#the night came alive with the music of DRAGONS

[kaerinio]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐬, 𝐇𝐞𝐫 𝐓𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞 𝐅𝐢𝐞𝐫𝐜𝐞 𝐂𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐧 𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐭𝐬 𝟏/? ( 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐥. 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥𝐬 / 𝐟𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐦 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐬 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭/𝐫𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠. 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐦𝐮𝐭𝐮𝐚𝐥𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐲 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭. )

[christophernolan]

[...] and for the first time in hundreds of years, the night came alive with the music of dragons.

HOUSE OF THE DRAGON | 2.03 GAME OF THRONES | 1.10

[daenerys-stormborn]

"...for the first time in hundreds of years, the night came alive with the music of dragons."

Imogen Ruby Little as Daenerys Targaryen in House of the Dragon - 2.08 "The Queen Who Ever Was"

[yenneferdivengerberg]

"When the red star bleeds and the darkness gathers, Azor Ahai shall be born again amidst smoke and salt to wake dragons out of stone."

"Stars don't fall for men. But the comet means one thing, boy. Dragons."

"No one ever looked for a girl..It was a prince that was promised, not a princess. Rhaegar, I thought … the smoke was from the fire that devoured Summerhall on the day of his birth, the salt from the tears shed for those who died. He shared my belief when he was young, but later he became persuaded that it was his own son who fulfilled the prophecy, for a comet had been seen above King’s Landing on the night Aegon was conceived, and Rhaegar Targaryen was certain the bleeding star had to be a comet. What fools we were, who thought ourselves so wise! The error crept in from the translation. Dragons are neither male nor female, Barth saw the truth of that, but now one and now the other, as changeable as flame. The language misled us all for a thousand years. Daenerys is the one, born amidst salt and smoke. The dragons prove it."

“When the fire died at last and the ground became cool enough to walk upon, Ser Jorah Mormont found her amidst the ashes, surrounded by blackened logs and bits of glowing ember and the burnt bones of man and woman and stallion. She was naked, covered with soot, her clothes turned to ash, her beautiful hair all crisped away… yet she was unhurt. The cream-and-gold dragon was suckling at her left breast, the green-and-bronze at the right. Her arms cradled them close. The black-and-scarlet beast was draped across her shoulders, its long sinuous neck coiled under her chin. When it saw Jorah, it raised its head and looked at him with eyes as red as coals. Wordless, the knight fell to his knees. The men of her khas came up behind him. Jhogo was the first to lay his arakh at her feet. “Blood of my Blood,” he murmured, pushing his face to the smoking earth. “Blood of my Blood,” she heard Aggo echo. “Blood of my Blood,” Rakharo shouted. And after them came her handmaids, and then the others, all the Dothraki, men and women and children, and Dany had only to look at their eyes to know that they were hers now, today and tomorrow and forever, hers as they had never been Drogo’s. As Daenerys Targaryen rose to her feet, her black hissed, pale smoke venting from its mouth and nostrils. The other two pulled away from her breasts and added their voices to the call, translucent wings unfolding and stirring the air, and for the first time in hundreds of years, the night came alive with the music of dragons.”

[morgenlich]

i also have to say that AGoT’s last line being “…and for the first time in hundreds of years, the night came alive with the music of dragons.” really sold the series for me. first because i just think it’s a beautiful line. also, it’s a huge Oh Shit moment. like this is clearly a big thing that is going to change the world. also ofc the Parallels with the prologue, where the Others have returned…ice and fire, always….

but more importantly it’s such a strong statement on the themes of hope and rebirth. dany walked into drogo’s pyre thinking she had lost everything—she has no brother, no husband, no son. and she rises out of it with dragons. her new children. and a new purpose in life…she goes through a lot of character growth throughout all of AGoT, but walking into the pyre and emerging unscathed changes her…she no longer views her destiny as being the sister/wife/mother of a man who will restore the throne or whatever. she’s going to do that herself now….lots of thoughts and feelings

[mediumsizedpidegon]

Another avenue I want to explore in an Amity Park is Weird scenario is all the niche sub-cultures going on.

There is absolutely NO WAY there isn't a thriving goth community in Amity Park. They're holding picnics every full moon. They're holding crafting sessions in their friends' basements. They're adopting ghost animals left and right: eight-legged dogs and blob-cats, skeletal fish and neon bearded dragons.

There's a young man called Raphael who performs live music every week at a dance club with his band: he's got a myriad of shiny piercings, and a phone camera roll full of his rabbits, Morningstar and Salem. Perhaps those ghosts are bad business like the Fentons say, but the club's never felt more alive.

The scene and emo kids are multiplying at a rapid rate. The punks and grunge folks are doing shit with textiles that makes every quilting grandmother in a five mile radius swoop in to pass on their skills. Josie and Betty, old friends who periodically upload photos online of their handmade lace, suddenly gain an influx of young folks who want to learn how to make their own ghoulish patterns.

There's a new group peeling off from the goths that dress like the embodiment of Halloween– all bones, pumpkin orange and lengths of costume jewelry.

The historical costuming community is alive and well in these times, and they fall upon the few ghosts from times past willing to share knowledge like starving wolves. Their minds are full of patterning-math and fabric prices, and their excitement is, quite literally, infectious.

A revolution starts up in food service: a great many restaurants closed or moved to follow the many people who left Amity after the ghosts first came. A pair of brothers open a restaurant that has the best Polish food around: people politely don't comment on how the owners are dressed in clothes a century out of date or how their eyes gleam. Two cat cafes open, one space themed and another with loose definitions of what counts as a "cat." Assorted coffee and tea shops dot the landscape: some serve donuts, some have cupcakes, and others have breakfast wraps, sandwiches or savory hand pies.

People that can't afford to open a restaurant sell food out of their homes, advertised by cardboard signs with phrases like CAKES FOR $10, and BARBEQUE RIBS FOR SALE painted on them in gigantic bright letters. High school students bring in bags of cookies they made the night before and completely sell out of stock before the day is done. One woman's house has no signage and yet is known by word of mouth to be a herbalist, selling tins of homemade tea blends, flowers, assorted plant clippings, and cough drops.

Someone down the street of Casper High sells small batches of eco-friendly soap at a nearby corner store.

During summer time, lemonade stands are everywhere. Some of the lemonade is made with the strange fruits from one of the parks: no one dies, so it's fine.

The Farmer's Market has gotten... intense.

[weirwood]

Free, Florence and the Machine

Her mother had died birthing her, and for that her brother Viserys had never forgiven her. […] They had wandered since then, from Braavos to Myr, from Myr to Tyrosh, and on to Qohor and Volantis and Lys, never staying long in any one place. Her brother would not allow it.

