysilla japes. She’s grateful that Veda is helping her dress behind the partition- the day ahead of her will be endlessly vexatious, filled with visiting families paying well-wishes, spirited vendors hawking their goods, and enough horses to turn the air rank with hay and manure. This hush in her day, no matter how physically disagreeable, is a moment Ysilla will savor like a poached pear.

She taps her nails along the stiff component constricting her, restless jitters dashing through her before huffing in defeat, teetering around to face her friend.

Veda’s eyes go a bit wide, a bashful grin showing her endearingly crooked teeth brightening her face. She twiddles her fingers, her girlish giggle a welcome, light sound.

Ysilla follows where her handmaiden’s gaze had been glued, and sighs a dismal breath. Her body is still something she is trying to reacquaint herself with- finding a friend in the jagged lines where her daughter had stretched her belly, in the fleshiness of her thighs that had thickened with the added weight, and something she hadn’t quite lost yet, the fullness of her chest that threatened to burst out of every gown’s neckline.

And this morning, her breasts want to come out and say hello to the world. Ysilla whines, hands settling on hips and her lip caught between chewing teeth. Ysilla chances a glance at Veda, hoping for some help but the handmaid is occupied, a pair of boots in either hand, before one loses the war and gets tossed back into her trunk. Veda kneels at the Targaryen girl’s feet, clasping one ankle and maneuvering her foot into the leather.

“One thing is for sure, no one will be looking at your feet, Princess.”

Ysilla lets her anxiousness dissipate with a weak laugh. Her door opens after a knock, Ysilla unable to even voice her acknowledgement before the newcomer makes their entrance. Or, newcomers it seems, as the familiar sound of infantile babbling floats to her ears. Veda rises after securing the boot straps, curtsying low to the floor in greeting, and that tells Ysilla all she needs to know about the stranger facing her turned back.

“Happy morning, husband. I trust you slept well to prepare for the day’s events.” Ysilla greets the Targaryen prince, palms dampening with perspiration. She hopes the soft spool of her dress is absorbent as she pats them dry.

“I slept as well as you did, wife. With our sprog’s restlessness, I fear the pair of us will be battling yawns until the day draws to its end.” The rich sharpness of Aemond’s voice flows over her like spun silk, and Ysilla yearns for the comfort it once brought her. But a whisper shared by a kitchen maid over her morning tea stunts that joy from blossoming.

“I hear that’s not the only thing you’ll be battling today.” The bite in her words is hungry, and she hopes it punctures somewhere deep in Aemond.

Things between the young mother and father have been… strained, as of late. Ysilla grew jaded as the self-loathing from the night of Daenerys’ birth had dissipated, and righteous anger took root. Everyday, she struggled under the heavy weight of what her delirium nearly made her do and everyday, she poured over what should have happened instead. The maesters who had conspired to commit the unspeakable were turned to ash within hours of her daughter’s coming, but even their demises were not enough to quell uneasy thoughts. She hung all attention on every inhale and exhale, a fear she’s never known accompanying all of the cries, gasps, coughs, and sneezes Daenerys released. It kept Ysilla teetering on a tightrope of exhaustion and madness that felt thinner as the days drifted on.

As for Aemond… Gods, she missed how her and Aemond were before. Not before their daughter’s birth, but before the night’s events had revealed the absolute worst parts of each other to the newlyweds. Her desperate attempt, his cruel words. Then after, when they were back in King’s Landing, her effort at amends and his refusal to acknowledge anything had gone awry.

The energy that Daenerys drained from her left little to be spared for trying to fathom her husband’s distance. To then have to attempt to amend her marriage, their marriage, by herself? Feeling as if it were starting to slip into a courteously, cold union, while their beginnings rivaled the intensity of dragonfire? She felt like a shadow of herself and she hated it.

“Mmmm, so the little birds have begun their incessant chirping early today, I see.” Aemond sounds removed from the conversation and the pinch at the back of her scalp from Veda tucking in a hair pin makes Ysilla want to scream.

“Is it true, Aemond? Are you joining in today’s competition or not?”

“Yes, Ysilla, I intend to do so. I apologize that I did not request your approval before I reached my decision.” The sarcasm isn’t appreciated by his wife, as her foot begins to tap. Veda doesn’t quite shoot him a warning look, as that would be highly improper, but it is just shy of a glare.

“Make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

Aemond isn’t sure if his wife is attempting to be funny, but he laughs either way. Better to laugh than to continue to bicker. They aren’t at their wit's ends with each other; it leans more towards easy irritation- but it is bearable. Like sticky fingers after indulging in lemon cakes. Or the tightness of sunbathed skin after a day of dragon riding.

“Stop squirming, Daenerys, I just laced these terrible things.” Their daughter shrieks at her father’s chiding, unhappy at being commanded and Ysilla cocks her head in puzzlement. Only one of her girl’s formal pieces has laces, and it is, of course, the one made by Aemond’s mother. The exact opposite piece Ysilla had chosen for her daughter while she was being bathed this morning.

“That is why I laid out the red one for her, Aemond. She doesn’t care for the green.” Ysilla huffs, annoyance bleeding into her tone. She flinches hearing it, hoping Aemond doesn’t recognize it and take it as his cue to leave her be. She wants him here, even if she is slighted by his very stupid decision. She wants all three of them together, marital and parental bliss, a thought she’s dreamed of since her pregnancy began.

“She’s a baby, Ysilla, she doesn’t know the difference.” Ysilla can’t see his face but she can hear the eye roll in his voice and it blisters her something awful. Her brow twitches. Bliss be damned, then.

“Is that right?” Ysilla pulls once more at the oppressive fabric around her chest, righting her gown into something just near comfortable before rounding the edge of the shade, her husband and babe at last coming into view.

Aemond must’ve been in the midst of dressing- his tunic is absent and his hair undone and flowing freely around his face. The strings to tighten the collar of his shirt hang limp, displaying the entirety of his upper chest. His eyepatch is missing, the glittering gem tossing sparkles of light in every direction. Their little girl is seemingly miniscule in his cradling arms, thick muscle corded under his creamy pale skin.

Ysilla’s irritation ebbs, her belly twisting with want at the vision her dashing husband makes. One thing has been unchanged throughout these last few moons, and that is her overwhelming desire for Aemond. If anything, her emotions have been heightened, heavier than before Daenerys. Sweltering, sizzling she is now, her fingers a dismal help to aid in her hunger.

Daenerys’ whining cry shreds whatever may be left of Ysilla’s nerves and she stalks across the room to pluck her daughter from Aemond’s arms.

He doesn’t protest, face carefully drawn and impassive as he hands over his wiggly hatchling. In contrast, the pupil of his eye roves over his wife’s choice of attire wildly, mouth pursing in an emotion Ysilla cannot place.

“Is that new?”

Ysilla rocks her babe, shushing softly, trying to soothe her upset. She blinks at her husband, turning away from him and walking about the room, bouncing as she goes. “No, it was a gift from my grandmother for my last nameday. It just… the fit is just different now, that’s all.” The embarrassment that floods her is a feeling she does not wish for. As if Aemond is not just as familiar with her body as she is- but perhaps he no longer is. Nearly three moons have passed since Daenerys’ coming and their marital bed has been simply a place for them to rest their heads. Nothing more, even though Ysilla feels the press of his manhood along her back each time she wakes.

