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darlingofvalyria · 9 months

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❝Ask me, my prince. What a storm is to a dragon.❞

[ Aemond can only breathe through your lungs, through your adoration and love. But when betrayal is nigh, what does it truly beget? ]

[ +18 MDNI ] [ 6,935 ] | Dark!Aemond Targaryen x Baratheon!Reader, minor, sort of (not really) Aemond Targaryen x Alys Rivers.

THIS IS A DARK FIC. READER DISCRETION IS ADVISED.

contains— angsty, smut - DD:DNE: kidnapping, coercion, manipulation, possessive & obsessive behaviour, power imbalance, violence (not to reader) (a little bit to reader... i wrote this too close to book canon!aemond), murder, death, massacre, war - canon typical targcest, canon character deaths, canon divergence - dark!aemy - pregnancy, child, allusions to infidelity, mentions of bastard - i took liberties with canon (as i usually do) - #ripellyn you (sorta) will be missed shshs - the only specific reader descript. i did is the baratheon dark hair ok? ok - nsfw: male masturbation, dubcon/noncon, creampie - no kings, no martyrs, no betas.

a/n— there was this villain playlist on yt that was slowed and sexy, and my brain just. clicked. here it is if you wanna check. the real reason this is long is cos i can't help but add backstory ok? ok. lol. comment, reblog & like at will, mi luvs, mwa!

Storms have always been your favourite view in any window.

It is cliche to say, a proud daughter of the Stormlands, of course she enjoys the dark skies! But you do. There is nothing short of comforting in the rolling, fat clouds darkened in shadows. Occasionally, if the weather moved to your whim, lightning danced between plumes before you hear the boom and crack of it striking.

"It is a privilege to enjoy weathers such as these," your father once said, a hand on your darkened hair, a bluer tint to it, but Baratheon through and through. "It is our might that holds us at paramount, and thus, our privilege beckons warm fires and strong, stone fortresses to watch it all in comfort. To find enjoyment in the dark skies."

"Ours is the Fury," you replied immediately. Your father smiled.

"That, precisely. The paramount of our might and power is one we have taken and given with fury. Never forget."

"Even better than the Targaryens?" Your father's displeasure crumpled his face, and you were at an old enough age to understand his displeasure was not something you enjoy. But you had been learning all day, and the topic that day with your septa had been House Targaryen. You had learned the King's name, that he had a Queen that died, and that his heir is a girl.

His hold on your shoulders was heavy, but you do not flinch. Eyes bore into your own as if he was speaking the words into existence.

"We are the blood of the Kings too, my daughter. The White Hart proves our mark in the world, long before the dragonlords ever whispered in these lands. And what are dragons against the dance of storms?"

You had been little then, no more than six. The smallest of your sisters; Floris, though short in stature, looked elongated. A beauty. A fawn in the making. And your father is not the cleverest of men, but his words shelved itself in the corners of your brain. It eased and assuaged your fears like a quick spell.

Your spine straightens and your chin tilts upward. You are made of fury and storms, the blood of kings of old and solid, impenetrable fortresses.

You fury is your own, and 'neathe your fingers, under your very being, is a storm.

A good reminder, as when you had exchanged childhood for girlhood, a missive had been sent by the Queen Alicent Hightower, requesting for a daughter from Lord Baratheon's Four Storms, as companion for the Princess Helaena.

"Cassandra would do well."

"She hungers, husband. I am afraid of what might happen if we send her to the courts at her age. I do not yearn for a scandal."

"She would not shame her family so, do you reckon?"

"She is the eldest. You know how she is."

A sigh. "If she had a cock, she would be a good heir for my seat."

"Borros!"

"Apologies. Very well, mayhaps a good husband with no grit to him would do her well. She will lead the Stormlands by the hold of his— er, well, yes. Maris? She is clever."

"Far too clever. Even her tongue irks you, no. Definitely not. Her brain works too fast for her mouth. She will say the wrong thing and end us in war."

"You exaggerate, surely."

"I bore them, Borros, but they are your daughters. They live and breathe with your name and your House's banner under their own. What do you think? Bad enough they take so much of your heritage with them, and their looks, but they also plucked and chosen parts of you I'd rather not have for lady daughters."

Your father grumbles incoherently, you laugh under your breath.

"... Floris is too young. So..." The last one. You. You press your ear harder against the wood of your father's study, heart in your throat.

"She will be best," she says softly, insistently. She knows in her heart of hearts that though her husband is a hard, proud man, he has a softened heart for you. "Though she is clever, she minds herself well. Polite. Kind. She will do well with the Princess and her, er, eccentricities."

"Bloody weirdoes, the lot of them." A sigh. Another chastise from your mother, but she too, sounds exhausted. It has almost been a moon since the missive has been sent. Another one is bound to arrive, more order than request. It is all a political game. Princess Rhaenyra had no Baratheon ward under her court when she still resided in Kings Landing, for you and your sisters had been too young and your father had no sister. It is by chance that gives the Green Queen advantage to take a ward under your father's banner now, with a daughter she seeks to be Queen Consort.

"Send her then," your father announces. Though defeat clouds his voice, the Lord in him speaks each vowel clearly. "She will do best to represent the House out of them all. We might have a betrothal in our hands soon enough."

"She is pretty enough for a prince."

An angry snort. "She is more than pretty enough for a prince. Far better than the lot of them."

Softly, "That is because you like her best."

"Why would I not?" your father replies gruffly, making you smile. "A storm grinds and brews inside of her, wife. Even Maestre Loes, the old gnat that he is, sees my bloodline thick in her. Even if the King asks for her hand at this very moment, I would refuse. I would throw him off Storm's End with a smile on my face and a boot on his back."

You fight off a snort as your mother grumbles about treason and Maris.

"She is far better than the best of them." Another sigh. Heavier. "Why are we sending her?"

Your mother sighs. "Because as she is the best of them, she is the best of us. She will survive far better in that cesspit they call a keep than any of our daughters. Her storm can tame dragons."

You would argue that that too is treasonous given the context, but your father merely laughs. His laughter is a crackle and a boom.

"I would upheave our coffers to witness that."

Though you find her odd, you enjoy spending your time with the Princess Helaena. Mostly, she is quiet, in her own little world. Though it took time to get used to her many-legged friends, you soon realised the best times you spend with her are when shipments and gifts of pinned butterflies and books that have reached as far as Yi-Ti, to get to Kings Landing about bugs, and undeniable excitement unfurls in the Princess' face. More like a girl, a sweet one.

It makes her already cherub features appear more child-like, and she grasps your hand voluntarily as she points at each and every critter she recognises. It is so very rare to see true happiness in the princess' visage, and in her enjoyment, you see your sisters.

That is how you meet him, the Prince Aemond.

Princess Helaena had gone for tea with the Queen. It had not been planned. Though she often spent tea with family, either the Queen or the Lord Hand, or either of the Princes. Something had occurred, so now that Princess was having tea with her Queen Mother and her husband. If you had to guess, it was likely that Prince Aegon was being punished in some way.

Though there is no love lost between siblings, it makes you sniff at how blatant the prince's obscene indulgent for vices are. Princess Helaena didn't mind, rather, she didn't care unless they needed to spend time together, a clockwork patch of routine, and that was when you usually came in— you later realised, your primary job — soothing her nerves and distracting her thoughts before she had to enter her marriage chambers.

There is a resigned defeat in her, a woman's duty bearing down, looming like the Mother, and it makes you want to soothe her harder. Make her laugh.

With the change of plans, it was up to you to check for the new shipments of the Princess' things. A dictated note in your hand of the princess' handwriting, you were going through her boxes when a hand, gloved, rests on your shoulder.

