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shawty-writes-a-little · 2 years

Text

No other remorse

Aemond Targaryen x fem!reader

Word count: 2k

Summary: Aemond helps the reader through grief—hurt comfort (1/3)

An: The reader is not a targ but the house is not specified so it’s up to you x

Warnings: Hotd type violence, ANGST, arranged marriages, death of a parent

—

Time seemed trivial as it passed these days. All it ever does it pass if only it happened quicker. Awaiting what exactly? Y/n wasn’t sure but as she spirit broken, stared outside the window of her chambers into nothingness every advise ever given to her had something to do with passage of time. Time mends everything.

For a while it does, makes the suffering seem grey within the situation being less of a horror than her expectations it makes one forget the whims and remorse in the first place. Y/n thinks back to her time back at home wild and free as ever when she was told about her marriage fixed with Aemond it was much resented by her “You can’t be serious! Aemond? Of all people you could marry me off to?” She remembers saying it to her father.

“I don’t intend to marry you off-you’re my only daughter but there’s some things I can’t escape myself from.” even with y/n sneering at her father he had been calm and reasoning to her. You would expect that from a father to a motherless child who had to marry her to someone she didn’t know of at all.

“Do not lecture me about duty again this certainly has something to do with your seat at the council doesn’t it father?” with no burden to ever serve or bend to anyone but herself marriage was far off y/n’s list. It was very so expected of her, she was aware. Running away wouldn’t last her by herself much and however angry she was at the time she couldn’t have done that to her father. Her only family.

“I would disregard a thousand council seats for you and as much as it pains me to say this…I don’t have a say in this marriage either.” For a father who never wanted y/n to lack for anything her entire life he didn’t have the authority to disobey the royal order. A match the king saw fit said the hand, Otto Hightower well aware with the politics y/n’s father knew it was the other way around.

So Aemond it was, Lord husband. Wedding ceremonies that went on for a week felt like attending her own funeral to y/n. She didn’t speak much to Aemond the entire time neither did he. Until their wedding night or as y/n called it ‘the dread’. Surprisingly enough Aemond’s understanding shocked her. He refused to touch her until she willed for it. Sharing the bed that night as an accustomed necessity and the following nights Aemond didn’t join their shared bed at the red keep.

It was melancholy at first, y/n never had any dreams any simple reader of knightly stories of the warrior who fell in love with the princess wouldn’t have. She wanted the romance of a marriage, one that she didn’t see after her mother passing. She wanted a love she chose herself with a prince or a knight or a shoemaker she chose. But someone she chose herself. The sparks of knowing someone like the back of your hand that you would be overcome with surety of spending the rest of your living days with them.

Well those naive girlhood dreams were behind here. A marriage forced upon her with someone she barely knew. However with time, Aemond wasn’t a horror of a husband. She was adjusting to her new family besides all along her father was there with her. A sense of familiarity only listening to him going over council matters with her and sense the worry and remorse in his voice everytime Aemond was brought up. Y/n always told her father about being content with her marriage now, however she was not she didn’t want her father to carry the weight of a situation that was unavoidable for him.

At public gatherings he stood by her, a presentable match they made. Other than that he never really bothered her much, there were some encounters some comments shared but not many milestones for a marriage of half a year. It takes time.

—

It felt like a betrayal. To think of all those times, people who were her family in name to say did that to her father. Three nights ago the council meeting seemed to have a dispute of sort y/n hadn’t seen her father till then and never did, again. Y/f/n, traitor to the realm was executed by the order of acting king the hand. For all y/n knew her father was anything but a traitor. People respected him his honour knew no bounds how could he? He was executed with the first sun ray of that morrow.

She didn’t even get to say goodbye. A court session was called upon and among a very few officials and the hand her father was executed, she wasn’t even allowed to attend it. The queen herself was the one to break the news to Y/n. She felt paralysed to move and the words didn’t come out of her throat. Father is actually dead? Executed?

Alicent held her hand, talked to her, consoled her in every way a mother could but y/n was far from processing anything else. She felt her whole world collapse. Alicent saw herself in y/n her father being the only person she knew in a red keep could never see her again. Alicent knew Otto conspired with other council members behind her back in the council meetings that happened late at night. Y/n’s father must’ve had a massive disagreement to one of Otto’s plots-Alicent had been in this ugly politics for a long while to know. Years of honour and duty soiled just like that. Alicent couldn’t say anything to y/n that would make her feel better, part of her wished she could have prevented what happened to y/n’s father.

—

Y/n spent the rest of the day alone keeping herself locked in her chambers. Refused the servants, meals untouched. Y/n wished to dwell into her misery alone in her chambers for the rest of her life. She was all alone now either ways. As much as she would want or succumb into her grief all alone she heard the giant doors to her chambers open. The maids, again she thought not looking to see who it was. It didn’t matter.

“Y/n” a voice called from behind. Raspy and familiar. Aemond.

Still she didn’t look back only a tear shredded from her eyes again, she wiped it off her face quickly gathering herself and turned to him. “My prince.” She replied in a voice silent as whispers, tired and monotone.

The redness in her eyes and her face drenched of grief was easily inferable to Aemond. He hated to see her this way, the idea that she had to present herself gathered in front of him, hide her sadness in front of him pained him. They weren’t the ideal pair but he resented that she felt she couldn’t rely on him “I’m deeply sorry for your loss.” He spoke walking towards her as she nodded in reply.

What was she to say? The loss was only hers to bare. Frankly she was afraid of what to do from here…with no one left. Aemond on the other hand felt lost at words. What do you say to someone whose world has fallen apart? For as much as he’d known of y/n she was as joyous as it gets, she shared jokes with Halena and proved to her best companion, Alicent adored her as well, got along with the servants and maids if only from afar she had always been as lovely as daylight moon to him. Shining all the time.

“Your father was a good man-“ Aemond began not wanting to leave y/n alone.

“Honourable.” Y/n’s voice lighter than before interrupted him as she looked down at her hands, attempting to avoid his gaze. “He was an honourable man.” She finished her sentence.

“Truly. He was an honourable-“

“And he wasn’t a traitor.” This time she gathered the courage she had to speak at the normal pitch. It felt like she was speaking up against Aemond in some way. She just wanted to speak up against the false allegations. Perhaps Aemond would be the only person she could ever say be courageous enough to say it to.

“Y/n listen” Aemond gently held her hands in his as she quickly yanked them away from his fingers. Aemond being here at all felt like a mocking.

“D-don’t touch me!” She announced as tears threatened to spill. It hurt to see her be this resistive of his touch, when things had been better between them for a while. “Had it not been for marrying you my father would still be alive!”

“Trust me y/n if I knew anything about the execution I would have tried to prevent it!” Aemond reasoned to her still collected but a bit of himself hurt to see his lady wife this way. He carried the weight of the relationship they could be, he had become rather fearful of the longing and love he held for her.

Y/n stepped closer to him for the first time since he entered her room she looked up at him, into his eyes “Why didn’t you?” She tugged at the collar of his shirt weakly, “Why didn’t you, Aemond?” Aemond. This was the first time she had called him by his first name.

Her teary lost eyes started into his seeking justification, someone to take a fall for her. She pulls away again. She didn’t want to be calm. She couldn’t be collected with herself when in truth she felt like more in blame “If I had just told my father I was truly content with you-asked him to leave the council—all this treachery, go back home..do you think it would’ve been different? I would’ve prevented it?” How could she ask him if something she couldn’t accomplish herself. If not for her sake everything could’ve been prevented. She sobbed as the blame took a toll on her it felt like she had a hole in herself. Everything felt shallow.

This time Aemond stepped further wrapping his arms around her, she resisted him at first as she cried. Slightly pushing him away with weak tugs, which had nothing to do with Aemond. It was that he was the only one there she felt undeserving of his sympathy for something she felt like she caused herself. Aemond understood that, unmoved he rubbed his hand on her back trying to calm her down. “You are not to blame here my love, you couldn’t have known.” He said as y/n finally gave in, melting in his arms continuing to sob. “I should have.” she muttered between her sobs as he held her.

“It wouldn’t have helped, to die is easier than to watch someone die I assure you none of it is your fault. Men in power tend to play ugly games.” He consoled her as she buried her face into his embrace. Aemond held her in his arms as if the world would end if he let go off her. He slowly sank both of them to the ground and held her just as close as she cried until tiring herself to sleep. He held her through it all as she fell asleep in his arms.

—

Part 2

HIIIIIII I’ve some ideas to do a part two of this (not a series) let me know what you think of this or if you want to be tagged :)

Drink water <33

Tags: @softieekayy @stuckinaf4nfiction

#aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x y/n #aemond targaryen x oc #hotd fanfics #aemond x you #aemond imagine #daemon targaryen x reader #aemond fanfiction #aemond x reader

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curseofaphrodite · 2 years

Text

Prince of Diamonds

DAEMON TARGARYEN X READER

link to part 2 | series masterlist

summary: the day had arrived for you to marry Viserys, but of course, weddings in Westeros are nothing if not chaotic.

The castle was alive with laughs — there were so many people from so many places, so many congratulations, and as many gifts (from pieces of jewelry to weapons) that it felt like you were in a fairytale of some sort.

Except you were fucking terrified the entire time.

Everything about the day felt off, as if you were about to be hung from the ropes than be wed to a king.

You went to take a stroll through the kingdom in disguise to get your mind off things, and were surprised at the commoners' lives.

For some reason, you had thought they'll be warm and cheery and content with the small life they led, far away from royal politics and bloodshed. But poverty seemed to have tightened its grip on most of them, and you wondered why the fuck Viserys hadn't mentioned any of these issues before.

It was always strategies to protect the people, but everything else seemed to have been missed from council meetings. You included had wanted the Iron Throne, but never knew the asterisk that came with it.

Until now.

It was heartbreaking to see how lively the town was, as if they were used to the miseries by now. As if they didn't know there was a castle right within their reach with leeches living their best lives while they were wallowing in debt.

"Apple, miss? Fresh apples?" a kid yelled from the sidewalks. You walked on as you didn't want to be recognized.

"What about grapes? I have grapes too!" he followed and you noted how he didn't sound desperate — just very casual, like he was your friend for more years than he had been born.

"I'm in a hurry," you replied hastily, but he was easily catching up.

"C'mon! I'll let you taste some for free! It's so delicious you won't resist buying the rest for your family."

"Look I—"

But he ran in front of you and made you halt anyway. You could only see his feet properly because you still had your clock on.

"What's up with your attire? Are you one of the circus performers?" he asked, seemingly forgotten about his own business.

You sighed, seeing no way out of it. You pulled down your robe and stared him right in the eye. He gasped, his jaw on the ground.

The place seemed to have stopped its bustling. Silent murmurs died away as everyone seemed to notice you. They all stood right where they were, not believing their eyes.

"It's the Queen-to-be!" A middle-aged guy finally yelled, falling to his knees. Following his example, more bent down. You knew this was to be expected, but it still shook you to your core. These people already seemed to respect you, even with a short acquaintance.

You found yourself hoping it was respect and not fear.

"Rise," you said loudly, thinking on the spot. "I've come to invite everyone here for the wedding. There will be food enough to feed two armies."

The kid blinked. "The guards will let us in?"

"If I command so, of course they will."

Grateful gasps rippled through the crowd and soon they started to murmur among themselves, probably wondering why you came all the way here, why you couldn't have sent a messenger, why you seemed so humane while the royals seemed like gods. They were asking all of that with approval, like they wouldn't have it any other way.

"Forgive me, your Highness," a woman rushed forwards to the kid. "He's young, he's been known to provoke- he didn't realize—"

"It's fine," you reassured, suddenly glad that you took off your robe. "In fact, I think I'll do some wedding shopping."

--------

"You invited the whole of King's Landing?" Viserys asked, barging into your room.

It was almost evening, exactly three hours before the wedding. Right as he entered, all the maids fussing over you did a short curtsy and exited, as if they all collectively smelled a fight coming on.

But Viserys looked more exhausted than angry.

"Yes," you replied simply, looking at the finest of gowns laying on the bed, not sure which one to choose.

He sighed. "I wish you would include me in these decisions, Y/N."

"Like you include me in the council meetings?" you snapped, turning around to glare at him.

"There's always a seat for you at the table, I just didn't know if you'd like it."

"There's nothing about this I like."

"Pardon?"

Fuck. "I'm nervous," you lied, sitting down on the bed. "All of this is so much right now."

"We can take it one step at a time," Viserys smiled. "That's all it has to be. And I'm not mad at you for going to the town, but I do wish you had let a guard accompany you."

"That's defeating the purpose," you cracked a smile in response. "I'll consider it next time."

"Good. I'll leave you to it then," he gestured towards all the extravagant gowns and accessories. He hesitated. "One more thing... you haven't heard any rumors of late, have you?"

You hated yourself right then. You wished Viserys was an evil man, but he had grown to be your friend. He didn't force you to a marriage, you had agreed to it yourself. He never yelled at you or looked down on you, but it was as if right at that moment, both of you knew you could never be happy with each other.

Because the rumors he was referring to wasn't about you and Daemon. It was about him and Alicent. How he visits her chamber at night, how he only leaves in the morning.

"Did Daemon say anything?" you asked in reply.

"He wished to convey his congrats."

"That doesn't sound like him."

"Exactly what I thought."

You smiled. He turned around with guilt in his eyes.

"For what it's worth, every townsfolk who's at the gates has been hailing your name." He said softly. "You're already a queen in their eyes."

If anything, that reassured you even less.

----

You stood at the top of the aisle in a plain grey gown, your hair in a braid and covered in gold accessories. Weddings in Westeros were grand as they were gothic.

You didn't notice the people, just Daemon standing beside Viserys, his eyes on anything but you. He appeared collected and quiet, and you wanted nothing more than retrace the last night with him. What if I had said... nevermind.