“I could’ve had something made for you. You need only ask.”

Ysilla does not believe he hides any other meaning behind his words, but she has already decided her mood to be sour and her discomfort eliminates any interest in harmony.

“I can ask on my own, thank you. And just mayhaps, it would’ve been nice to be surprised.” Aemond is quiet and Ysilla thinks he may have taken that as his cue to depart, but the sudden brush of a presence at her back stills her.

“Would you care to elaborate on that… my love.” The sentiment is a stiff attempt for affection. The undercurrent of annoyance threatens to drench the words in a feud.

Ysilla won’t rise to the bait- years of Jace’s prickliness, Lucerys’ hijinks, and Rhaena’s mood swings throughout childhood has steeled her resolve into not wavering to any goading. The satisfaction from not giving in to Aemond’s surging ire will make this entire terrible morning worthwhile.

Ysilla pats rhythmically at Daenerys’ bottom before turning to face the man. She locks their gazes, a demure smile the first pleasant look to grace her face in what feels like too long.

“You should dress now, before the day grows longer. Wouldn’t want to be late for the tourney, would you?”

Always so smart, her husband, as he relents and ends their conversation there. He takes his dismissal with a mock bow, strutting out of the room and flinging the door shut after him. For a while, Ysilla stares through the wood, swaying in place as her child naps in her arms, finally settled even if her parents are anything but.

“Milady… Ysilla… do you need some more time before we head down?” Veda’s quietness rivals that of a mouse and even so, Ysilla startles. The younger mother presses a peck to her daughter’s forehead, love never far behind her fatigue.

“No. Let’s do this.”

The seat cushioned beneath Ysilla couldn’t be more stuffed with goosefeather lest it spill from the seams, but she still wiggles every few minutes in a dreadful attempt at finding comfort. The air is muggy, all traces of a breeze having vanished in the last hour, as the sun courses its trail through the cerulean sky. The stands are filled to the brim with bodies. The common folk surrounding the royal section are a jeering, boisterous crowd; pints of ale are passed hand-to-hand, bets placed on confident knights, and dancers twisting about to the troubadours’ tunes. As the joust stretches on, the mood seems to grow ever the more celebratory.

Ysilla is pleased to see it- her sister’s first nameday, being celebrated by the entire city and more, a joyous day for her house. Joyous for her mother and father, a few seats behind her, crowned and carefree as they enjoy their cups and the health of their last babe. Joyous for Luke and Jace, dueling the day away with the visiting Hightower boys. And most joyous for her husband, as he has been victorious the last five rounds and not once been unseated off of his saddle.

Truth be told, after the third round, Ysilla just grew more irritable at his lack of presence beside her and almost wished one of these knights would cause him to teeter, if only a bit. Not wanting to be reminded by a vacant chair beside her, Ysilla took her seat next to her grandparents, making a fair attempt at raising her spirits. First-born daughter and granddaughter came with its perks, and Ysilla would never deny the fact that she was spoiled in both love and company. But with Daenerys’ arrival, Ysilla was dethroned in favoritism and all but abandoned to her own thoughts.

Grandsire Corlys is so taken with little Daenerys that he barely relents and gives her up to anyone else while he is near. He had nearly bowled Ysilla over once they made their appearance, his cane unable to keep up with him as he scooped up his newest descendant. Only to her Grandmother Rhaenys does he ever hand her over without much argument, and even that comes with some fuss.

He tickles the tiny foot that had sprung free from Daenerys’ swaddle, swaying his locs playfully away from her inquisitive hands as the young mother vents her frustrations to the couple.

“I am at a loss, I suppose, of how to move on from this point we’ve reached. I feel we take two steps forward only to take four back when we reach an impasse.” Ysilla sighs, watching with uninterested eyes as a Riverlands fighter tumbles into the dirt, narrowly missing being trampled by his own steed.

Ysilla can hear the whine in her voice as she complains, and she herself grows tired of her sorrows, but today is an especially rough day and Ysilla does not have it in her to sit dutifully and clap at Aemond’s wins while he is the cause of much of her aggravation. Thankfully, Rhaenys’ patience has been fortified by years of the dealings of men and she just shushes her worries with a tender hand and an attentive inflection.

“A child will bring either great union or a great rift to any marriage. You’re adding a whole other person to your lives- it’s natural, darling.

But with how it may start, does not always spell how it will go forth.” Rhaenys smiles a sly grin, rocking Daenerys in her arms, suddenly finding her great-grandbabe’s unintelligible noises fascinating. Ysilla frowns at the long gone gray woman. Riddles were never her forte.

“What do you mean by that, grandmother?” Ysilla questions, knee bouncing rapidly, the eager cheers of the commoners and the neighing of horses clang between her throbbing temples. The noises grate on her nerves, plucked thin already by Daenerys’ lack of sleep and her and Aemond’s squabble. The two blatantly ignore Ysilla, causing her to huff and slump down in her chair. As much as she can with the corset’s bindings cutting into her skin.

She prays to all the Gods she knows that she’ll be back in her chambers before she knows it. Her prayers fall on deaf ears.

“Princess Ysilla, my my, how my memory does you such an injustice. You’re even more beautiful than the last time we met.” Ysilla’s misfortune is abundant this day, as she aims a startled gaze at the mystery ser approaching the balcony on horseback. His curls spring over his olive eyes like a brunette garden, full pink lips spread into an agreeing grin. Ysilla stares at him as if he will evaporate like sea foam.

The Princess is confused and it must paint her face in a question. She looks to her grandmother for assistance but finds a perked brow of similar query. Her grandsire himself, ever a man drawn to the most elite of gossip, has stalled his cooings at her daughter and aimed his full attention at the knight.

Ysilla figures it is time to speak, as the silence grows thicker the longer it stretches on.

“Forgive me, my Lord. I seem to have misplaced your name.” It’s a rusted response, a not at all convincing one to boot. She tries for a grin but it is warped- she can tell by how it twists at her cheeks- all too tight lips and clenched teeth.

To his credit, the stranger takes it on the chin, and his melodic laugh eases her humiliation.

“Of course, I was only a boy when we were first introduced. Lord Dominick Tyrell of Highgarden, Your Highness. Pleased to make your re- acquaintance.”

The night of her ball on Dragonstone comes to mind, Ysilla cycling through the endless lords she greeted and dismissed, and a somewhat lankier, more timid young lord conjures from her memories. The blood red roses he had with him then are with him now, however, this time, the lush green stems are braided into a crown and multiple flowered heads adorn the botanical ornament.

“Lord Tyrell, my most sincere apologies. You certainly have grown since then. Welcome to my home.” Stunted and sweet, her mother’s influence resonating in every terse word. Ysilla holds her sight on the posy he carries.

“I am charmed by your recollection, and I thank you for your hospitality. Before I take my turn on the field, I do have something to ask of you, Your Highness.” Lord Tyrell rolls his shoulders, as if reading himself to undertake a mighty feat. Ysilla’s heart drops. Oh no.

He presents the gilded blooms, redolent and beauteous. “Your support would grant me the strength of a thousand soldiers, and allow me to spear through any rival facing me. Of this, I am most certain. Would you do me the honor of blessing me with your favor, to prove to you my worth as the ultimate lord of my house?”