"Do not move," a cool voice says behind you. Far too close for propriety.

You freeze. "Pardon?"

"I do not want to scare you, my lady, but there is a critter atop your head." The cool, calm voice waves off a steady rhythm to your heart, calming it further from the earlier panic of someone laying a hand on you (although this, is still not better. You are a lady and unmarried after all). "I will rid of it immedi—"

"No."

"... Pardon?"

"Where is it? Just atop my head?"

"... Yes?"

"It maybe poisonous, pease do not touch it." Before the owner of the hand and the calm voice could react, you pat your head until you touch a hairy, small thing with many legs. Relief spreads. "There you are."

"There you are?" The voice says, almost mocking, incredulously.

You huff, taking the spider in both of your hands, before you tilt your chin behind you, only seeing the gloved hand. "Please take your hand away from me."

The hand retreats. You turn.

Valyrian features are most uncommon than your own, and the jolt of recognising the pale, white hair is a strike to your being, a gasp falling from your lips. It is the one-eyed mask that tells you immediately who it is, but you string everything else you know of the prince.

Prince Aemond had been travelling to Oldtown, a visit requested by the Queen in the guise of seeing family, his brother. But there had been whispers of something more, as the chatter of the maids who cleaned up in the King's quarters talked about how ill he got day by day.

You had seen flashes of him before this, but fate had kept you two apart. You were not there when he visited the princess— on another errand or two, and he starkly ever looked at the ladies surrounding his sister with a vehement light as their voices, high pitched and dreary, tire him so on a good day, increasingly irritating on a bad one, and anyway, the silence that falls in a stone room just from his arrival is enough to irk him.

But here is he now, with one eyebrow rose, a good eye of icy blue iris, and the very visage of a warrior in black leathers, a braided hair pulled to one side, and pursed lips in both amusement and annoyance.

He hums. The sound kicks back your manners, blushing lightly at having gaped at him for far longer than pleasantry dictates, and you pull yourself into a bow.

"My apologies, my prince, I didn't know it was you. I was scared you were going to hurt the Princess' new friend."

"They are bugs," he says steadily. "Not her friends."

"Like so, but just because they have many a legs do not mean we cannot befriend them." A small smile plays on your lips before you place back the spider in the cage he got out of. It is something you had once said to the princess to make her laugh. You feel his stare burn at the side of your face. "Is there a matter, my prince?"

"You are the Lady Baratheon, are you not?"

"I am." A small, ironic smirk tugs at your lips. "Is it the hair?"

He makes a soft sound that exhales like a laugh out of closed lips. He's still quite close, you can feel his warmth and idly wonder if all Targaryens truly do have the blood of the dragons in them for you can feel the contours of him, burning at the edges of his being. Like a comforting little furnace.

"Hm. And the princess has taken quite the liking to you. You are all she talks about during sup."

You can't help it, you're smiling. So many rumours concerning the young prince, not all of them good, but there is a certain novelty in basking under the attention of a prince of the realm. A Valyrian beauty that brought an ethereal glow to him. As so intently stares, catching pieces and niches as if you are the most fascinating creature.

The attention makes you feel like a blushing lady.

"My apologies then, my prince."

He cocks his head, the braid dipping and you catch the movement in your peripheral. "Whatever for my lady?"

You turn to him, unable to curb the cheek to your smile. "For interrupting better conversations with the topic of my name plaguing your sups so."

His mouth twists into a smirk. In Aemond's mind, it is not oft that ladies, especially Helaena's ladies, would care to... flirt with him. Because this is you flirting, is it not? The coy gaze, the curl at the edge of your lips? Aemond has seen these faces in ladies and maids alike, but directed at others. At Aegon.

Directed at Aemond... bereave to keep their conversations to themselves, and though it is not always a fault of theirs for his stoicism is his most valued armour, one would resign oneself of an arranged marriage that will take long moons before his lady wife would see the truest him, that he would not be able to experience such... coy conversations with the opposite sex.

Yet here you are, a light dust of red in your cheeks, a quirk in your mouth, and the playful joust in your eyes, daring him into a swords' dance.

It is thrilling.

"Plaguing is too harsh of a word to say so about a lady of your stature, Lady Baratheon." He steps closer, aware of propriety standards of how close two unwedded people should be, but he feels intoxicated of the whiff of life exhuming from your visage. A light citrus, oranges? Lemons? Tart and sweet, with a powdery finish. It is so very ladylike.

Addicting.

The perfect smell for a lady wife, a musing thought.

"Is that so?"

"Intriguing, I would say, would be the better word."

You laugh, low and sweet. It sends a pleasant warm to his centre. "I'm afraid my memory is failing for I do not remember any wily adventure or conversation the princess and I had for a prince of the realm to say I intrigue him so."

"It is less... about wily adventures or interesting conversations that pique my interest, but the lady herself." His eye, though lone, the other remaining hidden behind an eyepatch with hints of scarred, twisted skin underneath, bore against yours as if he wished to gather all your strings and see what each would give him. What you would show him.

"I'm afraid to disappoint you, my prince, but I still fail to see how I can ever so pique your interest." You meet his gaze, smirking. "I am just me."

Before he can answer, step forward— whatever, he is staring at the curve of your lips so, at the enchanting shimmer of your eyes, and Aemond Targaryen felt breathless — your named is called, and the spell is broken. The prince steps back, taking more space between you that is more appropriate.

His hand flexes.

But that is not the last you see of the prince, nor the last time you are able to hold a conversation with him. It seems that since then, you find yourselves orbiting each other in the fringes before one steps forward and engages. There seems to be a band that tightens either of you so obsessed with seeing the other in the periphery, the topic whatever may came, even as inane as the weather.

It is a dance of swords, kissing blades of sharp quips and interesting parry. You are interesting. Beguiling. Devouring. Aemond searches for you in most places now, unable to stop himself from asking his dearest sister about you— even his mother and grandsire have taken notice, eyebrows rose between shared looks.

"House Baratheon is of a Great House," his mother hesitantly brought up, too focused on her soup for it to just be idle chatter above sup.

"It is." His forced passivity is not as apathetic as he can make it. For any mention of you and your origins thrums his heart in a dance.

"And the Lady Baratheon has many admirers, a kind and dutiful lady, and Helaena likes her so."

He turned to his mother then, humming. At the barest hint of a smile in her son's face, Alicent beamed.

But others from court also soon took notice, and when Aemond realises the wagging tongues had come to note your name— unkind whispers besmirching your person, he disappears from you altogether.

The differences become stark to him; realising what a foolish endeavour it is to want you. Though he is a prince, he is mutilated, a monster that will ruin you. You are too good for him, a warmth he had forgone in the face of misery, apathy, and hatred. The urge to conquer your every thought and sound, from your fingertips to the top of your hair... it is a gasping thought, one he shamefully sins at the blackest hours, tugging at his cock desperately to the thought of what you had looked like that day. The sound of your laughter, the pull of your lips when you smiled, the gasp you let out when you touched water that had been too cold— his mind bends and moves, and images of you, images that he will have to pray for the in morrow but cannot stop—

Moves him to completion, a strangle grunt of your name from his lips.

And yet, every night since, it happens again and again.

The more he pulled away from you, the more he wanted you. It is a debase urge, one more fit for his drunken cur of a brother than he, more creature than man.

But he cannot stop, so the torturous cycle continues.

Until you've had enough.

You know that during hours of inky night, the prince prefers the sanctum of the library. Not always, and lately, not often, but if there are a few things you learned in the hunting trips your father brought you that your mother never approved of, is that lying in wait, patient, deals a hand much better.