The priest went on about legacies and love, and you failed to see how they were connected. Sure you were zoning out, but you also couldn't hear him out of the sounds of your own heartbeats.

There was silence, and everyone was looking at you. You had reached the part to say your vows. Your throat closed up. Viserys blinked in confusion.

"I—" you stammered, unable to go on. Sudden whispers started across the hall. "Can I talk with you for a moment, my lord?"

"Must be awfully important if it's the middle of this," Otto Hightower said loudly. Son of a bitch.

"Viserys... please."

Daemon gritted his teeth and came out of his statuesque behavior. He came by your side and started to whisper so others couldn't hear.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

"Daemon—" you were surprised at how worried he sounded.

"It's a terribly inconvenient time to get cold feet! Do you realize how stupid you're acting? For fuck's sake, remedy this before—"

"Get away from her," Viserys said sharply. Daemon instantly obeyed, not wanting to make things more serious, only out of concern for you. "Y/N, what is the meaning of this?"

"I can't be your wife," you said softly. "I'm sorry."

"What?" Viserys looked lost. Surprised. But not hurt. That was something.

"Can't you see it, my lord?" Otto yelled for the benefit of the hall, glaring at both you and Daemon. "She's been defiled. Guards!"

Your throat was met with the sword of an eager knight. It didn't touch your skin, simply hovered there for further instructions. You understood why this show of power was necessary. As the betrothed, simple rumors were enough to get you exiled, but a claim as vulgar as this simply thrown to the air led to bloodshed every time. After the initial shock, someone in the audience screamed.

Daemon didn't care about political advances and even if he did, he would have still done what he did next. He brought his dagger out and held it over the throat of the knight in mere seconds.

"A scratch on her and I'll burn you inside out," Daemon said quietly.

"STOP THIS MADNESS!" Viserys ordered.

The knight dropped his sword at once, but Daemon didn't let go. If anything, the dagger was pressed tighter. The knight was already bleeding. Viserys grabbed your hand and pulled you away from the scene, towards the secluded corner where no one was watching. Eyes followed, but none took a step forward.

"You haven't slept with Daemon," he stated firmly. "What kind of game are you playing?"

"I fear if I were to stay in this palace, I could be involved with him. You deserve a queen more loyal than that—"

"Don't you dare say this is for my benefit!"

"—and I deserve a husband who doesn't cheat too," you hissed. "You've been to Alicent's room more than you've been to mine. Or did you think I wouldn't notice?"

He paled.

"It's the right thing to do. You don't love me. This is an arrangement." You stressed. "You care about me like you care about your friends. I can't rob you of your happiness and you can't rob me of mine. Let me leave in peace before I besmirch your reputation."

"You're doing that already by refusing to be the queen."

"I'm not refusing. I can't be the queen right now. Have you seen the state of your people? Frankly speaking, neither of us is fit to be rulers. At least I'll acknowledge that and take my leave."

"I have duties!" he yelled.

"Then do them," you snapped. "Don't drag me into this."

"You would be declaring war between our houses," he said pleadingly. "I don't want to cause you hurt."

"You won't," you said firmly. "Hold your troops. Have meetings about the stained integrity of my house. Feed lies to your people that actions have consequences. Fuck Alicent. Marry her. Just let me go."

He groaned. "Even if I let you go, the rest of them won't."

He was talking about Otto, the guards, and everyone who was prepared to see your downfall. You knew it. You had also planned for it.

"Viserys please," you begged, gritting your teeth. "Let me escape. I'll go to a place where no one knows my name. I'll come back a queen, just not of Iron Throne."

He glared, but you knew he had caved. "I'll hold the fort for three minutes."

"You're the king," you said, pecking his cheek with gratitude. "You can do five."

Then you were off.

------------

When you reached your room, nothing had been left. The cupboards were emptied, the table looked like new and even the books were missing.

Daemon Targaryen stood in the middle of it with a huge bag.

"No," you said, connecting the dots. "You're not coming with me."

"If you go alone, you're dead."

"I'll take my chances," you deadpanned, reaching for the bag which had your stuff. He pulled it away.

"Now's not the time for ego. Look at it this way, I know Westeros better. I know the secret passageways. I know this place because I've bled on it."

"Do you not want to know why I've stopped the wedding?" you asked cautiously.

"Because you chickened out and realized none of this is a game."

"Because I knew you'd ruin everything if I went through it. I didn't marry him because of you."

He snorted. "The blame falls on me now?"

"Daemon you can't come with me or you'll be the main source of rumors here. Everyone will think we ran away and when you come back, you could be killed."

"Then I won't come back." He took a step forwards. "Is that what you want me to say? That I'll actually run away with you? That we'll go to the other side of the Narrow Sea and spend our days in the sun with no worries?"

"Don't be ridiculous, that sounds boring," you interrupted. "I'm saying I need to lay low until I figure out a plan."

"I'm good with plans."

"No, you're not."

"No, I'm not but I'm coming anyway."

"Daemon—"

"We'll do as you say," he said hastily. "We'll lay low for a while. Just until the smoke blows over and Viserys finds a new wife. I'll make him do formal amends so the kingdom can stop talking about this. Then you'll come back with me. If anyone dares to speak a word, I'll cut out their tongue."

"Even if it's Otto?"

"Especially if it's Otto," he smiled. "Though his tongue won't be my first choice to cut off."

You laughed. "Fine... I guess we're running."

He looked alarmed. "Running? Oh no hon, we're flying."

---------------------------------

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lauraneedstochill · 10 months

Text

Love always wakes the dragon / Chapter 2

summary: Aemond thinks she’s a worthy opponent — a relentless fighter, a fearless dragon rider, her temper and stubbornness only matching his. But there’s a catch: she is Daemon’s daughter who wants nothing from her father and has her own reasons for coming to King’s Landing. One of them is meant to save the other. pairing: Aemond Targaryen x OFC words: ~ 8000 warnings: enemies to lovers, slowburn, sword fighting and a bruised male’s ego author’s note: I’ve read a few fighting scenes and, as much as I enjoyed them, I always thought people go easy on Aemond. so I decided to make him sweat a little... also, I added an instrumental track that fits the fight scene perfectly, and I highly recommend you put it on! ⏪ part 1

2. The Wild Dragon

The dragonkeepers form a small crowd — as Daemon approaches, he sees the men standing still and gazing at the sky, the lack of movement making them look like statues. He hears a low buzzing of gasps and when he looks up, he finds himself in the same position, stunned and open-mouthed. The dragon is circling above the alcove, its wings stretched like a snow-white sail, and the rare, blinding beauty of it makes it hard to look away. The patch of bronze starts from beneath its neck, running down to the tail — the color mix brings back a certain memory of his, and Daemon finds himself lost in his thoughts for a moment.

Only when the dragon goes to the fourth round, the prince comes to his senses:

“Why isn’t it landing?”

One of the dragonkeepers turns to him and hesitantly points to the other corner of the gates. Daemon then notices a group of guards lined up with swords in their arms, looking far from delighted.

“Are you out of your mind?!” the prince yells. “Lower your weapons, you imbeciles!”

The guards retreat and the dragonkeepers back away, too, still keeping their eyes on the beast — in worry, in wonder. He circles once more and then finally flies down, and Daemon catches a glimpse of the rider — her clothes are dark, cloak withering on the wind. He feels his chest tightening with each gust, the long-forgotten feeling rousing in; he can’t remember the last time he’s been so nervous.

The white dragon lands with a grace of a cat — moving paws in synch, it lowers the neck and folds the wings, its limber body huddling closer to the ground. There’s a sharpness to its features, half of his snout crisscrossed with scars, his scales coarse up close, pale and solid like ivory. The beast focuses on Daemon, then glares at the guardss. The reptile’s green eyes are specked with gold, the damning force being the crux of his every move. A rumbling vibrates in the back of his throat but it doesn’t grow into a roar — it’s a warning on itself that he gives them before slowing movement, much to everyone’s relief.

The rider jumps down, landing on both feet, and puts the hood back so Daemon can take a closer look at her. Merely a second is enough to see — she’s an image of her mother, in every feature of her face and even in the way she moves, a rare fusion of gracious and fast-paced. Her hair is put into a braid, the color of it so rare he’s only seen it once before — in the sunlight, it looks as bright as fire, but right through it cuts a thick strand that frames one side of her face with white, the shade of it matching Daemon’s head of hair. And when he meets her gaze, he notices that she has his eyes: the shape is a bit different, more round, but they are the same color and there’s a familiar, threatening heaviness in them. It’s only two pieces of the puzzle that she’s assembled of, but now that Daemon sees her, he has no doubts that she is, in fact, his daughter, and that feeling is almost flattering.

She doesn’t look flattered in the slightest.

When she eyes him briefly, she shows no emotion at all — uncaring, casually unimpressed. It becomes awkwardly silent, and Daemon realizes that he’s never been that good at making the first step. But maybe it’s time for him to try.

“There was no mention of the dragon in the letters,” his voice comes off a tad softer than usual, and he keeps his distance but his enthusiasm fuels him to shorten it.

“Well, surprise,” she deadpans and pats the dragon, her gloved hand gliding against the scales, a small bag clenched in the other one. “Seemed like you took more interest in discussing other matters. What is the proper way of greeting you? Should I curtsy?” she asks,and he isn’t sure if she’s jesting, her tone matching the unreadable expression on her face. “I must apologize for my manners in advance, I’m afraid.”

Her straightforwardness brings a smile to his face, and Daemon steps closer. “We can get the formalities out of the way. I would like to welcome you to King’s Landing, lady —”

“There is no need for that. You know I am no lady, nor am I seeking any titles. You can call me Lia.”

“But that is not your name,” he remarks unsurely, a line of confusion settling in between his brows. Daemon is suddenly questioning every piece of information he knows — or rather the lack thereof.

“That is a part of it,” her answer sounds well-rehearsed as she dispassionately tears syllables. “That’s how my mother called me, so I am quite used to it.”

Even with her name cut in half, she has more authority than the most decorated lords, Daemon thinks. It’s both inexplicable and intriguing, and he holds on to that thought — until it collides with another one, tardy and grim: when she talked about her mother, she used the past tense.

Memories get their claws into his heart as he’s reminded of Baela and Rhaena clinging to him, their muffled weeping and grief-stricken eyes. He knows that the pain of losing a mother leaves a mark that will never be erased — but kind words and a shoulder to cry on can at least help ease the suffering.

Daemon moves with the intention of opening his arms, his chest is a harbor of acceptance when he asks:

“How’s your mother been doing?”

Lia blinks once, twice, then says — plain and simple:

“She died.”

It sounds as mundane as discussing the weather, and Daemon is startled by the lack of sentiment. It was, indeed, uncharacteristically naive of him to expect her to rush into his arms. But her guard is up so high he feels like he’s facing an actual wall, and it makes him anxious — and that’s not what he is used to deal with when it comes to his own children.

But before Daemon can express his concern, he hears a disgruntled snarl — they both turn to see the white dragon coiled into a defensive stance. A couple of dragonkeepers are approaching him falteringly, and Lia raises her voice at the beast. “Olwen!”

His dilated pupils dart to her, and the snarling abates, but his wrath bolsters, and now he’s nothing less of a pure danger. Both his and her eyes are trained on the men, and as one of them comes closer, Lia catches a dull glint of metal in his hands.

“No chains are needed,” she instantly speaks up.

“It is a matter of precaution, we mean no harm —”

“I said,” Lia steps in front of the man, “My dragon will not be chained.”

Her tone immediately loses the light coating of friendliness — if there ever was any to begin with, and she allows no objections. The dragonkeeper looks at her helplessly then turns his gaze to Daemon, waiting for the instructions.

“They want to make sure he stays in the cave,” he clarifies peacefully.

“He doesn’t do well with chains.”

Daemon notes that all her responses are ill-defined which makes him wonder if she does it consciously or not. Whatever her reasoning is, it only leaves more questions than answers.

“Will he do well with other dragons?”

“Olwen will be on his best behavior,” her reply comes out too harsh, so she tones it down a bit. “Put him in any closed space, and he will sleep for days, he won’t care about anything else.”

Daemon casts an evaluating glance at the beast and gestures for the dragonkeepers to stand back.

“I’ll lead the way,” he doesn’t need to turn around to know that she’s following him — her eyes land on his back like a punch.

They pass the gate and the rows of columns carved into the stone surface, illuminated by the torches on the walls. Daemon strains to pick up any sound the dragon makes that can be alarming but he only hears the beast’s footsteps and occasional sniffing. Looking over his shoulder, he is surprised to see that Olwen calmly tags along, not reacting to the unknown environment nor the distant roars of other dragons. Once they reach his cave, the beast merely gives it a look-over before settling down in the darkest corner. Lia leaves the bag tucked under his wing and glances at Olwen with the faintest of a smile. It disappears once she turns to her father.

They walk back in silence but unlike her dragon, Lia takes more interest in her surroundings — she examines weaves of caves and tunnels, looking around after every turn. Daemon watches her out of the corner of his eye, vigilant and hopeful, as he keeps fighting the desire to please her, to be liked by her, this stranger that has his blood but acts like she wants none of it. He opens the carriage door for her, smothering his ego, but Lia hesitantly looks inside, and he guesses that she’d rather go on horseback. Yet she concedes, sensing his determination to bond. He thinks it’s a small step in the right direction.

Lia sits closer to the window, her interest seemingly flaring up even more. That or she doesn’t want to be near Daemon, and he brushes off the latter. He wants to offer his condolences but is afraid her wall of defense will turn into a mountain he won’t be able to climb so he chooses a safer option.

“How was your journey? Finding the Dragonpit didn’t pose a problem for you, it seems.”

“The maps you sent were very detailed, thank you,” Lia doesn’t turn to him, keepsing focus on the landscape that soon gives way to the streets busy with fairs and taverns.

