#rhaenyra targayren

[starogeorgina]

“No, I forbid it, I forbid it! After him!” Rhaenyra shouted. “All of you, every man, every boy, to horse, to horse, go after him. Bring him back, bring him back, he does not know. My son, my sweet, my son...”

“Mother, forgive me,” Joffrey supposedly said with his last breath...

— Fire & blood

[livmondcole]

The two people with the most chemistry in HOTD

[alyssaforevermore]

Next episode looks so good 😭✨ I’m so excited to see the dragon seeds storyline. Alicent trying to calm Aemond and then it looked like he was trying to threaten Aegon too 💀 Rhaenyra also better put Daemon in his place because I’m tired. This is so messy but I mean that in the best way possible.

[soullesssatire2]

Fanfic Recommendation!!!! HOTD

I think you'd like this story: "Blood In The sand (Jaecaerys X oc)" by Lylah_dontask on Wattpad https://www.wattpad.com/story/375140036?utm_source=android&utm_medium=com.tumblr&utm_content=share_writing&wp_page=create&wp_uname=Lylah_dontask

25 Chapters of a Jaecaerys Targaryen x OC fanfiction out right now! Please go to Wattpad to read it and if possible give it a like and a comment! Go and support my friends story!!!! 💪🏻

[torchwood-99]

Prediction/Wishful Thinking

(might have already rambled about this before? oh well)

Prediction for Rhaenyra's death and Dany's resurrection.

So, back in Season 8, Drogon took Dany's body to Volantis. Not to Valyria, home of the Targaryens, but Volantis, home of the Red Priests, who believe Dany is The Prince Who Was Promised.

In House of the Dragon, the writers have included a new plotline about The Prince Who Was Promised.

Helaena is made to be a dreamer, which has no basis in the books. Helaena can potentially be used for exposition, to give Rhaenyra some sort of insight or guidance regarding the prophecy.

Rhaenyra being declared heir at the end of episode one was shown alongside Viserys telling her about the prophecy, and Rhaenyra is hesitant about going to war partially because of the prophecy, so the prophecy is being given plot relevance.

Two of the biggest criticisms for the final season were Dany's fate, and the anti-climax or the Long Night.

The story started with a false spring, with Rhaegar and Lyanna meeting, which led to the rebellion.

I think the story ended with a false spring too (this will be a retcon, after the last season flopped).

Rhaenyra will find out something about the prophecy, and how death pays for life. As a queen, her death will resurrect another queen, the one who was promised. Because of this, she will go nobly to her death (perhaps taking a moment to pass the prophecy down to Aegon). Her last words will be something like "death will pay for life."

We may not see this first time around. We might just see her dying at Aegon the usurper's hands. But then after Aegon III has been crowned, he will be asked about Rhaenyra's death. We will see her death again, this time with the revelation that Rhaenyra's death will lead to someone's revival.

The last shot will be Rhaenyra submerged in flames, cutting to Danerys on an altar in Volantis, gasping awake.

[redahlia-writes]

babe wake up new rhaenicent song just dropped (true blue by boygenius)

[gameofthronesdaily]

“There is something resentfully delicious in it for Rhaenyra, in that she so rarely gets definitively the backing of her father. Early on, she loses both her best friend and her father because they get married. These moments where she gets publicly chosen, and chosen instead of you — there’s a really violent quality of vengeance for her.” — Emma D’Arcy

[cregan-starks]

Flames of Deceit

Summary: Aemond and Visenya reunite amidst the Dance of the Dragons.

Words: 13,005

Pairings: Aemond Targaryen x OC, Cregan Stark x OC

Warnings: canon-typical incest (Aemond and Visenya are cousins, as well as uncle and niece), book and show spoilers, Westerosi geopolitics, mentions of imperialism and slavery, canon-typical violence, war, blood and gore, fire and burning, mass death, mention of amputation, mentions of torture and captivity, mentions and threats of execution and physical harm, mentions of poverty and starvation, parental neglect, food and eating, alcohol and drinking, sexism, victim blaming, slut-shaming, ableist language, explicit language, nudity, smut (vaginal sex in flashbacks), unresolved sexual tension, grief/mourning, trauma, angst, hurt/comfort, survivor guilt, mutual pining, emotional/psychological abuse, verbal abuse, mentions of pregnancy, childbirth, miscarriage, and death in childbirth, mentions of child/infant death, mentions of infidelity. If I missed any warnings, please let me know! Under no circumstances can you copy, plagiarize, steal my work, or post it somewhere else!

Notes: This totally didn’t take me almost 7 months to write. Cregan Stark is the protagonist of Fire & Blood. Rise, Cregan nation. My OC Visenya is Rhaenyra’s and Daemon’s daughter, and Jace’s older twin. Superfecundation, baby. Visenya and Jace are born in 111 AC, not 114 AC. The Battle in the Gullet still occurs in 130 AC, soon after the events of this one-shot. Reblogs and comments are encouraged and immensely appreciated. If this does well, I’ll post a reader version.

Credits: Huge thank you to my betas @maharani-radha-writes 💛 @aereth 💖 and @shewhomustbecalledking 🩶, and to @haystack-boy @lavendertales @buttercup--bee @agirllovespancakes and @oloreaa for their constant patience and support. It means a lot, and I’m immensely grateful. Apart from my OC Visenya, all characters belong to George R.R. Martin. Gif by @aemondtargaryensource (x)

Ao3 | Masterlist | Next

EARLY 130 AC

HARRENHAL, THE RIVERLANDS

          The sheer immensity of Harrenhal had provoked dizziness in Visenya. She had heard the story innumerable times. For four decades, King Harren Hoare had built greedily and obsessively, sacrificing thousands of slaves, and beggaring the riverlands and the Iron Islands. The indestructible construction had been no match for Balerion, whose fire had consumed the tyrant and his sons inside it, ending their line. Most Westerosi believed that the phantoms of the Hoares wandered the castle halls. The fortress is costly to maintain, and it devours its possessors. Qoherys, Harroway, Towers… All extinct. Whether cursed or not, Harrenhal remained a strategic location – the largest castle in the Seven Kingdoms.

          The current castellan – Larys Clubfoot’s great-uncle – Ser Simon Strong had recently surrendered Harrenhal to Daemon Targaryen. The presence of Caraxes might have contributed to his hasty decision. Following the victory at the Burning Mill and the subsequent submission of Stone Hedge – terminating Green strength in the riverlands – Queen Rhaenyra’s allies had commenced their gathering at Harrenhal, in accordance with the Prince Consort’s stratagem.

          Visenya had departed Dragonstone on the same night that Daemon had summoned her, having been granted safe passage by the Velaryon ships patrolling the Gullet. At the outbreak of the war, the Sea Snake’s fleet had closed off Blackwater Bay, choking trade to and from the capital.

          As soon as she had dismounted her dragon in the castle yard, she had sensed the eerie ambience that had haunted Harrenhal’s colossal curtain walls and fissured, melted towers. Formidable and dreadful. Harren’s monument and tomb. Blackwing had responded to Caraxes’ fervent shriek with her own, flapping her wings at him. Happy to be reunited.

          Her father had offered her a warm welcome and a tight embrace, had even insisted that she sit on his war council, wherein she had befriended Alysanne Blackwood, whom she had grown quite fond of.

          At last, Visenya had thought, on the morning that Daemon had sent for her. Though she loved him dearly, her father hadn’t invited her there because he had missed his daughter. Visenya had met with Daemon alone, in the Hall of the Hundred Hearths – she had counted thirty-five – grander than the throne room in King’s Landing, the discolored ceiling looming loftily above them. Her father had donned his chain mail over his crimson tunic.

          Does he sleep in that? Or am I the threat?

          ‘Ser Crispin and the Kinslayer are marching on Harrenhal,’ Daemon had informed her, instead of “good morrow”, pressing a rolled parchment into her palm, ‘They mean to join forces with the Lannisters’, at Stoney Sept.’

          Her heart had jolted at the mere mention of his title. Aemond… At the Usurper’s farce of a coronation that the Hightowers had compelled her to attend – dressed in green – Visenya had kissed him farewell, forsaking any glimmer of hope for a future with him. I have demonstrated where my loyalties lie. I have chosen my family.

          Her lilac eyes had skimmed over the scrawled message on the sheepskin, the wax sigil foreign to her. The White Worm?

          ‘You are strangely poised,’ Visenya had observed, suspicious, studying her father’s amused expression.

          ‘I’ve been waiting for this,’ he had confirmed, smirking wickedly, curling his hand around the hilt of sheathed Dark Sister. Another one of his traps… and he’s pulling me into it. Daemon had gently cradled her cheek, purring, ‘I have a mission for you, sweetling.’

EARLY 130 AC

STONEY SEPT, THE RIVERLANDS

          Her host had encamped half a day’s ride from the town, with sufficient provisions for a fortnight. The arduous advance and the muddy soil had wearied men and horses alike, so Visenya had relied on the Greens’ tardiness to provide them with the respite that they had needed.

          Her dragon had brazenly exploited that ploy – napping during the day and hunting at night, increasing the risk of being discovered. Surpassed by Vhagar in age and size, Blackwing had never been ridden before a seven-year-old Visenya had claimed her. They shared a temper, a wildness, and a fierce devotion to each other. My twin in dragon flesh, Jace would jest.

          ‘You have become too spoiled,’ she had reproved, affectionately, tapping Blackwing’s dark scales, heated to the touch.

          The beast had objected, idly, releasing a guttural noise, smoke rising from its nostrils.

          For five days, her spies had reported nothing of enemy activity. Her anxieties had continued to fester and to gnaw at her. What if I fail? What if I die? I would condemn my people in vain. And Aemond… What am I to do about him?

          On the sixth day, the scouts had burst into her tent, blurting that the Greens had arrived at Stoney Sept. The maester had quickly dispatched a raven to Prince Daemon, at Harrenhal.

          ‘We attack at dawn,’ Visenya had declared, resolute.

          I’ll do my best, father.

          The fray had been gruesome, stretching for hours upon hours. A thick mist had settled over the Blackwater Rush, impairing visibility. Visenya had been the surprise element, concealing herself to deceive her foes, and striking unexpectedly, in the midst of battle. She had flown on her daunting Blackwing, laying waste to men and reserves indiscriminately, amongst the sounds of steel clashing with steel, shields splintering, arrows whistling, and soldiers screaming as they fought, suffered wounds, and perished. Hundreds of Greens had been engulfed in her dragon’s flames.

          Aemond had been slow to deter the princess. Afraid to face me? Visenya and Blackwing had used the fog to their advantage, climbing higher and higher into the sky – the Kinslayer chasing after them on hoary Vhagar.

          ‘Dracarys!’, she had ordered, and Blackwing had descended on Vhagar, unleashing a cloud of fire that had only incensed the latter.

          The dragons had spun, locked in a vicious struggle of claws and fangs, wings thrashing, until Aemond had suddenly swiveled Vhagar, slamming her into Blackwing. Their deafening roars had pierced the air. The collision had knocked Visenya from her saddle – the searing flames licking at her arm – and had sent her plummeting towards the Blackwater below. Having crashed into the Rush, she had surfaced seconds later, her hefty armor and the river’s currents hindering her endeavors to stay afloat. Visenya had looked up, able to distinguish a faint form lunging at another – the beasts’ screeches reverberating far above.

          Blackwing will not be coming to my rescue.

          Her tribulations hadn’t stopped there. A glimpse at the golden dragon banner of the Pretender, and she had realised that the currents had pushed her in the wrong direction… too late. She had already been spotted by the scouts on the shore, who had alerted their captain. They had aimed their crossbows at her, waiting for the Blackwater to present her to them on a gilded platter. I think not.

          Visenya had bitten into the hand of the man who had dragged her out of the water, then she had tossed him into the Rush.

          ‘Cunt!’, the next attacker had bellowed, charging at her.

          Slowed down by her injuries, her movements had been clumsy. Visenya had ducked under his first blow, stumbling to retain her balance. She had unsheathed her sword to parry his second blow, and had driven her blade through his breastplate. She had slashed a guard’s belly, his entrails spilling out. A soldier’s glove had caught her weapon, yanking it from her grasp. Disoriented by a swift welt to the side of her head, Visenya had been tackled to the ground – the impact rendering her breathless. Two fists had savagely pummeled her face, again and again and again – a massive weight crushing her. She had desperately fumbled for her scabbard, had withdrawn her dagger, and had slit her aggressor’s throat. Hot blood had spurted out, blinding her. She had been hoisted to her feet, her dirk wrenched away. Howling with rage and frustration, Visenya had scratched at the man’s eyes with her nails, had kneed another in the groin, and had torn off an archer’s ear with her teeth.

          Alas, she had been one enfeebled person against all of the odds… and a dozen Greens. Her apprehension had been inevitable.

          The capture of the commander had prompted the capitulation of her army. Visenya had been delivered to Ser Crispin in chains, covered in blood, dirt, and grass, braids disheveled, dragonscale armor soaked, body aching, left arm throbbing. I will not quail. Those traitors will receive no such satisfaction from me.

          Attired in the white garments of the Kingsguard, Ser Crispin had been the living depiction of virtue and chivalry. Lickspittle. He had immediately discarded courtesy, referring to her as a “bitch in dragon’s clothing.” In retaliation, Visenya had dubbed him a “sheep in sheep’s clothing”, earning herself a cuff across the face from his steeled gauntlet. Blood had flooded her mouth, her cheek stinging sharply.

          Ser Crispin had further commented that her men had been rather committed to her, alluding that she had fucked them to obtain their service. Every woman is an image of the Mother, to be spoken of with reverence.

          ‘It’s not as high of an honor as warming the Dowager Queen’s bed,’ Visenya had admitted, slyly, and had spat on his boots, ‘Hand of the Usurper. Does he wipe his ass with you?’

          Crispin would have hit her again, had the Prince Regent not intervened. Wary, she had surveyed her surroundings for Vhagar – not in evidence. I might wind up her supper.

          ‘Enough, Cole,’ Aemond had interrupted, solemn, causing Visenya to tense, drawing their attention to where he had been standing, imposing, smeared with ashes and smoke, ‘She may be our prisoner, but she is still a princess, and shall be treated as befits her station.’

          Any shred of scorn had abandoned her, ousted by fear and uncertainty. Her father had foreseen this. If you bend, you will break. Remember who you are. She had inhaled deeply, striving to even her respiration. I am the blood of the dragon, daughter of Queen Rhaenyra and Prince Daemon, and heir to the Iron Throne. I will not cringe for them.