And on the fourth day of your waiting, your hair in a braid, a book on your lap, and a small candlelit close by as to not alert any spooked princes— the door opens at the Hour of Eel, the familiar and sorely missed footfalls of a quiet but sure-footed prince enters.

You admire him for a moment, hidden as you are, your stare drinks in the ever smooth of his twilight-spun hair, those pursed lips and straight lines. He's lithe but you know, having been offered his arm on every walk, he is made of hard muscle. Aemond always walks so smoothly, like a panther, or a gazelle, with the barest hint of austre he can never hide.

It's the prince in him, you giggle to yourself.

A sweet pang in your chest is the reminder of how much you missed his presence. And that ends tonight.

With his back turned, perusing a shelf, you shuffle and make yourself known with a soft, almost admonishing voice.

"Good eve, my prince."

He stiffens, hand poised against a spine of a tome. He barely turns, only his head to the floor, in the general direction of you. "My lady. I did not expect you to be here."

Frustrated, you sigh loudly. "Have I offended you so horribly? Dishonoured you in some way?"

"What?"

"Why can't you even look at me, Aemond?"

A sharp intake of breath. When he speaks again,his voice is changed. "You forget yourself, my lady."

There is an ache to your being, pursuing your lips. "You had given me permission with your given name, my prince, or have you forgotten?" Anger overcomes propriety. Fuck propriety. You charge toward him, heavy, angered steps until you're close enough. "Can't you at least look at me, look at me as you push me away as if I amnothing—"

He turns abruptly, one eye flashing as he grasps your elbows in a grip. His eyes zero in on your lips as a gasp falls, eyes widen— if you could see better, you'd notice the darkened gaze drinking you in. Your widened eyes, your open lips— and Sevens, only a robe hides your nightgown, the smooth expanse of your skin is more bare to him than ever before.

His beautiful, beloved stag.

"You have never been nothing to me, nēdenka riña brave girl," he hisses. "Konir sagon se drīve That is the reason."

"Prince A-Aemond?" you say. He is against the shadows of the moonlight, only his hands holding your own is illuminated.

A wrangled exhale falls from his lips. You follow the sound, worried.

"Are you? Injured? Are you okay?"

"I have not been okay for the moment I met you," he rasps, hands bruising in his hold.

"Well. Gods. I'm sorry. If it's such a offense—"

"It is an offence!" he growls, pulling you abruptly that you yelp, bathed in shadows and darkness together, your eyes adjust as you scramble to have thoughts apart from just being this close to him. Hearing a voice you had never heard of him before, untethered from his princely visage, from manners and proper, and it makes you burn.

The thoughts of wanting him close, of taking more of that space until you are chest to chest are blushing thoughts.

But there is honour still, for he holds you at least an arm's away.

"I have wanted you the moment I have laid eyes on you," he whispers, voice rough, exhausted. "And each day I spend with you, each hour— my honour stands in shambles, in ruins at my feet for I want you as a man wants a woman. Honourably and... and carnally."

You swallow, and he follows the movement like a predator tracking his prey. The blush in your cheeks, the way your lips press together as if you are just as starved of him as he to you— oh, you want him too, don't you?

One hand moves from your elbow to slowly reach up. Your arms, your collarbones, your neck. A thumb brushing your cheek and your eyes flutter.

Aemond wants to devour you.

"You plague me so, and I crave you."

"Then have me," you sigh.

His eye closes. "I cannot sully—"

You grasp his neck, bringing your mouth close to his. "You cannot sully what is freely given. If you crave me, I want you."

Honour unbound, a snap is tightened by the hunger that uncoils from a dragon that wants you. Aemond had grabbed the back of your head, tangled his fingers, and made a mess of your mouth.

Gasps and teeth, touching skin from where you can feel it— touching skin from where you unbuckle, tear through hem and push against cloth. When he slams you again the shelf, a moan so lewd falls from your lips that he groans, pulling your nightgown until he feels the heat from your very womanhood, and so, so wet, that when he flicks his thumb, curious and entranced, moving it around experimentally, you are a mess of sound and feeling, gasping his name, A-aemond, oh gods, please, and he is whispering, forgive me, f-forgive me, like love letters, like penitent, like a kiss from a traitor so wrong but so tasteful against your skin as he pulls himself from his confinements, holds you steady, and breaches your tight cunt.

Just before a scream tears through your throat, he devours your sound, holding you steady, until the pain bleeds pleasure and you are holding him like an anchor in dangerous seas. You cannot think or feel anyone else but him; what you are and who you are do not stand a chance as Aemond Targaryen swallows your senses.

It is harsh and fast, it is sweet and devouring, and more, more, more, you don't know what you're begging him, you feel like a devout and he feels like a god, grunting against your skin, biting through anything his teeth grazes. When he shifts you at an angle, finding a spot that feels like a lightning striking through your entire being, you are screaming, twitching, reaching a high so blinding it feels like white death.

"Is that it? That sweet spot?" he purrs, a breathless laugh, shocked and delighted drinking in your trembling and pleasure. "Your cunt is tight against my own, holding me like you never want to let go." You cry out when his cock hits that spot again. Your combined wetness makes an obscene squelch, just as pretty as the sound you utter. He smirks. "Can you hear that? Not even a whore can make a sound so sweet, hm?"

His teeth grazes your lips, sending shivers through your body as he licks the roof your mouth. "I want more of that sound. As your prince, you would grant me this, yes?"

But he isn't waiting for an answer, planting his feet and holding you steady, angling you back to that spot until he is snapping his hips, fucking into you as you can do nothing but beg and cry and tremble in the arms of a dragon taking what is his.

And you are.

You are his.

Maybe you had known it since then.

You definitely do when his seed floods your womb.

You want to say that that night was a fluke, a mistake that must be regretted. But once your gaze meets another, the fire burns, flickering and dancing, and it repeats. In quick fucks in dangerous spots, to slow, sweet love making in his room.

You are his, in mind, body and soul.

"Death is nothing but a friend," he murmurs against your neck, holding you close. Sweat cooling between your naked bodies. "It cannot stop me from finding you."

"I hope you say that to my father well," you tease.

" Marrying you is but the next step, my love. You are already mine as I am yours." He plays with your hair, brushing it past and kissing a bruise he made on your breast. "In face of every god and more, they will understand that we are but one soul."

You can plan the future in rose-coloured gaze for as much as you can, but the truth of marrying into a family with war brewing inside of it, held together by a dying king's hope and corpse fingertips— it is another matter entirely.

It all comes to a sharp clarity when Viserys I dies... and they keep his rotting corpse a secret.

And then they crown a whoremongering drunk.

"Aemond," you break into the silence, your entire being too cold for comfort. You had just come back from a privy council, a Green Council where the Queen had ordered you and your betrothed to reach Storm's End before the night fully breaks.

As if she knew where your loyalties are.

As if there is no question you will support the usurpation.

You turn to Aemond, busy with packing his things for they have bared the maids and people the of Keep. Because they are making Aegon as king and they know a revolt is underneath the floorboards.

"Aemond!"

"What? What has happened?" He looks confused, irritated. "We must make haste, my love, if we are to beat the storms at—"

"Princess Rhaenyra is Queen," you whisper but it could have been a scream. Saying it aloud gives you confidence, strengthening your resolved. You turn to him. "She is the King's heir, no one else. Aemond, this is an usurpation, unlawful in the eyes of—"

It takes little strides for him to reach you, for him to hold your neck in a tightened grip of warning.

"She," he spits, slow and careful as if you are a simpleton in need of teaching, "is a whore who is attempting to place her bastards on the Iron Throne. Rhaenys Targaryen held no chance of it, just as she. My brother is the firstborn son. He is king." His fingers dig into your skin. "You will do well as my wife to not speak of such blasphemy once more, do you understand?"