“Is King’s Landing always this crowded?”

“We are taking the main streets, with all the trading points and venues clustered here so these are usually filled with people,” Daemon explains. He doesn’t mention that he chose that road so she could get a better view of the city.

“Keeping an eye on things must be quite hard,” Lia debates.

“Hence why we have the City Watch,” Daemon grins, the feel of the gold cloak wrapped around his shoulders still fresh in his memory. “The Watch ienforces the crown’s laws so our city is safe for all its people. I can show you around later on, should you wish for it.”

“If the city is safe, why would I need a guardian to take a walk?” when she looks at him, there’s a gleam of laughter in her eyes, and Daemon thinks that Rhaenyra would’ve liked her. He really hopes that she will.

“I am only offering my company,” he rebuts gaily.

“One would think the Prince Consort has better things to do,” the corner of her mouth curls but the other one doesn’t follow, and the hint of a smile never grows into an actual one. Instead, her face is set on agitation when she says:

“I may help you pass the time,” with these words, her hand disappears under the cloak — and then Lia gives him a folded piece of parchment. “My mother wrote this for you.”

Daemon can feel that she doesn’t want to give it to him. It’s in the way her hand is gripping the letter, in the way she looks at it, her lips tight and jaw clenched. And yet she lets him take it.

“You know what it’s about?”

“I think I do. And I would prefer if you kept it a secret,” Lia’s voice is quiet — and for a second she almost sounds hurt. But she averts her gaze and straightens her posture, and he can’t figure her out, once again.

“You didn’t read it?”

“The letter is sealed,” Lia states the obvious. “If it wasn’t meant for me then I will not open it.”

“You could’ve burned it, you know. Keep whatever there is a secret.”

And Daemon thinks he will rip the letter to shreds if only she asks, if it makes things better for her. She lightly shakes her head.

“It was my mother’s wish to give it to you, and I respect it,” Lia says firmly. “I can only hope that you will respect mine.”

“Sooner or later, everyone will find out,” he warns her, with a touch of bitterness in his voice.

“I am in no rush,” her reply is short, and she turns to the window, signaling that the conversation is over.

Lia peers out, her eyes on the road again. Only now, in the broad daylight when he takes a closer look, Daemon realizes that it looks like she’s mentally mapping every location they pass. And he doesn’t know the destination she has in mind. The audience with the Queen goes better than Daemon hoped for — which means it’s not half as bad as it could’ve been.

Rhaenyra’s frustration due to the unannounced visit is quickly replaced by burning curiosity when Lia comes in. She sees the girl who doesn’t try to hide behind Daemon’s back and boldly keeps eye contact with the Queen. Lia stops a few feet away from the throne — and she doesn’t curtsy. Instead, she politely takes a bow, not looking away for a second.

Someone else might’ve considered her behavior insolent but Rhaenyra impatiently stands up to walk closer to the girl, not offended but rather intrigued. Daemon wonders if she sees a younger version of herself in Lia — and his wife thinks of it, too. She is also more surprised by the lack of a title than by the name his daughter chose.

“Not a single person in my village had a title or a last name,” Lia points out, and she bears no shame. The look on her face also suggests she doesn’t expect the Queen to understand.

Rhaenyra doesn’t ponder for long. “It is fair to call you a lady, I believe, since you have dragon’s blood in your veins.”

“As you wish, your grace,” Lia simply agrees — and it’s leniency as it is. But the Queen allows it.

She asks more questions than Daemon did, and the girl seems affable with her replies yet somehow she gives all the same information, and not a word more. Still, he observes them with unconcealed satisfaction, pleased with the flow of their voices, with the calmness that sets in the hall, and he’s just a moment away from finding relief —

“How did your mother die?” Rhaenyra asks all of a sudden, and it makes Daemon flinch at his spot.

“Of an unfortunate injury she left untreated,” Lia begrudgingly answers, and he notices that the violet of her eyes goes a shade darker.

“Wasn’t your mother a healer?”

It’s not intended as a taunt, Rhaenyra just can’t resist wanting to know more, her attempts almost child-like, and Daemon tenses up. They are both perplexed by the dry chuckle Lia lets out.

“She cared too much about everyone else but too little about herself.”

There’s no hiding of vitriol seeping through her words but Lia’s face is indifferent again. Rhaenyra studies her reaction — luckily for Daemon, she does so not as the Queen but as someone who experienced the same loss once.

“Hardships of life only shape your character,” she states leniently. “I presume that coming all that way to King’s Landing wasn’t easy but we are glad that you did. It may take you some time to consider this place home — I assure you, the servants are ordered to satisfy your every whim”.

Rhaenyra means well, Daemons knows it, and yet for some reason, he wishes she phrased it better. Whatever Lia actually thinks of the Queen’s speech is left unsaid — his daughter only gives a polite half-smile in return.

“That is very generous of you, your grace. Frankly, I feel like I want to rest for a week, nothing else.”

“Do you really intend to?” Rhaenyra’s friendliness slightly falters. “We planned on having a family gathering at dinner.”

“Dare I ask you to postpone it just for a day? Surely it would be rude for me to fall asleep at the table,” Lia’s smile doesn’t reach the eyes, and a lull in their conversation makes Daemon uncomfortable.

“Well, I suppose just a day won’t make a difference. After such a long journey you do deserve to rest,” the Queen says after a pause. “I need my husband to return to his duties for now. The maid will show you to your chambers,” she calls for a girl who’s been standing at the door, and the maid approaches them as quietly as a mouse.

Lia’s eyes flicker to Daemon, and he almost expects her to argue, but she says nothing aside from a hushed “thank you”, and then follows the maid out of the room. Rhaenyra watches them, tacit and pensive.

“I truly do not know what to think,” the Queen drawls when they leave. “But she is really quite something,” and her appraisal is followed by a chuckle.

Daemon nods, agreeing. Only he doesn’t find it amusing at all. Lia thinks the maid is just a couple of years younger than her but she doesn’t want to clarify. Just yesterday Lia was picking up branches to make a fire in the woods, some dirt undoubtedly left under her fingernails. And now she is being led to her chambers by a maid. It feels as ridiculous as it is nauseating, and it only gets worse when she sees the room — the size of the house she’s grown in and with way more furniture than she’s ever seen put in one place.

Lia stands at the doorway, still and confounded, when the maid humbly says: “If you are in need of anything, you can —”

“No,” Lia cuts her off so sharply, it startles the girl.

Lia turns to her with an apologetic look. “What is your name?”

“Annora,” she answers meekly, hiding her eyes to the floor.

“Annora, I can guarantee you I need nothing else. You are free to leave for the rest of the day,” Lia tries to sound both persuasive and kind — and not disgusted with her own pretense.

The girl gives her a confused look but seems too scared to object so she takes leave with no questions asked. Lia stays at the entrance and listens to her retreating footsteps, disregarding the pompously furnished room. After the sounds in the hall die down she slips out without looking back. Lia roams around and learns every exit and searches through every room she can open. She follows no rules except one — shall things go south, she must know how to get out, fast and without being seen. So she memorizes the turns, the pattern of corridors and stairs while trying to avoid the people endlessly pacing through the castle. A few times she has to take a step back, hide in the shadows and in between columns while maids and guards and noble women with too many underskirts run by. Lia does her best to ignore the fuss, taking time to explore the huge building, with doors and corners and the awaiting unknown.

When she finally gets to the backyard, it feels like only a couple of hours have passed but Lia is surprised to see the sun setting. The sky gradually darkens, dabbed with yellow and maroon, showing the approach of the evening. Only once she steps outside, she realizes how much she needed some fresh air, how there’s a lack of it in the musty, sweltering castle. She is relieved to see that the yard is way less crowded, with only a few servants and a couple of knights at the gates. Her eyes skim over the open space when she hears the metal screeching — distinct and all too familiar to her: turning around, Lia predictably sees two men sparring, their swords being the source of the sound. Her attention is quickly drawn to one of them — lean, tall, and fending off his opponent with ease, his long silver hair flowing with each move. His hits seem as clear-cut as the features of his face — and although she didn’t see him that well the first time, she recognizes him immediately. Aemond is the very embodiment of imperturbability, each stroke of his sword deliberate and sharp, and Ser Criston can’t let his guard down for one second. It’s a sequence he’s learned over the years: there is no rush in the prince’s attacks, there’s exhausting suspense. Aemond watches him, throws in a few teasing strikes, leisurely but maniacally tiring his opponent out. Only when you least expect it, he will deliver a series of blows, strong enough to knock an adult down, just enough to satisfy his ego.

And yet, Ser Criston senses that something is off. The prince is missing his usual fervor, his competitive energy, not pressing the fight but rather tolerating it, which Criston considers odd.

“Your focus seems to be elsewhere, my prince. I wonder what’s on your mind.”

Aemond shoots him a cold glance and easily blocks his hit, then spins and abruptly strikes forward, his sword stopping at Criston’s neck.

“Wondering does you no good, Ser Criston,” the prince remarks with a small grin, retreating.

“Fair enough,” he smiles in return. “I suggest we take a break.”

They had to start later than usual, and by now all the spectators dispersed and the yard has long been empty, quiet, softly illuminated by sunset. One of the guards goes to light the torches on the walls, and Aemond absentmindedly watches the flames grow, taking a few gulps of water. Despite Ser Criston being right in his observations, training still had a calming effect on the prince. He did enjoy the slight soreness of the muscles, his mind concentrated on the momentum of movements, on the way his body adapts to the tempo and responds to the threat. He concludes he can go for another round, still invigorated, somewhat restive, always at the ready.

But when Aemond turns around, his eye is drawn to a cloaked figure, and all the clarity and concentration dissolve upon realizing who he’s looking at. He recognizes her immediately.

Christon follows Aemond’s gaze, spotting the girl, too, and then squints a little.

“Is that —”

“I believe so,” the prince replies tersely.

They were on the way to the training yard when they saw Alicent leaving Helaena’s chambers, looking surprisingly grim. Caught in the moment, she had to reveal the cause of her sour mood — or maybe Alicent was actually looking for a reason to tell someone of it. She wore a grimace of annoyance as she recounted what happened at the small council’s meeting. Her explanation left much to be desired but Criston listened attentively, seemingly intrigued. Both he and Alicent missed Aemond’s stunned expression — somehow he instantly guessed who was the rider of the white dragon. But it brought him no relief.

It has long been known that his mother and Daemon have a bone to pick with each other, but Aemond is never hasty with his judgment. His uncle’s daughter is a girl he knows nothing about, so he tries not rushing to conclusions, or labeling, or worse. And yet Aemond keeps going back to that image of her — audacious in her freedom, coming into their lives at the speed of a dragon she claimed even though she wasn’t supposed to have one in the first place. He even let himself wonder how their first meeting would go, thinking of an uncomfortable family gathering with forced smiles and awkward conversations.

But suddenly she’s here — her black cloak fluttering like an unknown flag, no sign of a smile on her face, no lack of confidence. And it’s somewhat fitting that she’s defying the expectations already, his included.

She keeps her distance and pays them no mind as her eyes are set on the table with practice swords, their blades reflecting glimmers of orange and red the sky is painted with. Criston notices Aemond’s wistful stare, then clears his throat and approaches the girl.

“It’s not often I find ladies to take interest in swords.”

“I couldn’t deny myself the pleasure of admiring the craftsmanship,” she answers, earning a pleased hum from the knight.

“Well, these two swords were cast only a week ago,” Criston enthusiastically comes closer.

Sensing it, she glances up at him, out of interest or as a precaution, and Aemond sees a white strand of hair sticking out, a rebellious sign of her Targaryen roots confirmed by the color of her eyes. He discreetly examines her, takes in every subtle detail he can notice as if her appearance can give him a clue for what’s underneath. But her face is a mask of reticence.

“This looks like Valyrian steel,” she infers, and Criston nods, pleasantly surprised by her guess.

“You have seen it before?”

“I have definitely heard of it. And it is truly beautiful up close. How long does it take to make one?”

Aemond’s never been good at striking up conversations, avoiding them on the pretext of not liking idle talk. And yet now his taciturnity weighs on him — and he doesn’t know if he’s troubled by the feeling of being excluded again or the blind urge to be the one she’s talking to.

Criston’s chattering comes with no reprehensibility, and she welcomes the nuanced explanations, listening attentively.

“You are quite passionate about the subject,” she concludes.

“It’s only fair for the knight to know more of the weapon he uses,” he clarifies, modest as ever. “Although, I believe we haven’t been properly introduced — I am Ser Criston Cole, the Master of swords. You’ve walked in on me and Prince Aemond training.”

She doesn’t acknowledge Aemond’s presence, and he feels like a ghost, an unnoticed shadow, and the neglect unnerves him. Ser Criston is more worried about respecting social norms.

“And how should I address you?”

“Just Lia will do,” she bestows him with a smile so fleeting, he might’ve as well imagined it.

“Lady Lia, then,” he corrects, and her face is briefly shadowed by disdain.

“There’s no value in adding that.”

Aemond comes up to them then, not waiting for any invitations and intending to be reckoned with, his brows draw together at her comment.

“Getting a title is something people usually pride upon rather than eschew,” he points out in a studiously courteous manner.

“Sounds like you care about it more than I do,” Lia barely spares him a glance, her head tilted as she follows the gilded pattern of the sword with her finger.

She doesn’t mean to mock him, her tone plain and stance relaxed, but the relative ease with which she brushes off his remark wounds all the same. Aemond is so used to people being intimidated by his mere presence that the lack of reaction does come off as an offense — or maybe he’s too eager to take it as one.

Ser Criston is oblivious to Aemond’s nerves slowly cracking, too absorbed in the conversation with Lia.

“To fully appreciate the craftsmanship, you should see it in action. Do you know how to handle a sword? I can show you.”