          Aemond had instructed the maids to prepare her a bath and a warm meal, and to fetch her dry clothes. Visenya had grinned, baring her bloody teeth at Ser Crispin, as the guards had led her away. She had been escorted along the smoldering ruins of houses, inns, and brothels, trampling charred corpses – mindful of her step. Carrion crows had circled above, the timid sun peeking from grey clouds. The foul, stifling stench had twisted her stomach, tears needling her eyes. Mine and Aemond’s handiwork. Only the sept, the square, and the trout-shaped fountain had remained intact. When dragons flew to war, everything burned, her mother had warned at the Black Council. What have the people of Stoney Sept done to merit this devastation? What power do they have over their lives? We play our grisly game of thrones, and the commonfolk bear the immeasurable cost.

          The encampment had spread interminably – miles of pavilions, armories, forges, stables, latrines, wagons, and baggage trains – crawling with Greens cussing, mocking, and shouting at captives, pages distributing letters, squires polishing armor, honing weapons, feeding, watering, and combing horses, patrols walking to their posts, smiths hammering boisterously, cooks chopping vegetables, skinning rabbits, disemboweling deer, and roasting boars, giggling washerwomen hurrying by, and maesters ministering to the wounded. The turmoil had imbued Visenya’s senses. Mesmerised, she had watched a wailing, writhing man have his leg amputated, until one of her assigned guardians had shoved her forward.

          She had assumed that Blackwing had flown away… but, having escaped the battle unscathed, and always loyal to a fault, her dragon had landed in the enemy’s camp, razing barracks and roaring ferociously, seeking its rider. After it had mauled the Greens who had attempted to approach it and shackle it, Aemond had begrudgingly permitted Visenya to comfort her feral companion. Blackwing had nuzzled its snout against her, coiling its tail around her, protectively, while Visenya had murmured “lykirī”, caressing its scales – her taut restraints impeding the action. Her chest had constricted agonisingly when the traitors had forcibly separated them. I will return for you, I promise.

          She had been ushered into a vacated chamber, where the maids had obediently unchained her wrists, had removed her armor, had unbraided her hair, and had helped her undress for her bath, evading her glare and her nakedness – scarcely addressing her. What grim tales have they been told about me? Under the ewerers’ supervision, Visenya had washed herself – her uninjured arm vigorously scrubbing her skin with a bar of soap – and had dried off on her own, using cloths and rags. They have taken away my gear. Her indignation dwindling, she had slipped on the plain shirt, brown breeches, pelts, and a pair of flat shoes that they had brought her – tucking her salvaged brooch in her pocket. Is this meant to humble me?

          She had sluggishly eaten her bland yet nourishing food, on a bench, by a candle, goggled at by blushing serving lads.

          Aemond had summoned her to his tent, along with the maesters, who had cleansed her burns, had applied a poultice that had reeked of lavender and vinegar, had bandaged her arm, and had rubbed balms on her cuts, bruises, and split lip. Visenya had endured their ministrations in utter silence, grinding her teeth and clenching her fists. She and Aemond hadn’t exchanged a single word.

          The pavilion had been modest for the Prince Regent, consisting of a firepit, an oaken war table – stripped of its tomes, maps, scrolls, ink, and wax – chairs, rugs, and a featherbed, with books scattered atop it. The colors red and black dominated the tent of a proud and eminent Green, who carried the golden banner of the Pretender. Aemond cannot deny his Targaryen heritage. Had Otto Hightower dyed his locks silver-white and ridden a dragon, he could have sat his ass on the Iron Throne and ruled in his own name. Instead, he urged the King to make my mother his heir, coerced his daughter to seduce him, and installed his grandson on the throne. Puppets upon puppets, plots within plots.

          With the maesters dismissed, Visenya finally had the opportunity to regard Aemond. He hadn’t changed much since she had last seen him, at his brother’s false coronation. In the fire’s light, he had been a sight to behold; the flames illuminating his attractive, distinctive features, his mouth seemingly lodged in a permanent smirk, his eyepatch obscuring his missing eye, his tresses cascading down his back. Aemond had cleaned himself up, shedding his armor – now resting on a rack – for his usual black leather tunic, fastened with a belt that had his sheathed dagger attached to it, and a lengthy coat sewn with fur around the neck. He cast a tall shadow in the pavilion, his posture impeccable. Half dragon, half feline.

          ‘There’s a lack of dresses,’ informs Aemond, obdurately calm, retrieving a flagon of wine and two cups from the servant at the tent’s entrance, ‘And we had to find clothes that would suit you.’

          ‘I gather that there’s some poor stable boy currently running around naked,’ quips Visenya, tugging the pelts around herself.

          Aemond huffs through his nose, amused, and sets one of the goblets on the table, proceeding to fill it with Arbor Red for her. The war evidently hasn’t affected the Usurper’s notorious love of drinking. Lord Redwyne smelled profit, and pledged his support to the Greens, to ensure that their wine supply never dries. An onerous task. The Pretender has ample ambition in that respect.

          ‘Don’t fret,’ assures Aemond, upon heeding Visenya’s skeptical, arched eyebrow, ‘It’s not poisoned.’

          ‘Surely someone spat in it,’ she guesses, convivial, swirling the liquid in her cup.

          Aemond smiles, drinking his wine. Visenya tentatively lifts her goblet to her lips, and sips. Delectable flavors invade her mouth, soothing her nerves – albeit a little. She mulls over her next words… half carefully.

          ‘I reckoned that you and Ser Crispin would share a pavilion,’ she confides, lewdly, crossing one leg over the other, ‘Though your prides would not fit together.’

          Aemond’s gaze darkens, his mouth subtly pressing into a thin line. His disposition could make Mushroom miserable... and it has.

          ‘You could lose your tongue for such insolence,’ he cautions, sternly.

          ‘Stale news,’ suspires an indifferent Visenya, ‘I can write this down as well.’ She pauses to take a swig, then demands, bluntly, ‘Where is Blackwing? And my men?’

          ‘The dragonkeepers are tending her,’ explains Aemond, irritation in his tone, leaving his empty cup on the table, ‘Your men are being questioned.’

          Good fortune. They know nothing. The laughter and singing outside contradict Aemond’s claim. Drunk on victory. A weakness that she could later exploit. If I could reach Blackwing… lest they harm her.

          ‘Blackwing was your companion prior to Vhagar,’ she mentions, heatedly, flexing and unflexing her hand, ‘If you touch her–’

          ‘You are in no position to launch threats, Visenya,’ chastises Aemond, coldly, prodding at the logs with a poker, the wood crackling in the fire, ‘Your treatment depends on my good will. As does your fate. You have my word that Blackwing will not be harmed.’

          ‘The word of a kinslayer,’ spits Visenya, venomously, eyes darting to him, ‘If you are under the impression that minor acts of benevolence shall convince me to talk, you are gravely mistaken. You overestimate my family’s trust in me.’

          ‘They trusted you enough to put you in command of an army four thousand strong,’ reminds an earnest Aemond, ‘And you expect me to believe that you have no knowledge of your twin’s whereabouts?’

          I wouldn’t trade Jace for the Iron Throne. ‘We shared a womb, not a brain,’ she corrects, tracing the rim of her goblet with her digits, contemplating refilling it. I need my wits about me. ‘You are wasting your time, nuncle. Mine, too. Fetch your torturers, and be done with all this bother.’

          ‘I will do no such thing,’ he rebuffs, inclining his head.

          ‘You will torture me yourself?’, asks Visenya, feigning innocence, brushing her loose silver-white hair over her shoulders.

          ‘You are being difficult, Visenya,’ he accuses, exasperated.

          ‘What do you intend to do with me?’, she interjects, involuntarily fiddling with her absent rings, ‘Executing me would be unwise. I presume that you will have my dragon killed, and me delivered to King’s Landing, where your usurper of a brother awaits, warming my mother’s rightful seat… or is he still broken and bedridden, lost in poppy dreams?’

          ‘Mind your tongue, Visenya,’ warns Aemond, louring at her, melting some of her resolve.

          ‘The Clubfoot will probably throw me in a cell and dispatch his floggers to visit me,’ she concludes, scratching her thigh. Stable boy must have had fleas.

          ‘I’m not sending you to King’s Landing,’ announces Aemond, with apparent mirth towards her gesture.

          ‘You will ransom me to my father?’, taunts Visenya, smirking wickedly, ‘He’s the poorest man in the Seven Kingdoms.’ Aemond’s demeanor refutes her insinuation. She continues, all semblance of jest vanishing, ‘You cannot justify keeping me here. Once the Pretender learns about my capture, he will order you to send me to King’s Landing.’

          ‘Aegon does not concern me,’ he grumbles, clasping his hands behind his back.

          ‘Pār ivestragī nyke jikagon,’ she advises, coyly. Aemond hums, musing, a glimmer in his eye that doesn’t indicate outright negation. ‘We are at war, and you allow your feelings to cloud your judgment?’ (Then let me go.)

          ‘Iksi daor rȳ vīlībāzma,’ argues a mild Aemond. (We are not at war.)

          So, you did not slaughter Luke? That’s a consolation. ‘Iksis bona skoro syt emā daor ossēntan nyke?’, inquires Visenya, masking her anger. (Is that why you have not killed me?)

          ‘Killing you would be as imprudent as freeing you,’ he reasons, purposely oblivious, ‘You are worth more alive than you are dead. You lost a fair battle, you surrendered, and now you are my prisoner.’

          ‘I’ve heard stories about how you and Ser Crispin treat your prisoners,’ she disputes, mordant, ‘And I never yielded. You ride the largest dragon in the world. That’s hardly a fair match.’

          Cole and the Usurper’s forces had sacked the port town of Duskendale, putting the ships at the harbor to the torch, hundreds of men, women, and children to the sword, and beheading Lord Gunthor Darklyn for supporting her mother’s cause. Hundreds more had been massacred at Rook’s Rest, where Lord Staunton, too, had been relieved of his head. Besieged by the Greens, he had barricaded himself inside his castle walls, and had requested assistance from the Blacks. With Prince Daemon at Harrenhal, and Queen Rhaenyra griefsick in the aftermath of her son’s murder, command of the Black Council had passed to the Velaryons. Rhaenyra had forbidden her children from answering their ally’s plea, so Princess Rhaenys had flown to Rook’s Rest instead. She and Meleys had fallen in battle against the Pretender, the Kinslayer, and their dragons. Sunfyre had been rendered flightless, the Usurper had suffered severe burns, and Aemond had assumed the title of Prince Regent – to rule in lieu of his older brother.

          Visenya’s side hadn’t fared any greater. A wroth Sea Snake had blamed Rhaenyra for his wife’s demise. Jace had named him Hand of the Queen, to appease him – a measure that Visenya had commended. Better than Ser Crispin.

          ‘You ambushed us,’ reiterates Aemond, incredulous, ‘We would have presented you with terms, to avoid bloodshed.’

          Oh, please. You don’t believe that. ‘Fuck your terms,’ curses Visenya, waving dismissively, ‘I suppose that being twice a kinslayer would have marred the carcass of your reputation.’

          ‘I spared your life,’ he chides, vaguely baleful.

          ‘A clemency that you did not extend to my brother,’ she sneers, bilious, her nails digging into the table’s surface.

          ‘Half-brother,’ deadpans Aemond, promptly.

          ‘If you had to slay your own kin, personally, I would have picked your dear brother, the Pretender,’ proffers Visenya, honeyed.

          ‘Perhaps you should have killed him,’ he retorts, untroubled, ‘You had your chance.’

          Her family had gone to King’s Landing for the Driftmark petition, where her father had created a ghastly spectacle – publicly beheading Vaemond Velaryon for defaming her mother and her brothers. The Targaryen method of solving quarrels. Viserys himself had sat the throne, and had favored Luke as the heir to Driftmark – adhering to the Sea Snake’s wishes.

          Due to his declining health, the King had been the first to retire during the subsequent supper that they had all attended. Visenya hadn’t been surprised by his condition; she had frequented the capital, unlike her parents and her siblings. The gathering had soon turned disastrous. Jace had invited Helaena to dance with him – offending Aegon and Aemond. She is so sweet. Alicent had been evil to marry her off to that cunting demon. None of them deserve her. Visenya herself had danced with Daeron, grinning the entire time. We had once been engaged... I could have loved him. He would have been a dutiful Prince Consort and a doting father to our children. Aemond had toasted to her Velaryon brothers, referring to them as “strong.” Fighting had erupted betwixt her siblings and her uncles, and her father had intervened to break them apart.

          That evening, her family had sailed for Dragonstone, but Aemond had insisted that she stay in King’s Landing with him. Against her better judgment, Visenya had accepted. She ponders whether it had been a ploy of the Greens to take her hostage, and Aemond had simply played his part. Her grandsire had tragically expired overnight – poisoned by the Hightowers, according to her father. Visenya isn’t so certain. He hadn’t required meddling. He had been rotting for decades.

          On the morrow, the Greens had locked her in her chambers. Visenya had refused to swear obeisance to Aegon – had even spat in his face – and to bow at his false coronation. Blackwing and the Princess Rhaenys had come to her rescue – emerging from underneath the Dragonpit on Meleys. Visenya had mounted her dragon, and had addressed the crowd, her voice clear and fierce, laced with fury.

          “People of King’s Landing! The Hand and the Dowager Queen deceive you. King Viserys named my mother the Princess Rhaenyra heir to the throne. For twenty-four years, the succession remained indisputable and unchanged. Rhaenyra is the rightful and lawful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. By crowning Aegon, the Hightowers have committed the highest of treasons and have usurped the Iron Throne, violating the King’s will. Aegon shall show you neither kindness nor wisdom. Remember today. Remember that you lived by the mercy of Rhaenys the Queen Who Should Have Been and myself. If the Hightowers do not cease in their treachery and do not bend the knee, I vow to return with fire and blood!”

          Blackwing had roared so intensely that the Conqueror’s crown had been hurled from the Pretender’s head.

          Aemond has the right of it. We could have bathed Aegon in flame, quelled their rebellion then and there.

         On Dragonstone, the news of Viserys’ death and the Hightowers’ betrayal had driven her mother into an early labor. Her father had descended into madness, determined to levy war. Their losses had continuously piled… and the Seven Kingdoms would bear the cost.

          ‘I am no kinslayer,’ snarls Visenya, slighted by the idea, tearing her gaze away from Aemond.

          ‘I made you a generous offer that would have foiled the war,’ he broaches, the grievous memory still raw for him.

          Oh, how could I have displayed such ingratitude? She wouldn’t describe his proposal to marry him and rule together as “generous.” It had been an odious humiliation. Aegon – who had not wanted the throne, declaring himself “unsuited” – would have embarked upon a ship and departed Westeros permanently. The Iron Throne is not his to relinquish. Visenya knows that Aemond has no love for his father, but asking her to usurp her mother’s throne? An audacious affront. She had vehemently spurned him, and they had traded sour words – their prides injured.