Your shock and fear melt from your visage, making way for compliance. You nod once. "Yes, my prince."

"Husband," he corrects, holding you much gentler but the weight of his hand is still there on your neck. A reminder. "Have you forgotten? We only come to Storm's End to officiate our union and your House's loyalty to the King. Once done, we will marry, yes?"

You nod, hands fisting. "Yes."

When he kisses you, harsh and needy, imprinting his will unto you— you close your eyes and plan how you make known to your Queen of their plots.

But Storm's End doesn't go as planned, does it?

Lucerys Velaryon, the Queen's son who had come as nothing more but an envoy for the rightful heir, and Aemond—what you thought to be your Aemond but a monstrous man who needed his revenge, who needed to draw blood for a grudge so deep, for an existence he finds so abysmal — had chased after him and came back to you bloodied, tearing up your dress, rutting in you in harsh, rough thrusts, as you listen to the storms from your window and think,

The Queen will never find his body. Her poor, sweet boy. Half in the belly of a beast, the rest spread and sunken into the water.

"I will not allow any marriage until the realm is at peace," your Lord Father rumbled with finality. He is not a smart man, truly, but he is a father. His gaze meets yours, full of meaning, of promises, before looking back at the seething prince. "You will have my bent knee for your king and for your war, but my daughter's hand shall be her own until the realm is at ease."

Your mother steps forward, her courtly smile on her face. "We want for her to have a grand wedding, my prince. She is the first of our charges to wed, and to a prince of the realm no less! By sure, at the time of war, we must err on the side of caution, as our coffers will no doubt focus on our troops. A future princess of the realm must be mindful, of course."

She bows in deference, your sisters following suit. Maris is the first to look up, defiance burning in her eyes.

You remember a conversation with him, feeling like a lifetime ago.

"Ask me, my prince," you teased. "What a storm is to a dragon. A creature is a creature. Even you must acquiesce to the way of nature for she has bowed to no one since her existence."

Aemond may be blood of the dragons, but he is surrounded by storms on all sides. The fiercest.

And your father will never marry you to a Kinslayer.

Yet you stay beside him, your duty now clearer than ever. Every new information you can grasp is sent back to the Queen and her council. In a courtier of the Greens and Traitors, you are the sole Black Stag. You use Aemond's adoration for you, his possessive obsession of what he thinks is love, as a protection and guise.

Any time he beds you, you sneak in moon tea. His bedding of you is just as much his hold on you and his defiance against your father's refusal. Once caught, you remind him he would not enjoy a bastard child. Especially at a time of war. Not after what they had done to his nephews.

"Do you want for me to suffer as your sister does?" The tears in your face then had not been a folly, for your heart broke for sweet Helaena and her sons. For Jaehaera. The world bleeds and bleeds, and all who die that reaches your ears are nothing more but innocents.

Aemond does not bed you after that, but he keeps you in his chambers, pulls you close as if he is trying to mould your skins as one. Times like this, your heart stutters. Your love to him and your morality as a person is at a test of swords.

You are in love with him,

He is a monster,

He has lost his nephews,

He has killed his own.

And it makes you wonder if you are a monster too, lying beside him as his bedmate, caring for him, wanting him still as his heart beats as your own, so connected to the umbilical of fate and chance while war rages, bodies falling all around you both, most from his own hand and word.

The war rages, and Harrenhal comes to view.

With it, a slaughter and a witch.

The worst of the massacre is the steely, lulling silence.

No one tells you that most of what an execution is that silence. That it amplifies each scream, each shout, each thick drop of a head as it falls on cobblestone. The sound is wet and a mouthful. Then it is nothing, consumed by that silence again.

You are locked in a room with a window that doesn't face the horror of what Aemond is doing. As if this is enough to shield you from what he is, what he truly is doing to win this war.

The worst part, committing genocide of an entire house is nothing more but a horrific grudge.

Strong blood spills, enough to make a lake.

By the time that night bleeds and a maid had entered with dinner to light a fire— your body is still so cold. No food has touched your stomach since the day before yet you retch.

Does loving a monster meant that you are just as monstrous?

Mayhaps it is still worth it, you muse in your silent madness, tears tracking your cheeks as the heaviness of your being stays. For who can say a monster can love you so monstrously? Who else can?

When Aemond comes back to you, freshly cleaned and a reminiscent of the prince that you loved, and he is making excuses of wanting you as you are, pawing at your clothes, you let him. You make love in the silence suffering from the massacre he had just finished. You hold him and kiss him in a desperation as you know this will be your ending.

That your Aemond is gone, or worse. He had never truly existed.

When you are both spent, satiated in a sweet glow, your head pleasantly quiet, he speaks about a plan.

A woman, a Strong witch, that promises him an assurance of winning with her sights and blasphemous magic. He had spared her among others, and that itself makes you look at him, truly look at him.

In exchange of what— for such things do not concede so easily as gratitude to mercy of one life, yes? Because desire devours itself. A snake eating itself.

"A child," he whispers against your battered head and bruised heart. "From my blood."

"A bastard," you murmur as he stiffens. "From a bastard Strong. Surely the irony is not lost on you? You have started this war by killing your bastard nephew, and you plan on ending it by fathering—"

"Do not question me," he says softly, grip tightening against your arms. Your eyes close, heavy with the weight of being a spy. Of loving him. "I will fuck a babe in her how many times it takes, and when the war is won, I will kill her and it. For your womb is the only place my lineage will live. I am doing this for the good of the realm. For us."

When he thinks you are asleep and leaves— you take your things and make haste to leave. Not once has your people left you in the arms of the kinslayer. Always one maid, always three guards from your father's army, loyal to only you.

You bundle up quick, and rush for the passage, you are blocked by a woman. Pale skin, dark hair, and eyes greener than wildfire. You know her before she speaks. You hold yourself to fight, and the witch of Harrenhal laughs.

"You have changed the tide of destiny, my lady." Her head tilts as if she can see past you and through you. "Once your choice has affirmed, your thread chosen, I cannot stand in the side of the One-Eyed Kinslayer without the Stranger coming for me. So instead, I will grant you one gift. One that will require no sacrifice."

"I do not want it."

"Ah, but it is a gift." She nods at your torso. "Your belly will soon take size, in it, his heir. You will not escape him as soon as he knows." Her head twists to the window. A raven flies. A storm grumbles. The sound comes first before the lightning strikes. A false storm. "Time is flowing, changing and twisting. He may have betrayed his kin, but he is still a prince. He will know soon."

Her green eyes glint as if she is seeing now and tomorrow. Now and a moon. Moon from a year. "You must run now. Hide and hide well."

You hold your stomach, bile rising in your throat. "Where? Where am I safe?"

A faint smile rises to her lips. "Your heir looks more like him than mine did. You will not escape him. But go north. As far North as you can. The fjords can hide him for a while. He will grow well there."

She moves away, letting you pass.

You never look back.

Dark locks. Baratheon hair.

A tuff of silver lock atop his head.

And the rest... his nose, his eyes. With your fingers, you pull his lids. Bloom in mullish blue with the faintest tint of iridescent violet. You know from your histories, that faint tint will overpower the blue.

Oh, he is utterly beautiful. Utterly yours. And utterly his father's son.

Rough breaths strangle out of your raw-bitten lips, brushing blood away from your babe's face, his head, his wet, silvery hair. Few they maybe, unmistakably Valyrian features they still are.

"Oh, he is beautiful," your mother murmurs, tears stain her cheeks. "Quiet as you were, as a babe. Looks just as much as you."

She is weighing his Valyrian features too. Your blood tried, but it seemed as if Aemond's grudge grasped your womb and affected your shared blood.