A Game of Thrones, Daenerys I

Day followed day, and night followed night, until Dany knew she could not endure a moment longer. She would kill herself rather than go on, she decided one night …

A Game of Thrones, Daenerys III

As Daenerys Targaryen rose to her feet, her black hissed, pale smoke venting from its mouth and nostrils. The other two pulled away from her breasts and added their voices to the call, translucent wings unfolding and stirring the air, and for the first time in hundreds of years, the night came alive with the music of dragons.

A Game of Thrones, Daenerys X

[oananovicov]

"As Daenerys Targaryen rose to her feet, her black hissed, pale smoke venting from its mouth and nostrils. The other two pulled away from her breasts and added their voices to the call, translucent wings unfolding and stirring the air, and for the first time in hundreds of years, the night came alive with the music of dragons."

[the-key-five]

"My mother told me that dead men sing no songs," he put in.

A Game of Thrones, Prologue

As Daenerys Targaryen rose to her feet, her black hissed, pale smoke venting from its mouth and nostrils. The other two pulled away from her breasts and added their voices to the call, translucent wings unfolding and stirring the air, and for the first time in hundreds of years, the night came alive with the music of dragons.

A Game of Thrones, Daenerys X

[nightswatchdisbandmentera]

I feel so dumb for never having realized this before but I was thinking about the bookend in AGoT between the Others, the dragons, and two heroes: Waymar Royce and Daenerys Targaryen.

While squaring off against the Others, Waymar Royce asks for a dance.

Ser Waymar met him bravely. “Dance with me then.” He lifted his sword high over his head, defiant. His hands trembled from the weight of it, or perhaps from the cold. Yet in that moment, Will thought, he was a boy no longer, but a man of the Night’s Watch.

It’s notable that this scene is eerily silent save for the bits of dialogue. And when Waymar’s dance finally begins, there’s a notable lack of music.

The pale sword came shivering through the air. Ser Waymar met it with steel. When the blades met, there was no ring of metal on metal; only a high, thin sound at the edge of hearing, like an animal screaming in pain. Royce checked a second blow, and a third, then fell back a step. Another flurry of blows, and he fell back again.

I’ve always asserted that Ser Waymar is a failed last hero if we judge his success based off Old Nan’s blueprint.

So as cold and death filled the earth, the last hero determined to seek out the children, in the hopes that their ancient magics could win back what the armies of men had lost. He set out into the dead lands with a sword, a horse, a dog, and a dozen companions. For years he searched, until he despaired of ever finding the children of the forest in their secret cities. One by one his friends died, and his horse, and finally even his dog, and his sword froze so hard the blade snapped when he tried to use it. And the Others smelled the hot blood in him, and came silent on his trail, stalking him with packs of pale white spiders big as hounds—”

Both Ser Waymar and the last hero lost their companions and both had their swords shatter to the cold. Yet Waymar failed to complete one important step: find the children of the forest. The children are also known as “the singers”. So it’s notable that Ser Waymar attempts to dance without any music(ians) to accompany him. And because he does so, his dance ends in failure.

But then we have Daenerys Targaryen in the Dothraki Sea.

As Daenerys Targaryen rose to her feet, her black hissed, pale smoke venting from its mouth and nostrils. The other two pulled away from her breasts and added their voices to the call, translucent wings unfolding and stirring the air, and for the first time in hundreds of years, the night came alive with the music of dragons.

Dany performs a miracle in bringing dragons to life, the first person to do so in centuries. And these dragons sing a song that proclaims her, an exiled young princess and a widow, Azor Ahai reborn - the champion of fire, and warrior of light.

This bookend between the first and last chapters is so poignant. It’s not just that fire has returned to combat Ice. It’s that Dany brought back the music necessary to complete this dance. We start the book with a failed hero and end it with the rise of a true one; also interesting that Waymar’s end comes while he’s down on his knees whereas Dany rises to her feet reborn.

This makes Dany’s identity as the promised prince(ss) all the more impressive.

“He has a song,” the man replied. “He is the prince that was promised, and his is the song of ice and fire.” He looked up when he said it and his eyes met Dany’s, and it seemed as if he saw her standing there beyond the door.

Waymar failed because he didn’t have a song to accompany him. Yet Dany has a song to dance to. A song of fire.

I think this raises some interesting questions regarding the nature of this great conflict. There not only has to be a song to dance to, but it seems that there is a key distinction between the singer and the dancer. Rhaegar Targaryen failed to fulfill the prophecy because he was the singer and not the dancer. His role was to provide the hero’s musical accompaniment. In a way, it’s almost like he as the bard is the herald. And the herald is rarely, if ever, the main character. So notice how Rhaegar heralds the hero, the king, while looking at Dany.

But! - there’s different kinds of songs. Dany has one, made by her dragons. But it’s not be the only one. The children of the forest are heavily associated with the last hero and while Waymar Royce is dead, there lives another: Bran Stark.

Bran found the children, the singers, and is a step closer to completing the last hero’s journey.

Now Bran is an interesting case.

“Go,” Bran whispered to his own horse. He touched her neck lightly, and the small chestnut filly started forward. Bran had named her Dancer. She was two years old, and Joseth said she was smarter than any horse had a right to be.

He has a dancing horse but at some point has to leave her behind. So does that mean that he has to learn to do the dancing in his own way?

And I find it interesting that Bran has a female dancer horse because this creates a neat parallel with Dany, a dancer who may also be the stallion that mounts the world; if it’s not her, then it has to be her mount, Drogon. This is important if we consider that the last hero, Azor Ahai/the promised prince, the Stallion That Mounts the World, etc. are all different yet complimentary manifestations of one heroic legend.

But the issue of songs doesn’t end there because there still exists one Jon Snow, another version of the last hero and promised prince. Jon isn’t a bard but he has been positioned as being adjacent to dancers. I won’t harp on about Jon’s parallels with Waymar Royce because they’ve been done to death. But it seems that Jon, like Bran and Dany, will succeed where Ser Waymar failed.

Because not only does Jon have music to herald him:

That night he dreamt of wildlings howling from the woods, advancing to the moan of warhorns and the roll of drums. Boom DOOM boom DOOM boom DOOM came the sound, a thousand hearts with a single beat.

But he is also positioned as a last man standing among many dead heroes:

“Stand fast,” Jon Snow called. “Throw them back.” He stood atop the Wall, alone. “Flame,” he cried, “feed them flame,” but there was no one to pay heed. They are all gone. They have abandoned me.

And he has a sword that will not shatter against the cold:

“Snow,” an eagle cried, as foemen scuttled up the ice like spiders. Jon was armored in black ice, but his blade burned red in his fist.

It’s noteworthy that Jon is the son of a singer, Rhaegar Targaryen. The very singer who sang the song of ice and fire; and notice how Jon is clad in both. Plus he has been mentored by another, Mance Rayder, whom he eventually succeeds.

At a quick glance, it’s very interesting to me that Jon is constantly listening to songs beyond the Wall. There’s the song of the blue winter rose (which in a way heralds his own birth), the song of Joramun and the Horn of Winter, and many others.