          ‘Our families would have started a war to kill us for it,’ drones Visenya, flatly, ‘And what of my parents? They would have never abided by your… solution.’

          ‘They have no consideration for your happiness and welfare, yet you still toil in their service,’ observes Aemond, provocatively.

          ‘And you have?!’, she opposes, her fist slamming on the table, ‘You conspired to usurp the throne and slaughtered my brother, the Princess Rhaenys, and their dragons. You are in no position to launch accusations.’

          ‘Even now, you feel compelled to defend them,’ he comments, dejected.

          ‘Lucerys was my blood!’, snaps Visenya, wrathful, standing from her seat and storming up towards him – stopping a couple of feet in front of him.

          ‘As am I!’, booms Aemond, towering over her, ‘And you have never defended me half as much as you did him! He took my eye when I was but ten, and to even that the imp felt entitled, while you gladly dismissed it as an accident and moved on!’

          Outside, Blackwing and Vhagar grow agitated, shrieking and flitting their wings, stirring the wind. It seemed to Visenya that Aemond had often been harsher on her than he had been on Lucerys. He loves me… or he used to.

          ‘It was an accident,’ she maintains, tamer, ‘We were children. Our parents mishandled everything. I’ve told you numerous times that I profoundly regret what happened to you. It’s the truth. I cannot undo Luke’s actions.’

          It’s been ten years since then, and forgetting the incident has been impossible. Aemond wears the consequences of it on his face, in his daily life. Our unease at the sight of his gash is a small price to pay.

          He had delivered several blows – and had broken Luke’s nose – afore he had been overwhelmed by all five of her siblings, and Lucerys had slashed one of his eyes. Visenya’s absence from the fight had spared her from the interrogation, wherein Rhaenyra had suggested that Aemond be “sharply questioned”, Alicent Hightower had demanded Luke’s eye to compensate for Aemond’s, and Viserys had been eager to abandon his conciliatory obligation. The discord had exposed the personal feud between Rhaenyra and Alicent – their rhetoric diverting from “vile insults were levied against my sons” and “my son has lost an eye” to “duty and sacrifice are trampled under your pretty foot” and “you have been hiding beneath the cloak of your own righteousness.” The Queen had gone so far as to attack the Princess – slitting her arm with the King’s dagger.

          Visenya hadn’t spoken at all – displeasing Aemond and her siblings. To her, matters hadn’t been so absolute. Although Aemond had claimed Vhagar too soon – disrespecting Laena Velaryon’s memory – his assault and maiming had been unwarranted. I love Rhaena dearly, but Vhagar was not stolen. The dragon never belonged to her. Aemond and Vhagar chose each other. Visenya had later communicated her opinions to him, and she had reassured her sister that she would have a dragon.

          The next morning, the Targaryens and the Hightowers had exchanged false courtesies and falser apologies. Her family’s exile to Dragonstone hadn’t prevented Visenya from writing letters to Aemond, Helaena, and Daeron, or from flying on Blackwing to visit them in King’s Landing.

          Alas, the bloody seeds of strife had been sown.

          ‘No, you cannot,’ concurs Aemond, glancing at her lips, ‘No one can. That is why I sought justice for myself.’

          ‘Justice?’, echoes Visenya, disdainful, her glare piercing, ‘Had you had your other eye, you would still be as blind as you are now.’

          Aemond growls, lashing out and grabbing her roughly, their lower bodies pressing together. Visenya glowers at him defiantly, placing her hands on his breast, to preserve some distance betwixt their upper bodies. The effort shoots a jolt of pain along her arm.

          If he meant to scare her, he failed. Aemond would not harm me.

          ‘Hold your tongue, Visenya,’ he exhorts, through gritted teeth.

          ‘Or what?’, she challenges, her face inching closer to his, ‘You will have it removed? You will butcher me as you did my brother?’

          ‘You are brazen, to speak of your half-brother, of my wrongdoings and my crimes,’ berates Aemond, his jaw clenching, ‘What of your family? What of my nephew Jaehaerys?... Iā tresy syt iā tresy. Nyke gīmigon īles aōha kepa.’ (A son for a son. I know it was your father.)

          Aware of what Aemond alluded to, Visenya hesitates, her response withering on her tongue.

          After the tragedy at Storm’s End, a raven from her father had arrived at Dragonstone. An eye for an eye, a son for a son. Lucerys shall be avenged. She had deduced that Daemon had hired the assassins who had executed Prince Jaehaerys – the Usurper’s six-year-old heir – with Alicent, Helaena, and the latter’s other children as witnesses. Visenya had confronted him about his heinous deed at Harrenhal. Undaunted, her father had firmly admonished that the “pious one-eyed flea of a traitor who slobbers over you” had slain her brother.

          In retaliation for Jaehaerys, the Pretender had sent Ser Arryk Cargyll to Dragonstone, to assassinate Jace and Joffrey. The knight had entered the castle in his Kingsguard attire, disguised as his twin Ser Erryk – Queen Rhaenyra’s loyalist – whom he had encountered on his way to the royal apartments. By the conclusion of their duel, the two had mortally wounded one another.

          I owe the Hightowers nothing, least of all my sympathy. Children should not be the target of our ire. How do we differ from the Greens if we perpetrate and perpetuate the same crimes that they do?

          ‘Nyke ēdan daorun naejot gaomagon rūsīr bona,’ clarifies Visenya, sincerely, albeit faintly. (I had nothing to do with that.)

          ‘No, you are merely the spectator,’ scoffs Aemond, haughty, ‘Proudly passing judgment while others bloody their hands. You are passive. Passive in your beliefs, your guilt, your love.’

          Visenya blinks against the tears that prick her eyes, her breath hitched. His cruel and bitter words cut deeply, rooted in years of grievances, enmities, neglect, and abuse. Aemond had once been a sweet, innocent boy – her closest friend, her betrothed. He’s the product of his conditions, his upbringing, and his parents’ influence… as am I. Both confined in a prison of our parents’ sins. Perhaps we inevitably inherit the burdens of our forebears.

          Though Visenya may not be the sole reason for his resentment, she is present. Aemond hadn’t blamed her for her family’s actions. He condemned her for not loving him enough. That is unfair. I’m not culpable of that.

          A consuming poison has been dribbling inside of her, on the verge of gushing. Visenya has strayed too near to the edge – now wavering, uncertain whether she wishes to tread the line and unravel the truth. That is not why I am here...

          ... but her decision has already been established.

          The truth is important to me.

          Summoning her courage, Visenya reaches behind Aemond’s head to peel off his eyepatch, lifting the veil between them. I need to see him, so that he cannot deceive me. She tosses the item aside, neither shrinking nor averting her gaze. She caresses his face, drinking him in – his scar, the sapphire in his eye socket, the flesh that had healed crookedly. Aemond tenses, watching her intently, his respiration ragged. His grip on her slackens.

          ‘Gōntan ao ossēnagon zirȳla kesrio syt hen issa?’, murmurs Visenya, circling his wrists, impeding his retreat. (Did you kill him because of me?)

          At the Black Council, Jace and Luke had offered to act as their mother’s messengers, to acquire support for her claim. The twins had been tasked with the difficult mission – negotiating with the Eyrie, the Three Sisters, White Harbor, and Winterfell. Lady Jeyne Arryn would declare for Rhaenyra if dragonriders defended the Vale. Jace and Visenya had met with Lords Borrell and Sunderland at Sisterton, and at White Harbor, they had arranged for Joffrey to marry Lord Desmond Manderly’s youngest daughter.

          The news of Luke’s death had accosted them in the Vale. Visenya had collapsed in Jace’s arms, wailing as her twin had embraced her tightly. She had agonised over her brother’s demise every night, plagued by what she could have done to save him, weeping into a tumultuous sleep. Visenya had never listened to the rumors and the gossip. Lucerys had been her family, her brother, her blood. I fed him, bathed him, read to him, sparred with him, played with him… yet I could not protect him from Aemond.

          She possesses little knowledge of what had occurred betwixt Luke and Aemond at Storm’s End. The weather had been atrocious, her brother’s dragon too small to withstand it. In the following days, bits of Arrax’s carcass had washed up on the shore of Shipbreaker’s Bay. Luke had never been recovered. He may have died a dragonrider’s death, but he had died alone and afraid. Had his demise been slow and painful, or swift and painless? Her brother had sworn on the Seven-Pointed Star that he would not fight – merely deliver the Queen’s message. Aemond had taken no such oath. Had Visenya known, she would have held on to Luke and besought him not to go.

          If I had flown to Storm’s End in his stead, Aemond could have slain me, and my brother would still be alive.

          ‘Daor,’ whispers Aemond, at last. (No.)

          Visenya stifles a sob, tears escaping her eyes, dampening his thumbs. She foolishly believed that her grief would wane. His confession barely scrapes the surface. Visenya feels no relief, no closure. Has she been on an erroneous campaign to absolve herself of any responsibility, to alleviate her own conscience, and to forgive Aemond – chasing these ends to the detriment of Luke’s memory? If I wanted to bring justice to my brother, I would have slit his killer’s throat and let him bleed out on the ground.

          When Aemond succumbs and pulls her into him, Visenya doesn’t resist. The buckles of his tunic are cold and rough against her cheek, contrasting the warmth that he radiates. She releases the exhale that she has been withholding. Her greatest flaw rears its hideous head – a flaw that has sown division amongst her family and has rendered her an outcast. Visenya had suffered for her refusal to forsake her friendship with Aemond, enduring disapproving scowls from her parents, mean jests and malicious accusations from her siblings, and a lack of compassion – all serving to remind her of her tenuous position.

          Her proximity to Aemond had even prompted her mother to spurn her as her heir – arguing that he would undermine her as Queen. I cannot have both Aemond and the Iron Throne. I am the eldest child. By all rights, the throne should pass to me.

          Shoving those thoughts away, Visenya clutches his sides, sobs wracking her body. Aemond timidly buries his mouth in her locks, breathing in her scent.

          ‘Daor,’ he repeats, definitively, cradling the back of her head. (No.)

          The remainder of her defenses crumble. Visenya loathes that she errs, that she seeks and welcomes comfort from the man who is the source of her sorrow. With the realm plunged into war after Lucerys’ death, there has been no time to mourn – not for her grandsire Viserys, nor her sister Aemma, nor her brother Luke.

          An unavoidable war. We are Valyrian, and prone to violence. A testament to power corruption. Prior to the blood magic, the dragons, and the conquests, Valyrians had been a peaceful community of shepherds. They had become increasingly tyrannical and ambitious as their power had soared. The peak of our Freehold… and its ruin. Forewarned about the Doom by Daenys Targaryen’s prophetic dream, her forebears had fled to Dragonstone – a venture that the other, unsuspecting dragonlords had considered cowardice and had ridiculed. We had the last laugh.

          Targaryens have always been stubborn, passionate, fierce. Visenya is no exception. Despite their families’ hopes and despite his crimes, her love for Aemond hasn’t dwindled. Their bond is too strong, their souls and fates entwined. I am the blood of the dragon. Nobody dictates whom I love.

          And love is seldom simple.

          Aemond brushes his lips over her temple, causing her skin to tingle. Visenya lifts her eyes to meet his, and recognises the same ache and longing that lay dormant inside her. Affection blooms in her chest. She could stop this from flourishing, spare them both the misery. As children, they had found solace in each other’s company whenever their families had been the reason for their anguish, so they had promised to never hurt one another.

          A part of Visenya still yearns to love Aemond freely. Must her logic always be at odds with her emotions? The only man that I have ever desired, and I have been deprived of him my entire life. I have never been in control. The forbidden aspect merely furthers the appeal of the dalliance. She wants to surrender to the temptation, repercussions be damned.

          Visenya traces his mouth with her fingertips, reverently, and strokes his face – recommitting it to memory. Aemond leans into her touch, reveling in the gesture, his respiration shallow. The tips of their noses graze against each other. He wipes her tears before his digits fall on the sides of her neck, feeling her quickening pulse under the pads of his fingers. Aemond’s eye gleams with lust, igniting the same blaze within her. She peers at him from underneath her lashes, drowning in the depths of his blue eye. A shiver runs down her spine. Her lips tremble in suspense, the proximity making her dizzy.

          Aemond dips his head to capture her mouth in a tentative kiss. Visenya surges upwards to reciprocate, inhaling sharply through her nose, eyes slipping shut. Their lips mold together, their flame rekindled. His large, calloused hands grip her jaw, to guide her. She splays her hands over his chest, fisting the lapels of his coat, desperate to draw him closer. Visenya parts her lips, granting him entrance, tasting the lingering flavor of the wine that they had shared earlier. A familiar ardor seeps into her belly, immersing her body. Her fire has burned quietly for too long. Now, it has stirred again, emboldened to emerge.

          Aemond sinks his teeth into her bottom lip, splitting it and sucking the blood, famished. Visenya groans, her breath blowing the loose strands of hair that cover his forehead. Her knees weaken, and she grasps his shoulders for support, grateful that he wraps his arm around her middle. Her pelts land on the floor. Aemond steps forward, backing her into the table, and hoists her on it impetuously.

          Aemond kindly adjusts his belt, to remove the dagger betwixt them. The irony isn’t lost on Visenya. She spreads her legs, inviting, allowing him to settle between them. He sprawls over her, caging her in, his heavy weight almost crushing her against the table’s rigid, uncomfortable surface. His silky hair cascades around her head, framing his face, conferring a strange sense of privacy. Visenya peppers delicate pecks over his chin, continuing along his jaw, her digits prodding at his smooth neck.

          She fervidly awaits a kiss that never comes. Aemond hums affably, his arrogant smile shooting to her core. Their breaths mingle, his hands traveling up and down her sides with modest curiosity. Visenya huffs in exasperation, and shifts, ticklish, the heels of her feet digging into his ass. Her thumb catches his lower lip, pressing into it. Aemond holds her gaze, parting his lips enough to engulf her thumb. He swirls his tongue over it afore sucking on it gently. She watches him, captivated, her mouth slightly agape.

          The knot in her belly snaps, her patience having thinned, ousted by resolve. She pushes him off, so she can sit up, impelling him to stand. Aemond obliges without objection. Visenya hooks her fingers in his belt, to bring him nearer, and deftly unbuttons his tunic, revealing his bare chest – inch by inch. She drinks in the sight, caressing his glistening skin. The intolerable heat induces sweat to drip betwixt her breasts and to trickle down her spine.