"We cannot stay," you say, still staring at him, admiring him. Your heart locking in place, steeling itself as you prepare to do your utmost to protect him. "We will have to travel posthaste."

Your mother swallows her grief. She had almost lost you. She will lose you again, now along with her only grandchild. "Where?"

"North. As far as North as we can."

Your mother nods. Ever a lady. "I will send a missive. The Lord Stark is loyal to the Queen and knows by how much you have sacrificed for this realm. He will protect you on his honour or he is no Stark."

You will need to hide. You will need to hide well.

You pull him close to your chest, hot tears freshly spilling from your eyes.

The witch had not lied, for your boy grew up amongst ice and warmth. He grows up with love from you, from the Lord Stark and his people, and love from his father in the way that he resembles him.

The slope of his nose, the sweet purse of his lips.

When your boy had gotten angry once, nothing but a quick burst, it shocks fear and tears from your eyes for you had seen the prince.Nothing more than a flash.

You pull him close and wound him to your heart as he cried, apologising for scaring you.

The North had granted you reprieve from the war as it came and went. Your betrayal to the Greens had mounted to the Black Queen's win. The betrayal of House Baratheon as House Stark and their bannermen joined the fray had squandered any rebellious thought on which sovereign will preside.

The last you heard of what became the Prince Regent was his surrender at the Battle Above God's Eye.

When you had cried that night, you did not know if it was from relief. Or fear.

But a black stag on white snow is easy to spot.

It takes years, yes, but the Stranger is but an old friend.

For when the day of your wedding to the Lord Stark arrives, a familiar screech of a dragon that your marrow will never forget— tolls the bell of death.

And when you looked up, snow swirling, holding onto your son that looked up in awe at the man who looked so much like him—

Aemond is smiling.

Sweet came the word— dracarys! — as Vhagar split her mouth opened and obeyed her rider.

What have I told you?

You are mine as I am yours.

In face of every god and more, they will understand that you and I are but one soul.

#dark!aemond x reader #dark!aemond #aemond smut #dark!aemond targaryen x reader #elle writes !! ꒱ ↷˗ˏˋ🍒#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x you #aemond targaryen x you #aemond x reader #aemond angst #aemond dark #hotd smut #aemond fanfiction #aemond fanfic #hotd fanfic

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princessbellecerise · 1 year

Text

Touch The Skies

──── ✧*･ﾟ*✭˚･ﾟ✧ ────

summary | In which Aemond finally takes you flying on Vhagar

warnings | None

this is a work of fiction. i do not own these characters

divider by @princessbellecerise

You know you shouldn’t be scared, but you were.

The nerves that pooled in your stomach almost made you sick, but you hid them from Aemond as he lead you up the hill, not wanting to making your dear husband upset.

After all, you know how much of an honor this is. For him to even consider showing you Vhagar was one thing, but for him to propose that you ride her?

That was an entirely different story. A true honor, seeing as Aemond had never let anyone ride on Vhagar’s back expect for himself. When you got married, you always assumed that he wouldn’t even let you get close to the dragon he had fought to claim.

But alas, here you were. Ascending the cliff that the gigantic beast rested on, for she was too big for the Dragonpit the ancient Targaryens had designed. A monster in her own right, and utterly terrifying to see in person.

Your stomach churned a little more but you tried your best to keep a brave face. The warnings your dear husband still rang through your head:

Do not ever let a dragon sense your fear. They will deem you weak, and the weak are treated as prey.

Those words nearly paralyzed you; reminding you over and over you could not fault. You had to be as strong as your husband was, fearlessly walking up the dragon as if he was the bigger monster.

Aemond’s back was straight, gaze strong as he first approached the dragon. You lingered back a little bit further way at his command; the Targaryen needing to speak to his dragon before you approached.

Curiously, you watched as words of old Valyria flew from his tongue, prompting the gigantic beast to turn it’s head to your husband.

Yellow eyes stared into lilac ones, and for a moment, all was still. You held your breath as Aemond repeated his commands and Vhagar grumbled. The hefty dragon looked as if she were barely listening to your husband, but you soon found that it was quite the opposite.

Vhagar did heed his commands, and underneath you the ground shook as she moved around. Almost like she was positioning herself, getting herself into the right angle so that Aemond could comfortably mount her.

So that you could mount her.

“Come, my love. She has granted my wish for you to join me.”

You gulped as Aemond held out his hand for you, nerves eating you alive as he awaited for you to join him by the dragon’s side. You hadn’t been this nervous ever since your wedding day—and even then you were sure you didn’t sweat half as much as you were right now.

Clammy hands are what met your husband’s, Aemond giving you a look as you slowly allowed him to pull you towards the beast’s side. You could barely contain your beating heart but the soft tugs and gentle touches from your husband are enough to calm you down a little. At least enough for you finally get close without collapsing all together, Aemond taking your bare hand and lacing it with his before gently setting it on top of Vhagar’s rough hide.

Like you expected, the dragon felt hot and her thick scales had been softened by age. By all means, she was exactly what you pictured a dragon being like. But you had to admit—she was eerily calm as your fingers ghosted over her. Something you weren’t expecting but clearly Aemond was by the way he smiled a bit.

“See?” Aemond’s eye glinted as Vhagar softly growled but still allowed you to touch her. “I told you there was nothing to worry about, sweet wife. She clearly likes you; probably even more than she does me.”

“Well, I guess it wouldn’t be the first time, dear husband,” You laughed shakily, earning a sharp, playfully glare from Aemond. He stood by closely and allowed you to keep stroking Vhagar’s hide before eventually taking your hand again.

Clasping your fingers together, you shared a look and you knew what that meant. Gulping, you let out a breath as Aemond nudged you forward and encouraged you to take the first step towards riding; placing your feet in the ladder and climbing onto the back of the dragon.

Since Vhagar was so large, it was impossible to mount her without doing this. And so, steadily your feet ascended, one after the other as Aemond followed closely behind.

You could feel the encouraging hands of you husband nudging your thighs as you aimed to reach Vhagar’s saddle, ensuring that you would not fall backwards as you climbed. Grateful for this small act of affection, you briefly smiled and then when you finally reached the top, you paused.

You examined the reins which were worn by the various riders of Vhagar and the sheer size of the mount. If that did not help put into perspective how large this dragon was, you didn’t know what would. Of course, you knew that she was huge but staring at the added space of the saddle had your jaw dropped.

Easily, Vhagar could have carried at least twenty people on her own. Maybe even more.

If it was not for the fact that Dragons only bonded with one rider, you had no doubts she could be used as a very useful mode of transportation.

Luckily though, your husband was the only one that held any sort of claims to her. And now you—sort of—as you settled between Aemond and the reigns of the saddle.

Behind you, you felt your husband shifting as he gathered the ropes and all the proper measure before the two of you took flight. He took extra care doing this, making sure that every precaution was met so that no danger would be presented to you.

You found that most of the safety ropes were wrapped around your waist which left Aemond vulnerable a little. If something were to happen or if Vhagar turned upside down, he would not be as protected as you.

Briefly, this caused you to frown but then you chastised yourself for not believing in your husband. Of course—he had done this plenty of times, ever since the age of ten. Now nine and ten, Aemond was sure to know what he was doing and how to control his own dragon.

You did not need to fear for your husband, only seek his warmth as your back pressed to his.

“Are you almost ready, ñuha jorrāelagon?” My love. You smiled briefly as Aemond purred in your ear, turning your body slightly so that you could look him in the eye. Already finding him staring at you with a soft expression, you nodded and then pressed a chaste kiss to his lips.

“As ready as I’ll ever be, dōna valzȳrys,” You sighed, the organs in your stomach beginning to twist and turn with anxiety.