It’s also noteworthy just how often giants are mentioned as the subject of songs in Jon’s POV chapters. I bring this up because of the Last of the Giants:

Ooooooh, I am the last of the giants, my people are gone from the earth. The last of the great mountain giants, who ruled all the world at my birth.

I think there is a parallel here between the dragons, the giants, and the children of the forest. These are all dying species, yet they linger on for the song of ice and fire still needs to be brought to completion.

And let’s consider where our heroes fit in all this. Dany commands the dragons, Bran learns from the children, while Jon begins to befriend the giants. All these creatures make musical accompaniments for our heroes to dance to.

Lastly, I’m inclined to think of the Stark girls though I’m not entirely sure where they would fit in all of this. Arya, at some point, trains to be a dancer:

On the way back to his chambers, he came upon his daughter Arya on the winding steps of the Tower of the Hand, windmilling her arms as she struggled to balance on one leg. The rough stone had scuffed her bare feet. Ned stopped and looked at her. “Arya, what are you doing?” “Syrio says a water dancer can stand on one toe for hours.” Her hands flailed at the air to steady herself. Ned had to smile. “Which toe?” he teased. “Any toe,” Arya said, exasperated with the question. She hopped from her right leg to her left, swaying dangerously before she regained her balance. “Must you do your standing here?” he asked. “It’s a long hard fall down these steps.” “Syrio says a water dancer never falls.” She lowered her leg to stand on two feet. “Father, will Bran come and live with us now?”

Now Arya is no singer, but her wolf is.

In another place, his little sister lifted her head to sing to the moon, and a hundred small grey cousins broke off their hunt to sing with her.

On the other hand, Sansa is no dancer but she is known for her ability to sing. And boy does she sing beautifully.

Her throat was dry and tight with fear, and every song she had ever known had fled from her mind. Please don't kill me, she wanted to scream, please don't. She could feel him twisting the point, pushing it into her throat, and she almost closed her eyes again, but then she remembered. It was not the song of Florian and Jonquil, but it was a song. Her voice sounded small and thin and tremulous in her ears. Gentle Mother, font of mercy, Save our sons from war, we pray,

In fact, a lot of Sansa’s songs are prayers for those who dance to the music of swords. Her songs are soothing, calming. And see this during Stannis’ assault on Kings Landing when she is able to calm Sandor and the noble women through the power of song. Hers is not a song to dance to, it’s a different kind though I’m not entirely sure what it entails. I do want to say, though, that Sansa is often paralleled with creates that take flight; various birds and bats. So she is a singer, much like the dragons.

I may have neglected other characters here, but I just thought it was intriguing that our main heroes (Jon, Bran, Dany, maybe Arya) are all positioned as dancers for the song of ice and fire.

[sidekick-hero]

My heart's desire: you

(steddie | 1.7k | mature | written for @steddie-week day 3: holding me by Warlock | AO3)

Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Post-Season/Series 04, Eddie Munson as Kas the Betrayer (Dungeons & Dragons), Monster Eddie Munson, Protective Eddie Munson, Pining, Angst with a Happy Ending, Eddie Munson Needs a Hug

Eddie never expected much from life, if he was honest.

Sure, once upon a time he had dreams. Big ones. Go to LA, become a rock star, leave this shithole of a town behind. Find his people, a place where he belonged. Not a freak, but someone worthy.

Deep down he didn't really believe they would come true - not for people like him - but it was nice to have them. They helped him fall asleep at night and even more to get up in the morning.

All those dreams bit the dust when he did. The dead don't dream, right?

Right.

It's just that he's not exactly dead. But he's not alive either. So what does that mean for his dreams?

He doesn't sleep anymore. Doesn't need to. Sometimes he manages to drift, his body completely still while his mind is somewhere else.

But when that happens, he's not dreaming. He just remembers.

Remembers his mama and how she used to dance around the house with him to Elvis or Roy Orbison. Blue Bayou was her favorite.

Remembers his father's pale face as he left Eddie behind, running from the law while Eddie stayed behind to take the fall, just because he couldn't let a cop bleed to death because of his father's schemes.

Remembers Wayne, his gruff voice and warm hugs. His unconditional love and unwavering support. The one person who always believed in him, who gave him a home and a family when Eddie had nothing.

Remembers practicing his songs with the boys and endless afternoons filled with music and campaigns and laughter. His own little corner of the world where he was free to be himself, loud and unapologetic.

Remembers Dustin and Mike and Lucas and Erica. Red and Buckley and Wheeler. Their fierce determination, their selflessness, their love for one another. He had been helpless but to join them, even when everything inside him screamed to run, to hide, to never look back.

Most of the time, though, he remembers Steve. Which should be weird, since they only spent a week together, him running from an angry mob, Steve helping him while also trying to save the world. Sure, he remembers the looks they shared, the touches, the pet names, and the flirting. But it was stolen time, stolen moments without real substance - the reckless abundance of someone who never expected to make it out alive.

He didn't. And yet here he stands, hidden among the trees surrounding the Harrington estate, watching Steve through the windows of his kitchen as he makes himself a sandwich.

It's not the first night he's spent like this, and it won't be the last.

Ever since he clawed his way out of the Upside Down, he's been watching over them. His friends, he thinks. They had been his friends. When he was still human. Can you still have friends when you're not alive, or are they like dreams, out of reach when your skin grows cold and your lungs stop breathing?

He doesn't know. All he knows is that when he came back different, wrong, he still had his memories. He remembers the love and affection he once had for them. That's why he watches over them, he tells himself. Because he had loved them once.

A few months ago, when the portals to the Upside Down were wide open, everyone had gathered here at Steve's, so Eddie had been there, too. Not inside the house, of course, but watching. Guarding it.

Not being alive makes him almost invincible. He has claws on his hands and fangs in his mouth. He's faster and stronger than ever. Any monster that tried to sneak up on them was killed in seconds, a few minutes at most. Soon they didn't even try anymore.

It's as if they somehow know that Eddie is the strongest predator around, and that these humans are his.

They defeated Vecna in the end, closing the gates once and for all.

And Eddie is still here. Still not alive.

Still watching over Steve, with the full moon above him and the warm late summer wind blowing through his hair. The clouds covering the moon provide enough cover for him to come closer, still hidden in the darkness as he continues to watch.

Time feels strange sometimes, but he thinks he has been watching Steve for as long as he can remember.

A lonely boy with strawberry blond hair, waiting to be picked up from preschool long after everyone else has left. A gangly teenager on his first day of middle school, looking lost and alone again. The same boy, taller now, finally filling out his form, sun-kissed skin and windswept hair. Popular, attractive, but still lonely deep inside.