Ysilla feels the heft of her family’s stares, heat creeping up her neck. She would rather jump into a dragon’s mouth than be in this position.

“Not to be overt, my Lord, but you are aware that a Lady’s Favor, if not being bestowed upon family, is generally given by, ehm… by an unmarried Lady.” Ysilla sweeps her hand down herself in a show, attempting to drive her point through the man’s thick skull with a polite dignity. A mistake she commits as she draws his gaze to her figure, and all of his focus centers on her chest.

Ysilla’s face darkens, an indignant frown downturning her visage. She slaps her palm over her cleavage, the smack on her skin startling the Tyrell. He blinks rapidly, flexing his hold on his stallion’s reigns, blushing deeper than that of her banner’s colors. Rhaenys hides a laugh in her husband’s shoulder.

“As well, I am unaware of who your opponent is. As next in line to be Queen, I must express benevolence to all of Westeros and be fair to my future subjects.” Lord Dominick’s face is crestfallen, even if he tries to hide it beneath his curls. He nods, murmuring an apology at his misstep. Her scowl is heavy on her face, but seeing him wilt like a parched flower has a sharp pinch in her heart dispelling her anger. Ysilla grasps at her fleeting animosity, but it is as if she’s trying to bottle the wind.

“Who will be your match, my Lord? Mayhaps I will… indulge your whims if I am able to meet your challenger.” Ysilla grumbles, eyes narrowing as Dominick bursts back to life, smiling a grand grin. She has to learn how to be meaner.

Aemond doesn’t give a shit about tourneys.

They’re pointless occupations of time, flamboyant affairs to give those who attend them an excuse to drink to excess and gorge themselves until the point of spewing. Even worse, the dueling is a farce. Quarreling for show, competing for the accolades of people who Aemond doesn’t give two shits about. But in a time of peace, with no wars and no conflicts to satisfy the violent tendencies of men, today is a day of anticipation for most. Aemond pities the fools who look ready to collapse in excitement. It doesn’t stop him from entering into the contest though.

He has been bristling with unnerved energy for weeks, snapping at squires and shouldering stableboys out of his path with no remorse. If he doesn’t fight, fuck, or feast sometime soon, he’ll drive himself mad with his own battling brain. Mud splattered, sweating like a hog, and muscles tuckered and spent, Aemond unlatches his helmet, satisfied with his wins. He tosses it to one of his bannermen, accepting the congratulatory cheers from his company with a not-quite-there smile.

Out of the corner of his eye, he finds a curious image. A knight, capturing the attention of the royal sector of the stands, a curvaceous figure rising among the seated to entertain him. A woman, with flowing black hair, pops of color littered sparsely throughout the strands.

Aemond yanks on the reins, the powerful beast beneath him so easy to control in contrast to Vhagar. He ignores the questions from his men as he trots towards his family, the refined features of his wife’s face becoming clearer as he approaches.

Ysilla’s attention hones in on him, a flickering alarm being masked after it colors her eyes a shade darker. The trespasser turns around once his companion’s attention seems to shift.

“Prince Aemond, congratulations on your victories today. I can only hope to do as well as you.” The younger man bows his head, showing respect that he obviously does not mean. If the crown in the hand that he angles away from Aemond is telling enough, it seems that this man was asking for a Lady’s Favor. And the budding amusement in Rhaenys’ expression shares that it certainly wasn't she who was asked.

The Lord is but a boy in a too big coat, breastplate a tad ill fitting and gaping around his chest. Aemond will aim there and pray his lance severs the skin and that he’ll choke on his own blood as he lay dying.

“No need for hoping, little lord. The journey from Highgarden must've been long. And to come all this way for the second Princess of Queen Rhaenyra?” Aemond’s eye cuts to Ysilla, who hangs on every word he utters. The fatigue flees his body, the thrill of a fray bubbling in his blood. “Who better to receive you, than I?”

The swallow the Tyrell takes is audible, and Aemond flexes his grip on the reins.

“But you have… have you not retired for the day?” The Rose's voice is three octaves higher than before and Aemond grins, urging his steed forward, pushing the boy further into the wall. Aemond’s towering stature blots him out of the sun, and even though she is not with him, he can feel Vhagar’s anticipation in his veins. Predator cornering prey.

“What kind of host would I be to not indulge my guests, and if you want to best the best, here I sit.” Aemond wishes to continue advancing, to squash him like the insect he is, but he retreats after a moment, letting the threat swimming in his words engulf the lord in fear.

The Rose peers back with wide eyes, lips bloodless and thin and Aemond can see the turmoil churning behind his stare. Aemond giddily hopes the boy will simply faint off his horse, and give the observing crowd a good laugh. A cap ‘n’ bells would pair nicely with his curly mane.

Ysilla catches the crown tossed at her on instinct, eyes widening as she realizes that Dominick Tyrell has sealed his fate. He gives her a final embellished bow before riding to his corner, his men hastily rushing to prepare him. Ysilla worries a stem between her fingers, thumb catching on a thorn, the pain cutting clear through her headache.

Aemond’s horse whinnies, stomping at the ground as if in anticipation for what’s to come. Ysilla looks to find her husband awaiting her attention, an intensity in his stare that makes her gulp. She wonders idly if House Tyrell has a particular funeral custom that they hold dear.

“Enjoy the show, niece.”

Ysilla is panting, hands fluttering over her stomach, her waist, her chest, attempting to settle her racing heart. Her chambers are blessedly empty, Veda left behind at the tourney to assist her grandparents with Daenerys, her other maids off washing sheets or repairing the stitches on her gowns’ bust lines.

The door bursts open behind her, and she is so absorbed in her own thoughts that the fright is lost on her.

“What the fuck was that about, hmm?” Aemond is a furious frenzy, his gloves flying across the room, helmet clanging where it lands by the unlit hearth. Blood of not his own is splattered like paint over his face, white hair braided back for battle. His armor left a trail from the courtyard to the castle, and Ser Arryk and Ser Erryk had struggled to collect all of the metal pieces and keep pace with their fuming liege.

“What, Aemond?” Ysilla questions, exasperation laced in her voice. Her beloved sneers, and it’s unfair that it does nothing to discount his exquisiteness.

The men barrel down the track towards each other, as close to flying as Dominick will ever be but to Aemond, it feels slower than running. He takes advantage of the seconds as they tick by, angling himself further to the side, preparing to accept a blow that Aemond knows will come because this boy is fighting for love. No matter how childish and no matter how ill-suited, the eyes of a suitor are heavier than that of an entire city. The Dragon Prince knows the feeling well. The lances take aim, rising before impact as the men draw together.

“Your tits, practically at your chin. No wonder he thought it appropriate to approach you.” Aemond knows the fucker wasn’t thinking at all. One look at Ysilla in that dress and Aemond had nearly swallowed his tongue and dropped his daughter. Upon finding her this morning, it took every ounce of self-control not to filet open her corset and take one of those bountiful breasts into his mouth.

Ysilla wants to strike him. Her palm itches with the urge, ants biting across the grooves, making her dance with irritation.

“Oh… fuck you for even saying that!”