          She leans in, only for Aemond to jerk his head away and deny her another kiss – the tip of her nose bumping against his cheek. He smirks, conceited, despite his ruddy complexion. Visenya gnashes her teeth, intent on retribution. Straightening her body, and looping her uninjured arm around Aemond, she licks his earlobe and bites it softly, eliciting a growl from him. He squeezes her hips in silent warning, and sneaks a hand under her shirt, to fondle her breast and pinch her nipple until it stiffens. Visenya moans, hushed, her head lolling back into her shoulders.

          Aemond rests his free hand on the base of her throat, his digits winding around it, lips latching onto her exposed neck. Visenya suppresses her whine, the air deserting her lungs. He incessantly strokes her bosom, his teeth abusing the sensitive skin of her neck. She drops her arms – mindful of her wounds – one hand surrounding his wrist, her other fumbling, blindly cupping his hardened member through his breeches. A salacious grunt rolls out of Aemond’s mouth, filling the tent.

          His fingers release her throat to tangle in her tresses, and yank, his hips grinding against hers, creating friction. He withdraws his lips from her, and tugs her hand away, his other hand raking down her abdomen. Her chuckle turns into a gasp as Aemond languidly rubs the wet area between her legs, his breath fanning her face. Visenya relishes in the waves of pleasure enveloping her body, her spine arching, though her soaking cunt clenches around nothing. She heaves her thighs higher, hugging his waist – lest he dare pull away from her.

          A metal item pokes at her thigh.

          My brooch.

          Visenya peels her eyes away from him, scrambling to salvage her composure. Aemond ceases his ministrations. He raises her chin with his thumb and forefinger, coaxing her to look at him. Her heart stutters, her vision bleary beneath his suffocating leer. The clouds in his eye have cleared… or he conceals them well. Their lips crash in a frantic kiss – her veins aflame, scalding. He swallows her wanton moan, kneading the flesh of her ass. Aemond cannot fool me. A constant tempest festers within him, ravenous for blood and revenge. Visenya would never be able to tame it. Nothing would.

          Numbing remorse smothers her fire. She had forgotten herself and her loyalties. She breaks the kiss, tasting ashes on her tongue. His mouth chases hers, his hand curling around the nape of her neck, to reunite their lips. Aemond bends her back, cradling her against him – the pressure on her shoulder tearing a whimper from her. He lays a tender, apologetic kiss there. Her digits slide into his locks, thwarting him. Visenya stares at the shadows dancing across the ceiling of the pavilion – Aemond’s head pillowed on her breasts.

          What am I doing? Where am I going? With him? Distant limbs envelop her, lips ghosting over her skin. He licks a stripe up the column of her throat and nips at it, nuzzling his nose against her neck. I would never betray my family. I cannot have both Aemond and the Iron Throne. The dream is over. Bury it, and crawl out of this bottomless pit of vipers.

          He has been stretching seconds into minutes, delaying the inevitable, but he cannot stop it. The die has been cast.

          ‘Aemond, wait,’ pants Visenya, her own voice foreign to her, her nails clawing at his back, ‘We cannot. I am–’

          ‘Betrothed?’, deadpans Aemond, cocking his head to peek at her, crimson lips swollen, hair and clothes disheveled, ‘I’m aware. Your half-brother told me, at Storm’s End.’

          Her heart leaps into her throat, yet Visenya falters, preferring to disregard his comment and its implications. If Aemond and Lucerys had exchanged insults – and her brother had mentioned her betrothal – it might have incited the former to attack the latter. A door best left shut.

          ‘Lord Stark is a good man–’

          ‘Have you sunk so low?’, criticises Aemond, reproach etched on his features, ‘You are a Targaryen princess, the blood of Old Valyria. Dragons do not mate with other beasts, and we do not consort with lesser men.’

          Visenya blinks in incredulity, scanning his face for any indication of pretense. He has been collecting dangerous beliefs. Undoubtedly the result of Ser Crispin’s and Alicent Hightower’s influence. King Viserys had been too neglectful to bear any blame in that respect. He’s overly culpable in innumerable other matters.

          ‘If I have sunk low, I do not wish to imagine what hell you wander in,’ she retorts, dour, shoving him away, her lower back pressing against the edge of the table, ‘I do not require lessons on our heritage. Valyria is gone. I do not adhere to the Doctrine of Exceptionalism, nor do I delude myself about our superiority. According to this logic, your Westerosi mother is lesser. Everybody has their history and their pride. The Starks are the blood of the First Men, descendants of Bran the Builder. Cregan is my equal, and I will not bring him dishonor. You once said something similar to me, when we were younger.’

          Visenya purposely omitted that Cregan would have taken additional offence if Aemond – a usurper and a kinslayer – had been her choice of paramour. Following the annulment of her betrothment to Aemond, she had snuck into his bedchamber, and had urged him to claim her maidenhood. It would have compelled our parents to marry us to each other. He had adamantly refused, reiterating that he would dishonor her by doing so. Visenya wonders whether his consent would have changed the tide, whether he rues his decision now… were he capable of it.

          ‘I remember,’ mutters Aemond, cupping her cheeks, brushing his nose against hers, ‘Yn īlon issi daor riñar dombo.’ (But we are not children anymore.)

          ‘No, we are not,’ she assents, doleful, undeterred by his lingering lips on her forehead, ‘I am a woman grown, my mother’s daughter, and I vowed to marry Cregan. My word is not fickle. A foreign concept to you and your family.’

          She had suggested the match herself, on Dragonstone, prior to hers and her brothers’ departure. Supposing that the Queen’s appeal failed to persuade Lord Stark to pledge the North to their cause, Visenya would offer her hand in marriage.

          The memory of beholding Cregan for the first time still exhilarates her. She had been climbing down from Blackwing while Jace had approached Lord Stark, to greet him. Cloaked in furs, he had been an imperious presence – tall, brawny, handsome, graced with grey eyes, dark, wavy locks that cascaded to his shoulders, and a dense beard. His gaze had frequently drifted towards her. Jace had suavely introduced her, and Cregan had curtsied, addressing her as “princess.” Visenya had answered with “my lord” – her smile timid, her eyes wicked.

          The harsh weather hadn’t spoiled the northern capital’s beauty, magnificent structures, and rich culture. The twins had received a warm welcome at Winterfell, amidst the winter preparations, and Lord Stark had been a most hospitable host, entertaining his guests with drinking, sparring, and hunting trips in the wolfswood. Visenya had mingled with the commonfolk, conversing with them, helping them with their errands, and teaching their children how to read and write. Cregan had often watched her, fondly, from afar. Some servants had been intimidated by her appearance and her station, stammering through their responses. She had instructed them to simply call her “Visenya.”

          Whenever his duties had permitted, Cregan had accompanied her on walks around the castle, to the library, the ancient godswood and its hot springs, and the disturbing crypt that had contained the tombs of the deceased members of House Stark. His direwolf Fang had ambled after them everywhere. They had discussed history, politics, trade, and their families, and had comforted one another in their grief, as Cregan’s wife had recently perished in childbirth. He had even confessed that Jace had reminded him of the brother that he had lost more than a decade ago. She had met his sweet babe Rickon, whom she had doted on. Cregan had bestowed upon Blackwing the highest distinction, deeming her a “formidable beast” – with his habitual morose disposition. Visenya had become besotted with him, regarding him as virtuous, conscientious, tenacious, and reputable.

          By the end of the twins’ stay in Winterfell, the Pact of Ice and Fire had been formed, whereby Visenya would wed Lord Stark, and the North would side with Queen Rhaenyra. He had forged a direwolf brooch for her, and she had gifted him one of her rings, to wear it as a necklace. Cregan and Jace had sworn an oath of brotherhood, sealed in blood.

          ‘You sold yourself to a wolf pup so that you may rally his army to your mother’s cause, and you boast about honor,’ accuses Aemond, scornful, satisfied that he discerns her imagined act, ‘Twas a different kind of sword that you required.’

          Sold myself? Visenya’s mouth twists downwards, her latent, crude contempt quivering. Blackwing rattles her shackles, screeching viscerally. He views me as property. I paid my price in kindness and youthful promises, so I am constrained into being his property. I have no freedom, no intuition, no capacity for judgment. I am a frail puppet dancing on my family’s strings, dependent on Aemond to rescue me. He would rather I were a fly in his web. What sort of person expects me to fulfil the vows that I uttered as a child?

          ‘Cregan would have honored his late father’s word,’ she contends, smoothing her garments, heedless of Aemond’s eye roaming over her body, ‘Lord Rickon Stark swore an oath in the throne hall, and acknowledged my mother as King Viserys’ heir. All of the Westerosi lords did, great and small.’

          Upon his lord father’s death, Cregan had inherited Winterfell at the age of thirteen, so his uncle Bennard had ruled as regent until his nephew had reached manhood. Bennard’s reluctance to relinquish power had spurred Cregan to imprison him and his three sons. Akin to Queen Rhaenyra’s plight, his kinsman had attempted to supplant him. Lady Jeyne Arryn – Queen Aemma’s cousin – had thrice endured uprisings that had contested her inheritance of the Eyrie.

          A hereditary curse. A woman’s curse. In this world of men, we women must band together.

          ‘Over twenty years have passed since then,’ specifies Aemond, shrugging blithely, ‘Most of those lords are dead, including the wolf pup’s father. Bones are all that is left of them and their vows.’

          Pup. A peculiar term to use for Cregan – a man older than they are. Aemond’s vanity confirms that, to the Greens, King Viserys’ succession amounts to nothing. Their cause is false – founded on quicksand, conspiracy, and murder – and they bury themselves deeper and deeper into an abyss of lies and treachery.

          ‘They represented their Houses and spoke on their behalf,’ corrects Visenya, her shoulders slumping from the sheer absurdity of having to explain this, ‘Enlighten me, nuncle. How does your situation differ from mine? Are you not betrothed to one of Borros Baratheon’s daughters for her father’s troops? Or is it all four daughters? I have heard varied accounts.’

          The illiterate Lord of Storm’s End – another traitor responsible for Luke’s demise. Her brother Joffrey had sworn a terrible oath of vengeance against him and the Kinslayer. The Velaryons had prevented Joff from instantly mounting his dragon Tyraxes to exact revenge. Would I have done the same? He is merely a boy, too young to know such hatred and grief. He and Rhaena are in the Vale, out of harm’s way. Willful Baela remains on Dragonstone, to fight by Jace’s side. Aegon and Viserys, the youngest, are with them. We must ensure their safety, else the war will strip them of their innocence… and their lives.

          Dragonstone, Harrenhal, Winterfell, the Vale, King’s Landing, Stoney Sept… My family is divided. If only I could protect them all…

          ‘I did what was asked of me,’ defends Aemond, forlorn, resting their foreheads together, ‘I never intended to wed her.’ He adds, his words scattered among hasty, consecutive kisses, ‘We have always agreed that we would marry one another. I have neither forgotten, nor forsaken that. I want you.’

          ‘I thought that we were not children anymore,’ she echoes, shrewd, bending to retrieve her discarded pelts, ‘Our parents annulled our betrothal years ago. You would have us marry without your mother’s blessing? I value my well-being, even if you do not.’

          ‘You are mistaken,’ coos Aemond, holding her hand to his mouth, kissing her knuckles, her palm, her inner wrist, ‘It’s not too late. There’s still a chance for us.’

          Visenya had once shared that sentiment. He lives in the past, clinging to it, misconstruing it. Matters betwixt them would never be the same – a truth that he hasn’t accepted. I would have waited for him... Aemond had usurped the throne and had slain her brother. Now, he hopes to abuse her clemency. What stops him from mistreating her, from hurting her? Why must I always be patient and compassionate? Why must I always forgive and forget? What will I gain from it? Aemond? It’s not enough. His redemption is a prolonged, tedious endeavor that she will not partake in.

          I’m severing my noose.

          ‘A chance?’, snarls Visenya, in conjunction with Blackwing’s shrieks, ‘Is that what you offered my brother when you unleashed Vhagar on him?’ She folds her arms over her chest, her furs caught between them. ‘You have already spilled my blood. I will not present you with a chance to do it again. Aye, I once wanted to marry you. A summer dream of summer children. Winter is coming.’

          Ripping the cord that binds her to Aemond will be excruciating, like slashing a part of herself. He is the thorn lodged in her side, her twin flame, his scent and touch imprinted on her, haunting her asleep and haunting her awake. The only power I wield over him is denying him myself.

          ‘You have returned to threats,’ chides Aemond, buttoning his tunic, visibly irritated by her usage of the House Stark words, ‘Parroting words that are not your own, chirruping tales that others have stuffed your head with, like a little bird.’

          ‘‘Tis not a threat, beloved,’ purrs Visenya, woven with venom, savoring his indignation, ‘It is a fact. The maesters of the Citadel will release the white ravens soon, to announce its arrival.’

          She had witnessed the foreboding signs with her own eyes, at Winterfell – the resplendent snow, the howling winds, the bitter cold. Winter is upon us… and we are vying for the throne.

          ‘‘Tis also a fact that your wolf pup has a wolf pup of his own,’ jeers Aemond, donning his eyepatch, ‘A son whom he fathered on another wench. A son who will inherit Winterfell and all of its attendant lands, titles, and incomes. A vile indignity, a humiliation, to you and your brood. You would submit to a puny northern savage, as his second wife?’

          Puny northern savage? Innovative.

          “Our children will sit the Iron Throne,” Visenya had told Cregan in the godswood, with the snow floating around them, piling in thick layers on the ground, the trees, and the castle walls. I kissed the snowflakes on his lashes, and they melted on my lips. Her heart flutters at the memory. My sullen wolf. She longs for him more than she can express.

          Would that appease Aemond? Nothing would. He has become spiteful. “Wench.” Lady Arra of House Norrey had been Cregan’s late wife and cherished childhood companion. She had dismally died birthing Rickon. I will not debate Cregan’s family with Aemond, a jealous craven threatened by suckling babes.

          ‘Rickon is an innocent babe,’ reasons Visenya, hugging herself, suddenly feeling naked without her armor, ‘Aye, he is the heir to Winterfell, and no threat to me. I will not set my children against their brother, nor will I encourage them to steal his birthright. I am not your mother.’

          And, oh, how you despise that…

          ‘I suppose that you will be no threat to him, either, should you die in childbirth,’ ventures Aemond, elated at the notion, his eye shimmering in the light of the flames, ‘And your wolf pup would be twice widowed.’

          Visenya lashes out, striking him so viciously across the face that his head whips to the side. Blackwing’s mighty roars rumble outside. Aemond doesn’t even blench.

          She had never hit him before. If he is startled or enraged by the assault, he masks it – devoid of any emotion. Visenya quashes the temptation to shout at him, to call him a dog, a pig, a rat. He is beneath these creatures. He has no conscience, and his cruelty is boundless. Her grandmother Queen Aemma and her aunt Laena had both expired in childbed. Her sister had been stillborn. What does Aemond know about the perils and throes of women? Nothing.