You hadn’t even taken flight yet but you were already nervous. As one should be when riding a literal dragon for the first time, but deep down you knew that you had nothing to fear.

Not when you had your sweet husband with you.

Aemond would never let anything happen to you, and it was this thought that calmed you enough to stay still as Vhagar shook and groaned.

After a few commands from your Lord Husband, she was ready to take flight. And you gulped as your body began swaying along with her, holding on for dear life as she walked towards the edge of the cliff and then made her descent.

A scream—no perhaps a shout of caution got stuck in your throat as she dived downhill, not even being able to release it due to the backlash of the wind. The very particles seemed to nip at your face and all but rendered you breathless, your body going limp as Aemond laughed behind you.

Out of everything, you weren’t expecting your husband to laugh at your misfortune. But alas, while his beast was busy trying to take flight, he leaned forward and caught a glimpse of your face. Priceless—you were sure it had to be. Yours cheeks all but molded by the wind and your mouth open with a silent scream.

Aemond shook behind you, and you breathed like you had never done so before as Vhagar finally straightened out. Her wings spread, and finally you were granted the pleasure of sanity as she flew through the skies.

“See? That was not so bad, my love,” Aemond teased.

You had some not so nice words your husband but you decided to hold your tongue since he was being nice today. Letting you ride Vhagar, which slowly became a more pleasant experience the further you got into your venture.

Eventually, you had stopped holding your breath and allowed yourself to really and truly enjoy the experience of riding a dragon, opting to keep your eyes open to ogle at the sights below you.

It was like Vhagar was touching the skies and you saw everything from mountains, to lakes, to people in boats that ogled you as you shook the water.

Everything that you could possibly imagine, right there under your fingertips. The beautiful sights and land on display only for you; and your husband as he leaned into you.

Eventually, Aemond had taken to relaxing as well once he was sure Vhagar was at a steady pace. This allowed him start pointing certain things out, filling you in on all the things he had seen while you nodded.

You loved hearing him talk about his ventures, especially during a time where you were both so relaxed. It was rare to see your husband look so peaceful, carefree in a way he was not on land. That’s because up in the skies, there existed no worries, no duties. Just the two of you and the soft lulling of Vhagar’s wings.

It made you hum, and it let you savior this moment like it was going to be your last one earth. Your last memory would be of the heavens opening up to you.

As she flew, that’s exactly what it felt like. And perhaps now you understood why people always claimed that Targaryen’s were closer to Gods than men; for now you knew that no man, not even yourself, could ever replicate this kind of serenity without the likes of dragons.

#aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen fluff #aemond x reader #aemond fluff #hotd x reader #hotd #house of the dragon x reader #house of the dragon

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asumofwords · 1 year

Text

Smoke, Fire and Ash

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence, death, forced marriage, and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on.

This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: You are the eldest daughter of Rhaenyra and Daemon Targaryen. You are forced to navigate the difficult surroundings of your upbringing and the eventual disintegration between your family and the Hightower's relationship. What will happen when your older and estranged uncle suddenly takes a more sinister interest in you? (Dark!Aemond x Reader)

Masterlist

Characters: Aemond Targaryen X Reader, HOTD characters.

Note: Well... Here we are..... And here we are going omg. The poor reader doesn't even understand what she has signed herself up for ! Thank you so much for all the love and kind words and for coming along with me on this little journey hehehe <3

Chapter 50: Farewell

It is not an easy burden to bear, being a woman. It is far harder when you are the eldest daughter at that. You will have to navigate your life at the whims of men. Stand pretty, but not too pretty. Be confident, but not loud. Be quiet, but have wisdom.

To be a daughter, is a paradox.

To be the eldest, is to be a second mother.

You have to mature, and fast, whilst your brothers are given the allowance to grow slowly, and mature with age. You must support your parents and family at all times, and put the needs of your blood above your own. You are to be the doting daughter, sister, mother, wife, maid, and servant all in one.

To be a nymph and a maiden. A teacher and a student.

To be a woman is a terrible thing.

A life of struggle, doubled by the sex of your birth.

Today you were faced with the hardest sacrifice of all. And whilst you would never be ready for it, your entire life had prepared you for this moment. To be wed to a man, who held no love for you. A political move no doubt, despite the attempts of your mother.

A man who is cruel and unforgiving.

Many women had faced the same fate as you.

And you would endure it.

Daemon and you had watched as Vhagar flew above you, light green belly passing over the castle, and the glimpse of a long scar on her back leg, curtesy of Syndor.

None of you were left unmarked.

Aemond, his eye.

You, your side.

The large, dark ship had moored itself down in the waiting docks below, the green banner of the three headed dragon staring unforgivingly at you as it had approached.

A vision of misery.

A reminder of loss.

The harbinger of sorrows.

As you waited beside Daemon, two heads appeared, walking steadily up towards you both from the long winding path that led to the lush greeneries where you stood. The long face of Otto Hightower approached, flanked on his side by a helmeted Ser Criston Cole.

You felt your father start to move, and you uttered beneath your breath at him.

“Set aside your grievances, if not for mother, then for me.”

The Rogue Prince did not move after, standing beside you stiffly as they approached.

Otto wore deep green robes and Ser Criston Cole wore his armour, bright white cloak clasped on his back. Such a funny thing to see on a man who had broken his vows.

The white cloak is to signify purity, yet this man had been nothing but filth.

Otto, despite being at war with your father for years before Viserys’ death, lowered his head stiffly to address you both.

“Princess Y/n.” He greeted you.

You shifted on your feet.

“King Aegon wishes that he could be here to bear witness to this union, however he had more pressing duties to the realm. I have come as his Hand to witness this union, and ensure the agreements of his treaty.”

The Rogue Prince shifted, muttering beneath his breath in High Valyrian.

You nodded.

“The King in his wisdom,” Began the Hightower, looking just as pompous and self righteous as you remembered, “Offered this treaty to your House out of duty to the realm and its people. Blood needlessly spilt over the Iron Throne would destroy the realm, which was not the King’s wishes. By splitting the realm into two,”

Movement caught your eye.

You watched as Aemond walked down the grassy knoll towards you, dressed in the traditional garb of Valyria. The cream of the robes moved in the wind, whilst the seeping red brought out the violet of his eye.

“Both King Aegon and Queen Rhaenyra may rule in seperate Kingdoms, bound to peace by this unification of each House.”

Aemond’s sapphire eye shone in the light of the sun, the depth creating small stars within the precious stone as he got closer to both you and your father. Wordlessly, Daemon turned to look at you, to see one last time if you wished to run.

If you wished for him to fight.

You gave him a small smile, and that was all he needed.

Daemon walked to one end of the stone alter, opposite to where Otto and Ser Criston stood, where the Hightower continued to rattle on about the farce of the treaty. Aemond’s eye never left you once, and you felt heat rise into your cheeks.

The robes fit him well, and you fought the urge to accept that he looked handsome. He had pulled half of his long, silver hair back, the top braided down gently, and you watched as he took determined steps towards you.

Three Septon’s of House Targaryen walked up the path, large offerings in hand as they made their way to the table as both you and Aemond stood together, staring at one another.

Reunited at last.

He towered over you, gazing at your face, and the headdress that sat upon your head.

There was no going back.

There was no running from this. There was no escape from the marriage that was about to be affirmed, in the tradition of your House. There would be no more Dragonstone with your family, and no more nights alone.

The Septon who had married your parents stepped forward beside you, as you walked to stand before the alter together.

It was so quiet, so silent in the space, that only the sounds of waves, wind, and robes moving about were heard. The gentle breeze brushed your hair over your shoulders, a slow shiver running through your body.