Ysilla tries to rush by Aemond, headed for anywhere not occupied by a one-eyed highborn whose life’s mission seems to be to drive her to madness. But his hand lashes out, shackling around her wrist and halting all attempts at an exit.

“Do not walk away from me when I am speaking to you.”

Ysilla entertains the thought of spitting in his eye, but decides that might be a bit much.

“You are not ‘speaking to me’, you are accusing me of seducing the Tyrell boy and for what? As if he does not look just as young as Luke, and as if I am not married to you!” She wrestles against his hold, desperate to get away from him. Aemond can tell, as he clutches even tighter to her. The bones in her wrist will surely throb tomorrow and a sick part of him hopes she bruises. Hopes that when Ysilla looks upon the purple shadows, that she’ll remember it was him who nearly cut a man in two for simply requesting her favor.

“Is he even alive? Did you kill him over a silly tiara of roses or did you maim him just so that each time he looks in the mirror, he’ll never forget your face?”

It’s a cowardly thing to say. A veiled callback to a childhood scuffle gone terribly wrong. Ysilla knows it but even as Aemond glares at her with the animosity of a foe rather than a spouse, she can’t bring herself to care. Because at least he is looking at her.

“Do you even care to know?” Aemond’s grip had loosened with her previous questioning but Ysilla does not take her chance to flee. She stabs her pointer finger into his chest, the undershirt he dons translucent with exudation. “Does it even matter to you, that you may have squashed out a life over nothing more than a handmade headdress?”

Ysilla laughs, incredulous and edged, and the fury erupts in Aemond once more.

“You need to come down from that throne you’ve placed yourself on, dearest. Come down and face yourself- as if you didn’t like it. As if you didn’t enjoy it.”

Ysilla is shaking her head before he is even finished, a backwards step advanced on by quick feet. A cat chasing a mouse.

“No-”

“Yes! You did. I saw it. Saw the way your breaths quickened, the way your gaze hung on every swing of my sword, the way you practically moaned when the herald pronounced me winner. I could practically smell your slick from there.” Her back meets the room divider, Aemond looming over her, Ysilla drowning in his shadow. She’s always smaller, swept up in his towering frame, but Gods, she never feels less than.

“I can smell you now. You are mine, from here,” Aemond’s thumb sweeps over her heart, the spilling skin hot to the touch. “To here.” He cups her sex through her dress, pressing the heel of his palm into her. Ysilla’s breath skips in her throat. She’s aching, wetter than a river; has been since this morning, the glimpse of his naked chest enough to spark her fire. But even through the swirl of lust, her nose starts to sting with salt.

“Then act like it!” Ysilla spits, furious at the tears gathering in the corners of her eyes. She wants her rage, wants it to race through her veins and burn away this jealousy, this inadequacy that has been lingering for months. She doesn’t want the weakness that hides in the droplets.

Aemond’s brow raises so high Ysilla thinks it may tangle in his hairline. He stills, sliding his hand from the front of her neck to the back, thumb starting soothing circles at the tense muscle he finds there.

“Explain, Ysilla.”

His wife breaks their stare, blinking speedily, trying to dispel the pooling water. Aemond will not have it. They’re here, now, alone and he will not waste this opportunity. He sways closer, knocking his forehead at her temple, the scent of almond blossoms in her hair cloying, masking her natural perfume so heavily it makes his nose curl. He wants her as she is, has always wanted her that way.

“Tell me, ñuha jorrāelagon. I can take it.”

“You’ve been…” Ysilla’s voice wobbles; she’s crumbling like ancient stone. Her fury is being washed away by the clouds in her heart, flames extinguished by sorrowful rains. “So distant.”

A dam cracks, hopeless sobs churning and tossing her words. “Why have you not spoken to me? Why do you seem so occupied with other matters? Why do I feel as if I were to try and clutch you closer, you would slip away from me like sands on a dune?”

Each word is a lance to the heart, a dagger in his eye. He didn't intend to be cruel, maliciousness a thought never even crossing his mind. Ysilla had needed space, time, distance- he hadn’t been kind in his terror, in the moments when the horror of what so nearly transpired threatened to obliterate him. He wished to take it back, to comfort rather than chide, but words spoken cannot be unsaid, so he withdrew. Punished himself with desolation that he didn’t realize flogged two in place of one.

But Ysilla is so different from him. He should’ve known; it is in the way they were raised. His mother loves him wholly, no secret he is the preferred child out of the three she bore. But even if he didn’t wish to, he recalls watching his eldest sister raise her brood as if it were the grandest present ever bestowed upon her. With a flourish of love that at no time seemed to run dry, and encouragements with no attached strings uttered in abundance. Ysilla was nursed on attention and comfort, where Aemond had to find a way to endure on the scraps he was tossed.

For all his smarts, he could be a daft fucker. His brother would agree if anyone would listen to him.

“Ysilla. Sweet girl, I am sorry. That was never my intention. You are the only one in my sight. You have been since the very moment I laid my eyes on you. You are the first thought I have upon waking, and the last name on my lips upon parting.”

Ysilla’s eyes crinkle at the corners, a coughing laugh aiding in easing the tension, her tears slowing as she blots them on the handkerchief her husband provided. Aemond hums softly, pleased with the sound.

“Eye, don’t you mean, husband?” Ysilla doesn’t mean to poke fun, and she tenderly traces around her husband’s scar to assure him of her emotions. She wants his disguise off, can’t stand it when the patch mars his beauty. His malformation is just as much a part of him as his celestial locks, his mighty height, his ivory pallor. She wants him genuine and bare and naked- in all the ways that she loves.

“No. I do not mean that. It’s always been you. With two eyes, with one eye… dragon, no dragon… from boyhood to now… Seven be damned, my intended place is wherever you take me.”

Ysilla knows it is not the rushing emotion that has made her lightheaded. Aemond could be a poet in another life, she is certain. The way he conveys his thoughts and feelings is enough to steal the very air from her lungs, or leave her doubled over and gasping for more.

“I…. burn for you, Ysilla.” The declaration rushes out of Aemond as if it pains him to keep it inside. Exertion plagues each word, his lungs shriveling as he vocalizes the yearning tearing him apart.

“Do not let me go, Aemond. Please, please.” Ysilla drops her chin, sealing herself to her husband’s chest.

Aemond chuckles wetly, fist winding through her curls and clutching her to him. He has to anchor himself down, and relish in the vigorous pluck of her heart beating along his breast. How wild that not quite an hour ago, he maimed a man who thought it wise to intrude on what is his. They would never know, the crowds the people the realm, how this one woman, this beauty with midnight hair, this dragon with amethyst eyes, this belle with a smile that the stars paled to, brought him to his knees in rapture.

Does Ysilla not see? How holy she appears to him? Life bursting from her pores, radiating in the whites of her eyes and the gusts of her breath. He awakens still, even night after night of having her at his side, gasping and soaked in sweat, the memory of Daenerys’ birth flashing like lightning strikes in his mind. The only thing that settles him from slicing a blade across his throat in lunacy is when he catches the ever-steady lift and fall of her chest.

Ysilla rises from her gloom, pillowy lips pecking at his chin, and then up to the corner of his mouth. The heat from her thumbs smears the once dry droplets of blood up the dips of his cheeks. Like oil on a canvas, she paints her dragon in shades of red, highlighting the sharp edges of his features, coloring him in with the splatters of his violence.