          I could flee, go anywhere but here... Her flesh crawls. I’m his captive in so many ways. Briny tears well in her eyes.

          Tears cannot quench dragonfire.

          ‘Do you love the wolf pup?’, challenges Aemond, his demeanor impassable, though she distinguishes a crack in his frigid tone.

          And if I do? You would flay him alive, and force me to watch. The question of Visenya’s suitors continues to be intricate and contentious. The Disputed Lands of Westeros. She had been engaged to Aegon, to Aemond, and to Daeron, and had been courted by Westerosi Houses, Essosi princes, triarchs, archons, nobles, magisters, merchants, and generals. The Red Kraken would have made me his salt wife. Visenya had rejected all of them. Adulterers and drunkards old enough to be my grandsires and fat enough to crush me beneath them.

          Rhaenyra had been sympathetic to her daughter’s predicament; she herself had initially opposed marriage. My mother had been younger than I am when she had birthed me and Jace. Visenya shudders at the thought. Her father hadn’t been concerned, confiding that she could wed out of duty and fuck whomever she pleased. Men always do so. Why shouldn’t I? Her twin had convinced her that she would find a suitable pair, to her liking. Jace had the right of it. I chose Cregan, and he chose me. She touches her brooch through her trousers. I’m assuming control of my life and my future.

          ‘I will,’ declares Visenya, seething, jutting her chin, ‘He is neither a usurper, nor a kinslayer. Cregan is worth a thousand of you, and more.’

          ‘Yet you delay marrying him, and the wolf pup delays assembling his banners and marching,’ admonishes Aemond, his reddened cheek beginning to swell, ‘Perhaps you are not as devoted to each other as you think you are.’

          A surrounded animal, slinging its final, pitiful blows. Her wolf’s motives for not marching had been warranted. He awaits the collection of the harvest, so that he can feed his subjects throughout the winter. The Southrons seal themselves in their castles with their bountiful harvests, whereas the Northerners bear the brunt of the burden – snow, frost, famine, death. Cregan’s obligations lie with his people and his lands.

          As for herself, Visenya prefers to marry him during peace and stability. He could mourn his wife properly, and he would not be widowed again, if I were to… to…

          ‘His Winter Wolves are at the Twins,’ she states, noting Aemond’s mouth twitching, ‘They have joined their forces with the Freys’, and will resume their advance south. They are merely a fraction of the North’s strength. I assure you. Cregan will honor his vow.’

          She had wept upon reading Lord Roderick Dustin’s words to Lady Sabitha Frey. We have come to die for the dragon queen. Cregan had taught Visenya about the Winter Wolves – elderly men who leave their homes in order to conserve supplies for their kin. Grisly custom. Those warriors hope to die for glory and plunder. They will never reunite with their families. Wretched conditions, wretched measures.

          Aemond must have observed a spark in her eyes, heard something amiss in her voice that aroused his suspicion.

          ‘What have you done, Visenya?’, he demands, narrowing his eye, fixing her with a hawkish glare.

          I fucked the wolf pup. And Alyn Velaryon… Not both at the same time. She had befriended Alyn and his older brother Addam shortly after hers and Jace’s return from Winterfell. Her twin had summoned Targaryen bastards – “dragonseeds” – for the riderless dragons, promising wealth, lands, and knighthood for those triumphant. Addam’s feat of claiming Seasmoke had emboldened the Sea Snake to petition Queen Rhaenyra to legitimise the Hull boys. Conveniently, their mother Marilda had revealed that they had been sired by Ser Laenor Velaryon. And Mushroom is seven feet tall. My stepfather had no interest in women. Lord Corlys had proceeded to name Addam his heir.

          Alyn, however, had been less fortunate. Sheepstealer had bathed his cloak in flames. His brother had doused the fire, saving his life. At least Grey Ghost had vanished. Those had been wild dragons. Alyn is lucky to be alive. Grand Maester Gerardys had tended his burns, and Visenya had changed his bandages thrice a day – delighting in his insolence. The habit had blossomed into clumsy intimacy. She had seldom stayed the night – a decision that hadn’t troubled Alyn. He never judged me. Visenya misses him; his jests, his smile, his company.

          A furious Jace had reprimanded his twin for her recklessness and temerity, arguing that Cregan was a good man, a second chance – everything that she had ever dreamed of. Her involvement with Alyn could compromise their indispensable alliance with the North. Visenya had listened to his warning, remorse slithering around her throat.

          I have been remiss… but Alyn is only a matter of brevity. I have to tread prudently.

          ‘I do as I please,’ she asserts, the ghost of a smirk tugging at her lips, ‘Do not fret, cousin. Cregan treated me well and was most gentle with me… the first time.’

          Her admission slices him to the bone. Aemond’s expression sinks, desolation flooding his eye. A child looks at her, into her, agony engraved on his features. Have I been too austere? Spoken too harshly? He had betrayed her trust, had usurped the throne, and had murdered her brother. My sins pale in comparison.

          Aemond recoils, turning away from her, his head lowered. His fists clench at his sides. The table behind her shakes at Vhagar’s menacing growl. Visenya maintains her composure, sheathing herself in steel. I will not cow. I am the blood of the dragon.

          And I will not regret Cregan.

          While she hadn’t lacked for suitors, those men had sought to marry her out of pride and ambition. My Targaryen heritage brings their House closer to the Iron Throne, and my dragon is power.

          She had proposed to Cregan that she would willingly surrender her maidenhood to him, as a token of her intention to wed him. Fighting a war a maiden seems particularly dreadful. Should anything befall her, Cregan wouldn’t feel cheated or insulted – he would have claimed her gift of innocence.

          I lost my innocence long ago.

          Visenya hadn’t abused her station to compel him to lie with her. She wouldn’t have been offended if he hadn’t desired her.

          “I would be,” her wolf had responded, earning a chuckle from her.

          Two nights – and numerous fiery kisses – later, he had accepted her offer. A timorous ardor had washed over Visenya, her heart hammering against her rib cage. Cregan had led her out of the godswood, past the hot springs, the main iron gate with its walls, across the inner yards, into the castle, and up the winding stairs – retreating to his solar, where they had shared half a flagon of wine. He had kindly asked her if she had been nervous.

          No. I am a Targaryen princess, a dragonrider… and the wine soothed my nerves.

          Their intimate moments had been sweet, passionate, exhilarating. Visenya remembers them so vividly. His large hands cupping her face, disrobing her with deft precision, caressing and fondling every inch of her. His darkened eyes reveling in her figure. Cregan lifting her into his arms as though she weighed nothing, laying her down on the bed. His tongue licking her stiffened nipples, his mouth sucking on her plump breasts. Her fist stroking his leaking cock, guiding him into her heat slowly. Cregan swallowing her soft whine when entering her, the stretch burning deliciously. The overwhelming need to hold him nearer. Wrapping her limbs around him as he vigorously thrust into her, the featherbed engulfing her. The chambers brimming with their moans, gasps, and the lascivious sounds of sweaty skin slapping against sweaty skin. Cregan intertwining their fingers, Cregan driving her to the heights of pleasure, Cregan spilling his seed inside her, blending with her maiden’s blood.

          Slick pools between her legs, and Visenya squeezes her thighs shut, salivating at the memory.

          He had collapsed on top of her, and – at her insistence – had lied there, panting, his face buried in her neck, his beard tickling her. An equally breathless Visenya had threaded her digits through his damp hair, pecking his cheek and his temple. Cregan had rolled off of her, grunting at the effort, and had pulled her into him, allowing her to rest her head on his chest, and to hook her leg over his. Her wolf had attentively inquired whether he had hurt her.

          “Not at all,” she had murmured, demure, draping her arm over him, their combined fluids trickling on her groin, “You have been so good to me.”

          Visenya had drifted off to sleep in his safe embrace, lulled by his heartbeat and his snores. His body had been a hearth underneath the pelts. I am the blood of the dragon, allured by warmth and fire.

          She and Cregan had spent most evenings together – to the dismay of his bed. Days had been dedicated to duties, negotiations, and furtive glances, nights for themselves and for each other; for raw lust, hushed laughter, and the solace that they had been starved of; for their satiation and contentment. Her loins had often ached by the next morning. A good ache.

          Cregan had even taken her in the godswood, under a starry sky, before the heart tree, following their sword sparring. Afterwards, he had suggested that they retire to his solar.

          ‘To sleep?’, questioned Visenya, coyly, tangling their feet together.

          ‘If that is what the princess wants,’ granted her wolf, amiably.

          ‘The princess wants you,’ she mumbled, nestling against him, their clothes and furs providing scant shelter from the cold.

          ‘She has me,’ vouched Cregan, carding his fingers through her locks, ‘All of me.’

          Oh, yes. He has had me in the sight of the old gods, and I have bled for him. Targaryens have always had a grievously deep connection to blood. It’s one of our House’s words. Our forebears used blood magic to bind the winged beasts to them. We cut ourselves and drink each other’s blood during our nuptials. We practice incest to ensure the purity of our bloodline. The blood of Old Valyria, the blood of the dragon. Blood unites, and blood divides.

          Their stealthy meetings might not have been shrouded in such secrecy. Jace had dared to tease Visenya about the marks that he had glimpsed on her throat. She had thrown a snowball at him, hitting him in the nose.

          ‘Locking myself in a castle is more appealing than waging war against my own kin,’ admitted Visenya, in an instance of fragility, atop one of Winterfell’s towers.

          ‘You’re not destined to hide in a castle,’ proponed Cregan, petting Fang, basking in the sun – reminiscent of their early mornings abed. I would trace the lines of his back, the scars on his chest, admire his naked form as he opened the shutters… ‘Your hair is akin to the snow around us, your eyes the color of the sunset sky. Why would nature make you so lovely, if not to behold you and to reflect on you? The sun must see you to shine, the moon to glow.’

          Visenya tore her gaze away from him, misty-eyed.

          Her Valyrian appearance had protected her from japes about being a Strong bastard. Is that term so preposterous? My parents hadn’t been married at my birth. I had borne the name Velaryon for a decade. People had viewed her as a Myrish carpet – to be gaped at – and had treated her like a stud-mare, to be bought, owned, and mounted to produce sons – her beauty a mere instrument to that end. Devious motives behind hollow adulation.

          ‘You are gracious, my lord,’ rasped Visenya, flustered, the gossip of the commonfolk below muffling her answer slightly, ‘I am flattered.’

          ‘I have spoken the truth,’ affirmed Cregan, tipping her chin up, coaxing her to peer at him, ‘You are meant to be kissed.’

          ‘By you,’ she assented, his gloved digits wiping her tears, delicately.

          On the day of the dragon twins’ departure from Winterfell, Vermax and Blackwing had been impatient to leave the North and its freezing temperatures. Visenya hadn’t shared their zeal. I’m not a little girl anymore. The winds of winter are rising. There is a war to be fought and won.

          “Come back to me,” her wolf whispered to her, their joined hands concealed in their cloaks and pelts.

          I will.

          Aemond’s subtle movements wrest her to the present.

          We’re at war with the Greens. I’m a prisoner at Stoney Sept, in the Pretender’s camp. My Cregan is leagues away.

          I must not forget my mission.

          Aemond’s insidious posture betrays him, his shoulders on the brink of crumbling under the burden of his pride and envy.

          ‘A dragon rendered a broodmare by a wolf pup,’ he chastises, repulsed, his features drawn into solemn lines, ‘Have you spread your legs for his army, too? I wouldn’t be surprised, given your taste for depravity.’

          Visenya refrains from guffawing, albeit with great difficulty. Oh, may the Crone’s lantern light my path to wisdom, and may the Father judge me justly, and may the Mother show me mercy, for I am a filthy wanton, and Lord Stark does possess a generous… host.

          ‘I would rather be his broodmare than be your wife,’ she spits, defiant, baring her teeth, ‘The wolf pup is Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North.’ And you are insufferably obtuse. ‘He and his bannermen will liberate me, should the Winter Wolves and the river lords fail to do so, and should you yourself refuse to release me. Are you so mad that you would oppose the might and wrath of the entire North?

          ‘I have heard enough about your wolf pup,’ announces Aemond, his nostrils flaring, ‘He has dishonored you. Perhaps I ought to march on his bleak castle, after I seize Harrenhal.’

          You ought to dress up in motley. Visenya shifts her weight from one foot to the other, her brow creased. The Hightowers must have abandoned their wits putting him in charge. Aemond is utterly inept. Their Lannister friends will find trouble at the Red Fork, and he will never take Harrenhal from my father.

          ‘Your men are unlikely to survive the muds of the riverlands, whose lords have unanimously declared for my mother,’ argues Visenya, twirling a lock of her hair around her forefinger, ‘I doubt that they will endure the hostile conditions in the North… also pledged to Queen Rhaenyra.’

          ‘I have Vhagar,’ reminds Aemond, his arrogance oozing like pus.

          ‘And what of it?’, she hisses, squinting her eyes, ‘You would torch the North, from the Neck to the Wall, on hoary, old Vhagar? Tens of thousands would perish.’

          Despite rivaling the combined size of the other kingdoms, the North is scarcely populated. Their lives, lands, history, and culture matter all the same.

          ‘Your wolf pup amongst them, if the gods are good,’ drones Aemond, looping his digits through his belt.

          ‘Cregan will die of old age, in my arms,’ corrects Visenya, keeping her furled fists at her sides, lest she strike him again, ‘You cannot vanquish the North. It is too vast and too wild. The Neck is impenetrable, filled with swamps and bogs. Moat Cailin is a choke point, and it has shielded the North from southron invasions for millennia. This is folly, Aemond. It will be your doom.’

          Then why am I trying to dissuade him?

          ‘Or on the contrary, the glory will be mine,’ boasts Aemond, his permanent smirk bolstering his confidence, ‘Those savages might dare to resist me, but in the end, they will pose a minor obstacle. Aegon the Conqueror brought the North to its knees.’

          ‘Because King Torrhen Stark bent the knee after the Field of Fire, to avoid bloodshed,’ objects Visenya, scowling, ‘Do not attempt to revise history. Ours will not redeem you. The kinslayer is accursed in the eyes of gods and men. The lickspittles that buzz around you will never be sincere, so I will bestow the truth upon you. You are cruel, despicable, and you nurse a grievance like a suckling babe. You are not Aegon the Conqueror. You are a prideful fool playing at war.’ You’re not good at it, either. ‘And winter is coming. That is the truth.’

          ‘The truth?’, repeats Aemond, creeping up on her, his eye boring into hers – a predator scenting its prey, ‘What do you know of the truth, Visenya? You lie and deceive and plot with every breath that you draw. You are a traitor to the realm, daughter of traitors, sister of traitors. You chose the Iron Throne over me.’