The Eddie he had once been had been intrigued by Steve Harrington. The boy had been an enigma, even more so when Dustin and Lucas, and sometimes even Mike, sang his praises as if he were their greatest hero. And then he had seen again and again how badass Steve was, how brave and self-sacrificing. How much he was willing to give for the people he considered his own.

Back when his heart was still beating, it had been beating for Steve. Can you still love someone when your heart is no longer beating?

Eddie doesn't have an answer to that question. All he knows is that the sight of Steve brings a warmth he can almost feel, a flicker of something that might have been hope if he still had the capacity for it. And for now, that flicker is enough to keep him watching, night after night, hidden in the shadows.

Tonight, however, something feels different. Eddie watches as Steve steps out of the kitchen, his eyes scanning the darkness, almost as if he senses a presence. Eddie tenses, ready to retreat further into the shadows, but something holds him back.

Steve takes a few hesitant steps towards the edge of the property, his gaze unwavering. "I know you're out there," he calls softly, his voice carrying a blend of fear and determination. "I don't know who or what you are, but I know you're watching."

Eddie's breath catches—or it would have, if he still breathed. He remains still, his eyes fixed on Steve, who continues to inch closer. The moonlight breaks through the clouds, casting a silver glow over the yard, and Steve's eyes widen as they meet Eddie's.

"Eddie?" Steve whispers, disbelief and something else, something Eddie can’t place, coloring his tone. "Is that really you?"

For a moment, Eddie considers fleeing. Every fiber of his being screams at him to retreat into the safety of the shadows. To hide his monstrous self. But the look in Steve's eyes, the raw mixture of hope and sorrow, roots him to the spot. He steps forward, emerging from the shadows, his form illuminated by the moonlight. "Hello, Steve," he replies, his voice rough from disuse. "I'm... different now, so you be the judge if it's still me."

Steve stares, taking in Eddie's altered appearance—the fangs, the claws, the otherworldly aura. Yet, despite the changes, there's something unmistakably Eddie in his eyes. "How?" Steve asks, his voice breaking. "How is this possible?"

Eddie shakes his head. "I don't know. I woke up in the Upside Down after you all left, not alive but not dead either and clawed my way outta there. I've been watching over you, all of you, ever since."

Steve takes another step closer, his hand reaching out tentatively. "But… Why didn't you come to us? We thought you were gone. I - We missed you. Dustin -"

"I didn't know if you'd accept me like this," Eddie admits, his voice barely above a whisper. "I'm not the same person I was. I’m a monster now."

Steve's hand finally makes contact with Eddie's arm, and the touch sends a jolt through both of them. Eddie's skin, cold and unfeeling for so long, seems to come alive under Steve's touch. The sensation is overwhelming, flooding him with emotions he thought he'd lost. "You're still Eddie," Steve says firmly. "And that's all that matters."

For the first time since his transformation, Eddie feels something akin to hope. Maybe, just maybe, he can find a new place in this world, even in his altered state. And maybe, just maybe, he doesn't have to watch from the shadows anymore.

As they stand there, bathed in moonlight and the warmth of newfound connection, Eddie allows himself to believe that he can still be part of something, that he can still matter. And for the first time in a long time, he feels a glimmer of peace.

But more than peace, he feels a longing, a deep-seated yearning that he can no longer ignore. The way Steve looks at him, with such trust and acceptance, stirs something inside Eddie that he thought was long dead. He realizes that he's not just watching over Steve out of a sense of duty or lost affection; he's watching because he still loves him, with a love that doesn’t need a beating heart to stay alive.

"Eddie," Steve whispers again, his voice softer now, filled with an emotion that Eddie can't quite name but feels deep in his bones. "Stay with me. Don't disappear again."

Eddie's heart, or whatever remains of it, aches at Steve's words. He wants nothing more than to stay, to be close to Steve, to feel that warmth he's been yearning for. He’s been so cold for so long. "I'll stay," Eddie promises, his voice trembling with emotion. "For as long as you'll have me."

Steve's eyes shine with unshed tears as he pulls Eddie into a hug, their bodies fitting together as if they were always meant to. In that embrace, Eddie feels more alive than he has since he died.

And so, under the silver light of the moon, Eddie and Steve stand together, holding onto each other with a love that defies the boundaries of life and death. For the first time, Eddie dares to believe in a future where he doesn't have to hide in the shadows, where he can be with the person he loves, and where he can finally find a place to belong.

As long as Steve is willing to hold him like that, he doesn't need to be alive. All he needs is to be here in Steve’s arms.

[lumidef]

"As Daenerys Targaryen rose to her feet [...] for the first time in hundreds of years, the night came alive with the music of dragons."

[daenerys-stormborn]

"When the fire died at last and the ground became cool enough to walk upon, Ser Jorah Mormont found her amidst the ashes, surrounded by blackened logs and bits of glowing ember and the burnt bones of man and woman and stallion. She was naked, covered with soot, her clothes turned to ash, her beautiful hair all crisped away... yet she was unhurt.

The cream-and-gold dragon was suckling at her left breast, the green-and-bronze at the right. Her arms cradled them close. The black-and-scarlet beast was draped across her shoulders, its long sinuous neck coiled under her chin. When it saw Jorah, it raised its head and looked at him with eyes as red as coals.

As Daenerys Targaryen rose to her feet, her black hissed, pale smoke venting from its mouth and nostrils. The other two pulled away from her breasts and added their voices to the call, translucent wings unfolding and stirring the air, and for the first time in hundreds of years, the night came alive with the music of dragons."

— A Game of Thrones, Daenerys X

[yenneferdivengerberg]

"When the fire died at last and the ground became cool enough to walk upon, Ser Jorah Mormont found her amidst the ashes, surrounded by blackened logs and bits of glowing ember and the burnt bones of man and woman and stallion. She was naked, covered with soot, her clothes turned to ash, her beautiful hair all crisped away… yet she was unhurt. The cream-and-gold dragon was suckling at her left breast, the green-and-bronze at the right. Her arms cradled them close. The black-and-scarlet beast was draped across her shoulders, its long sinuous neck coiled under her chin. When it saw Jorah, it raised its head and looked at him with eyes as red as coals. Wordless, the knight fell to his knees. The men of her khas came up behind him. Jhogo was the first to lay his arakh at her feet. “Blood of my Blood,” he murmured, pushing his face to the smoking earth. “Blood of my Blood,” she heard Aggo echo. “Blood of my Blood,” Rakharo shouted. And after them came her handmaids, and then the others, all the Dothraki, men and women and children, and Dany had only to look at their eyes to know that they were hers now, today and tomorrow and forever, hers as they had never been Drogo’s. As Daenerys Targaryen rose to her feet, her black hissed, pale smoke venting from its mouth and nostrils. The other two pulled away from her breasts and added their voices to the call, translucent wings unfolding and stirring the air, and for the first time in hundreds of years, the night came alive with the music of dragons."