She whines as their lips meet, shivering as their tongues brush, mapping familiar territory as if never before visited.

Ysilla’s talons cut into his back. Aemond can feel the paper-thin fabric begin to give under her crazed clutch. He presses her further into the wooden divider, threatening to send them over as the furniture begins to teeter. Aemond dreads to part from her but he needs to ask her, needs to hear her voice command him to do exactly what she desires of him. He sucks blemishes up her jaw, lips leaving her at last to speak along her ear.

“What beautiful, tell me what you need.”

Ysilla cries, attempting to rid him of his clothes without separating from him.

“Need to ride you, need you as deep as I can take you.”

They’re moving together before she finishes, mouths reconnecting so desperately their teeth clink. Ysilla’s shoulders shake in a smothered laugh, and Aemond smiles into her lips.

Aemond sprawls on the side of the bed, Ysilla standing in between his spread knees. Even with him this low, he still only needs to raise his chin a tad to keep their lips locked. It never fails to spur Ysilla on, how absolutely tiny she feels when she smothers herself in his physique. They both go for their respective laces, Aemond making quick work of his breeches, his boots kicked off and banished under the bed.

Ysilla tears away from him, growling as she does, lips puffy and breaths labored. Aemond goes to nibble at her neck but his wife takes a step back for good measure. Her fingers fly over the knots tying her in, concentration pinching in her brow.

“I despise this fucking corset.”

Aemond tsks a rebuttal, drinking in the vision she makes, stroking his weeping prick.

“Mmmm, I might have to disagree. Motherhood becomes you, niece. The swell of your hips, the mount of your arse, the budding of your breasts.” Aemond chokes his cock, the head purpling with unquenched desire. “Truly a woman to die for.”

Even as Ysilla’s core clenches around nothing, Aemond’s sultry words nearly causing her to collapse, she keeps working at loosening her bindings. Her thighs rub together under her dress, the slide of her underclothes a tease more than a relief.

Aemond’s impatience gets the better of him, going for the knife he keeps in the bedside drawer. Ysilla’s hand flies to his wrist, maternal reprimand present on her flushed face.

“Don’t even think about it.” Ysilla warns, dropping a kiss to occupy him from ruining another piece of her wardrobe. With one last tearing pull, the torturous binder falls away, and Ysilla inhales so deeply she fears her ribs may crack apart.

“Finallyyyy.” Aemond hisses, halting her relief as he drags her back to him. She’s out of her dressings before she can blink, her poor gown another victim of Aemond’s temper and her small clothes a companion to the tattered fabric pooling around her ankles. Ysilla thinks to scold him and she has half a mind to, before her thoughts go blank as her husband suckles her breast into his rapacious mouth.

Aemond grasps her by her thighs, palms spanning the skin beneath her cheeks, rolling the flesh there with calloused hands. His mouth continues to work at unraveling her so soon, laving her nipple with his tongue before pulling at the bud with keen teeth.

Ysilla winds her fingers through his hair, unplaiting the silver strands to free them around his face. The wisps tickle at the slope of her chest, Aemond trailing down to nip at the tender underside of her breast. She yanks him back with a gasp, squeezing at his jaw tightly to keep his gnashing teeth together.

Aemond whimpers, the delectable sound something Ysilla wants to eat up like a sweet treat. He blushes at the vulnerability he let escape, but his pupil is blown out, betraying the longing he’s keeping inside. Even his sacred stone glows brighter, the sapphire seeming to pulse in time with the blood thickening his cock.

“‘Sillaaaa,” Aemond whispers, trying to sway forward to bury his face in the valley between her breasts. Ysilla doesn’t allow him this divinity, controlling him with the grip under his chin. She’s winded, stroking the cut of his jaw before urging him backwards with a soft push. He listens, Gods willing, and she crawls after him, moving until he meets the pillows and reclines there in wait.

Her knees mirror his hips, seating herself on his lap to make herself comfortable before she lines up his bobbing cock with her entrance. Ysilla takes him all down in one go, damn near creaming as his intrusion feels entirely natural but at the same time brand new.

“Fucking hell, you feel so good. Always stretching me out until I think I’ll split in two.” Ysilla gasps, hand coming up to roll her tits in her palm. Aemond groans, the sound choking off as Ysilla’s other hand tightens around its new place at his throat. Her hips rock harder, dragging him in and out of her, a slick burn that makes her grit her teeth. Her cunt presses hard against Aemond’s pubic bone every time she careens forward and the pleasant sting she gets at the pressure pulls at her insides.

It wouldn’t matter if he was even awake, Aemond thinks, watching through a low-lidded eye as his wife fucks herself on him. He is simply a toy, a tool for her pleasure. The thought should slight him, pinch at his pride but it just makes his cock jump harder, makes him plant his feet on the bed and spread himself further open for Ysilla to use.

Her head rolls forward fluidly, mouth hanging open and spiraling locks askew. Her gaze is glazed, pouring heat and unflinching want over him. He looks delectable, veins straining at attention, poised and at the ready. Ysilla rolls forward faster, a breathy series of gasps escaping her, brows coming together in vulgar concentration. She needs to cum, her entire body teetering on desperation, wound up and tense for an endless amount of hours (of days, weeks, truthfully but who's counting?)

Need, need, need. Want, want, want.

Aemond’s being so good for her, such a perfect Prince that it damn near sends Ysilla over the edge but Gods, it’s just not enough. She needs a bit more… a good push to finish her.

“You looked every bit a king out there today, my love.” Ysilla whispers, palms sliding warmly over Aemond’s pectorals, nails catching on his nipples so sharply that Aemond hisses and jerks his hips up. “You sliced through that Rose’s stem like he was nothing.”

Aemond bares his teeth, canines sharp and burnished. The grip he has on the pillow behind his head flexes. Ysilla smiles.

“He is nothing. I made him into nothing. Thinking he could ask for your favor, that you would lower yourself to accept such a notion.” Aemond rocks up harder, Ysilla’s vision whiting out at the sharp jolt and her cunt clutching at him in commendation.

Yessss, more, more. It’s the right direction, she’s nearly there.

“I don’t know…” Ysilla sways back, the muscles in her thighs tightening as she reclines upon her husband as if he is the iron throne that the Seven Kingdoms bow towards.

“He could’ve grown into quite a catch, before your handiwork. I could imagine what the ladies of the Court saw that interested them so.” Ysilla snickers meanly, dizzy with her husband’s closeness and the molten pleasure in her loins. The shadow that passes over Aemond’s face is lost to her bravado, and she’s pulled backwards before she can blink. Her scalps screams at the sting of Aemond’s fist rooted in her hair, the bones in her back creaking at the abrupt bend she’s forced in to.

“Does that please you? That when you speak of another man while I am inside you, it makes me want to kill?” Aemond’s voice is cold but he is aflame, perspiration not even daring to slicken his brow. Ysilla can’t see him, and that stabs at her, but she feels the graze of his nose along the underside of her chin and shivers.

“Who would’ve thought my fair niece would turn out to have such whorish tendencies.” He nips at her in punishment, the fine skin stinging in response.