          You chose for me.

          ‘My mother is the rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms,’ she pronounces, her smile ominous, ‘The only traitor here is you, nuncle. You cower from the truth, and you retain it from everyone.’ Visenya tiptoes, and their lips almost touch. ‘You are looking with the wrong eye. Perhaps you will have to close the other to finally see.’

          Aemond cups her face roughly, pressing her against the table.

          ‘Your mother will never sit the Iron Throne,’ he sneers, ‘And neither will you. She still spurns you as her heir, but I vow to pay you the homage that you so desperately crave, and to lavish you with precious gifts – the heads of your family, your betrothed, and your stepson. They shall decorate the spikes of the Red Keep–’

          Visenya swiftly yanks his dagger from his belt. Aemond seizes her wrist too late. The tip of the blade digs at the underside of his chin.

          ‘Enough, Aemond!’, bellows Visenya, and for a moment, she is her ferocious Blackwing incarnate, ‘Are you deaf, as well as blind? You have usurped the throne, murdered my brother, and butchered hundreds of innocents. Your actions have consequences. Heed my words, for the love that you claim to bear me.’ She drags the point of the dirk down to the base of his throat, nicking him. ‘You will not make me an orphan and a widow. You are surrounded by enemies in every direction, and more are gathering as we speak. We have the armies, the fleet, the dragons, and most importantly, the legitimacy. An advantage that you will never have. So, either kill me or let me go, and flee to Essos, because you cannot – you will not – survive what’s coming for you. The choice is yours.’

          Aemond’s malicious eye studies her, a forlorn wall of blue ice.

          The boy I grew up with is gone. Hasn’t Visenya sensed it all along? We are not children anymore. The time has come to accept it.

          When has it all gone so awry, become so twisted? She mourns the boy that she had once shared everything with – a childhood, hopes, dreams. Those died with Lucerys.

          Dreams didn’t make us kings. Dragons did… and tears cannot quench dragonfire.

          It ends as it began, with fire and blood.

          Bloodlines will burn.

          Visenya licks the blood off of the tip of the dagger, spins the weapon, and presents it to Aemond, hilt first.

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[vintage-marina]

Burned to the unrecognizable

Ñuha = mine/my

sỹz toaba = good boy

riñnykeā = child

Female Targaryen reader!

Ship is not specified, is only a fic with your dragon

iksan vaoreznuni = I'm sorry

Draegan = name of your dragon

summary: You're dragon is wounded by some of the Dragonkeepers

Tw: beast cruality, death

You could feel the fear and pain from your dragon in your bones, your hair blew in the wind and with all your strength you ran towards the Dragon Pit, your guards hot on your heels.

You didn't know what the cause was, but in that moment you dropped everything you were doing and ordered the guards to come along.

You couldn't see a thing, the morning fell with a heavy mist that covered Kings Landing. Your foot slipped away, but just in time you could rebalance yourself.

A deep agony grazed your abdomen, you couldn't help but call his name while tears slipped from your eyes.

Time slowed by each minute down, you almost reached the Pit, just a few steps more. The roaring cry of Draegan could be heard from kilometres away, you and the guards quickened your steps.

You almost flew on the stairs, your brows furrowed with concern and fury. You heard him more clearly now, his broken cries clenched your heart, but the realisation of him being hurted shattered your heart.

Hands balled up, you spotted your dark red dragon shuffling in big metal entrapments.

What the fuck happened in the week that you were gone for duties?

Smoke appeared underneath the belly of your boy and horror snuck on your face when you realised the foul stence. "Draegan!" you screamed so loud as you can. "Line everyone up who dared to hurt my child."

The Dragonkeepers heard your voice and with shock they stopped what they were doing, in the hope you didn't notice. But alas, you saw, felt and heard everything.

Draegan looked up, a soft huff escaped his jaw and he lowered his body and head. With swift steps you walked towards him, your lips were quavering. Out of the side of your eye you saw your guards one by one dragging the Dragonkeepers on the ground.

Good, a small smile graced your lips.

But when you focused on him again, you couldn't help but let slip more tears on your cheeks.

"Ñuha riñnykeã," you began softly. You rested your hand on the snout of his nose. "Iksan vaoreznuni, you didn't deserve to be treated like that." He leaned with his head against your hand, you gave on top of his skin a kiss and nuzzled your head against his scales.

Calm settled between the both of you.

One of your guards scraped his throat and after a few seconds you lifted your head, acknowledging that he may speak. "We already informed the maesters, they are on their way."

"Thank you."

"What will we do with them, Your Royal Highness?"

"Nothing, yet. Make them sweat a bit, I will be there in a minute."

Slowly you pulled away from your dragon, making him huff. "Wait a minute my boy. I need to see your injuries." you walked around him. "And someone please uncage him!" Your voice boomed through the large chamber.

In no time Draegan was freed, but still he wouldn't lower his belly. Smoke still sizzled underneath him and large chunks of skin and scales were burned off, leaving a bloody and burned surface.

You tried to pet the unharmed side of him, but your dragon gave a fair warning that quickly made you retreat. When you tried to see more of his injuries he simply pushed you away.

The Dragonkeepers would suffer.

"I have seen enough," voice laced with calmed rage. You walked calmly to your guards, the maesters were in the distance. At this point they were the only one who you could trust Draegan with. You didn't know if they even knew how to heal a dragon, but under watchfull eyes they should. Your hands were clasped behind your back, you stood next to some of your guards when they announced your name.

"Y/N Targaryen, first of her name. Princess of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men."

" I, Y/N Targayren saw for the first time in my life my child in pain by the hands of the people who swored to protect him." you watched the six Dragonkeepers with fury. "My child who was hurten by his very own people and indirectly they have been hurting me. Not only you have been hurting me and my child, you showed your true colours towardsthe Crown. Therefore I declare the highest from of treason.¨

Some of them gasped in shock, but you continued. "You will be punished in the same way you did to Draegan." Stopping for a moment you whispered to the guards next to you. "Take them in a few minutes to the cellars."

You watched the six Dragonkeepers and you drew your breath, "burned to the unrecognizable."

Therefore your speech was done, their feet were dragging on the floor and your guards slept them away.

You drew your attention to Draegan again, the maesters already treating his wounds. A genuine smile maked his way on your face. You petted his snout again while they were helping him, "Ñuha sỹz toaba." you whispered towards the dragon.

-

Comments are really appreciated!

[axelsagewrites]

Rhanerya's Younger Sister Mood Board

[l-uminescent]

˚⁀➷｡˚ KINSLAYER ━━━ AEMOND TARGARYEN X FEM! READER

part two.

synopsis: rhaenyra’s daughter seeks revenge for the death of her beloved younger brother lucerys velaryon. and what better way to gain it, than from the man she was once betrothed to.

notes: did i steal daemon’s plot? yes. did the reader do it better? also yes. fuck aemond targaryen (who is 22 here) for killing lucerys fr, and fuck tumblr for making me repost this bc they shadowbanned me :(

warnings: reader is rhaenyra’s daughter, angst, violence, mention of blood, future hotd spoiler (battle above the gods eye)

word count: 3.9k

ONCE UPON A TIME YOU HAD THOUGHT YOU HAD KNOWN WHAT LOVE HAD FELT LIKE. being betrothed to none over than aemond targaryen in an attempt to ensure peace between the divided targaryen house, had gave you a sense of hope. the childish crush you had on the one-eyed prince had long exceeded into your adulthood (unbeknownst to you for a long while). and the news that you were to be married to the man you had felt so deeply for, had you thanking the gods that you were to be so lucky. 

for much of your adulthood, you denied the feelings you had for aemond. brushing the giddiness you felt when you were younger off as a fleeting childhood crush. now, the crimson paint that adorned your cheeks you put down to a sense of duty; you had to act the blushing bride in order to do your part for the realm. your mother's constant reminders that it was you who could maintain the peace between dragons, made you believe it was a sense of duty to your house; to prevent the bloodshed and the path to destruction that would follow if blood was spilt. as time went on, you begrudgingly admitted to yourself that maybe, just maybe, the small minuscule crush you had on the prince, in fact never left. you often reflected on the times where you had lived in king's landing with your family, often choosing to spend time with the second son of the king. you two were inseparable, where aemond went you were sure to not be too far behind. often, challenging each other on who would learn the most high valyrian words in a day, and who would learn the history of their ancestors first. it was a match the gods intended.

however, this sue for peace had crumbled completely. only a mere memory in your mind of what could have been if the targayren house was not so ignorant to the fact that women had much of a right to ascend the throne (you had king jaehaerys to uphold much of the blame for this decision). and now, the house was at war with one another. the dance of the dragons was surely to follow, leaving nothing but war across the realm and your poor broken heart.

the death of your brother lucerys did not seem to help with the feeling of heartbreak that effected life upon dragonstone. you spent many days and nights cooped up in your chambers. there was no one to turn too. yes, you sought comfort with your mother but she too was a shell of her former self. with jacaerys many miles north in winterfell, and your husband the murderer of such an innocent boy, you were left with nothing but your own reckless thoughts. as the sun rose in the east and set in the west day after day, your pain and suffering festered into a new, dark feeling within you. the sadness within was replaced with a craving of utter revenge. the lovesick girl, eyes wide with care and awe was shattered, replaced by a woman no, a dragon, who would go to any means to avenge the cruel death of her sweet younger brother. the love you had felt for the man you once were engaged to disappeared the moment you had learnt what he done; marring any chances at evading the war that was surely to follow. you swore to seek revenge with fire and blood. in whatever means the gods meant it to happen. 

━━━━━━━━━━ *ੈ✩‧₊˚ ━━━━━━━━━

the small council met as the sun lays lazily high in the sky, providing the normally dark and gloomy room with a sliver of light that is often uncommon on the island of dragonstone home to dreary weather most of the time. you welcome the sun in all its glory, soaking it in as you stand next to your brother jacaerys as you listen to the squabbles between the men as they discuss the course of action to take next. small crescents dawned under your eyes, reflecting the many sleepless nights you have come to known. the tiredness you feel currently now and all throughout the days since luke's passing has become an old friend to you, one that is begrudging to leave. you tune out, the effects of another sleepless night and your lack of interest in the bickering that is beginning to fester amongst the lords and your mother is boring you. instead, your eyes are captured by the ball of fire that lay millions of miles away. you weren't all that religious, if it came down to it you preferred the valyrian or old gods in favour of the seven. but there was no doubt the glistening embers that rained upon the room was a good omen. you were sure lucerys was looking down upon you, he adored the few sunny days on dragonstone, and this brought a small smile to your face. 

you hadn't realised just how deep in thought you were until your brothers voice broke you out of whatever hazy trance you were. despite tuning out, you had gathered the basics of the discussion - ser criston cole had set his eyes on rooks rest, and a dragon was needed to defend the castle. jacaerys' proposition to fly vermax was quickly shut down by your mother, deeming the boy as too inexperienced in battle and the dragon too young. 

"i will go." 

the words escaped your lips before you even had a chance to think them through properly. the feeling of revenge running through your veins was more than enough to spark this confident outburst. it had to be you who would go to rooks rest. you did not understand why this feeling was so apparent, whether it be the good omen in the sky, or the smile that had graced your lips for the first time in many moons at the thought of your brother being the one who sent it. but the need to take seat upon your dragon silverwing and fly to rooks rest settled in your soul as a desire you needed to fulfil. you knew immediately your mother would never agree to this, already refusing jacaerys to go meant there was absolutely no possibility she would let you go. 

"no. you too lack the experience that is needed in battle. i will not lose another child to this war." rhaenyra's voice trembled slightly with the mentioning of lucerys but she held strong with her decision to not let either of her elder children fly to battle. the mentioning of luke only feeding the fire in your blood, the need to seek revenge for his passing. 

looking up at your mother, you knew she had understood this as it was plainly evident on your face. alas, rhaenyra could not deny you had your mother's stubbornness and your father's strength. "mother, the entire council knows it is far too dangerous to risk the lives of both you and jace. queen and heir. send me, your grace. silverwing is used to battle and if war and bloodshed is sure to follow with the greens still bot bending the knee to you, then we must become acquainted with it." 

her eyes softened as she gazed upon yours, you reminded her so much of herself in her youth. the fire that burned within you mirrored that of hers. the want to prove yourself as more as weak was apparent, when many men had deemed you fragile due to the gender you were born as, you felt the urge to prove them wrong, just as your mother had felt, still feels with the many lords at the council who still see her as the weaker sex. she knew you were going to fly to battle whether she permitted you leave or not. and with a slight of her head you knew her answer. her lilac eyes gazing into yours with such intensity you knew the message conveyed. be safe, sweet girl.

another voice a the council spoke up, one you weren't expecting to hear. your grandmother, rhaenys. "you must send me as well, your grace. meleys is no stranger to battle, like silverwing. two dragons will be better than one, if the greens decide to also send a dragon to battle."

you were shocked that your grandmother was to fight so willingly for your mother's claim to the throne but yet, the more you pondered the less surprised you were. she too was a woman who should have ascended the throne, the queen who never was, yet king jaehaerys passed over her claim as a count of being weak as she was a woman. gods you hated the man sometimes. 

you were no stranger to the care of your grandmother. she knew straight away that her son was not actually your father, you were born a bastard, fathered to ser harwin strong yet she loved you nevertheless. just as coryls velaryon had favoured young luke, rhaenys, favoured you. your dark her reminded her much of her mother jocelyn baratheon and the way in which you clung to her as a child reminded her so much of leanor. she had grown to love you as you her, and refused to see you alone on the battlefield. 

"come granddaughter, we have much to prepare." rhaenys spoke softly as your mother dismissed the council, guiding you with her hand on the small of your back. giving one last nod to your mother, you notice the look of such fierce love in her. the promise of suffering she would bring if you were hurt. yet, the only thing rhaeynra could do now is pray to the gods above that her only girl would return to her safely. and by the gods she did.

━━━━━━━━━━ *ੈ✩‧₊˚ ━━━━━━━━━

silverwing was just as mesmerising as the day you claimed her at the tender age of  ten and three. her silvery scales often reminded you of the stars that hung from the sky. glistening intently as you often sat at your window deep in thought. such a docile creature, you could not help but fall in love with her kind nature; a dragon who was most friendly to strangers. as you approached her now a small smile once again graced your lips. the she dragon bent down to greet you, pressing her snout to your hand in a sign of understanding. the intelligence of the dragon was also something that had drawn you to her, she was able to sense every emotion you felt. she had known you were grieving and did not hold it against you that you had neglected to visit her. instead, she blew smoke from her nostrils, and you could have sworn she wore a toothy grin. silverwing was glad you had returned to her. 

flying your dragon had somewhat eased the dull ache that seemed to have made a permanent home in your heart. the ocean beneath you and the wind in your hair brought a sense of relief. this was home. you had miss flying your dragon across the realm, watching as the landscape beneath you changed from countryside, to villages, to oceans and to cities. it was freeing. as fast as she was, silverwing was no match for the speed in which meleys, your grandmother's dragon, flew. as she soared effortlessly through the sky, your dragon tried her hardest to keep up. 