“It is really kind of you to offer but I’ve wielded a sword before,” her emotionless response implies she’s not affronted yet Criston notices a smile in the corner of her lips again. He wonders if it’s a sign of amiability, or a jeer.

“I am sure you haven’t held —”

“You can take one,” Aemond suddenly suggests, words escaping his mouth before he can think them over.

Ser Criston stops midsentence, darting an inquiring glance at him but the prince ignores it, his eye boring into Lia’s back.

“If you spar with me,” he adds — and sees that her finger stops at the edge of the blade, signaling that now he’s got her attention.

“You already have an opponent to entertain you.”

“I am not looking for entertainment,” Aemond adamantly retorts.

He is looking for a fight, he wants to say — but when Lia finally glances at the prince, he catches an unspoken sign of understanding.

“If you win, the sword is yours,” Aemond continues as his impatience simmers, risking to bring his temper to a boil.

There is no logical explanation for his persistence — Lia shows no interest and takes no offense, absolutely nothing suggests that she wants to fight, and she merely looked at him once since she came. Maybe that last part is the one he’s got a problem with.

Criston waits for the girl to refuse — and to do so sheepishly, in a ladylike manner. Instead, she fully turns to the prince.

“Seems like you’ve been training for quite some time, aren’t you tired?” Lia eyes him from head to toe. “I’d like us to have a fair bout.”

Aemond stifles a laugh, reeking of overconfidence, his reaction all too familiar to the knight but usually off-putting to the others — just this attitude alone led to more fights than Criston can count, even though the prince had no trouble winning all of them. But Lia doesn’t lash back or quarrel — she is a blank canvas void of any color.

“I won’t cut you, worry not. At least I will try my best,” Aemond’s reply is hardly a promise with his voice being so evidently teasing. “Do you need a warm-up?”

She feels her legs humming from the number of stairs and turns she’s taken throughout the day, and the anticipation heats her body, rushes her blood and her heartbeat.

“I’ll pass,” she declines, and just for a moment, her gaze turns sneery, and Aemond guesses that she’s also not the one to back down. That bare glimmer of her character is enough to strike a chord in him.

Criston looks between them, finally grasping how the dynamic escalated, the air thick with tension as Aemond and Lia stare each other down without a hint of doubt on their faces.

“You are fortunate to spar with a very skilled swordsman,” the knight mentions delicately, hoping that his implication might cause Lia to reconsider.

“If you say so,” is her only reply — and there isn’t a shred of uncertainty in it.

Before going to pick a sword, Lia looks around. This time, Aemond actually wishes there was a crowd to make a spectacle in front of. But as her eyes are roving through the yard, Criston guesses that she’s sizing up the space, taking all the details in, — and it is definitely not a sign of her lacking the experience. He’s never trained a woman but someone clearly took their chances with Lia.

She goes to the further end of the table where the shortswords are lined up, and Aemond sneers: he’s proficient in using longswords, he maneuvers heavy blades with ease, and going for the lighter version will pose no challenge for him. Lia chooses the one with a smaller hilt, silver and set with emeralds: she weights it, makes sure it sits comfortably in her hand. Criston notes that her thumb lays on the flat of the blade which gives her a better hold of it. She twirls the sword a couple of times, her movements smooth and polished.

The knight turns to Aemond — and he is already looking at Lia.

“You do know how to hold it. Do you know how to use it?” the prince taunts.

“Do you?” she throws him an assessing gaze.

“We are about to find out.”

🎵

Lia twists the blade backward, and it stops right behind her shoulder, barely an inch away. She holds it there as she approaches the prince, staying at a safe distance. The forged metal is tinted with the blooming sundown — it’s bright, sinister scarlet, and Criston gets a sinking feeling of worry, the idea of them sparring not so tempting anymore. But he hesitates for just a second too long — and then it’s too late to meddle.

Aemond strikes first, not harshly but rather testing — Lia swiftly moves out of his way, without even raising her sword, and his blade almost grazes her cloak, but the material slips away in the air. The prince takes a step back, circling her as she stands, barely moving but not letting him out of sight, not shying away from him. His gaze hunts her like prey but she’s hawk-eyed, and she is yet to show her claws.

Criston directs his focus to Lia in an instant. She’s got good awareness of space, her stepping is correct and aligned with her rare hits, her pacing akin to a measured cadence. Using the sword in one hand gives her a longer reach — but she hardly ever initiates attacks. Instead of stopping Aemond or trying to engage, Lia easily dodges, and that behavior only serves to embolden the prince’s fervor. It bothers Criston, and he furrows his brows, watching the girl closely, discerning how aloof and impassive she seems in comparison to Aemond — he’s smoldering, she’s stone-cold, and her movements are almost... lazy.

That’s when Criston realizes: she’s the one wearing the prince out, not the other way around.

It only takes Aemond a minute to draw the same conclusion, and he feels a flash of irritation in his chest. He might’ve underestimated Lia but he isn’t used to being toyed with, and even though her face is still without expression, now her style of fighting almost seems taunting. The prince usually took pride in his self-control yet he was slowly losing it — and he hates to lose, he never does.

Aemond quickly weighs his options, chancing a glance at the yard, and a distant object catches his attention. It’s a middle-sized barrel, but it’s enough to slow her movements, he thinks, and once she’s cornered the prince might consider mercy. He intensifies his hits, pressuring her to move further away, right into his trap, to his proclamation of victory. Aemond’s chest all but puffs, his hubris blossoming. But it turns out to be disastrously premature.

Lia looks over her shoulder — and then jumps over the barrel like it wasn’t ever there, barely an obstacle, or at least not for her. She gives him a look that makes him feel stupid — and Aemond is anything but. Even from a distance, Criston can feel the anger that sparkles in the prince, his shoulders tensing up and his grip on the sword tightening. He is scary when he’s angry — when he allows himself to be, when the build-up emotions emerge from the darkness of his stiff restrain — Aemond doesn’t hold back then, and he is scarily dangerous, dreadful, deadly.

But anger is only fuel and, shall you spill too much of it, the fire will be too hard to control — and the lack of control can be lethal when someone aims a blade at your heart. Yet it seems that what Aemond may lack, she’s got plenty of, and Criston finds himself wondering if that unemotional canvas of hers is actually a facade that covers something else.

They are separated by the barrel but Lia has no intention of hiding behind it — as she goes back around, she gets rid of another restriction, hastily tossing the cloak away, and Aemond finds himself involuntarily staring at her. Her clothes are also dark: the upper garment is long-sleeved and waisted, the material of her trousers dense and fitted tightly around her thighs. It differs from everything he’s seen on the ladies of the court, and she wears it like a second skin that stretches and covers every curve of her body. As Aemond’s eye lingers, he lets his guard down, almost missing the moment when she hits, fast and without warning — the prince blocks it at the very last second, their swords locking at foot level, and her blade stops right at his knee.

Aemond’s face expresses the utmost bewilderment. She didn’t cut him — but the intent was there.

The prince inhales sharply. He can forgive her still, he can dismiss her insolence and blame it on her lack of manners, on her luck, on any ludicrous reason that he may come up with in the next thirty seconds which he definitely needs to calm himself down. He is trying with his every breath, with his every muscle to regain control and resolve the situation peacefully.

But Lia isn’t looking for peace when she says — brazenly, her eyes fixed on him:

“Doesn’t seem like you live up to the praise you’ve been given.”

His temper explodes in a second. Aemond lunges at her, an annoyed grunt bubbling in his throat, and he strikes, merciless and quick, adrenalin roaring in him. She bends backward, his sword gliding just above her, and then she ducks under his arm and moves away. He barely has time to turn to her when she winds in from the other side, their swords clanging — and Criston regains his senses at the loud sound.

The knight feels his heart racing, the feeling of worry now bruising him as he can’t take his eyes off the two opponents.

Aemond’s blind spot is clearly on his left, and yet Lia never aims there, not taking advantage of his weakness, and Criston can’t help but respect her for that. However, she notes him having a dominant right hand, most of his blows targeted to cover the opposite side, leaving him open to attacks from the right. The moment she realizes where to strike, her blows become harsher and more vigorous, as her sword cuts through the air with a flick of her wrist. She’s got speed and agility, she’s unwavering, she’s a hunter too.

Aemond does not give in, furious and unflinching, and yet, even with the most ferocious attempts he misses her — merely by an inch — but misses nonetheless. Lia dodges every attack, each of her blocks calculated and her gaze alert, her desire not to yield only matching his. It’s refreshing, it keeps Aemond’s blood pumping, the anger-driven energy coursing through him. It also hurts his ego quite a bit.

There’s a bizarre harmony in the way they carry themselves, Criston notices, and their anger looks about the same — fiery and scalding. And it’s only a matter of time before anyone gets burned.

Aemond runs out of patience first.

Lia bats his sword aside once more and pulls back, falling into his blind spot, and Aemond needs to spin around to keep her in sight. But his mind is clouded with fury that pushes him to take the risk — instead of repeating the well-known movement, he takes a swing at her, his aim nothing but instinctive. He’s never followed blind instinct so literally; he’s also never done anything so horribly, dangerously stupid.

Criston’s heart plummets like a pebble through a hole as he watches Lia’s blade missing Aemond by a hair — and it truly is a miracle if he’s ever seen one. But then the prince’s sword lands right next to her shoulder, and they both instantly halt movement, their breathing heavy and eyes locked.

There is dead silence around them, the sun is long gone, the sounds vanished, all the guards witnessing are petrified.

It takes all of Aemond’s willpower not to press the blade further into the material of her clothes to cut it. He doesn’t want to hurt her, but he wants to leave a mark. A sign that he did win, a reminder of his victory just for her to keep.

“I shall teach you a lesson on how to keep your attitude in check when you’re talking to a prince,” his words are laced with frustration yet he smirks, bathing in the satisfaction that winning always brings him.

“Only when you learn to not get ahead of yourself,” she whispers — and with that, he suddenly feels a metal blade poking at his ribs. Taken aback, Aemond looks down and, surely, she’s holding a small dagger to his side with her free hand. His delight is as short-lived as ripples on a pond.

“Now, this is not fair,” he mutters, not looking so smug anymore.

“Fairness be damned when someone’s threatening my life,” she glances up at him, their faces so close they can feel each other’s breath. She smells of ashes and the crisp freshness of the forest, and her expression doesn’t change but her eyes darken, just like the sea does before the storm, which makes him feel uneasy.

And yet, Aemond refuses to lower his sword.

“Will you be as fierce without an arm?” he hisses.

“I can survive without one. But I’ll cut into your heart first,” her voice is terribly calm, and he knows she’s not bluffing.

“That is enough,” Criston is on the verge of yelling. “No one will cut anything!”

He tries to squeeze in between them but to no avail — Aemond doesn’t budge nor does Lia. Criston’s never been the one to babysit the kids, yet right now he wishes he had more experience with tantrums — because that’s exactly what it is, he thinks. Except the two participants have long outgrown the age appropriate for such behavior, and both are, unfortunately, armed.

He takes a deep breath and throws a hand in between them, more firmly this time.

“You know as well as I do that this has to end,” the knight gives them a stern look, “And with both of you intact.”

Lia’s eyes dart to Criston, and he takes it as a sign of her being the one he can reason with.

“I do not think using a dagger was acceptable but to be fair, we never established any rules. And you are a good fighter,” he puts emphasis, not letting the prince interrupt. “So I propose we agree on a draw, and you will still get your sword.”

She looks at Aemond. “I believe said agreement requires mutual consent.”

Criston maneuvers his palm next to Lia’s shoulder and puts his other hand close to where she’s holding the dagger. He glances anxiously at Aemond, and the prince scowls, irritated, not in the habit of backing down. He holds her gaze for a couple of seconds — and then they lower their weapons, the movement almost synchronized except Lia does so with grace while Aemond just does everyone a favor.

Crison gently stops the girl, his hand intercepting the one she’s holding the sword in.

“I will sharpen it myself and have it back in the morning,” he promises — and she gives it up with no objection.

Aemond seethes at her compliance he hasn’t been graced with, clinging to his sword while his pride whines in offense. He watches Lia putting the cloak back on, twirling the dagger in one hand, so unbothered and composed as if he left no impression on her while she all but carved her way into his head. While she has her back to him, he thoughtlessly makes a move in her direction, and Criston’s eyes widen, a word of warning rooting in his throat — but he doesn’t get a chance to voice it.

Lia stops and turns to Aemond in one swift motion, her gaze heavy and cold — and immediately on him again. For the second time she takes him by surprise, and the prince freezes at the spot. She looks directly at him and, without breaking eye contact, slowly shakes her head no. She doesn’t utter a single word but the coldness of her gaze speaks for itself. Her eyes are saying if you dare to pick the sword, I will kill you. I will bury my dagger in between your ribs, and my face will be the last thing you see.

She’s standing in front of him — a woman wrapped in the darkest shades of black, and she radiates the most alarming threat he’s ever seen. She gives him the same feeling he gets every time he touches the blade with his bare fingers, every time he flies with Vhagar up in the sky, rising above the clouds until his lungs start burning and the air is too cold to breathe in. It’s the feeling of imminent danger, of him balancing right at the edge of a foul. It’s challenging as much as it is fascinating. And Aemond likes a good challenge.

He takes his hand off of the hilt, his crooked grin a telltale sign of his refusal to wave a white flag just yet. Criston notices the movement and breathes out, looking puzzled but relieved. Not a single word is shared, and Lia doesn’t give them another glance before leaving, the prince and the knight gazing after her.

“I want to ask what just happened but I am not sure you will give me an honest answer,” Criston drawls.

Aemond keeps silent, his eye following Lia’s cloak, and the desire to go after her feels like an itch, like a pull he can’t explain.

“I don’t think it will be wise to tell my mother,” the prince says all of a sudden.