Ysilla claws at his arm, wanting to be freed. Wanting to push him back down and ride him until his eye rolls back, and her’s do too. But Aemond is unwavering and he yanks again with his fist, sending home the point to not test him further. Ysilla still wants to, but that is only because his lessons leave her so delightfully sated.

“Is that what you are, Ysilla ? A whore for me to use?”

Ysilla gurgles under his grip, growing so wet it feels as if a wave has crested in her cunt. He pulls her further in a bend, her head nearly laid amongst the bed now. Aemond glares down at her with a deadly desire pulsing in his eye, and Ysilla spreads her thighs as wide as they go. His pupil flickers to her movement, her desperate rocking against his cock for even a spark of relief angers him. He sneers.

“Use your words, little demon. Tell me what you are or I’ll fuck you until the sun sets and never let you break.” Aemond sees emotion pool in her eyes then, Ysilla’s lip wobbling and her chest heaving as she attempts to draw in calming breaths. He battles a smirk, fondness attempting to creep into his timbre and his hold, but he wars against it just as he had the Tyrell weasel. All in the name of his wife, would he slaughter a million men and then defile her in their sheets to make sure she knows who she belongs to.

“I’m only for you. Forever been for you… my husband’s whore.” Ysilla chokes out, desperate tears dampening her hair as they tumble over her temples. Aemond can’t help himself and he doesn’t want to as he brushes his lips over both of her fluttering eyelids. A show of kindness before he unleashes the beast within.

“Then maybe I should treat you as such.”

Her world goes right side up as she’s flipped, Aemond’s fist unrolling once to ease the tightness of his hold but then he’s pushing her down into the bed, arm slinging around her hips and pulling her back end up against him. He guides himself back inside her, all sopping wetness with no resistance and husband and wife both inhale deeply at the joining.

“Yes Aemonddd, harder.” Ysilla moans brokenly, face pressed firm into the sheets.

“Any harder and I’ll fuck you through the bed.” Aemond rumbles a laugh, thumb stroking the slip of skin behind her ear. He feels better already, just mere minutes spent with his wife enough to soothe the sore from too long apart. They are one in the same- a grave mistake to not have them be joined like this each and every night. They’ve both been too high strung, too snappy and prickly. Fucking out their frustrations a habit they have neglected- Aemond will make sure it does not happen again.

“So wanton, so desperate. What a pretty picture you make, wife.”

Aemond is unseated and the gasp that tears from Ysilla’s dry throat is ragged. She propels herself forward in her chair and she thinks she would be up and over the ledge if her grandmother’s grip on her arm didn’t keep her in place. He’s on his feet at once, haste written in his every move. Dominick swings himself down from his perch, and the herald announces their battle. The crowd sounds their elation, and even a few of their family voice their support. Aemond draws his long sword out of its holster like a dragon unfurling it’s tail. One fluid motion and in the blink of an eye, steel meets with a metallic cling! and the two are locked in a dueling dance.

“Unnnhh , fuck Aemond, yessss.” Ysilla is being loud, much too loud for a late afternoon summer day where people are milling about enjoying the tourney. The doors to their balcony are still propped open. She can hear the clopping of hooves against the dirt.

Aemond snarls, thrusting faster into his pinned wife’s form. His cock slips easily in and out of her, her essence spreading between them and dripping down to the inside of her knees. She’s so open and willing for him, accepting him without a fight. Underneath him, joined as one, just as she should be. Right where she belongs.

“Yessss, Ysilla, take it like a good bitch.”

Ysilla wails, nails ripping into the sheets her head is burrowed into. Every thrust of Aemond pushes the air out of her lungs, makes her face burn hot and pleasure curl her toes.

“Give me another, my love. Kostilus, ñuha dāria. Let me pump one more inside of you so I can fill you up every, single, night.” Aemond punctuates every word with a punishing thrust of his cock and Ysilla pants like a hound in heat. Her vision blurs with tears, wet gasps pulling in her throat. Her naked chest is completely flush with the linen, back arched like a bow, every nerve pulled taut as she’s curved herself to accept her husband’s onslaught.

This is what Ysilla craves, when her duties as a mother, a wife, a successor grow too heavy. To be held down and made to take, take, take it until her mind goes foggy and the one thing that matters most is the pleasure scorching through her.

“Ae-mond, please, fuck, I can’t take it.”

“Liar. Yes you can. And you will. Just for me.”

She’s too full like this, cunt stuffed but Aemond is still trying to be impossibly deeper in her. His cock has never not made her ache the morning after a midnight escapade, but she feels as if he is coming up her throat. Trying to prove the point that he will be the only man to make her feel this delirium.

“Gods, Aemond, don't stop!”

“‘Don’t stop’, ‘I can’t take it’. Which is it, little one?” Aemond’s voice is mocking and the demeaning chuckle he releases into her ear makes Ysilla shy away, face burning and burrowed in the bed.

Muffled words mumbled into her elbow has Aemond slowing (but not stilling- he can’t, he’d go mad if he stopped fucking her) and sliding his palm under her jaw and around her throat. He forces Ysilla’s head up, the tips of his forefinger and thumb digging into her cheeks.

“What was that, sweetling? I didn’t quite catch that.” Aemond can’t help himself from bringing her face up to his mouth, licking a hot stripe from neck to temple and then trailing the tip of his angular nose from her ear down her jaw. He’s missed her terribly.

Ysilla groans, needy and petulant, but there’s a rumble hidden in the sound. A growl of contempt, a warning to not poke her when she’s still sore from their earlier fight.

“I said, you prick,” the power in Ysilla’s voice is dampened by the domineering grip pressing to her airway. “Make me take it until I can’t, kepus.”

She rolls her hips back against him, and Aemond laughs darkly. She is such a perfect partner for him, a truly amazing mother to their girl. He can’t wait to do this forever.

“As you wish, pretty thing.” Aemond braces one foot on the bed, nails digging into the supple flesh of her arse. The arch of her is so good, making her open and ready to be used. He can’t help but recall that this same position was what seeded Daenerys in Ysilla’s womb. With how deep he is, it is no wonder that his spend took root.

Ysilla’s hips stutter, her walls squeezing around her husband’s hung cock as the splitting slide of him becomes too much to take. She breaks apart, screaming obscene praises for all to hear, every nerve in her cunt singing as Aemond refuses to falter in his stride.

He moves somehow harsher, deeper, spurred on by her undoing. The headboard knocks thunderously at the stone, the frame squeaking in protest at the pace the duo have set. Aemond grips the edge of the bed with a frantic vigor, blanketing over Ysilla, coating her in his sweat as he pummels her cunt. Ysilla’s hand shoots back, colliding with his belly, and Aemond can’t figure if she’s pleading with him to relent or spurring him on for more.

“Jaes, Ysilla, cum for me again. Let me take it all.” Aemond mouths at her shoulder, teeth sinking deep just to give him something to anchor to. If she had the ability to form words, the most carnal of curses would pour from her, shouted or whispered, she isn’t sure.

“Lord Dominick Tyrell has conceded! Prince Aemond has won the duel!” The herald’s bellow falls silent from the crowd’s roar, the screams sound monstrous, sadistically hungry for more. Aemond is shocked that an overwhelming part of him aims to appease them, twist his greatsword about and cleave the boy’s head into twin pieces. Hungry he is too, but his hankering for blood falls second to another. He strides in the direction of the royal seats, steady and straight towards the figure waiting there.