The Septon wore a grey hooded cloak, with a golden vest atop, old Valyrian runes were embroidered on the front as he began the ceremony, eyes peering at the both of you, and then to your witnesses.

“Ānogar se perzys,” (Blood and fire) The Septon began, as the other two stood behind him, “Konir sagon skoros mazverdagon Targārien Lentor” (That is what makes House Targaryen.)

Your eyes settled on Aemond’s face as the Septon continued to speak behind you, his words lost to you as you looked upon your soon to be husband. His lone eye was soft as he gazed at you, appreciative, drinking in every inch of your face.

His lips were not pulled into their usual smirk, nor their hard line, instead they were relaxed as he watched you.

Your eyes inspected his scar closely, now that you were both still.

No bickering or fighting, nor moving or yelling, no violence or lust. Simply observing what you had not been able to before. The scar was deep and the tissue had scarred a dark pink on his face. The lid where his eye had been was rippled and torn, permanently opened to the world.

To witness his sins.

The skin around the flesh looked tired, dark and sore. You wondered if his scar brought him pain to this day, if the nerves had grown badly into the scar tissue, bringing agony to him at random hours.

You hoped that it did.

The sapphire was a choice that you would never understand. It was beautiful, polished and shaped to fit perfectly within the empty socket, and shone under certain lights. Your fingers itched to reach up and touch it, to feel the smooth precious stone lodged inside of his head.

You clenched your fist instead.

As you observed him, he observed you.

A lazy smile pulled from the corner of his lips. The most his mouth had moved this entire time. He had not greeted you when he arrived, he had not taunted you, nor had he mocked you. Instead he was quiet in waiting.

“Perzys.” (Fire) The Septon spoke, handing two lone unlit candles into either of your hands.

You both took the candles from the Septon, before each lighting the others with a soft lit wick. You held the wick to his candle, watching it come to life, and stared as Aemond’s long fingers moved forward to do the same to yours.

When both candles were lit, you let yourself look up at him. He was already watching you.

You turned to place the candles upon the many others on the stone alter, securing your position in Valyrian ritual, ensuring your candles sat amongst the many others who had placed theirs before you.

“Se ānogar.” (And blood).

Your heart raced in your chest as you watched Aemond pick up the sharp blade of dragon glass from the alter beside you. It looked so small in his grip as he moved forward towards you, slowly.

You flinched as he lifted his hand up. His face remained still.

Slowly Aemond dragged the dragon glass down your bottom lip, almost with reverence, almost with care, as you felt the stinging slice cut through the soft flesh of your lip.

How many times had he cut you? How much blood had he taken from you forcefully? How many times had he watched you bleed at his hands?

But this time, it was different.

This time, you let him.

You swallowed thickly, his eye drawn to the blood that had been to leak from the cut he made.

His hand came up gently, thumb pressing into the slit, causing a dull sting, as he swiped blood onto his digit. He did so reverently, with caution and a carefulness you could not place. It was ritualistic, and confident.

It was intimate, and it was almost more than you could bear.

It made your heart race and your stomach flip as he lifted his thumb gently, running the warm wet blood of your lips down the middle of your forehead between your brows.

And then his palm opened to you, small blade resting atop his large hand. Hands that had killed, hands that had been inside of you. Hands that had forced yours into this marriage.

Your own grabbed the black dragon glass, lifting it up to his lips, less gentle as he had been, more anger than you should’ve had, and sliced roughly into his bottom lip.

His eye fluttered close as you dragged the blade down, revelling in seeing his blood pool from the cut, before you pressed your thumb sharply into it.

You wished to hurt him, you wished to maim, but you paused as your thumb pressed against his lip.

His violet eye opened to watch you, as you held your breath.

Thumb pressed to his forehead, you drew an arrow with his blood, where he had drawn on you. You felt the smooth wet blood spread against his skin, its warmth diminishing as your hand lingered. The One-Eyed Prince looked down at you from his height as he breathed deeply.

Taking the blade from you, he cut into his palm, the skin pulling apart gently, blood quickly rising to the surface and pooling in his palm. You grasped the blade and moved to do the same but stopped.

You looked as the tip of the blade pressed into the scar of your palm. The skin was raised where you had once grasped a piece of mirror, before plunging into the man before you’s shoulder.

Aemond blew out a sharp breath out of his nose as he waited. You pressed the tip into the scar and dragged down slowly, revelling in the pain as you watched blood rise from the cut, the Septon’s voice pulled you away from your thoughts.

“Hen lantoti anogar.” (Blood of two.)

Aemond’s hand pulled the blade away from you, placing it on the alter beside you, before he gripped his bleeding hand with yours. A sharp stinging shot through your hands as he held onto you, mixing your blood together.

It was the first time he had held you so softly since you were children.

The Septon stepped forth to wrap red cloth around your bound hands, as you stared at each other.

“Va syndroti. Vaedroma.” (Joined as one. Ghostly flame.)

Another Septon stepped forth, handing the officiant another strip of material, soft black and embroidered in gold as he gently wrapped it about your hands, keeping them tightly together. You watched as blood began to drip from where you hands met, the thick liquid dripping onto the rock and grass below.

Joined as one.

Your blood and his.

Coursing through each others veins.

A bond that cannot be undone.

A goblet was placed in your hand and you pulled to sip it, the unfamiliar burn laying on your tongue before slowly sliding down your throat as you swallowed.

“Mero perzot gihoti. Eledroma iarza sir.” (And song of shadows. Two hearts as embers.)

Aemond’s hand reached forth to grasp the goblet from you, his fingers grazing yours.

It felt so wrong.

So wrong to hold him like this.

So wrong to be wed in the tradition of Old Valyria, and the mighty House Targaryen.

It felt wrong to feel a spark of something in your heart, and emotion you couldn’t quite out your finger on as he slowly raised the goblet to his lips, eye on you as he drank deeply.

“Izuli ampa perzi. Prumi lanti seteksi. Hen jeny mazilarion. Qelossa ozundesi. Syndroro ono jedo.” (Forged in fourteen fires. A future promised in glass. The stars stand witness. The vow spoken through time.)

And as you stood together, and the breeze brushed against your legs, you let your eye stray beside you, to where Lucerys had been, to where he had been you watching you the whole time.

But now stood empty space, and that little piece of loss made you squeeze against Aemond’s hand in your grip, blood seeping out in thick rivulets into the cloths, before dropping to the earth below.

“Ry kivia mazvestraksi.” (Of darkness and light.) The Septon ended, and you felt a small piece end with you.

You gazed at each other, waiting to move, waiting for the inevitable to happen and you felt your heart race faster in your chest, shuffling on your feet before Aemond stepped forward, closer to you, his face in front of yours, nose almost brushing each other.

And then he closed the gap, lips coming to brush against yours gently at first as your eyes slid shut. You held still as he came closer, free hand coming to grasp the back of your neck, so soft, so unlike him that it almost startled you.

It was so unlike him that wondered if it was him.

His tongue pressed up against the cut on your lip, pushing sharply into it as he licked the blood, causing you to quietly gasp, mouth opening. He deepened the kiss, and you followed, nipping roughly at him, making the hand at the back of your head grip your hair roughly.

And as suddenly as a warmth began to pool in your stomach, he pulled away, eye wild and lips smeared with the both of yours blood.

“Mēre ñelly, mēre prūmia, mēre soul, sir se forever.” Aemond purred, looking down at your lips as his tongue darted out to lick away at the blood that had begun to drip down from his mouth. (One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever.)

“Mēre ñelly, mēre prūmia, mēre soul, sir se forever.” You repeated back, voice quiet.