"don't push yourself silverwing. meleys is a fast dragon. " you uttered calmingly to your dragon in high valyrian, stroking her scales softly in a show of comfort. oh how you missed speaking the language too. "calm my sweet girl, it will be okay."

as you finally caught up to rhaenys, the two dragons held pace with one another as you surveyed the fields below. ser criston cole's army had been spotted approaching rooks rest. the elder women held your eyes. a message passing through the two of you to get this done as quickly as possible. and with a cry, meleys delved to the army, silverwing not far behind her

a mix of anxiety and adrenaline coursed through your veins. you were petrified at failing the mission and returning to your mother's disappointed face with the castle in the hands of the greens. yet the pure adrenaline of gaining your revenge from those who supported the man who usurped your mother's throne and took your brother urged you to keep going "attack silverwing." you called out causing the dragon to plummet to the ground to attack those below.

the field that was once riddled with soldiers was now nothing but flame and smoke. red heat from the lips of your dragon had engulfed almost the entirety of the battlefield. the flames below you were nothing of the flickering of the candles in dragonstone that brought you comfort. no, the flames you caused mirrored the emotion inside, the intensity of the anger you felt, the betrayal from the man you once loved to cause this amount of pain. 

a sound you had not heard in a long time broke you out of your rage induced comatose. you froze, the greens had come for you. looking up, you recognised the gleaming golden dragon belonging to the usurper king aegon. sunfyre. your anger had only intensified at the man willing himself to fight against you and your grandmother. doubling around the castle, silverwing dipped her sharpened claws into the ocean's water, ensuring a clean cut against sunfyre before rising above the cliffs face, ready for battle. he was no match for that of silverwing and meleys.

despite the adrenaline within, you could not help but worry for your grandmother, as you watched the flames engulf both her and aegon as the dance begun. the women held a dear place in your heart and the image of her being hurt was enough to push you to attack the sun kissed dragon. flying to meet your grandmother, silverwing allowed herself to flip and glide between the flames aimed at you both. the bellows of aegon left a satisfying smirk upon your lips as meleys claws took hold within the belly of the enemy dragon, as you willed silverwing to attack the dragon's wings from above. clawing and scratching at sunfyre, silverwing and meleys both have seemed to have done immense damage to the golden beauty. chunks of the dragons wings had been ripped out and cuts adorned her body, red blood oozing out of her scales. the final blow had been dealt by your grandmother, yet war was far from over as a sickening roar had been heard beyond the trees.

aemond taragaryen had come out to play.

your breath hitched, letting you only to take only shallow breathes as vhagar descended from the trees. you tried to be brave, tried to hold back the tears that were evident in your glassy eyes yet you couldn't. tear drops sprung like rivers cascading down your terror-stricken face as you saw the shining silver hair of the man who had once been the love of your life, and subsequently the reasoning behind all your pain. wrapping the leather reigns that kept you in control of your dragon, you urged her to continue flying around rooks rest. the wind blew harshly as you circled the ashy landscape, drying your tears and making whatever was left stick to your reddened face. as vhagar descended upon the battle in the sky,  hought's swam through your head as you shouted at your dragon to attack, you wished away all feelings of dread. 

in that sliver of calm, you could not help but feel drawn to the sun as it had once again graced you with its appearance. and with lucerys velaryon looking down on you, you knew the gods wanted you to have your revenge in that moment. they had brought aemond to the battle for a reason after all.

flying up to sit side by side with rhaenys, you allowed the hatred in your heart to take over. the fire in your blood burned at the audacity for aemond to dare show his face after all that he had done. 

"it has to be me grandmother." you shouted over the howling winds in high valyrian. the distaste within had spoken clearly, it had to be you who destroyed the man in front of you. you knew rhaneys understood that, but you also knew she carried the same stubborn nature that all targaryen's had come to possess. plowing into vhagar first, it was obvious she was no match for the queen of dragons. sending waves of fire to the boy riding her, melyes took the moment of distraction to tear at the beast's stomach. 

unbeknownst to you, sunfyre had risen again at the sound of vhagar's approach. seeing the flame grown in the dragon's mouth, rhaneys abandoned the attack on the larger dragon, instead focusing on the dragon mere inches from you. ambushing her from the side, meleys' jaws clamp around the neck of the usurper's dragon. in a state of shock, you forced silverwing to the side, gratefulness gracing your features at your saviour. 

nonetheless, it was plain to see that both meleys and silverwing did not hold enough power to over through the two dragon's that had come to fight. with rhaenys preoccupied with the second coming of sunfyre and aegon, it had left you with the battled against  vhagar. having lived centuries you knew that you were no match for her. she had helped with aegon the conqueror's conquest and that alone had gained her much more experience in battle than your dragon would ever come to know.

reality kicked in like a knife to your stomach. understanding what you had to do sent shivers down your spine, but there was no other way.  to kill the dragon you must kill the rider. 

your mind flickered back to the many moments you had spent with aemond over the years. sneaking into one another's chambers at night to tell stories you have read in history books. the days spent in the garden giggling at the idiocy of your family. and as the two of you got older, you recounted the longing gazes in one another's directions, the stammering and blush that rose to your cheeks anytime he was near. the brushing of limbs at the feast as your grandsire had announced the betrothal. 

none of that mattered now. he had made his choice when he decided to slay his kin and you had made yours. 

gazing upon silverwing properly for the last time you spoke quietly "forgive me, comfort my mother when i am gone. i beg of you." the silver beauty squeaked in return, a note of sadness in her tone. she would miss you just as much as she missed queen alyssane, but she would honour your choice gallantly. "fly back to dragonstone when i am gone. i do not wish you to suffer the same fate, my love."

with your mind made up, you willed your dragon to fly to meet aemond and vhagar taking in a shaky breathe as you did. as silverwing glided through the air, her claw's tore through vhagar. nevertheless, the silver beauty had barely left any damage. vhagar's thick skin was almost impenetrable, only small surface wound were left behind from the attacks you inflicted on her. the only thing that kept you alive was your dragon's ability to stray so close to vhagar yet slip effortlessly beyond her reach whenever her jaws made an attempt to kill you both. 

allowing silverwing to deal with vhagar, meant that you were left to deal with her rider; your glassy eyes never leaving  the man who had caused you such suffering. he had grown you noted, his cheeks now hollowed out as if he has been struggling to eat, a dark crescent clear under his one good eye. the hate in your heart weakened, you had almost felt an ounce of sympathy at his obviously heartbroken state. you wondered if he had regretted his actions; had regretted pushing you away. you wondered if he blamed himself for what had happened that night, if he had really meant to kill luke on purpose. but you also knew you would wonder these things for the rest of your life if you let him live. no matter how much remorse he truly felt within you could never forget his actions, the way in which he took pride in what he did, bragging about being the first to spill blood in this horrific war. and that was enough for you to keep fighting.

pulling away from vhagar for a final time, you flew back around the castle unstrapping the saddle you had on silverwing, tossing it to the wind. unstrapping the sword, daemon had given you from your twentieth name day, you held it in your palm with such force that your knuckles began to whiten. as silverwing set her sights on vhagar once more, a final sound of pain came from your dragon as she knew what you had planned to do. knowing there was no way in changing your mind she flew above the dragon and its rider, positioning you perfectly in what you aimed to do. 

holding onto one of the many talons in her back, you allowed yourself to stand upon your dragon's back, the sword still tight in your hand. your eyes had never left that of the icy lilac that sat below you. the mix of fear and understanding stood in his, as he knew what you were about to do a second too late. the shock of realisation came as he tried to unfasten the straps that kept him tied to vhagar. she was too big of a dragon to move in time for what you were about to bestow upon the targaryen prince, and it was too high of a jump for him to survive.  

jumping from your dragon's back you let your mind to once again reflect all the love you had for aemond taragaryen. allowing yourself to find comfort in the fact that you had known love in your lifetime.

and as you drew the sword through him, you felt no remorse. a debt had been payed. revenge had been served. for luke.

but, there was no escaping the torment your heart inflicted upon you in the moment your sword pierced his only good eye. you had thought aemond would hold loathing at what you had done in his final moments, but all he felt was abhorrence for himself. driving you to the point of sorrow and grief where you had felt like you could do nothing more than seek revenge for what he had done. whispering a soft "i love you'' before you had pierced him, gave you the closure you had needed. those three words had answered all the questions that had played over and over in your mind, running rampant through your darkest hours.

the history books recalled that you had died peacefully with no call of a dragon to save you. you had plummeted to the ground with the man you had loved, knowing you had avenged your sweet innocent brother lucerys and had come to learn aemond had regretted his actions dearly. this was truly enough for you to die happily. and that you did.

[starogeorgina]

“𝑾𝒆 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒅𝒊𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒅𝒓𝒂𝒈𝒐𝒏 𝒒𝒖𝒆𝒆𝒏.”

𝑸𝒖𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝑹𝒉𝒂𝒆𝒏𝒚𝒓𝒂 𝑻𝒂𝒓𝒈𝒂𝒓𝒚𝒆𝒏, 𝑭𝒊𝒓𝒔𝒕 𝒐𝒇 𝑯𝒆𝒓 𝑵𝒂𝒎𝒆, 𝑸𝒖𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑨𝒏𝒅𝒂𝒍𝒔, 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑹𝒉𝒐𝒚𝒏𝒂𝒓 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑭𝒊𝒓𝒔𝒕 𝑴𝒆𝒏, 𝑳𝒂𝒅𝒚 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑺𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏 𝑲𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒅𝒐𝒎𝒔, 𝑷𝒓𝒐𝒕𝒆𝒄𝒕𝒐𝒓 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒍𝒎

[livmondcole]

🖤💚

[blueberrypancakesworld]

Could I request Aemond x a civilian reader that’s more or less been adopted into Rhaenyra’s family? Like she originally grew up on a farm of some sorts so she still has a lot to learn, a quick talker and often somethings blurting out things that she should think about before saying.

She’s with Jace and Luke when the family comes back for the lil “family reunion,” and ends up seeing Aemond for the first time during his training. She’s already been made aware of who he is, but she certainly isn’t expecting a hot blonde. Which prompts her to blurt out “you didn’t tell me your uncle was hot” during that tense little stare down. Everyone is mortified, but instead of being irrated, Aemond finds her boldness amusing, and her innocent oblivious quite cute. And having there own little dance alongside Hal and Jace during that rare moment of peace.

I just think Aemond deserves some love

The farm princess and the rough sapphire

Aemond x civilian reader warning : fluff, kiss, comfort, dysfunctional family, no use of Y/n Summary : In the entire Targaryen dynasty history, there has only been one record of an adoption from outside the family, a former civilian child now grown into the mockingly named Farm Princess finds herself with her adoptive sibling at the royal court and is not ashamed to admit her admiration and especially feelings for a certain one-eyed prince...where will this lead?

info : I'm so sorry that you had to wait so long dear anon i hope you like the story, it was really really fun to write and others too have fun reading and thank you for the request :)

ps : Aemond deserves every love and Jace+Hel were so cute

masterlist

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The dnyaste of the dragonrider family of the house of targaren was no millennia old, starting with Daenerys the dreamer, the woman who would change a whole continent in the future with their reign and the dragons the family brought with her.

From the initial three conquerors, the battles began within their own family and continued for more or less a century after Ageon's conquest until the reign of King Viserys, the first of his name, and his second wife Alicent.

Slowly they began to fporm themselves there, but this was a matter for the future, whereas his daughter, the jewel of the realm, had problems of her own in love and at court. The former friendship long forgotten, her kind heart had found feelings and emotions in motherhood when she gave birth to her first son Jacaerys, only a few years younger than his uncle Aegon, her half-brother.

But shortly thereafter, as the princess established her own lineage, uprisings began outside King's Landing, uprisings of renegades of savages ravaging the inhabitants, matters the crown would settle with common soldiers, except that they were not common people.

Wild dragons ravaged the land, and village after village came to claim their people, ,,We want compensation! Someone must do something!" cried the crowds of commoners and for the first time in history, the king was stricken by his illness, Rhaenyra turned away from her former friend, now queen, and her stepmother, the Targayren princess and heiress to the throne won the hearts of all as she flew to the burning remains on her golden dragon Syrax and took from them the one survivor.

Her adopted daughter, the third princess of the realm after Helaena, the farm princess, was given the title of a girl of the same young age as her son, but a child who had had different beginnings.

A girl who had looked at her with wide eyes and had given orders to Syrax to give to the dragon and Rhaenyra couldn't help but laugh, ,,You are quite a dragon" she is said to have said when she had put the child on her dragon and had gnawed the streets of King's Landing.

The people loved her new princess and treated her not only with love but also with hope for better times...but all this was a long time ago seconds, days, months and years turned into another decade and after a long time the naughty child grew into a pretty but not quite noble young woman.

,,Who needs dragons when you have the people and a pitchfork?" she had once said as she watched her brothers tame Vermax and Arrax and Aegon and Helaena also got their dragons, her mother had Syrax and her uncle had Caraxes even the princess Rhaenys had Meylys and her adoptive father had Seasmoke only she didn't have a dragon but somehow she didn't want one either.

She didn't have dragon blood, she wasn't even a bastard child she was adopted through her body so she knew the blood flowed from farmers who had been there for generations and were in the service of the crown she was the highest of the people on the streets but a dragon no.

,,Remember brothers, one should never underestimate the population like the ravens and the grain" she had said to Jace and Luce who were training the komandos with their dragons in Valyrian which she understood but hardly cared about how? She realized that she loved her family above all and was grateful to them.

Rhaenyra had saved her life, but politically or even family-wise she was worthless, ,,You are my daughter, my flame, my pretty dragon, don't you dare think otherwise" her mother always instructed her and gave her small gifts in the form of dragon or flame embroidered clothes and as much as she wore them for her family she also accepted the simpler clothes or those on which grain, wagons and other simple things were embroidered.

But as much as this life was beautiful, it was different when they went back to the city that had been the greatest for her since she could remember, ,,King's Landing! A disgusting city but my home!" she exclaimed as she clung to Rhaenyra's back as she flew towards the city with her mother she usually rode with the heiress to the throne her mother wanted to make her feel like a dragon at least and she enjoyed this with cheers and thankful hugs.