DAENERYS TARGARYEN in Game of Thrones 1.10: "Fire and Blood"

[gratelove]

Hotter Than Dragonfire

Aemond x Reader

In the shadows of the Red Keep during a celebratory feast, you and Aemond Targaryen engage in a secret, forbidden affair. Bound by the constraints of your marriage to another man, your passion is hidden from the eyes of the court, but it burns hotter than dragonfire. As desire overcomes you, Aemond’s fierce need to claim you leads to a passionate encounter in a secluded corridor, where he vows that you are his and his alone.

Warning: 18+, p in v, dark Aemond, fingering

The night air was thick with the scent of spiced wine and honeyed cakes, the murmurs of lords and ladies blending into the music that floated through the hall. Candles flickered, casting long shadows against the stone walls of the Great Hall, where the celebration of House Targaryen’s victory over the Triarchy was in full swing. The Red Keep was alive with revelry, its tapestries fluttering like dragon wings in the soft summer breeze.

From your seat near the high table, you watched the spectacle, a delicate smile playing on your lips. Your husband, Lord Tyland Lannister, was deep in conversation with a group of noblemen, his laughter echoing through the hall. He had drunk his fill of wine and was thoroughly engaged, leaving you to enjoy the evening’s festivities on your own.

Not that you minded. Your attention was elsewhere.

Aemond Targaryen, the One-Eyed Prince, stood near the hearth, a goblet of wine in his hand, his sharp gaze fixed on you. His silver hair, so like that of his ancestors, gleamed in the firelight, his violet eye smoldering with a desire that only you could ignite. He was a vision of Targaryen beauty, with a face carved by the gods themselves, and a presence that commanded the attention of everyone in the room. His missing eye, covered by a leather patch, only added to his allure, giving him an air of danger that you found irresistible.

Your heart quickened under his intense scrutiny, a blush rising to your cheeks. You could feel his gaze like a touch, warm and demanding, a silent promise of what was to come. It was a dangerous game you played, a dance on the edge of a knife. But you were addicted to the thrill, the forbidden nature of your liaison making it all the more intoxicating.

Across the hall, Aemond raised his goblet slightly, a silent toast meant only for you. You responded with a subtle tilt of your head, your fingers trailing along the rim of your own goblet, a ghost of a smile on your lips. The unspoken words between you hung heavy in the air, a language only the two of you understood.

You lowered your gaze, lashes brushing your cheeks, and took a slow sip of wine. As you did, your tongue darted out to catch a stray drop, a deliberate, languid movement meant to draw his attention. You could feel his eyes darken from across the room, a flicker of something dangerous crossing his features. He shifted slightly, the fabric of his doublet straining against his chest as he leaned forward, his body taut with restrained desire.

The music swelled, and you rose from your seat, a sudden need to move, to escape the eyes of those who might see too much. You glided across the floor, the silk of your gown whispering against the stone, drawing the eye of many a courtier. You could feel their gazes slide over you, some admiring, others envious, but none of them mattered. Only one pair of eyes mattered tonight.

You came to a stop near the columns that lined the edge of the hall, half-hidden in shadow. Turning slightly, you caught Aemond’s gaze again, your eyes locking with his. Slowly, you reached up, pretending to adjust the necklace at your throat, the movement pulling the neckline of your gown just low enough to give him a glimpse of the curve of your breast. His jaw tightened, his hand clenching around the goblet he held.

With a coy smile, you let your fingers trail down the column, a silent invitation. Aemond’s eyes blazed with a possessive hunger. You knew he would not be able to resist much longer. The tension between you was palpable, a string pulled taut, ready to snap.

You turned away, disappearing into the shadows of the corridor, your heart pounding. You could hear the beat of your own blood in your ears, feel the heat rising in your cheeks. You knew he would follow. He always did.

Moments later, you felt a presence behind you, the soft tread of boots on stone. A hand caught your wrist, pulling you back against a hard chest, the scent of leather and dragonfire filling your senses. You gasped softly, the sound swallowed by the darkness, as Aemond’s lips found your ear.

“Do you delight in tormenting me, my lady?” he murmured, his voice a low growl that sent shivers down your spine. His breath was hot against your skin, his grip firm and unyielding.

You turned in his arms, looking up into his face. Even in the dim light, you could see the intensity of his gaze, the way his eye blazed with a fire that threatened to consume you both. Your heart ached at the sight of him, the forbidden lover who had claimed you in ways your husband never could.

“Is it torment, my prince?” you whispered, your voice a mere breath. “Or is it an invitation?”

Aemond’s lips curved into a predatory smile, his fingers tightening on your wrist. “You are playing a dangerous game,” he said, his voice thick with desire. “One day, you will not be able to walk away from me so easily.”

You arched an eyebrow, a mischievous smile playing on your lips. “Who says I wish to walk away?” you replied, your voice filled with challenge.

His hand moved to your waist, pulling you closer, his body pressing against yours. You could feel the hard planes of his chest through the thin fabric of your gown, the heat of his skin searing you. His other hand cupped your cheek, tilting your head back, his thumb brushing over your lower lip.

“Then perhaps I should take you here,” he said softly, his voice a dangerous purr. “So that all may see who you truly belong to.”

Your breath hitched, desire pooling in between your thighs at his words. The thought of being taken by him, here in the shadows where anyone might see, was both thrilling and terrifying. You knew you should stop this, should return to the safety of the hall, to your husband. But the pull of Aemond was too strong, the fire between you too fierce to be denied.

You leaned into his touch, your lips brushing his thumb in a silent plea. “Then take me,” you whispered, the words a challenge and a surrender all at once.

With a low growl, Aemond captured your lips in a fierce kiss, his mouth claiming yours with a hunger that left you breathless. His hands roamed over your body, possessive and demanding, as if he could not get enough of you. You melted into him, your own hands tangling in his silver hair, pulling him closer, needing him like you needed air.

The world around you faded, the sounds of the party distant and unimportant. There was only Aemond, only the fire that burned between you, threatening to consume you both. In that moment, you were his, and he was yours, bound together in a secret that would remain hidden in the shadows of the Red Keep.

As you pulled back, breathless and flushed, Aemond’s gaze darkened with something more than desire. His hand slipped from your waist to the dagger sheathed at his belt, fingers tracing the hilt.

“I should kill him,” he said, almost casually, though there was a dangerous edge to his tone. “Your husband. He does not deserve you. He cannot possibly know how to love you, how to make you feel.”

Your heart skipped a beat at his words, a mix of fear and excitement flooding through you. “You jest,” you said softly, though there was a tremor in your voice.

Aemond’s eye flickered with a dangerous light, his lips curling into a smirk. “Do I?” he asked, his voice low and menacing. “Perhaps not. A dragon does not share his treasure, and you, my love, are far more precious than gold.”