Confusion is evident on Criston’s face, brighter than the light of the torches it’s illumed with.

“She would’ve wanted to know of it,” the knight attempts to reason. “I am your family’s sworn protector and it’s my responsibility to —”

“I am asking you as a friend,” Aemond cuts in, his abrupt request leaving the knight stunned. The prince doesn’t move nor does he look at Criston, his sharp profile not letting any emotions slip through. And yet, these words are the biggest sign of trust Aemond has ever shown the knight in years.

Criston bites down a smile. “Understood, my prince.” Lia navigates the corridors, taking directions from memory — she goes past her chambers, past the bed made for her, to the other end of the castle. She sneaks to the gates and lures the guards out by throwing a rock at the fence, trying not to laugh at the fact that it takes two grown men to go check for the source of the noise. The girl escapes into the darkness of the night, into the vibrant city that’s still awake, filled with noises and people scurrying about.

She blends into the crowd, feeling her pulse finally slowing down as she stems the fire within her, and it meekly fizzles. Rowdy alleys and dark corners seem more welcoming to her than the entirety of the Red Keep, and Lia is almost tempted to get lost and forget her way back — but she can’t allow herself to. So she only quickens her steps and pulls the hood lower, trying to race her own exhaustion that unavoidably catches up to her.

Halfway to the Dragonpit, Lia feels a gaze on her but the place is too crowded for someone to stand out — and it’s clearly an advantage not just for her. She sees a couple of drunk men staring, red-faced yet not threatening enough, same for a few beggars and street dancers that reach for her but can’t keep up. The only one who does stick out is a little girl eight or nine years of age winding after her — her face sly, her clothes too neat for her to live on the streets. Lia takes note of the kid but doesn’t let it show; her dagger hidden under the cloak does save her from the hassle of worrying.

The cavernous building atop the hill looks even bigger at night, grand and daunting, and the stern faces of the guards don’t soften the impression given. But they let Lia in with no questions asked, most likely contrite about their hostile greeting earlier in the morning. She doesn’t gloat and only enters with a nod, slipping into the tunnels shrouded in stillness, her path accompanied by the rare crackling of the torches. When she walks into the cave, Olwen looks barely awake, blinking a few times in her direction, and Lia finally lets her body relax in the coolness of the twilight.

Weariness flows through her body like a stream of water, stripping her of the feigned composure and fake indifference. Her face falls and her fists open, and the build-up tension springs free with each inhale — deep, slow, blissful. As she’s standing there, in the dark cave only lit by the glow of her dragon’s eyes, she quietly reminds herself:

“Raven woods. Yellow and brown. Calls himself Knuckles.”

Olwen glances up at her and lets out a roar, low and choppy, and it sounds almost like a purr. The dragon moves his head closer to Lia, and she sits on the ground, gently touching the rough skin of his snout. She knows he can feel it — her anger sparkling at the surface, ready to ignite at any second. But he also feels the pain that’s been wailing deep inside, vile and heavy on her heart. She thinks it’s unfair to him — this connection that they share, the unexplainable bond, and she almost wants to apologize. She knows he won’t understand.

Lia leans back on the dragon, using her cloak as a blanket and letting the exhaustion wash over her. Her eyelids flutter shut and she whispers again:

“Raven woods. Yellow and brown. Goes by Knuckles. Raven woods. Yellow and brown...”

This reminder is not a lullaby but a never healing scar branded onto her skin, tearing her life in half, leaving nothing but ruins, bodies, death. But when Lia finally drifts off, she is greeted with no dreams, and it feels like a blessing, that oblivion of hers. Because most nights, when she closes her eyes, she sees a dark forest burning in flames, filled with endless screams. Back at the castle, the one-eyed prince lies wide awake, his restless mind not letting him sleep as he keeps replaying the events of the evening in his head. Aemond’s body has gotten tired but his nerves are strained, the memories of Lia still fresh — the way she looked at him, daring and unashamed, the way she moved — dexterous, fast, never giving up. A recalcitrant opponent, a resistant fighter, a bastard with a wild dragon.

Or maybe she’s a dragon herself.

He wonders if he can tame her.

• when she turns to him and shakes her head — that was inspired by the scene from “Hawkeye”. I think Yelena nailed that “I can kill you with my bare hands” look, and her character overall is very inspirational to me. 🔥 my masterlist

English is not my first language, so feel free to message me if you spot any major mistakes. reblogs and comments are very much appreciated!

tagging everyone who asked: @greenowlfactif, @iiamthehybrid, @melsunshine, @rosegardenpatsu

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avengingangelfanfic · 2 months

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Daemon

Sometimes, when I'm writing, I'm not even writing. The characters just do things and I keep a record of it.

Daemon Targaryen just took his own life in his hands. Man has a set of brass ones.

#house of the dragon #hotd fanfics #anactofkindness #daemon targaryen #fanfic

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targcrazies · 1 year

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Part 2 to Misgivings (Aemond Targaryen x Handmaid)

warning: slightly adult themes

Aemond found himself tottering all over his room in anticipation of having her close to him, in his bedchamber. Unlike his brother's lewd suggestions, Aemond had no intention of "undressing and stuffing" her, rather he wished to speak to her. It was a foreign sensation, wanting so much to converse with someone he knew so little of. He had found himself drawn to attractive ladies, yes, but never for once had he felt the urge to sit them down and just speak to them, look at their faces in fervent attention as they endlessly went on about their life. Such a desirous turn had only come after he watched her, more and more.

What really fascinated him about the girl, he thought, was how easily she could befriend anyone. Aemond found her giggling with other handmaids from noble families in propriety and speaking foul tongues with those of the scullery, both with untempered fluency. He once heard her barter a carton of milk with a tradesman at a price so reasonable that the cooks tirelessly praised her good sense. If one found her with the children, they would assume it is just that she was good with them. However, that would be understating the proficiency with which she handled each child based on their temperament and needs, and all that simultaneously!

What was the most amusing to Aemond was how she presented herself with him and his siblings present at court. With Aegon, she was a sterner handmaid who only attended to his courtly needs and had no qualms excusing herself whenever he transgressed some unspoken boundary. With Helaena, she was sisterly and soothing, allowing the Princess to indulge her with her listless ramblings. With Aemond, she was genteel and proper, almost always ensuring that she asked him a second time if he had any particular need to be met. She made art of communicating with people around her and Aemond was thoroughly intrigued.

Thus, in preparation for her arrival, he did his best to seem uninterested in the fear that he may seem taken, which he was, by her. He laid out three dress shirts, all white, all torn off in various places. He had leather coats with buttons worth fixing. He had eyepatches that needed lengthening. He had an assortment of articles that would keep her occupied in his chamber for a while, or at least, require her to keep coming back.

He perked up from a waiting haze when he heard firm knocks. Initially, he rushed, then he stopped for a bit and attempted to walk at a moderate pace to open the door. He found her standing with her hands neatly folded in submission, wearing a long, light blue pinafore with spacious pockets.

"Your Grace, Princess Helaena asked me to attend to you for some stitching."

"Ah!" he found himself observing her. She picked up an empty basket that rested at her feet a tad earlier, and he could not, for the life of him, figure out its purpose. Her bun, that afternoon, was tighter. He inwardly pondered the painful stretch of all her hair pulled back with such fortitude. It was only when the girl cleared her throat did Aemond remember to collect himself. "Ah, yes, Vaera?" He remembered her name well, however, the act of giving it away seemed rather foolish to him.

"Vaella, your Grace." She offered him a kind smile, "You needn't worry. Shall I collect the necessary articles?" she nudged the basket toward him slightly, "I can bring them back once they're done."

"You will do no such thing!" his voice came out louder than he had anticipated, his left foot dramatically stepping back as he wagged his finger in disapproval. He caught himself in the act, regained his former posture of indifference, and rectified himself, "I only mean that I would rather supervise the stitches, as I am quite particular about them."

"Yes, of course, your Grace!" if the abrupt shifts in his tone had astounded her, she hid it discerningly well, "I apologise, I was not aware. Shall I?" she kept the basket down by the gate and made her way in as he quietly stepped aside. He had ensured that his chamber was neat and tidy before her arrival, each article in the room in its rightful place. No layer of dust could be found, as he had employed one of the other handmaids to wipe the room clean. He was hoping she'd take notice and speak highly of his cleanliness, especially, in comparison to his sloth of a brother. Instead, she identified the stack of articles, sat down on the Pentosi rug laid out before the hearth, and got to work.

"Pardon me for choosing this particular spot, for I find it difficult to see without light in such fine details." she admitted coyly, starting with one of his dress shirts. She held it up before her, "There seems to have been quite some reckless pulling," she announced to herself, "how disgraceful!" she muttered disapprovingly under her breath. Only if she knew that much of it was done by Aemond himself; he felt chastised even though the girl could hold no such intent. He dragged a chair closer to her and sat down, not too close

She next asked him if he would like her to do a blind stitch for his embroidered shirts or an elegant chain stitch that will add more details to his clothing. He told her that an elegant chain stitch sounded good. Such questions soon followed and he answered whimsically, even though he tried to pretend that he was well aware of his demands.

He finally mustered in himself the courage to enquire about her, "So, you were found in Lys?"

He noticed her stop, her gaze shifted upward for a brief moment before she collected herself and resumed her work, "Yes, your Grace. I was a maid for one of the ambassador's daughters. I ran off when I was in the talks of being sold to a brothel-master, following my Lady’s marriage. That is when Lord Velaryon found me and brought me here."

Aemond gulped, looking down at his lap, "I apologise for the hardship, my Lady."

She looked up at him with a polite smile, "Your Grace, I am no Lady. Please, call me Vaella."

He nodded quietly, "So, Vaella, are you of Valyrian descent?"

"Yes, your Grace, a mere bastard daughter of a Valyrian merchant in Lys who had placed me in the care of the ambassador, I am afraid. My father had defaulted on his loan."

"Ah," he seemed to quietly muse on her response, "You are very well-spoken for just a maid, and I mean this as no offense, my la- Vaella."

She looked up at him and offered him a smile, that despite its kindness, was one of admonishment, "I was taught to speak well so that I could be a good companion to my Lady back in Lys, your Grace."

"Of course." Aemond would be foolish to not notice the way her eyes narrowed at him before she resumed her work. This time, she seemed to be in calculated haste, going through the stitching with perfect efficacy and little forethought. She had finished almost half the work when she put the colourful balls of yarns and threads back in the pocket of her pinafore.

"Your Grace, I must attend to the Princess for her bath. I can finish the rest tonight and I shall bring them over to you in the morning." she stood up, picking out little strands of threads from her clothes, rolling them into small balls and stuffing them inside her pocket.

"No, oh please, I'd rather you do them here, Vaella." Aemond knew that he sounded desperate in his insistence, yet at that very moment, he could not muster enough heed within himself to suppress the leak in his voice, "You can even drop by a few days later if needed."

Vaella smiled rather cumbersomely, "Your Grace, I shall be here tomorrow, same time as today." She curtseyed, "Good evening." and before he knew it, he had disappeared from his room and escaped like a whiff of fragrance beyond his door.

#aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen fanfic #aemond targaryen smut #aemond targaryen imagines #hotd fanfics #aemond targaryen x oc #aemond targaryen x female!reader #house of the dragons #game of thrones

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maryisthevirgin · 15 days

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Only one remedy

by - garmr || visaegon || 8.5k, rated e!

Like ripping stitches from a wound not fully closed, Aegon pushed his brother’s hand away. Aegon learns nearness. Sometimes it no longer hurts.

#viserys ii targaryen #aegon ii targaryen #house of the dragon #a song of ice and fire #hotd fanfics #visaegon

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inkareds · 7 months

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Also I just cleared my inbox and omfg I've never felt lighter in my entire life. There were some really old requests in there that I thought I could just quickly write through but realised I really couldn't (bcs of one reason or the other) and it was weighing me down a fuck ton.

but now that it's all gone!

I can actually focus on writing what I enjoy!!!

SO!

Requests are open for the updated character lists here!

ESPECIALLY HOTD requests and DC (mainly cause I'm currently in love with them)

#hotd #house of the dragon #dc #dc comics #dc fanfics #hotd fanfics #hotd fics #aemond targaryen x reader #daemon targaryen x reader #aegon targaryen x reader #jason todd x reader #dick grayson x reader

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multi-fics · 8 days

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House of the Dragon 🐉

Rhaenyra Targaryen

Alicent Hightower

Helaena Targaryen

Daemon Targaryen

Aemond Targaryen

#hotd x reader #house of the dragon #hotd fanfics

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feyhunter78 · 1 year

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The Despair of a Dragon's Wife

Description: After the birth of you and Aemond's son, you fall into a deep despair and rumors begin to fly regarding your son's parentage.

This was requested on my AO3 and I wanted to post it here as well! TW: Postpartum depression, suicidal thoughts and actions, but no death or injury

You loved your son, you truly did, but the sight of him reminded you of the pain you suffered, and his cries were like nails driven into your brain, reminding you of how much of a failure you were. His hair was (y/h/c) not silver and his eyes were a shade of purple that could easily be mistaken for blue, worst of all his dragon egg had yet to hatch.

You knew your sweet Rhagar simply wished to be with you, to feel your love, but you couldn’t bring yourself to hold him for more than a few minutes. Your mind constantly reminding you that he was not as Targaryen as the others, he would suffer the mistreatment bastards do, even though he is his father’s son. You have failed him, failed your family, and failed Aemond.

Aemond had been so excited for your child, speaking constantly of them, making you promise after promise of what he would provide for you both. Then, once the midwives announced you had birthed a son, he broke into joyous laughter, surprising even his own mother.

But then you were handed your son and saw the tuft of (y/h/c) hair, the muddled color of his eyes, and you knew you had failed. You had wept, and refused to be consoled, claiming they were tears of joy.