Ysilla tosses the wreath once he is close enough, watching through hooded eyes as it seems to float down on the wind. Time slows in its ticking, the crowd quieting to lower than a whisper and fading from sight as she watches Aemond. He catches it, the crown careening into his fist as if it was secured there with a thread. He crunches the wreath without hesitation, the petals plummeting from their bloom only to be muddled to nothingness under his boots. They hold each other’s gazes, for how long neither of them know. Ysilla spins suddenly, stalling to say something to the Sea Snake and the Queen Who Never Was, before she disappears from his sight.

Aemond goes for the tunnels at once, the cheers and praises unimportant and unneeded. He passes his men, their hoots and howls sidelined, shedding his armor as he heads for the castle.

Aemond doesn’t stop thrusting, not even after Ysilla has shattered for the fourth time, not even after he himself releases inside her after what must be a lifetime. He carries on, sliding through the mess they’ve made of each other, being propelled on by the passion that never seems to cease when it comes to his beloved.

Otto Hightower glares at the door as if it has personally affronted him.

The lewd hollerings of the Prince and Princess cannot be contained behind the wood, slipping underneath the door like smoke and coming up to curl around his ears. The guards mirror each other in face and stance, breathing gargoyles holding vigil at behest of their future King.

Otto sniffs, spinning on his heel and stalking down the hall when a figure rounds the bend in front of him.

“Cole, finally, an ear that can be lended. My daughter seems to evade me at every step, I have not spoken anything besides pleasantries with her in nearly half a year. And forget speaking to my second grandson, as he seems to be endlessly occupied with his marital duties.”

The knight winces at the moans and groans echoing in the hallway, his spine stiffening as he realizes who resides in this corridor of the Red Keep. He was simply wasting away the day, patrolling the barren halls of the castle while most were occupied with the celebrations outside, when he strayed too far from his customary route.

Otto starts down the hall, leading away from the perverse sounds and Criston only follows him in order to pay some privacy to the… exuberant couple enjoying their time together. The old lord casts one final abhorred glare towards the royal apartments, before addressing the quiet man beside him.

“You and I need to talk.”

Rhaenyra’s brow came up to arch in a question, not deigning a spoken response.

“About what exactly?” She refused to cross her arms, attitude tampered down by highborn grace.

The hate laced in Criston’s gaze never failed to steal a bit of her breath. Once, a very long time ago, love and adoration had been there, had turned those simple brown eyes rich and stunning. To be looked at like that made a young girl’s heart soar higher than any dragon and a taste of that was hard to forget.

“You know what.” Criston took a step into her chambers but Rhaenyra refused to budge. Not in this house, not in her house would she tolerate that fucking disrespect. She didn’t have to take any more of those contempt filled looks, the snide comments he whispered to Alicent all those years spent in King's Landing. He could eat fucking Dragonglass and enjoy it for all she cared.

Rhaenyra set her shoulders, chin high and gaze bitter. Criston clenched his jaw, staring hard through her with a revulsion that would topple a lesser woman.

“I don’t think you wish to have this conversation in public, my Queen.”

Bitch. Whore. Monster. Rhaenyra hears them all, hidden behind her title.

“What. Conversation?” Gritted teeth are hard to get words through but she does so all the same. Her patience was thin and he was keeping her from her grandchild- her granddaughter.

Criston blinked at her, an unhappy grin that showed all of his teeth pulling at his features horridly.

“About Ysilla… Rhaenyra.” He leaned closer. She could feel the coolness of his breastplate through her corset. She stomped down a shiver.

“About how I just helped that girl deliver her child, and all I could think of was what my mother looked like when she was birthing my sister. That the way her face scrunched in pain nearly unseated me, because it was like a memory pulled straight from my head.” Criston breathed out harshly, tremors causing his hands to shake in their leather confines.

“Because that is my face, on her face.”

Rhaenyra flinched as if he’d slapped her. She almost wished he had, so she could form a plausible excuse to tell her husband, and have the knight’s head separated from his body. So she wouldn’t have to have this conversation- one she’s never counted on having.

“I…”

She thought to lie, to call him foolish and imaginative. To sneer and scoff and dismiss. To push past him with her granddaughter in her arms and shower her with love, and then find Ysilla and do the same. But the time had finally come, the dreaded day that’s waited for her like a hung blade, coming loose to swoop down and dice apart her well-crafted life. Her tongue was thick in her mouth, words failing to come to her aid. The young queen angled herself off to the side, and pulled the door open far enough to give the two a wide berth.

Criston hesitated, fearful that she would attempt to slam it in his face and bust his nose wide but she kept still, fingernails gripping the grain for dear life.

He hurried in, his bloodied cloak bundled on the sheets capturing his attention immediately. He was at the foot of the bed without thought, pulling the wrap tighter around the babe. This dastardly stone dungeon was as drafty as a cliff side: the fire in the hearth had barely started to kindle and he could feel the chill through his garb.

The blood was tacky upon her cheeks, turning a dusky burgundy that threw off her bronzed skin. Criston wasn’t able to catch the true color of her eyes on the beach, but with her lids closed and lashes fanned out, it was easy to conjure up the image of oak brown irises. The ones he’s seen in his own reflection.

“Tell me that I am mad. That my mind has spun an impossible thought. That it must’ve been a trick of the moon’s light. That you haven’t… that she isn’t…” Criston sounded near pleading and Rhaenyra felt ill. He stared at Daenerys like she was a snake poised to strike, but too, as if she were a cool oasis in an endless desert. A warring heart, trapped in a man of hate.

She had to force herself to breathe.

“Ysilla’s name is Dornish.”

One beat of her heart, two, three.

“I wanted her to know one piece of you. Even if it wasn't your name, even if it wasn’t your face… it felt like I owed you…” Rhaenyra swallowed past her tongue. “It felt like I owed you at least that.”

Criston’s breath whooshed out of him like the wind out of a sail, knees buckling as he collapsed into the chair in front of the fireplace.

“Gods above…”

Years flashed in his mind, dates tallying themselves as he did the math. “Then you were- that means-”

Rhaenyra’s nod drew him into silence, the weight of her agreeance crashing down upon him like thunder.

“I was already with her at mine and Laenor’s wedding. I started to swell before Daemon and Laena were wed.”

A bee’s buzz could’ve knocked him over. “He knew? Laenor?”

“He did. It took some convincing on my part; Joffrey’s death still so fresh for him when my moonblood stopped coming. He didn’t want any part of you in our life but the moment he laid eyes on Ysilla… he did it for me and he did it for her . ” Rhaenyra swallowed hard, jaw tightening in an old ache, long ago sent off to Pentos. “He was a good man.”

Criston stared at her. It dawned on Rhaenyra that this was the first time they had been alone, truly alone together, since the night of Ysilla’s conception.

“Does she… does she know that I’m her…” Criston trailed off, brows coming together, trying to think back on his and Ysilla’s meetings. If there was any small thing he was too daft to pick up on.

“No, she doesn’t know. There’s always been doubts, I can see it in her eyes. We’ve never discussed it. I’ve been too much of a coward to do so. So I’ve left it to her.” Rhaenyra’s candor spilled from her before she could stop it, and she winced. She advanced on wobbly legs, reaching for Daenerys, plucking at the stubborn sand caked on a drying blood patch on the cloak. The grit of it rolled under her nails, thick and pasty.