He pulled you close again, his lips brushing against your ear. “But for now, I will let him live,” he whispered, his voice a seductive purr. “Because I enjoy watching him remain oblivious, unaware that his wife’s heart belongs to me, that she lies in my arms and not his.”

Your breath caught at the intensity of his words, at the possessive fire in his eye. You knew Aemond was dangerous, knew that his love was a fierce, consuming thing. But as his lips claimed yours once more, you could not find it in yourself to care. He pulled away, grabbing your wrist.

Your heart raced, the adrenaline of your escape still thrumming through your veins. Aemond was pulling you deeper into the shadows, his grip firm and possessive. You could see the hunger in his eye, the way his lips were slightly parted, as if he was barely restraining himself. The intensity of his desire was palpable, a living, breathing thing that seemed to fill the narrow corridor.

You let him push you back against the wall, the cold stone pressing into your back, a stark contrast to the heat of his body against yours. His lips hovered over yours, a hair’s breadth away, and you could feel his breath, hot and uneven, on your skin. Your fingers tangled in the front of his doublet, pulling him closer, your own breath coming in short, shallow gasps.

“You know what you do to me,” Aemond growled, his voice low and rough, like a dragon’s rumble. His hand slid up to the front of your gown, his fingers brushing over the delicate buttons of your bodice. “You drive me mad with need, teasing me with those coy smiles, those knowing looks. Do you enjoy it, knowing how badly I want you?”

A shiver ran down your spine at his words, at the dark promise in his voice. “Yes,” you whispered, your voice trembling with anticipation. “I enjoy watching you lose control, knowing I’m the only one who can make you feel this way.”

Aemond’s eye blazed at your confession, his control snapping like a brittle thread. With a low growl, he grabbed the front of your bodice and yanked, the sound of buttons popping and fabric tearing filling the air. You gasped as your gown fell open, the cool air of the corridor brushing over your bare skin.

“You want to see me lose control?” Aemond hissed, his hands sliding inside your torn bodice, cupping your breasts. His touch was demanding, possessive, his fingers kneading your flesh as his mouth descended on yours in a searing kiss. “Then so be it. You are mine, and I will have you whenever I please.”

His words, spoken with such fierce conviction, sent a thrill of excitement coursing through you. You arched into his touch, your hands clutching at his shoulders, pulling him closer. The sensation of his hands on your bare skin, his mouth devouring yours, was intoxicating. You were lost in the fire of his touch, in the intensity of his desire.

Aemond’s lips left yours, trailing hot kisses down your neck, his tongue tracing the curve of your collarbone. He nipped at your skin, his teeth scraping over sensitive flesh, drawing a gasp from your lips. His hands roamed over your exposed body, claiming you, marking you as his.

“It would be so easy to rid us of your husband, to have you all to myself. No one would question the word of a Targaryen prince,” he murmured against your skin.

You shuddered at his words, a mix of emotions coiling in your belly. “And what would that make me?” you asked breathlessly, your fingers threading through his silver hair, pulling him closer. “A widow, yes, but still bound by the rules of court, still forced to marry for politics and alliances.”

Aemond’s head lifted, his eye burning with a fierce intensity. “Then I’ll burn those rules to the ground,” he said, his voice fierce and unyielding. “I’ll take you back to Dragonstone, and we’ll make our own rules. You’ll be my queen.”

The fervor in his voice, the raw passion in his words, took your breath away. You could see the truth in his eye, the lengths he was willing to go to have you, to claim you as his own. And the terrifying part was that you wanted it too. You wanted to be his, to burn the world to ash if it meant being with him.

“Aemond,” you breathed, your voice filled with longing, your hands cupping his face. “I am yours. I have always been yours.”

His eye softened at your words, a rare tenderness flickering in his gaze. He kissed you then, a slow, passionate kiss that spoke of promises and dreams, of a future that was just within your grasp. His hands slid down to your waist, lifting you slightly as he pressed you against the wall, his body a solid, comforting weight.

Aemond’s kiss was all-consuming, a fierce, possessive claiming that left you breathless and trembling. The heat of his body pressed against yours, his lips moving with a demanding hunger that spoke of his need for you. Your torn bodice hung open, the cool air of the corridor a sharp contrast to the heat that pulsed between you.

Your hands moved of their own accord, sliding down the firm planes of his chest, feeling the hard muscle beneath the fine fabric of his doublet. You could feel the rapid beat of his heart under your palms, matching the wild rhythm of your own. His body was taut with restrained power, every line of him coiled and ready to spring.

You broke the kiss, gasping for breath, your eyes meeting his. His violet eye was dark with desire, his gaze smoldering as he looked down at you, his hands still gripping your waist. His lips were slightly swollen from your kisses, a flush high on his cheeks, and he was breathing just as heavily as you.

“Aemond,” you whispered, your voice husky with need. Your hands traveled lower, fingers brushing over the taut muscles of his abdomen, feeling the heat of his skin through the thin fabric. He shuddered at your touch, his hands tightening on your hips.

A slow, seductive smile curved your lips as your fingers moved lower still, finding the hardness straining against his trousers. Aemond’s breath hitched, his eye closing for a brief moment as your hand cupped him through the fabric, feeling the heat and the undeniable evidence of his desire.

His reaction sent a thrill through you, a heady sense of power at knowing you could unravel him so easily. You rubbed him through his trousers, a slow, teasing movement that made him groan, his head falling forward to rest against your shoulder.

“By the gods,” he hissed, his voice thick with lust. “You are going to be the death of me.”

You chuckled softly, your hand continuing its slow exploration. “Then I shall make it a sweet death, my prince,” you whispered, your voice low and sultry.

His hands left your waist, moving to tangle in your hair, pulling your head back so he could look into your eyes. There was a fierce intensity in his gaze, a hunger that made your breath catch. “You want this, do you not?” he growled, his voice rough. “You want to drive me mad?”

You nodded, your hand squeezing him gently, feeling him pulse under your touch. “Yes,” you breathed. “I want you, Aemond. I need you.”

His response was a low, guttural sound that sent a shiver down your spine. His hands moved from your hair to the laces of his trousers, his fingers working quickly to loosen them. He was impatient, his movements almost rough in his haste. You helped him, your own fingers tugging at the laces, pulling them free, your breath coming in short, heated gasps.

When his trousers finally fell open, you slipped your hand inside, wrapping your fingers around him, feeling the hard, hot length of him. Aemond groaned, his head falling back, his eye closing as he thrust into your hand, his body shuddering at your touch.

“You are playing with fire,” he muttered, his voice thick with desire. “You know what I will do to you.”

“Then burn me,” you whispered back, your hand stroking him, feeling the way he twitched under your touch, the way his breath came faster. “Fuck me, Aemond. Here. Now.”

He growled low in his throat, the sound primal, his control snapping. In one swift movement, he grabbed your wrists, pinning them above your head against the cold stone wall. His other hand bunched the skirts of your gown, pushing them up, his fingers sliding up your thigh, seeking, demanding.