Breastfeeding was a struggle and after many attempts and gritted teeth you surrendered Rhagar to a wetnurse, tears in your eyes as you watched him calm so quickly for her. Nothing you did was ever enough for your son, he cried constantly, pulled at your hair, squirmed nonstop and refused to sleep through the night.

Your mother had stressed the importance of keeping your babe with you at night, especially since you had now birthed a potential heir to the throne. She worried someone would harm him, and you worried that perhaps that person would be you.

Sleep had fled from you, your appetite as well, music was dull and lifeless, sewing and reading no longer brought you joy. Weeks went by of you lying awake as Rhagar tossed and turned. Then it turned into months of you staring listlessly at the wall as you bounced him in your arms, silently begging him to cease his crying.

Oddly enough, it was your sworn sword, Ser Halbret, who was able to dry the tears of your son.

After hours of trying to calm your son, on the verge of tears yourself, you handed the screaming child off to him, and drifted back to your chambers. You curled up into a ball under the covers of your bed, crying silently, heart weighed down with endless misery.

You’d finally been able to drift off to sleep when the door to your chamber opened and the sound of giggling was followed by your husband’s voice.

“My sweet wife, I have found our little dragon.” Aemond called, voice light as he stepped closer to the bed.

You quickly wiped your tears, and tried to force a smile, but the sound of Rhagar calling out to you made another wave surface. You threw off the covers and rushed into the bathroom, locking the door behind you.

Aemond knocked on the door. “Y/N, are you alright? Rhagar wishes to see you.”

You slumped against the door; head buried in your arms. “Give me a moment, my stomach is a bit unsettled.”

Rhaegar began to cry, and you heard Aemond gently reassure him that you would be out soon.

You couldn’t take it anymore. Your eyes searched the room for something, anything to end your agony, but you found nothing. “If you cannot get him to stop, give him to Ser Halbret, he loves him.” You called through the door.

“Surely not more than he loves his mother.” Aemond said, trying the doorknob once more, concern tainting his voice.

“He does not love me.” You mumbled, tears streaming down your face as you dug your nails into your palms, searching for relief from the aching in your head and chest.

“Y/N, my sweet, open the door.” He insisted, as Rhagar’s cries grew in volume.

“Go away.” You cried, slamming your hand against the door, red streaks coloring the wood. You’d pressed too hard and punctured the skin.

You stared at the smeared crimson blood and prayed Aemond would leave.

Aemond carried his son to his mother’s quarters, mind clouded with worry. You had been distant as of late, and your figure had begun to decrease a worrying amount.

At first, he thought you were too wrapped up in your son to eat properly. Then he noticed how you flinched when Rhagar cried, or how you were so quick to hand him off to your sworn sword, and flee the room.

His mother looked up, a bright smile on her face. “Aemond, and little Rhaegar, what a wonderful surprise. I was just speaking with your grandsire about our worries for y/n.”

Aemond sat across from his grandsire, keeping Rhagar firmly in his arms. “I have come to see you for the same reason, I fear she is ill.”

“The only thing she is sick with, is guilt.” His grandsire said, casting a disgusted look at Rhagar.

“Guilt?” He echoed, searching his mind for anything you might feel guilty over. You had borne him a beautiful and sweet-tempered son, were a devoted and wonderful wife, and a dedicated mother. There was no reason for you to feel guilty.

Alicent took his hand in hers, her expression sorrowful. “Your grandsire believes that…” She trailed off, her lips pressed into a hard line. “I cannot say it.”

“That boy is a bastard. Look at him, that is no Targaryen.” Otto said harshly.

His mother flinched and Aemond held his son closer.

“That is not possible. I took her maidenhood, I have been the only one in her bed, and she is a faithful wife. Rhagar is mine.”

“Perhaps you were the only one in her bed, but that does not mean she was not warming the beds of others.”

Aemond stared down at his son. True, his coloring was not that of a typical Targaryen, but they shared a nose, a smile, even the way Rhagar looked at dragons was the way he himself looked at them.

“I do not wish to believe it either, but many have seen the way she thrusts the child into the arms of Ser Halbret, and his coloring matches the boy’s.” His mother said, a sympathetic look in her eyes.

“It matches y/n’s as well.” He argued, furious that they would even suggest such a betrayal coming from you.

His grandsire laid his hands flat on the table. “Ask her then, ask her why she does not seem to care for the child, why she pushes him onto everyone else.”

His mother’s eyes flickered to the tabletop, and Aemond nodded stiffly.

He held Rhagar close as he stormed back to your shared quarters, throwing the door open to find you standing on the windowsill, one hand loosely gripping the frame, the wind whipping through your hair.

Aemond called out to you in shock, and you turned, eyes wide and brimming with tears. “I cannot bear this any longer.” You sobbed, your head dropping to your chest.

Aemond quickly but carefully set your son down on the floor and rushed over to you, pulling you away from the window. “Y/N what are you doing? Have you gone mad?”

You shook your head, sobs ripping from your throat. “I hate him, I hate him, and I hate myself for it.”

Aemond pulled you into his embrace, crushing you to his chest. “I do not understand, where does this hatred come from?”

“I am a horrible wife; he is living proof of my failure.” You sobbed, hiding your face in Aemond’s chest.

“So, it is true, then? He is not mine.” Aemond said coldly.

You looked up at him in confusion. “What? How could you say that?”

“You said he is proof of your failures, your failure to stay faithful.”

You shook your head, crying harder. “No, no, he is my failure to give you a child that bears your coloring, he looks as if he belongs in the Riverlands.”

Aemond’s racing heart slowed, and he cupped your face. “I care not if he looks true to my blood, neither I nor my siblings look like my mother, yet no one doubts we are hers.”

“But the Strongs…” You argued weakly. The treatment they received was one you feared your son would receive as well.

Aemond brushed away your tears. “Everyone knew they were bastards, but Rhagar shares my nose, my smile, and soon he will have a dragon. No one will doubt him.”

“How can you be sure?” You asked, eyes darting over to your son, who was sitting on the rug near the fireplace.

“Because I will cut down any who do. I know he is my son, I know you have been faithful, as have I.” He gently swayed you back and forth, drawing your eyes back to him. “I did not break off my betrothal and anger my entire family to marry a woman I do not trust.”

You sniffled and laid your head back on his chest. “I have failed you; I know it, you need not spare my feelings.”

“You have not failed me. You have given me a perfect child, a son, an heir.” He said firmly, wishing he could make you understand how highly he held you in his heart.

Your shoulders were still shaking, but you’d begun to calm. “He hates me Aemond, I can never cease his crying.”

He kissed your forehead gently, and held you tighter. “He is a babe, and he can sense your unhappiness, he has been crying for you, and it is I who have failed you both. I should have recognized your suffering long before today. It should not have fallen to our son to alert me to your despair.”

A cracking sound filled the room and both your heads whipped towards the fireplace.

Your son sat giggling happily with a tiny dragon in his lap.

Aemond left your side and scooped them both up, carrying them over to you. “Look at what you have created, what you have given me.”

Rhagar reached out for you, babbling “mama, mama” as the small green dragon curled up on his shoulders.

You let Rhagar take as much of your hand as he could hold and smiled.

He smiled back at you, and clumsily kissed your hand, as he had seen his father do countless times. It was more of him bumping your hand with his nose, but it made you laugh, and the tightness in your chest eased.

Perhaps you could do this.

Tag list: @nyctophilic0vitnir, @svtansdaddyx, @fan-goddess, @dc-marvel-girl96, @shintax-error, @bellameshipper, @the141bandicoot, @the-phantom-of-arda, @haydee5010, @partypoison00, @serrhaewin, @issshhh, @pax-2735, @malfoytargaryen, @sahanna, @dellalyra, @mxrgodsstuff, @jkhomes, @unusual-raccoon, @boofy1998, @kravitzwhore, @caribbeangel, @krispold, @issshh, @afro-hispwriter, @ryswritingrecord, @prettykinkysoul, @elissanatok, @sahvlren, @its-sam-allgood, @happinessinthbeing, @8e-h-e8, @feyres-fireheart, @just-emmaaaa, @crazylokonugget, @hedahobbit98, @devils-blackrose, @mercedesdecorazon, @snh96, @imjustboredso

#aemond x reader #aemond x you #aemond x y/n #aemond targaryen x reader #wife!reader #meg's writing #hotd #hotd fanfics #aemond imagine #aemond targaryen #prince aemond #prince aemond x reader #aemond angst

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lovelipton · 1 month

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Finishing a fanfic no one asked for while inching towards one I was suppose to finish last year. Bear with me.

#hotd fanfics #lovelipton fanfic #ulf x nettles

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shawty-writes-a-little · 1 year

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Young love

Aemond Targaryen x betrothed!reader

Word count. 2.5k

Summary: Aemond pulls a harmful little prank on his wife to be but things don’t escalate well (PURE FLUFF)

Warnings: Idk made up horror stories? Slight cursing

An: this was supposed to be a Halloween blurb

—

Aemond had settled to the dinner parties over and over as one of his princely duties. Of which included a marrying a lady of a suitable house. He had been aware of that and wasn’t resistant at all to oblige when it came to fulfil it. Hence they say sat at the grand table for the celebration of joining of two houses, soon to commence marriage of y/n and Aemond. They had known each other for a while Aemond had rather some sentiments involved with those kind gestures and love y/n held for everyone and everything in her eyes. His feelings for y/n grew more than quite a lot. As the dinner table escalated more into the celebratory grounds it left only the two of them at the table. Y/n nervously fidgeted with the ends of her dress while Aemond was unaware what conversation to strike.

Normally it was so easy to start a conversation with y/n, she’d always listen she’d always have an input ever so welcoming and calm he had found that to be one of the very first things that made him develop feelings for her. “Pretty cold this evening isn’t it?” he started off catching her attention. Weather wasn’t the general centre of most their conversations but as it got tense full for Aemond to initiate a conversation he went with the most common one.

“Yes!” Y/n said turning her head slightly from her chair to face him “10th of the full moon! My old nan used to say it’s the month of the spirits.”

“Month of the spirits?”

“She used to say this time of the year is when the dead come to visit…the evil ones rather-she had all sorts of stories about them. She believed them to be true” y/n chuckled shifting in her seat “Can’t blame old nan for telling her marvellous storytelling can you?”

“I don’t entirely disagree with your old nan” Aemond reply with a smirk on his face as he took a sip from his wine cup. Obviously he didn’t believe them to be true like y/n but he had came across the information lady y/n was known for a few jests and pranks…why not then?

“You can’t possibly be serious” at first she laughed moving further in her seat to get a clear look of his face which had unchanged expressions. “Evil spirits?”

“I don’t confirm all of them exist…or exist at all but I do believe not all stories are entirely untrue” his lips curled into a smile as y/n laughed again. The sight of her laughter could get him through everything he believed.

“Sure” she shook her head in obviously disagreement lifting her wine glass from the table.

“I too wouldn’t believe the stories but I lived through one I can’t bring myself to deny its existence.” This perked up y/n’s interest but only at a slight because she strongly believed spirits don’t exist other than old nan stories.

“Lived through one?”

He nodded leaning a bit closer to her “A few years ago the city watch was troubled with the missing accounts of young women in king’s landing—missing. Right from the entrance of their houses be it the merchant’s wife or a servant girl they were never seen again. This facade went on for a month or so until one moonless cold night like this one a trail of blood appeared from the forest borders—a long trail” his voice turned raspy to sound more intimidating as he continued “It was the witch’s cottage. She used these beautiful young girls to maintain her own youthfulness-“

“Used them? How so?” Y/n interrupted him midway contemplating later after she asked the question if she wanted to know the answer to that.

“The details are much darker than you could imagine-much much worse than your mind could process.” By this time he already had y/n believe every story her old nan told her was true but Aemond was making this up for the sake of a followed prank. “The witch was executed—the whole city was there to witness it but it is believed she still lurks the corners around this cold dark time of the year.”

Aemond’s face was quite closer to y/n being seated in their own seats beside each other, had they been talking about something else y/n would be completely flustered with how he looked at her, with how close he was to her but as of now she was beyond speechless. Y/n never took herself to believe in these hoax matters or stories made up to scare the little ones for their mischiefs but coming from Aemond? For all she knew of him Aemond wasn’t one to make up false stories given how serious he was.

“And where are you lost my betrothed?” He spoke leaning back into his seat a little farther from her face.

“Oh umm-“ she cleared her throat shaking her head. Surely even if what Aemond said was true it’s not that a witch was to pounce upon her this instant. Or at any instant for that matter. “That was-well” she let out a nervous chuckle looking for the right word.

“It’s alright my love you’re safe here on the insides at the red keep.” He finished the sentence for her.

“The insides?”

“Ah yes bunch of guards have reported to seeing the witch or whatever personality that might be at the night by the backyard garden-they often don’t go for duty there.” Aemond knew the guards don’t stand for duty the backyard gardens not because of a made up witch story but because nobody ever visited the small backyard garden and it had a much larger wall for any intruder to ever enter from there and he was so sure y/n wouldn’t ask anyone to confirm his made up charade.

—

The celebration ended as the night gathered and everyone retired to their bedchambers. Y/n’s mind had already traveled off the witch story Aemond told not paying much mind to it later even though it lurked the tiny corner of her mind. Before she could even change out of her dress there was a knock on the door. It was a servant on behalf of her mother and father who asked to meet her in the gardens. Strange. Given she had just bid them farewell for the night what must it be at this moment? The servant insisted it was a pressing matter so y/n didn't hesitate longer. Following the servant through the hallways to the gardens but not a soul was present there.