,,There's our home," Rhaenyra murmured and had to smile slightly when they flew over the dragon pit a few months later and landed there, but this was also quickly resolved and before the Targayren could pay attention to her daughter, the young woman had already disappeared on a horse she had been given as compensation for a dragon.

,,I'm in the inner courtyard, mother, don't worry!" she had shouted before the black horse had left and Rhaenyra could only shake her head slightly and face her family while her daughter searched for her brothers Jace and Luce.

It took a few minutes to get from the dragon pit to the inner courtyard, but on the way she was recognized by some of the inhabitants, who greeted her and enjoyed a little of the city's interior. It was really good to see familiar simplicity again and not always just Dragonstone, the castle of "her" ancestors, at least the ancestors who made everything possible for her.

With a grateful thought to her loving mother, however, she reached the courtyard and stopped her horse which was taken from her by a stable boy, but looking around she soon saw the crowd gathered around someone and she caught sight of two dark heads of hair, ,,Dragon tamer brothers! I've missed you!" she shouted stormily.

She hurried to the weapons display where she embraced her brothers, they had all grown older since the days of toys and wooden swords, they each carried real steel and she also preferred to have at least one bread knife hidden in her pencil, an old habit.

,,How nice that you're here, dear sister," Jace said and Lucerys nodded in agreement, the girl was thrilled to have someone else here, an adopted princess and three bastard children was a daring combination but they had somehow managed to keep the rumors at bay so far.

Just as she was about to vent about Jace's hair, she heard the clapping and tense murmuring and turned to the crowd standing around the two fighting, ,,Say, who's fighting there? " she asked and pointed with her finger, which was immediately taken down by Jace who tried to make them all look good, ,,Ser Criston Cole from the Kingsguard and our uncle Aemond" Luce said, who must have been watching the situation closely while his older brother was still at arms.

,,Aemond, you say," she murmured to her thoughts, vaguely remembering the quiet boy with whom she had spoken and played from time to time until they chased each other with earthworms and other crawling things and Alicent the queen stopped them because a peasant daughter should not play with a prince, but she did not stop her from going up and watching with her brothers. And what she saw amazed her.

Gone was the little boy, a young man stood there with long straight Targaryen light hair, a dark eye patch that hid the injury he had received from his brother. Fine sharp features and a lean but muscular body she could frame where the fabric allowed.

He was a god in her eyes, ,,You didn't tell me your uncle was hot," she simply spoke her thoughts openly as Aemond twirled the sword around as she was commanded to do so but his gaze, the gaze of his violet eyes was clear on her and the smile seemed almost pleased and amused at the same time.

A few of the crowd snapped indignantly at such vulgarity while Jace made himself small and Luce tried to hide slightly under his coat. So much for not doing anything.

But this seemed to be just the beginning when they were invited to a family dinner a few hours after the "incident" in the courtyard. Everyone was supposed to be on their best behavior, a time of peace in what was probably the last few months for her adoptive grandfather, her king, whom she never called her grandfather even though he had always insisted on it.

Viserys always had a smile for her, no matter when she told him about simple farm things or excitedly about armor, he liked his adoptive princess and did not despise her, ,,I am glad to see my family, my whole family here, living and happy like this, an old man who cares a lot," he finished his speech and even if he seemed to be in pain, it was something that made her smile, she was glad that Viserys thought he appreciated it and she held out a goblet to her king for the symbolic toast, which Aegon answered with an almost mocking laugh.

The prince had probably already poured too much into the cup anyway, she smelled his alcoholic fumes at several hundred meters and her comment, ,,Maybe you should be in a barrel instead of just the cup" only seemed to have pissed him off more and he gave her a warning look and tried her other family members instead.

While she had initially chatted with Baela and Rhaena about fishing and ships, she had given Lucerys courage as they drank and Jace had teased her about his hairstyle, she barely noticed the looks from the Queen, the Hand and Aegon. Looks of distaste, looks of no acceptance, ,,A truly exceptional round, Lord Husband," the brown-haired woman muttered, earning a warning look from Rhaenyra, who was about to stand up for her daughter when Jace slammed on the table over Aegon's comment.

The circle seemed to fall silent and again they didn't quite know what was going to happen next, ,,A round of peasant blood," Aegon muttered into his goblet, rolling his eyes and looking a lot more like his mother.

However, only seconds later he choked on it as the said farm princess threw a piece of bread at him and he looked like he was about to walk over to her when Aemond stood in his way and pushed his brother aside to get closer to the princess. She gave Aegon one last scowl of surprise before looking to Aemond in wonder, ,,Would my dear princesses dance with me?" he asked, seeming to want to join his sister and her nephews who were dancing.

Accepting his offer with a nod, ,,I'd love to, Aemond," she smiled at him dnakably and let herself be pulled out onto the open floor, about to start something wilder when she suddenly felt his other hand on her hip, paused, looked at him a little uncertainly and leaned towards him, ,,I can't do the Targaryen dance" she whispered and heard him smirk a little, seeing that he was no longer wearing an eye cap the darkness of his sapphire eye fascinated her and only made him look even more beautiful ,,Don't worry let me be your leading chariot" he said with a nod and seemed at least relieved that she didn't find him ugly like other ladies-in-waiting at the castle.

Relaxing, he began to move slightly, his own steps a veritable dragon dance as she guided the fire that seemed to be the sword he gently wielded around her, her dress making the movements look more fluid. ,,The sapphire suits you, Aemond," she murmured softly, feeling the brief twitch of his hand, his eye glancing briefly to the ground and lingering briefly on her lips before he thanked her as he spun her around and the two of them attempted a little dragon dance of their own, somewhat like Jace and Helaena.

Aemond with his polite dragon dance and she with her wild twirls and wide arm movements as they all danced together at the village festivals it was funny and their laughter could be heard over and over again as they touched hands and completely ignored the looks of the others that went from fascination to pride until the piece was over.

They both found each other one last time and held each other as the music became a little quieter again and they looked at each other, Aemond bowed and placed a kiss on the back of her hand, a gesture that made her heart beat faster and she stifled a giggle.

Before she simply responded, ,,Thank you my rough sapphire," she whispered and gave him a chaste kiss on the cheek before sitting back down and taking a large sip from her goblet to calm her nerves but at least she had behaved in her own way.

And who knows, maybe the farm princess would end up with a dragon after all, a rough dragon from Saphier who appreciated her wares and together they could form a kingdom of outsiders together in love.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

[flowerandblood]

Aemond & Rhaenys's children

[ canon • Aemond x Strong • niece female ]

I've decided to create moodobards and descriptions for each of Aemond and Rhaenys' children from The Fall from the Heavens series to make it easier to place the events of the final chapters in space-time. I am adding descriptions created later by the maesters, giving a more detailed look at each of the children of the ruler-regents. The only warning is sibling incest, lol.

Viserys

Firstborn son. Quiet, calm, empathetic. He inherited his hair color from his father and the color of his eyes from his mother. As he aged, he resembled his mother more and more.

King Viserys saw his parents as if they were demigods: the path they set him on was the one he wanted to follow. As a child, he was reserved and shy, gazing at his father's figure like the mightiest of heroes, flying on the world's greatest dragon. His mature demeanour and ability to take good advice made him a wise and prudent ruler, acting violently only when necessary, concerned for the welfare of his family and the Kingdom as a whole.

When his uncle, Prince Aegon, began plotting against him in the Eyrie after the death of his mother, Rhaenyra, declaring himself the true heir to the throne, he sent Aegon's father, Daemon, and his younger sister Visenya to him, hoping to resolve the conflict peacefully. Visenya, to their grandfather's amusement, was to say to her uncle:

‘I will return to King's Landing with the message that you will kneel, or with your head.’

His marriage to his uncle's youngest daughter, Princess Alyssa, although met with resistance in the form of his grandfather Daemon and his father wanting him to marry his own sister, Visenya, proved successful and happy; the young king became a father after just the first year of their marriage. Queen Alyssa, known for her kindness, laughter and sense of humour, filled the entire court with joy. They lived to have six children.

Queen Alyssa and their first-born son, Aemond

Aegon

Three years younger than Viserys. Mischievous, clever, arrogant. He inherited his father's white hair and the color of his eyes. Like his father, he did not forgive easily.

Many compared him to his grandmother's husband, Prince Daemon: like him, he was hot-tempered and easily enraged. However, where his uncle would burn and destroy, he would delve into his mind, clever enough to devise a plan by which he could crush his opponents. His elder brother's enemies were his enemies and they could count on neither forgiveness nor oblivion. He and his younger sister, Visenya, became honorary members of their brother-king's Kingsguard.

To strengthen the bond between the North and King's Landing, his brother ordered him to marry Lord Stark's daughter, which he did. The Prince, although at first aloof and unhappy with how quiet and prudish his wife was, grew to love her when he discovered, while staying in Winterfell, her deeply hidden nature.

It turned out that his wife not only understood what lust was, but also what the art of war was, and after only a few months the people of the North could watch Prince Aegon teach his lady-wife archery. They lived to have four children, and he spent his life travelling on his dragon between Winterfell and King's Landing.

Aegon and Visenya

Daeron

Six years younger than Viserys. Honorable, wise, prudent. He inherited most of his siblings from his mother and his grandfather, Harwin Strong. Many at court said he resembled his uncle, the ruler of Dragonstone, Prince Jacaerys.

Viserys' beloved brother, the Sun Prince. He inherited his mother's ease of conversation as well as her gift for diplomacy along with his father's fierceness and directness. He and Viserys shared a unique bond from childhood and remained close companions throughout their lives. Though devoid of Targayren hair colour, it was he who aroused the greatest desire in the opposite sex, and every lady of the court dreamed of becoming his wife.

To their despair, his gaze was directed at only one woman: his sister, Aemma, whom he loved deeply from the day she was born. Throughout their childhood they remained inseparable, and in moments of separation they exchanged long, affectionate letters with each other. When Aemma turned sixteen, Daeron visited his father to ask him for her hand, and he agreed.

Daeron turned 23 and Aemma 18 when they stood together in the Great Sept, becoming husband and wife. Their marriage was successful and happy, and they did not part with each other for a moment. They lived to have eight children, and after their parents flew off on their journey to Essos, Daeron became the Hand of the King, taking his father's place.

Daeron and Aemma

Visenya

Seven years younger than Viserys. Harsh, fierce, untamed. She inherited her father's hair color, curls of her mother and the eyes of her grandmother, Rhaenyra.

Called by some the Fiery Princess, Daemon's favorite grandchild. The whole kingdom rejoiced at the announcement that a daughter had at last been born to the ruler-regents, but it was not known at the time that she would become a true dragon. In secret from her father, she unfastened his dagger from his belt and, to his fury, practised wielding it in solitude.

Although neither he nor his wife considered her interests worthy of a lady, her character left them no room for compromise and, to their despair, eventually the whole of the Red Keep could watch their daughter confront her own brother, Aegon, in a sword fight.

She refused to wear gowns, dressing exactly like her father, choosing mostly black, fitted tunics and breeches. In a frenzy of rage, deciding that her hair was getting in her way while flying on her dragon, she cut it to shoulder height one day, startling the entire court. Walking with her sister through the gardens of the Red Keep, she looked from behind as if she were a man.

The people of the court lowered their eyes in fear at the sight of only two people: King Regent Aemond and his eldest daughter. It was said that her gaze, gait and smile were animal-like, menacing and warning. Her mood changed like the weather and one never knew what would please or anger her, while arguments between her and her father made it seem as if the whole keep was shaking.

If it could be assumed that Princess Visenya ever loved anyone, it was certainly her younger sister, Aemma. Though like fire and water, her older sister always kept her safe, relying only on her opinion. When her parents wanted to reason with her, they would send her younger sister to speak with her. When the betrothal between Prince Daeron and Princess Aemma was announced, Visenya was to say:

‘If I were a man, I would have abducted her long time ago and taken her as my wife in the tradition of Old Valryia.’

Her brother-king gave her a choice: she could, like her brother Aegon, be married off or become an official member of his Kingsguard. She opted for the latter, becoming her eldest brother's shadow from then on.

Aemma and Visenya

Aemma

Eleven years younger than Viserys. Devoted, bright, compassionate. She inherited the dark curls of her mother and the brown eyes of her grandmother, Alicent.

Called the Light of the Kingdom: according to those who knew and described her, she could only be matched in beauty by her mother. Beloved child of her parents, full of warmth, joy and generosity, she resembled a Queen Regent the most out of her siblings.

Her gentle, patient nature meant that she was the only one able to get through the fortress her father had created around his mind, discussing with him for hours by the fire. She was very close with all of the members of her family, adored and loved, however, the closest relationship she had was with Visenya, and the ladies of the court said that it was her elder sister who stole her first kiss.

Although she was originally to be betrothed to Lord Lannister's grandson, her mother very quickly recognised the exceptionally close bond between her and her brother, and it was not long before Daeron himself asked his father for her hand.

Their father gave his consent to their marriage, and just a few months later their nuptials took place in the Great Sept in front of the entire Realm. The ladies of the court were to say at the time:

‘Prince Daeron and Princess Aemma spoke little during the feast, looking at each other with eyes full of tears, smiles on their faces that told all gathered that this was the happiest day of their lives. As they danced with each other, they seemed to see no one around them, their hands entwined together, refusing to let go, holding them close to each other.’

Daeron and Aemma

Aemon

Fourteen years younger than Viserys. Withdrawn, intelligent, humble. He inherited his mother's dark hair and his father's eyes.

The only one among his siblings from whose egg a dragon did not hatch. The Septon confessed to his parents that from an early age he showed signs of genius: he learned to read and speak extremely quickly, discussed lierature and philosophy as if he were a grown man and was perpetually hungry for knowledge. He expressed his desire to become the maester, and despite his mother's despair, his father agreed to send him to the Old Town, so he could receive his education there.

Saera

17 years younger than Viserys. Sensitive, introverted, observant. She inherited her grandmother's white hair and her mother's eyes.

Ever since she was a small child, she had been telling her parents about dreams that she did not understand: it was only after a discussion with her aunt, Helaena, that it became clear that they were both seeing similar images, hearing similar sounds and smelling similar smells when they slept. This worried their parents, because they didn't want their youngest, most sensitive child to carry the burden of visions that could overwhelm her, so when they were unable to reason with her, Helaena spoke to her.

Author's note: I spent hours correcting the saturation, light and tone of all the images to match, I colored some of them too (hair). You can reblog this post, but do not repost my edits. Thank you. 😇

[daisjohnsons]

QUEEN RHAENYRA TARGAYREN

House of the Dragon | 2.08 "The Queen Who Ever Was"