You gasped at the feel of his hand on your bare skin, at the roughness of his fingers as they found their way under your skirts, parting your legs. He brushed against your core, finding you wet and ready for him, a dark smile spreading across his lips.

“So eager,” he murmured, his voice a low, seductive drawl. “You are always so ready for me.”

Your head fell back against the wall, a moan escaping your lips as he teased you with his fingers, his touch sending jolts of pleasure through you. “Aemond,” you gasped, your hips bucking against his hand, seeking more.

He chuckled, a dark, satisfied sound, as he removed his hand, positioning himself between your legs. His grip tightened on your wrists, holding you in place as he pressed the tip of his length against you, teasing you with just a taste of what was to come.

You whimpered, your body aching for him, your need a living, breathing thing. “Please,” you begged, your voice a desperate whisper. “Please, Aemond. I need you.”

He leaned in, his lips brushing against your ear, his voice a low, dangerous purr. “As you wish, my love.”

With one powerful thrust, he drove into you, filling you completely, his body pressing you against the wall. The sensation was overwhelming, a blinding surge of pleasure that tore a cry from your lips. Aemond’s eye darkened with lust as he began to move, each thrust hard and demanding, his hands holding you in place as he claimed you.

The rhythm of his movements was relentless, each thrust driving you higher, pushing you closer to the edge. Your cries filled the corridor, mingling with his low groans, the sound of your bodies coming together a desperate, primal symphony.

Aemond’s name fell from your lips like a prayer, your fingers clawing at his shoulders, your body arching against his. He was all you could feel, all you could think about, the world narrowing to the hot, driving pleasure he gave you.

You felt the coil of pleasure tighten, your body tensing as you neared the edge. Aemond’s movements grew more erratic, his breaths coming in harsh gasps, his grip on your wrists bruising. “Come for me,” he demanded, his voice rough with need. “Come for me, now.”

His words were your undoing. With a cry, you shattered, pleasure crashing over you in a blinding wave, your body tightening around him. Aemond followed you over the edge, his own release tearing a guttural groan from his throat, his body shuddering against yours.

He collapsed against you, his forehead resting against your shoulder, both of you breathing heavily, the aftershocks of your pleasure still rippling through you. You felt his heart pounding against your chest, matching the frantic beat of your own.

For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of your breathing, the feel of his body against yours, the lingering heat of your passion. Then Aemond lifted his head, his eye meeting yours, a satisfied, almost tender smile curving his lips.

“You are mine,” he said softly, his voice filled with a possessive, almost reverent awe. “Mine, now and always.”

You nodded, a smile tugging at your own lips, your heart full. “Yes,” you whispered, leaning in to kiss him, a slow, lingering kiss that spoke of promises and a future yet to come. “Yours, Aemond. Always.”

As the echoes of your passion faded into the shadows, you knew that no matter the risks, no matter the consequences, you would always find your way back to him. Because Aemond Targaryen was your dragon, and you were his, bound together in a love that would burn as fiercely and as brightly as dragonfire.

[superprincesspea]

Courted by the Dragon

Chapter 2 - A Court of Sharks and Dances

Aemond Targaryen is both the cause and witness to the greatest humiliation of your life. You would rather die than see him again. Yet summer at court and the precipice of civil war have other ideas.