Before she could ask the servant if this is where her parents requested her to see the servant was gone. She turned to all sides looking for the servant but she only found herself at the dark corner of the garden and the lantern the servant had left on the floor. It was eerily quiet not even the night crickets made a sound. The chilly dead of the night feeling didn't help either. Before she’d barely took two steps towards the keep a low growl made her stop in her tracks. At first she wasn’t sure she heard it right but then there was another. Every fibre of her being begged her not to turn around but she did nonetheless. Now is when she thought of Aemond’s story. The back gardens.

It was too dark to see anything past the light of the lantern in her hands that went out only a few inches from where she was holding it. And the gardens further in were so dark you could barely make our a silhouette. “Is anyone there?” She asked raising her lantern shocked at how not so affirming her voice just came out. There was no answer just a louder growl again. Some other time y/n would’ve had the normal perception of the growl—an animal perhaps. But right now she was sure it was some evil spirit and was praying to every god in her head as she stepped backwards hastily.

She couldn’t make out what she felt but something made her loose her balance. The witch. Falling to the ground the lantern in her hands blew out as well. The growls grew much louder as she tried to stand up to make her run for the inside again but this time she subconsciously fell onto the grass again. She crawled further as the growls seemed to grow closer to her not having the time to stand up and run this time. She felt a block on her way back in the very so open garden but it didn’t seem to be a pillar. The witch.

This time she shrieked thinking these were her final moments. “Spare me! Please I beg of you!” Tears ran down her face as she begged for her life to the faceless sounds that surrounded her. She remembered what Aemond had told her about the witch earlier, ‘she used the young and beautiful girls.’ “I swear to the gods I’m not even that young neither as beautiful as you would like please spare my life!” She tried to negotiate with the spirit as she lied about her age and appearance.

This time a laugh broke out. It didn’t sound like a woman. Y/n screamed again, it’s a warlock then. “Alright that is enough.” A voice spoke from behind her which she had assumed was the witch herself but she knew that voice, very well. Aemond.

Lighting up the lantern that was on the floor Aegon held it to her face laughing uncontrollably. She looked back to confirm and it was in fact her betrothed. Aemond lent out his hand for her to stand up but she swayed it away standing up herself.

“You were really THAT scared of some pups?” Aegon spoke between his laughter as he patted the three dogs that surrounded them, which y/n thought to be spirits.

Her heartbeat was yet to fall back to normal she could almost hear her heart beat as if it was about to fall out. She looked at Aemond confused still very scared and now puzzled given barley a few moments ago she assumed she was about to die.

“This was only meant to be joke we didn’t gather you would truly be this scared—“ Aemond began as he gently tried to place his hands on top of hers for whatever comfort.

A joke? A joke?! Y/n yanked his hands away from hers furious and just as upset “Fucking cunt.” She muttered pushing Aemond out of her way as she ran inside the palace. Aemond watched her leave and run with a pace as if the spirit was still chasing her.

“Y/n wait—“ he called out but she was already gone. He stood guilty of his actions because he never intended to make her cry. His older brother still on going laughter pulled him out of his thoughts only to feel much worse. Aegon was rolling on the ground with unstoppable laughter “She must’ve thought the witch story was true” Aegon said to him panting in between his words. Which only made Aemond feel worse.

No, Aemond ought to make it right. Leaving Aegon to his remarks and jest about the whole prank he followed back into the keep. As he walked the halls back inside the keep to Y/n’s chambers he went through things he could say to console her somewhat. Thankfully for him the guards by her bed chambers still hadn’t returned, Aegon had set up the servant and the guards to leave as Aemond managed the dogs, both of which he regrets now.

Gently knocking on the door frame he called her name “Y/n it’s me Aem-“ before he finished his sentence y/n opened the doors.

“Come to gloat?” She asked as it broke his heart to see her face full of tears again. Stepping inside he shut the doors behind him, “I am truly truly sorry for happened it wasn’t my intention to hurt you in any way.”

Y/n exhaled shrugging her shoulders as much as she wanted to believe what he had to say she had another reality to her mind “My prince” odd. She had only ever called Aemond by a title as formalities when they weren’t alone so this seemed odd to him. “If you do not wish to be married to me you can simply ask of it. I understand if you desire someone else or don’t wish to be married at all or aren’t very fond of me. I understand the pressure and the duties but you could’ve simply asked me rather try to scare me off that way.”

Aemond stared at her for a moment completely baffled she thought this had anything to do with not wanting a marriage with her. “Do you really think anyone could ever not be fond of you?” he scoffed “How did you even manage to convince yourself that I of all people wouldn’t be fond of you?”

Confused she stared back at him “I don’t understand”

Aemond took a step closer to her this time holding both her hands in his as if they were glass. Her fragile touch. “Everything about you is maddeningly lovely, I consider myself the luckiest man in Westeros who gets to call you his, forever. How could I ever desire anyone else? You are the dream of my life, the only dream-ever since I’d met you. I am every so terribly in love with you. And what happened-I truly didn’t know it you’d be hurt this way, to see you cry is the last thing I want it was supposed to be a prank as I was told lady y/n of house *your house* had a knack for pranks. I hope you can forgive me for the unpleasant—“

Y/n closed the distance between them, brushing her lips against his. To Aemond’s surprise this was far from the reaction he expected but more than welcomed it. Wrapping his arms around her waist he leaned in further into the kiss.

“I love you, Aemond.” She smiled feeling butterflies saying it for the first time to him. Young love. He kissed her again hoping the world would go on leaving them unbothered when he had her this close to him.

“Though” she pulled away from the kiss for a moment to speak staying just as close “I would like to mention I wasn’t that scared with your little prank-“

“If that is what you want to me believe” he nodded as she laughed and it melted his heart to see her content. “Though Aegon might not let it go that easily” he told her as she huffed burying her face by the crook of her neck as they stood in her room in each other’s embrace and if just for now, everything seemed perfect. For Aemond it truly was. Every moment spend with her was perfect.

—

Feedback is MUCH appreciated (literally dying for some validation) <333

Tagging: @stuckinaf4nfiction @softieekayy @dumdaradumdaradum

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x y/n #aemond targaryen x oc #Aemond targaryen fluff #Aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen #hotd imagine #hotd fanfiction #hotd fanfics #aemond stannies #aemond targaryen fanfic

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dontforgetoctober3rd · 1 year

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I am literally the Greens Hater In Chief I do roll call at the Greens Haters Convention BUT on GAWD I will not rest until *all of you*, Greens or Blacks, read this amazing Aemond Targaryen fanfiction by AvengingAngel on archiveorourown.

This is my second time posting about it so Do yourself a favor and READ IT DAMN YOU READ IT RIGHT NOW

By no means do you have to do the same but as a faceclaim for Lyanna in the story I love using my favorite model from the 2000s, Vlada Roslyakova!

#Aemond Targaryen #aemond targaryen x original character #house of the dragon #daemon targaryen #hotd #hotd fanfics #if I’m lying about how fucking good this fic is then May the DEVIL HIMSELF TAKE ME AWAY #second sons by avengingangel #alicent hightower

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lauraneedstochill · 1 year

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Love always wakes the dragon / Chapter 1

summary: Aemond thinks she’s a worthy opponent — a relentless fighter, a fearless dragon rider, her temper and stubbornness only matching his. But there’s a catch: she is Daemon’s daughter who wants nothing from her father and has her own reasons for coming to King’s Landing. One of them is meant to save the other. pairing: Aemond Targaryen x OFC words: ~ 4000 warnings: enemies to lovers, slowburn, violence (it gets bloody), angst, a few sprinkles of Rhaenicent, Daemon does his best to be a decent father (more like I did my best to make him one), I toy with canon A LOT ➡ Part 2

1. The Wind of Change

Rhaenyra’s face looks void of emotions as she is staring at the letter in front of her. Her eyes are following the same strings of words written on the piece of parchment, over and over again. Daemon is watching his wife closely, waiting for her reaction, trying to take a hint but there isn’t any. She’s an image of imperviousness as if her facial features were cast with marble, striking yet still. He can only distinguish that the irises of her eyes are overshadowed by darkness. It’s a dead giveaway that she’s livid.

“How in the seven hells did that happen?” when Rhaenyra finally speaks, her voice flows low and strained. But strangling in its fury. He learned a while ago that patience is not the virtue she possesses.

“It only just now came to my knowledge,” Daemon tries to explain, to apologize in advance, tries to make himself smaller. With his broad shoulders and his temper that usually can barely be reined in, it’s hardly possible, and it angers her even more.

“And I’m asking you how did that happen? How could you not know that you had a daughter?”

“I’ve already told you, we did not...” — they didn’t see each other after that one night, didn’t make any promises, didn’t make any plans — only it’s not they, it’s just him. “We did not keep in touch.”

“You are saying you just fucked her mother and then left into the sunset? Because no way that would bear any consequences, right?” the consequences she speaks of are very well-known to Rhaenyra — she has three of those, with raven-colored hair and curls they did not get from her. “And shall I mention the egg?” she pinches the bridge of her nose. “Why would you even entertain the idea of giving her a dragon?”

The truth is that Daemon didn’t think much back then. He only remembers the sickening feeling of helplessness, his own whistled breathing, voice hoarse with desperation. But there was also a cabin in the mountains, a glowing warmth of the fire, a pair of hands that brought him relief, the miracle of coming back to life. He keeps those memories to himself.

“Rationality must’ve left me in the face of death,” there’s no mirth in his voice. “I had no hope of surviving the night, thought the Stranger would take me by the morning. And she saved my life. And I... I decided it would be a worthy reward.”

“Great, that was great thinking,” Rhaenyra is clearly sarcastic. “So the way I see it, now we have an untamed dragon flying somewhere in the mountains doing gods know what — and a girl who spent twenty years of her life not knowing who her father was. Or am I mistaken?” her eyes land on him, trying to dig into his head.

“No, it sounds about right,” his reply comes out remarkably quiet.

Daemon keeps imagining his daughter as a little girl, all alone in the obscurity of forest trees, reaching her arms to him. He never got a chance to know that version of her, he wasn’t there for her — and that feeling is poisoning his heart with regret.

“What are we to do now?” Daemon has never been the one without a plan yet at the moment he can’t come up with any.

“That is what I’m trying to think of,” Rhaenyra huffs with annoyance.

She doesn’t look at him anymore. Daemon stands up from the table, getting around it and towards her, wanting to lean closer as he always does. He likes lowering his head on her shoulder, steadying himself, finding comfort there, breathing in the warmth of her body that’s filled with the same blood that he has in his. But right now he hesitates.

“I can only hope that this righteous anger of yours will not graze her, and you can spare the girl,” his words are meant to be a plea but come off as an exaggeration.

Rhaenyra’s gaze is immediately on him, a look of disbelief on her face. “How could you assume such a thing? The girl has done nothing wrong, I’m not angry at her. Why should a woman pay the price for a man’s stupidity?”

What she means to say is that it’s all his fault — and Daemon welcomes the concealed allegation. He lets the weight of his remorse push him to the ground as he falls to his knees, the move startling and confusing her.

“I am at your mercy, then,” Daemon bows his head, a strand of white hair falling loose. He holds this position for a few seconds, before cautiously glancing up at her.

“Are you seriously implying that I should behead you?” she scoffs but there’s a hint of a smile on her lips. “If I were to chop off your limb every time you did something stupid, I would be left without a husband.”

Her jesting is a silver lining, a respite from this torturous conversation.

“Thank gods I have such a loving wife,” in a crawl-like manner Daemon comes to her feet, nuzzling up his face against the thick material of her dress, intaking a long-awaited gulp of air filled with her scent. She lets him, briefly carding her fingers through his hair.

“Keep pushing your luck and I may change my mind. And I will start with your cock,” her humor is biting, exactly the way he loves it.

“I thought that’s your favorite part,” Daemon smirks, yet watches her with keen attention, hoping that maybe he can get on her good side, tone down her ire. He almost succeeds — but when their eyes lock, whatever she sees in his makes her smile waver.

“Your wit is very much appreciated but not right now,” Rhaenyra’s tone is dismissal, her gaze aloof. “I need to think things over and I prefer to do so without distractions.”

Right now, she isn’t his wife, but more so his Queen, and she makes a point to remind him of it. Daemon can’t help but obey as he always does — voluntarily, time after time he chooses to surrender his pride just to satisfy hers. He loves her like this, when she evinces her flaming stubbornness, her passionate spirit. Except, witnessing it is not the same thing as being the one it’s aimed against.

She allows him a kiss on the crown of her head. On his way out, Daemon looks over his shoulder. Sometimes he wishes he could open up her skull, the reason behind it isn’t hateful but curiosity-driven — in moments like this, he’s dying to know what she’s thinking about. But the Queen has a mind of her own.

Rhaenyra drops the act the second he closes the door. She lets her head sink into her hands, a muffled growl leaving her lips. She’s frustrated with him, with that turn of events — but mostly with the uncertainty. Daemon’s expectations are romanticized yet she has a different opinion on what’s about to happen. She knows her husband is a proud man, and the idea of having another child, blood-related and flesh of his flesh, clearly flatters him. Rhaenyra, on the other hand, is wary of letting a stranger into their life since it’s not just a girl, with her judgment not clouded and innocent, but a full-grown adult. Having a mini version of Daemon can be troublesome enough, and a woman twenty years of age sounds like a downright threat.

But when Rhaenyra tries to picture her, she thinks of an unexpected outsider, and it reminds her of her own youth, of the way she felt growing up in a castle filled with people who believed that she didn’t fit in. Behind her back, they would call her a disagreeable menace, who was undermining decades-old traditions and wasn’t meant to rule. Her experience of coming out of age was bitter and harsh, soiled with death and betrayal, but it could’ve been different, had she lived away from King’s Landing.

She sighs and realizes that it would be quite hypocritical to label someone the way she’s been labeled her whole life. The stranger in question couldn’t even be called that: Daemon’s blood gave her connection — however unwanted or accidental — to their family, and the Targaryens are famed for valuing their blood bond.