It was odd, to voice something that had been trapped in her heart for nearly twenty years. A simultaneous sense of freedom, of lightness wholly overshadowed by the wrongness of the timing.

Criston’s stare turned cold, an all-too familiar look Rhaenyra knew, and she braced for the freeze.

“I deserved to know.”

Rhaenyra scoffed; as if it were so simple.

“She deserved a father! This isn’t about you or me, Criston, it was about the little girl who was born into this world an heir to a heavy crown. Born into a family not seeing eye-to-eye. Born to a man that would rather spit in my direction than bow to it.”

Criston didn’t flinch but the righteous rage dimmed in his eyes.

“In a different world… mayhaps I would’ve gone with you. Taken you up on your offer and sailed to Essos, ran away from all of these duties and obligations. A little girl that smelled of oranges and sea salt and cinnamon clinging to our sides, and growing up with a spirit of a wanderer.” Rhaenyra tucked Daenerys tightly in her arms, bringing her close to her chest, tears that she would never let fall brushing at her lashes. Rhaena would return any moment and this conversation would stay between grandparents, granddaughter, and the four walls of this room.

“But I didn’t. I chose a different path. One I do not regret, not even an ounce. And what I do not regret most of all, is raising Ysilla with all the love that my heart had to give her. Which was enough for both me and you. That is something I’ll never apologize for, Criston.” Rhaenyra turned swiftly, exiting through the door, and pulling it shut behind her. The sudden silence threatened to deafen the knight.

Criston sat and thought. He sat until the morrow’s sun burst hot and bright through the window’s glass, until the seagulls squawked at their day’s catch, until every droplet of blood left behind from his daughter stood apart from his clothes like the day against the night.

Criston slid his gloves off, gripped them so tight that the leather squeaked, before tossing them into the fire.

“Cole, Gods, are you even listening to me?” Otto hisses. Criston blinks away the past, gaze fixing on the fuming older man. They’ve come to a halt, far enough away from the twin sers that neither man can catch note of another lecherous noise. He finds that he has to fight a sneer of irritation from furling his lip, a foreign response that doesn’t feel as unwelcome as he feared it would.

“That girl has bewitched my grandson. Aemond was once the epitome of a ruler and now he is but a lapdog, playing puppy to every wicked whim she casts upon him. The Small Council has been picked apart and replaced, all of our allies scattered to the wind. And with Alicent seemingly back under Rhaenyra’s wing, I fear that it is only you and I left to protect the realm. Ysilla will be the end of House Targaryen. I can sense it. I know it to be true.” Otto waxes on, so engrossed with the sound of his own voice that he misses entirely the dimming civility in Criston’s expression. The animosity in his posturing, the squaring of his shoulders. The knit of his mouth as he voices his rebuttal.

“The end of House Hightower, I assume you to mean.”

Otto stops short, twitching his head to the side in the beginnings of bewilderment.

“Pardon?”

“Well, it is not only Ysilla that represents House Targaryen, but her daughter now as well. And from the sounds of things in that room,” Criston fights off a cringe, shoving away the unwelcome pictures that evoke in his mind. “Daenerys will not be the only one in line after her mother. And if not them, then Jacerys, then Lucerys, then Joffrey, then any one of Rhaenyra’s children will hold steady over the Realm. It will never be Aegon, it will never be Aemond.” Criston pauses, readying the nail in the coffin, boring his eyes into that of a man whose lust for power would never be quenched.

“It will never be you, Otto. It will never be anyone but Ysilla and then her daughter to wear the crown, unless something is to happen. And nothing, will happen to them, as I stand here breathing.”

Otto appears as if he might blow away in the wind, and Criston wishes it were that easy, but he is no fool. Not anymore.

“You have gone mad, Cole. Once and for all, you have at last gone mad and fed yourself to the Dragons.” The disgust in Otto’s delivery cannot mask the trembling of his tone.

“Those words are treasonous utterings best kept silenced… my Lord. Do well to remember that before you open your mouth again, or I do fear whatever you may voice could find its way to the Queen’s ear.” Criston feels dizzy, elation and terror warring in his head as he brushes past the former Hand of the King. Everything he has known and abided by for the last eighteen years is abandoned, burned and buried with the final words of his speech still reverberating in his skull. A part of him mourns, regret attempting to find a chink in his armor.

But even so, with the crushing weight of his own duty upon his shoulders, not just to the crown now, but to that of a girl who has gained an eternal guardian in her corner, he keeps walking. He puts one foot in front of the other, and keeps his stride. Away from his mistakes and on to nobler intentions.

“We’re missing the feast.” Ysilla hums, strewn across Aemond as if she were a weighted fur. Every inch of them is pressed together, not an item of clothing in sight, skin against skin and breaths in tandem. Aemond caresses the dip of her back with lazy fingers, tickling the dewiness left behind from their coupling.

“My hunger has been sated, ābrazȳrys. And if any cravings shall arise,” Aemond brushes his knuckles along the rise of her cheekbone. Ysilla gazes back upon him with unbridled adoration. He never would have thought a heart could threaten to burst as often as his, and continue to beat just the same.

“I shall simply spread your thighs and eat until I am full again.”

Ysilla smirks, gaze hooded and dark, mouth finding his for a short, albeit fevered kiss. If she didn’t love to look at him, her ear would find the rise of his chest and rest there, let the thunderous thrum lure her to sleep. But to turn away now would feel like parting too soon, so in place, Ysilla drops her chin along the tail end of his sternum and tucks her breasts along his stomach. Aemond sends his knees farther apart, fingers lacing together behind his head to keep him upright and mooning over his woman.

“We’ll be alright, you and me. Us three.” Ysilla whispers it like a secret, her nails tracing phantom lines over the ridges of Aemond’s torso. The tone of her voice is strong and unwavering, even if it is spoken softly. But all the same, a sliver of uncertainty worms its way between the letters. Aemond is silent, letting the ambient sounds of the festivities fill the space instead of his response, and Ysilla’s heart twinges coldly before dual hands cradle her face. Ysilla aims misty eyes at her husband, tongue tucked tight behind her teeth in worry.

“We’ll be better than alright. You and I… our daughter… we will live this life together in such a way that our love will be undeniable. We are the beginning of the next era in our house’s dynasty and there will be no uncertainty from the lineage we will spawn. And when it comes our time to rule, we will do so with the strength and sovereignty passed down from those before us, and after, our daughter will rule like no other before her. I promise this, ñuha prūmia. In this, I will never fail you.”

The lump in Ysilla’s throat is larger than that of a peach pit but yet sweeter, and the exhilaration that ripples from her full heart feels like the greeting of an old friend.

“Aemond the Beautiful Bard.” Ysilla laments, the sentiment teeming with affection.

“Ysilla the Dragon Tamer.” Aemond declares, restless spirit slowing with serenity.

“Daenerys the Cherished.” The parents manifest, their future endless in its prosperity and remarkable in its unity.

ñuha jorrāelagon

my love

Kostilus ñuha dāria

Please, my Queen

kepus

uncle

Jaes

Gods

ābrazȳrys