Masterlist

~~~

Several weeks after your meeting with Aemond, a raven arrived at Storm's End, inviting your family to spend the summer in Kings Landing at the bequest of Queen Alicent.   

The letter marked an unexpected turn of events for the Baratheon family who had never been favoured by the Queen and, though you were quietly suspicious of Aemond’s involvement, you couldn’t be certain.   

Either way, your father certainly was pleased by the request. Spending the next month boring you all with the rules on how he expected you to behave at court and how it was high time his three eldest daughters found a suitable husband.   

You, on the other hand, were more concerned by how this invitation would lead you straight into the dragon's den and path of the very man you’d been trying to avoid.   

Vhagar had been spotted more than a handful of times gliding over the bay these past few weeks, and you had certainly not ventured down to the beach in all that time. No, you had hardly left the castle walls, and mortification had stuck to your skin like a blemish only you could see.   

So, when the time arrived for you to leave for Kings Landing, you were not in high spirits. Not that your family noticed. Too busy with their own thoughts on the power and position which could be gained from a friendship with the crown, they barely listened when you feigned illness or tried to make excuses to grant you leave from the journey.   

Afterall, refusing such an invite would be akin to madness. No, in your mother's opinion, nothing could make a girl feel better than a summer of opulence and splendour in the Red Keep.   

Jousting, dancing, feasts and handsome young knights. The upcoming festivities should have been the stuff of dreams for an unmarried high-born lady such as yourself. But you were descending into what felt like the beginnings of your own personal hell.     

Unlike your sister Cassandra, you were not accomplished in music or the arts. Nor were you fun and vibrant like Maris, who was always the epitome of charm and wit.   

Defiant and sour was how Septa Orella had often described you and that was on the days when you’d tried your best to behave like a lady instead of muddying your dresses. Though you were older now, you supposed not much had changed since then. If it had, Aemond would not have caught you splashing in the waves like a naughty child.   

But it was too late to do anything about that now. Aemond had seen you that day and, if Septa Orella was still alive, you were certain she would have enjoyed knowing you were finally getting your comeuppance. Not that you would have dared to tell her your reasons for wanting to avoid Kings Landing. That was a secret you hoped to take to the grave, yet you had the terrible suspicion it would soon be revealed for all to hear.   

It took over a week for your family's carriage to finally make its way through the bronze gates of the Red Keep. You supposed this moment was inevitable, yet it still came as quite a shock, your nerves frayed, your stomach churning. The only comfort was the cover of darkness and the late hour which provided you one last night before you had to face the other courtiers and, of course, Aemond .   

You were met by a servant who had been standing by for your arrival, and he escorted you all to a suite of well-appointed chambers which had been readied for your stay. You even had your own room. A large four poster bed commanding its centre, curtained with heavy green brocades which matched the sumptuous quilt and feather pillows. On the nightstand, there was a stack of leather-bound books, and the window was furnished with a velvet chaise on which to read them.   

Everything was perfect, and you would be quite comfortable here if it wasn’t for the gnawing dread which squeezed your insides every time you thought of a certain dragon prince. And there was no remedy for that . Only resignation, though you did not want to accept the idea of actually having to see Aemond until he was standing right in front of you.   

In the morning, breakfast was brought to your family's chambers on gilded trays along with a roll of parchment which summoned you all for an audience with the Queen.   

Again, you tried to make an excuse which would allow you to stay behind, but Borros Baratheon had no interest in the complaints of a daughter. So, when breakfast was cleared away, your stomach only filled with nerves, you had no choice but to follow your family into the Red Keeps imposing hall.   

You were announced, one by one. Your father, mother, Cassandra, Maris and then you. All presented to Queen Alicent who seemed as uninterested in your arrival as her son, Prince Aegon, who was standing by her side.     

Princess Helaena, however, was very excited by the appearance of three young ladies and was quick to greet you all. Without having to ask, she explained that Aemond was not in Kings Landing at present.  

He was hunting with Vhagar in Dorne and, though the thought of him racing through the sky on dragon back made you shiver, you were suddenly free, and a whole world of opportunity seemed to open up before you.  

Perhaps you would not see Aemond at all, what an enticing thought that was, even if you knew it wasn’t true. Still, you would not see him for a while and that felt like long enough.    

When you were allowed to leave the great hall, you joined Helaena and your sisters for a stroll in the rose garden and you were surprised by its beauty.  

Roses clambered and sprawled for as far and wide as the eye could see. Every shade of pink imaginable punctuated by froths of lavender and bright purple spears of salvia. It smelled divine and hummed with the buzz of a thousand bumble bees.   

Accompanying you through the turns of the garden were a gaggle of wealthy suitors, who were like sharks in the water at the smell of fresh young blood. Yet even they did not deter from the roses.  

You’d brought a book from your room to allow you an excuse to avoid eye contact with Aemond. Now you had every intention of reading it under the shade of a good tree, but Tyland Lannister had other ideas.   

“May I join you, Lady Baratheon?” he asked gallantly, sweeping his long golden cape over his shoulder as he knelt on the grass before you.  

Though much older than yourself and of no interest to you personally, he was master of ships and favoured by the royal family, so you had no choice but to smile and say, “of course, My Lord.”  

He sat a little too close, his expectant eyes waiting for you to entertain him with small talk and flattery as young ladies are trained to do. But you were not as well-bred as your sisters, nor did you have any interest in the men at court.   

You held his stare, your fingers quietly itching to open your book, but he was not deterred.   

“I trust your journey here was pleasant?” he said.  

“As pleasant as can be expected, my Lord.”  

“And you find your quarters here to be suitable?”  

“Indeed.”  

“That is good. Will your family be attending the dance this evening?”  

“I believe so.”  

He smiled, satisfied and not at all deterred by your clipped, formal answers. In fact, the conversation continued like that for quite some time. Even when you made haste to escape from the shade of the tree in favour of the sun. Lord Lannister took it upon himself to escort you around the grounds with a keen interest in everything you had to say, and he was not the only one.   

After a while, you were joined by Lord Karstark and Ser Harrold, all three of them vying for your attention in a manner you were wholly unaccustomed to. Your fathers banner men would never be so bold in their pursuit of his daughters, and you had never been outside the boundary of the Stormlands before now.   

You were relieved when your mother finally called you to tea and disheartened some hours later when it was time for the feast and the first of the summer dances.   

Still, you had no choice in the matter, though you would rather stay in your room and make good use of the chaise and your stack of books. It wasn’t just Aemond you wanted to avoid; it was court. It didn’t seem to call to you like it did to Maris and you envied her excitement and her gown.  

Hers was new, the prettiest shade of sage green velvet while yours was honey yellow silk. You loathed yellow. But that was the price of being a third daughter. It had been a beautiful dress on Cassandra, now it was too old and unstylish for the eldest of the Baratheon girls.  

You had complained of such maltreatments when you were younger. But your mother had always said ‘your face was your bauble’, and it had meant as little to you now as it did then.  

The saving grace was your shoes, and they were beautiful indeed. Black velvet pumps which Cassandra had painstakingly embroidered with dainty flowers and vines while hers were plain.

So, deciding to at least try to enjoy the evening, you entered the hall, which was bursting with life and vibrance and, when it came time to dance, you were certainly not without partners.   

In fact, you were spoiled for choice though Tyland Lannister seemed determined to commandeer your hand at every opportunity. If you were to be honest with yourself, you enjoyed the attention, and the twists and turns of each dance with greater pleasure than you’d hoped to achieve. The music was merry, and the elderflower wine drank like sugar syrup before swirling happily in your veins.   

And that’s how it was for almost two weeks at court. Fun and Frivolity.  

After the first few days, you’d almost forgotten the reason you didn't want to come here in the first place. You enjoyed all the lazy afternoons in the garden and looked forward to the evening entertainment with as much excitement as your sisters.  

Ser Harrold, a knight of the realm and the second son to his father’s modest estate, had quickly become your favourite dance partner. Though your hand was still very much pursued by the master of ships. So much so, that your father had begun to imagine Tyland Lannister might even propose. An idea which gave you a new dread in the pit of your stomach.  

So that night, some thirteen days after your arrival in King’s Landing, it was Tyland's attention which you were trying to avoid. So preoccupied with evading his advances, you couldn’t be certain just how long Aemond Targaryen had been witness to the whole scene. Only that when you noticed him, lurking in the shadows at the edges of the room, you could hardly look away.  

The wine had begun to make you feel as light as a feather, but Aemond’s presence seemed to ground you to the floor like a boulder. The dance no longer feeling as merry and Ser Harrold’s arms becoming little more than a prison for Aemond’s scrutiny.  

When had he returned?  

Why did he look at you like that?   

When the dance with Ser Harrold was finally over, you said ‘goodnight’ and retreated to your room without sharing a single word with another soul and certainly not the dragon prince.   

Then in an act of self-indulgent madness, you tried to fool yourself into thinking he might have forgotten all about that day at the beach. Or at least forgotten the finer details, yet you could remember them all.  

The way he had looked at you, the curve of his smile and the soft commanding sound of his voice.  

You had never hated someone until then and you hated Aemond Targaryen more than anything.  

Why couldn’t he have stayed away?   

The next day, the routine was practically the same as every other. Breakfast in your chambers followed by an afternoon in the gardens. Only this time, the men who had been begging for your dances, could barely look you in the eye. Even Lord Lannister had no interest in the usual small talk and left the gardens almost as soon as you arrived.   

You couldn’t stop the knot which formed in the pit of your stomach. Or the gnawing realisation, that while all the other young ladies were flirting and laughing with suitors, you were cast aside. A solitary figure in a crowd of couples with only your book to keep you company until it was time for tea, and you were certainly ready for it.   

You’d never spent such lonely hours in the company of so many people before, and you were certain it was no coincidence.   

Had Aemond told the men at court of your indiscretion?  

Would he shame your family for your actions that day on the beach?  

What was worse, you had nobody you could ask without risking exposure. No, better to hold your head high and remain as calm and unshaken as possible in the face of utter social annihilation.   

~~~

Thank you for reading! So many people found this story so quickly which is exciting. I wrote most of this story at the start of last year and I wasn't sure if I was going to publish it but I'm glad I have. Hopefully I'll be able to post another chapter or even two before I return to work and real life in a few days. But what do we think so far? Has Aemond revealed all? Or something else?