Deep down, Rhaenyra also knows that she would’ve wanted to meet her child, too. So she thinks there’s only one decision she can make as she fetches a blank piece of parchment. Three weeks pass by, and early at dawn, Aemond approaches Vhagar, his boots sinking into the sand, his face weary and glum, contoured by the pale sunlight. Recently, each ride has been both a blessing and a torture: he longs for freedom but also fights the urge to fly away and don’t come back. Never had he felt as out of place as he is now.

Ever since Rhaenyra took the throne, his life became a dull routine of the same boring days blending into each other. Her reign was to be expected, given that she’s been the chosen heir, yet Aemond’s expectations of his own future were clearly too high. His mother was the one to get a place at the small council, which came as a surprise to no one, although the nature of her relationship with the Queen was still a mystery to some, and Aemond preferred not to read into it too much. Aegon never wished to take any part in the governing of the realm and giving up his duties was the easiest thing he’s ever done, his days turning into one big celebration after that. But Aemond was stuck in between as no one could figure out where to place him.

After weeks of languishing, Aemond received an offer that sounded like it was invented out of thin air — the position of the Lord Commander’s trusted right-hand man. When he heard of it, he couldn’t hold back a huff. Alicent was the one to deliver the news so the prince didn’t care much about hiding his true feelings.

“And what exactly am I supposed to do? Make sure his cloak stays white? Her generosity is uncanny,” Aemond bristled.

“Ser Harrold is a well-trained knight and a man of principles. There is still so much you can learn from him,” Alicent’s attempts to reason with him were weak and the words seem to crumble in the air, which only added to his anger.

“You think I am in need of learning?!”

“Aemond, the decision will not be forced on you,” she said but what he heard was — “No one wants you on that job anyway” — and it spread the venom of disobedience in him. “I will let you make your own choice,” Alicent tried taking his hands in hers, the gesture almost desperate — an offering of comfort, a pleading for compromise — and he wasn’t having any of it.

“You let her make a mockery out of me,” the prince stormed off the room then, adamant in his fury.

Aemond did consider taking the position simply out of spite, the idea rather entertaining if only it wasn’t for the commander in question. Ser Harrold was a good man, indeed, and despite him always being the faithful servant of the Queen ever since she’s been of age, he never expressed any offense against Aemond, always respecting his boundaries, which gave the prince no reason for derision and left no room for revenge. Which eventually made him feel like there was no room left for him in general.

He tried to escape the feeling the best he could, his training sessions granting him a chance to pour out the built-up anger, his rides with Vhagar giving him false hope for exemption. Yet he’s been living his days in a drowsy-like state, merely surviving — half-defeated, half-asleep, half the man that he wanted to be. Whenever he allowed that realization to sink in, he would always feel jealous of Daeron and get that abrupt urge to be somewhere far away, too. But no distance seemed far enough for him to run away from his feelings — or rather the lack of them, while he was eking out his lethargic existence.

Caught in a reverie, wrapped in the morning dimness, Aemond is suddenly brought back to reality when he notices Vhagar acting strange. Her whole body tenses up under him, head bending forward as she peers through the clouds. Aemond tries to follow her gaze, yet there’s nothing other than the foggy veil surrounding them. The dragon doesn’t let it go, spreading her wings and sliding down the air currents in her mysterious pursuit, and Aemond growls in annoyance as his hope for a quiet ride dissolves in the air. The unbothered old creature who rarely takes any interest in her surroundings is obviously reacting to something, so the prince tries to focus again, looking around. It takes about a minute for him to spot an unusually large cloud that glitters weirdly in the light, and at first, he thinks something is wrong with his eye. Surely, his vision must’ve failed him because clouds never move with such speed, nor do they... roar.

That’s when it hits him: it’s a dragon.

It’s a big white dragon flying beneath them — the discovery is startling, yet the surprise is quickly replaced by curiosity, and Aemond commands Vhagar to fly further down. Usually, it can be quite hard to maneuver someone of her size, her temper not making it any easier, but this time she is unexpectedly obedient. In a few moments they catch up with the unknown dragon, and Aemond sees that it’s not untamed — there’s a rider on its back, wearing a long hooded black cloak, in sharp contrast to the alabaster white skin of the beast. Aemond’s eye is fixed on them when both dragons come out of the clouds, the clear sky around them is bright blue, the sun is blazing — and the prince is greeted with a mesmerizing sight.

Under the direct rays of light, the dragon shines so vividly, it almost hurts the eye — whiter than snow, his scales dazzle as if burnished while he glides through the air with ease, tight muscles rolling under the shimmering skin. The beast is clearly younger than Vhagar hence why he’s also smaller in size, but the dragon brims with the youthful energy that makes his every move rich with power, with eagerness to speed forward. Aemond is so fascinated by the resplendent creature, he misses the moment when the other rider notices him, too.

The prince feels a gaze on him and snaps out of the trance with a shudder, only then getting a closer look at the unfamiliar figure. Their hood is down, probably blown off by the wind, and Aemond realizes that it’s a woman. He’s able to make out her long hair — the color of autumn leaves, tied into a braid, her face expression hard to read from the distance. For a brief second, Aemond finds himself facing her glare but she is quick to turn away. She puts the hood back on and slightly leans forward, the dragon immediately mirroring her move as his body ducks down. When they take a sudden turn to the right, Aemond sees a patch of bronze green that’s spread on the dragon’s belly, the rare color mix making it look like a splodge of paint. Belatedly, it dawns on him that the white beast is headed straight to the city.

The prince turns after them, alarmed but not threatened enough to start a chase. He thinks maybe her visit is expected and he wasn’t notified — yet again, another sign of his irrelevance. Vhagar is hanging in the air as Aemond cautiously watches the other dragon flying away, waiting for the bells to ring or for any other sound to signal that the approaching guests are not welcome. Yet he is surrounded by silence, briefly interrupted by the distant murmuring of waves chased by the wind.

He should continue his ride but is apprehensive to do so, uneasy feeling swelling in his chest, mixed with anxiety that’s akin to excitement. For the first time in a while, Aemond feels awake. Earlier on the day of her arrival, Daemon takes a stand at the small council meeting. It’s set at first light, with no explanations given in advance as he wanted to keep his secret. His speech is brief — no names given, no dragon mentioned, his face draped with the feigned indifference. He thinks if he doesn’t make a big deal out of it, no one will. Rhaenyra is just his wife today, leaning back on her chair, determined to look as forgiving as ever. Daemon asks himself if her acceptance has its limits. And there’s only one person who’s allowed to test them.

When Daemon hears the displeased hum, he immediately knows what will follow.

“How kind of you to inform us all of a visitor that’s been already welcomed on our behalf,” Alicent’s tone is unapologetic when she talks to him. She never misses a chance to let him know how undeserving he is of her kindness — always was and always will be.

“Are you suggesting I should’ve turned down my own daughter?” Daemon looks her in the eyes, and she doesn’t avoid his gaze. When Otto was on the council, Daemon made sport of provoking him, their mutual hatred evident and unabated. Otto’s wish to keep a tight rein on him only instigated the prince’s temper, and Daemon made sure to have the last word. But when Alicent took her father’s place, it turned out that she had a way with words.

“Seems to me that asking for suggestions is of little use when the matter in question has been handled,” she says wryly.

“My apologies, I should clarify — I am not asking but merely informing,” Daemon can’t help but bite back.

“The members of this council are flattered by this lever of trust.”

“Do you speak on behalf of the council now?”

“I will not be the first one here to make decisions for everyone,” Alicent says with a flat tone, but her implication doesn’t escape him.

“And the only one to have such power would be the Queen,” he deadpans. “You mean to undermine her authority?”

“Surely, it wasn’t the Queen who found herself lost in the mountains twenty years ago, was it,” Alicent snorts.

When he shoots a quick glance at his wife, he doesn’t miss a ghost of a smirk on her lips.

They are on either side of Rhaenyra — Daemon is on the right as he is the Prince Consort, and Alicent doesn’t need any titles. He sometimes wonders if it’s a coincidence that she is seated on the side where Rhaenyra’s heart is, closer to her than anyone else. If maybe Alicent is the one who knows the Queen the best.

“Does it mean the girl is an eligible heir of yours?” Lord Caswell is the one to interrupt their bickering. He is the Hand of the Queen and yet he’s second to the left, although he never questions the seating arrangement. Probably because the old man is too busy making sure they don’t tear each other’s throats.

“It wasn’t brought up to discussions yet,” Daemon admits. He doesn’t tell them Rhaenyra was the one writing the letters, and she purposefully ignored the question of legacy.

“But isn’t that the main reason she’s coming? Forgive me my straightforwardness,” Corlys Velaryon raises the question from the far side of the table.

“Frankly, it seemed to me that she showed no interest in... whatever you are interested in,” Daemon chuckles half-heartedly — and he isn’t lying. The first letter they got was cautious, testing the waters, almost bashful with its narrative but the length and the details suggested the genuine wish to make a connection. Yet all the others had a different tone — terse and fast-paced, and Daemon suddenly felt like her coming to visit him would be more of an inconvenience than a chance for reconciliation.

“She may show interest once she gets a taste of what she can have,” Tyland Lannister remarks, keeping his voice as neutral as possible, a wary smile creeping on his face. He’s always on alert, ready to show all his diplomacy or his natural cunning or whatever it is needed of him to be a good servant of the realm. He’s like a deck of cards, and Daemon hates to guess which one he’ll draw today.

“You have a habit of judging others by yourself,” he glowers at the lord, and Tyland’s wish to engage in the conversation disappears before the eyes.

“What of her mother?” Lyman Beesbury speaks up. He’s the one who actually tries to find common ground even though their relationship with Daemon is hardly amicable.

“She has fallen ill. I have not received many details of her condition,” when Daemon speaks of her, he gets a blurred vision of her kind eyes and her soft fingers that’s almost painful to remember. But he has a wife now — and the other two are dead because of him. He doesn’t want her to die but his reasoning is far from selfless: he only hopes he won’t need to carry the blame for another death as he carries plenty already.

“We shall pray for her recovery then,” maester Mellos mumbles. He looks bored out of his mind, and Daemon holds back a chuckle.

“I am relieved to know that maesters now rely on prayers —”

“You and her mother weren’t bound by marriage, were you?” Alicent asks, ever so nonchalantly, her fingers fiddling with a cup of wine. When she looks at Daemon, her doe eyes are unemotional but he isn’t a fool. He knows that she already has her guess, she just needs him to say it out loud.

His answer is nothing but forced. “No.”

Just for a second he manages to catch a twinkle of satisfaction in her eyes, a rippling on the surface of her imperturbability. Alicent doesn’t ask anything else and lets the issue hang in the air. It’s left in plain sight, for everyone to know: he brought another bastard into the family.

“Now that we have someone to pray for, can we be finished?” she raises from the table without waiting for an answer. “I promised to come see my daughter first thing in the morning, and I want to be on time.”

“That’s very dutiful of you,” Daemon snorts — and this time, she gives him an obvious look of disdain.

“Some of us have children we actually took time raising,” Alicent throws a glance at Rhaenyra before leaving, and the room feels oddly quiet.

“That will be all for today,” the Queen commands with a tight-lipped smile.

The maester is the first one at the door and everyone else is quick to follow. Rhaenyra watches them go with a distant face while Daemon is looking at her. They sit in silence for a couple of minutes.

“That went better than expected, I think,” she eventually utters.

“You had some very low expectations then,” his lips turn into a crooked grin.

“Says the man who as of yesterday decided to leave it all up to fate.”

“When it comes to my daughter that is,” he remarks — and it still feels weird to say that out loud. It’s a stranger he’s never seen, a girl who may look nothing like him — or exactly like him, and he isn’t sure which one of these options he prefers more. One thing he does know is that he really wants to meet her, and that wish only grows with each day.

Rhaenyra is looking at him, well aware of the meaning behind his frozen face expression — he is always like that when he’s deep in his thoughts. And she’s been thinking a lot lately, too. Rhaenyra squirms in her chair which catches his attention, and she opens her mouth to say something — but she doesn’t get a chance to as the door slams open to reveal one of the guards.

He’s panting, his face skewed. “Your grace, the tower watches send an urgent message — t-they say there’s a dragon. An unknown dragon is approaching.”

Their reactions are starkly different: Rhaenyra jumps up, eyes wide, mouth forming a surprised “o”. But Daemon stops her with a gesture of his hand — and he is actually smiling when he says: “No need to panic, we are expecting a guest. I’ve already warned the dragonkeepers, they should be prepared.”

His wife glances at him dumbfounded, not making the connection just yet. “A guest? I was not made aware you made friends with a dragon.”

“The beast has a rider, my dear,” he grins at her, almost apologetic for the fact that he has to explain it. “And she seems to like dramatic entrances.”

Daemon then gives his wife a brief kiss on the temple and hurries to the door. On his way there he turns to add:

“I guess she takes that from her father.” 🔥 Part 2

• the title is a quote from Richard Siken’s poem; • I imagine her dragon to look like Drogon — and here he is ✨

• I had the idea for this fic back in November, wrote a few scenes but it felt too intense so I put it on pause. recently the story emerged back into my mind, and I nervously decided to finally share it.

💌 tagging the usual: @greenowlfactif & @kyuupidwrites (I hope that’s fine?) 🐲 my masterlist English is not my first language, so feel free to message me if you spot any major mistakes!

#aemond targaryen #my stuff #daemon targaryen #< listen I will tag him ONCE #aemond targaryen fanfiction #aemond targaryen fanfics #aemond targaryen fanfic #aemond targaryen fics #aemond targaryen x ofc #aemond targaryen x oc #aemond x ofc #aemond x oc #aemond targaryen x original character #aemond x original character #hotd fanfiction #hotd fanfics

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