You both stood and waited as the Septon’s came fourth and undid the binding of your hands, gentle fingers pulling the ceremonial rope away, leaving your hand still firmly clasped in his, blood leaking slowly as your hand began to throb.

The peace was broken.

One small word. One little utterance under his breath was all it took for the gentleness of the ceremony to disappear. To wither and die, right before your eyes.

“Wife.”

Your husband purred, testing the word on his tongue as he smiled, hand tensing in your shared grip, causing more blood to leak from the union of flesh.

“In the eyes of the Seven, and witnessed by King Aegon the Second’s Hand, the marriage of treaty between Prince Aemond, First of his Name, and Princess Y/n, First of Her Name, of House Targaryen has been confirmed.” Otto’s voice rung out into the air.

Your grip on Aemond’s hand faltered and he let yours go, your hand limply falling beside you as you turned to face your father who looked at you in both awe and pity. You found your legs taking you to race towards him before you could stop yourself. You threw yourself into his arms, his hands catching you as he held you against him, eyes piercing a hole through Aemond.

“Shh, you did good. I am so proud of you.” He cooed quietly into your hair.

You pulled back away from him nodding gently.

“We will have the Princess’ belongings brought down to the ship, before we make our voyage back to the King’s Landing.” Otto continued.

And then it was over.

The ceremony was complete.

And you had been wed to a man who you never thought you would have since you were a child. Back when things were simpler between the two of you. Back when things were not murky, or clouded with hate, and loss and despair.

You had thought when young, how good it would have been to be wed to him. How kind of a husband he would have been to you. How you could continue to read and play and enjoy each others company.

Back when he had done no wrong.

Back when he had not lost his eye, or become the cruel man he was now. Back when you had an unbreakable bond, though nothing lasts forever.

Life included.

There would be no celebrations. There would be no joyous dinner. There would be no families coming together to celebrate the union, or end of the war. Because there was nothing to celebrate. There was no joy. And there would be no reunion of blood.

You all but raced back into the castle, sparing neither your father nor husband a glance as you moved to ready yourself to leave. Each step closer you got, the more your feet became heavy until suddenly you were standing outside of your chambers staring at Ser Darke.

Your knight looked you up and down before giving you a soft and sad smile, opening the chamber doors, but you would not enter. You shifted on your feet, trying to delay the inevitable as you watched the dark haired knight step forward towards you.

“I wish I could come with you, My Lady. To protect you, as I was sworn to do.”

You inhaled deeply and then out.

“But you cannot, and so I ask you to protect them all in my absence. You are sworn to me, and must do as I command-“

“You do not need to command me to do this for you.” The Knight smiled, and you were grateful, as you gave him a short tight hug before entering the chambers where Saria and Aella waited.

Neither spoke a word to you as they undressed you, before you pulled on your riding leathers. They worked gently to quickly buckle you in before saying short and strained goodbyes.

You promised them you would be back, and they promised to wait in your absence. But you felt that they did not truly believe you.

You could not waste more time saying goodbyes, more time waiting about in the castle, avoiding the fate and future that lingered outside of Dragonstone’s walls. When you exited your chambers, your father stood waiting with your knight, both silent as he walked you towards the front of the castle doors.

Aemond, Otto and Ser Criston were all waiting for your arrival.

Aemond was now dressed back into his dark leather riding garb too, and he looked you up and down shamelessly. The blood on his forehead and lips had not been wiped away, much like yours, and his hands were held tightly behind his back.

Your palm itched.

“The Princess will join us on our ship back to King’s Landing. Your belongings have been loaded for you.” Otto spoke, looking down his nose at you as Aemond smiled gently.

You turned to Daemon as he looked at you, before you stepped to hug him once last time. One last time for Gods know how long, would you be able to hug your father. To hold him. To smell his familiar and calming scent.

One last time in his presence.

It would never be enough.

The Rogue Prince pulled you tightly against him, placing a lingering kiss atop your head before muttering quietly.

“Dracarys, ñuha byka vīlībāzmio.” (Dracarys, my little warrior.)

You buried your head further into his chest before pulling away.

“I’ll write to you.” You promised.

“When you are ready, Princess.” Otto interrupted, rushing you to leave.

You could not bear to linger any longer. Nor look at your fathers saddened gaze. It would break you. It would make you not leave. And so you forced yourself to go, before you broke in front of them all.

And with that you turned on the balls of your feet as you made your way to move up Dragonmont.

They were mad if they thought you would leave your dragon here.

They were mad if they thought they could seperate a Targaryen from their dragon.

“Princess!” Otto called after you, but you pushed on, hearing your fathers laugh in the air, which served to make you smile.

Truly smile, for the first time that morning.

Thanks so much for reading along with me, if you wish to be added to the tag list please let me know :) Likes and reblogs are greatly appreciated ! Enjoy <3

Tag List:

@izzicle @ej-shitchats @may-machin @alegria1580 @witchy-jadda @videovampire @inkdelicious @queteimporta39 @virtualsweetsqueen @fo-cus @auratiqs @feyres-fireheart @queenofshinigamis @asoiafwh8re @teasandcrumpets @shesjustanothergeek @grungegrrrl@queenofsarcazm @marihoneywk @curlszx88 @virgogaia @loser-keiji @asoiafwh8re @whore-of-many-hot-men @vipervixxen @theonewiththeimaginaryboyfriends @watercolorskyy @lavendervisions @mazmack666 @chokefrog @orangejump-suit @nik2blog @serrhaewinin @ohemgeewhat @winxschester @cryptidsrcool @drinking-tea-and-be-obsessed @celestedonut @bloodyvelvet777 @iamapersonthatsalive @av-sos @yentroucnagol @sanzu-s @opheliaas-stuff @bellameshipper @maviee @persephonerinyes @neytiri-09 @ensnaredinwonderland @xbluegracex @sotragedynut @nattieot7 @shesawaywiththefairies-blog @coffedraven @prettycutebunny @celestedonut @the-jess-life @ssulfurr @out-of-life

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the-fiction-witch · 1 month

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In The Eyrie P2

Media - House Of The Dragon Character - Jacaerys Velaryon Couple - Jacaerys X Reader Reader - Sharra Arynn (OC - Dark Hair / Plus Sized / Pale Skin) Rating - Sweet Word Count - 1261

Plus size OC described as 'Chubby' not meant in a derogatory way

Part One

As the guard led him out of the throne room and through the halls, Jace felt himself with mixed emotions at what was to come. When they reached the door to his betrothed, he was given a look by the guard. A silent warning to be on his best behaviour. The door was opened and Jacaerys moved inside the door slamming shut behind him, he found the chamber to be very beautiful, the grey Vale stone with curtains of blue and white, many windows and sweet stains and silks, furniture of dark wood and blue fabric, two balconies one to the courtyard and he thought of the woman who he had seen looking down at him, to think that may have been her and another balcony to the outside of the castle. He looked around and saw no one but he heard singing like a sweet songbird from the open balcony door. Jacaery’s eyes were drawn to the balcony he stepped out curious about the sight he might see.

The sight in front of him was not a surprise but the voice and melody were one he could not resist, he was stunned. He saw the grey stone balcony that overlooked the Vales rolling hills, birds came to a birdhouse built into the balcony walls, birds settling in before the storm took hold, and on the balcony stood a woman. She looked his age, with long dark brown hair, pale skin, and a beautiful gown of blue velvet and silver embroidery, She had a voice like an angel, but immediately he noticed she was chubby, she had wide hips, broad shoulders but she had freckles she wasn't a Westeros standard of beautiful by any means.

Jacaerys knew in the moment that this was his betrothed. After a long stare, he felt a knot fill his stomach at her curves. She was chubby, he didn’t know how to feel about this, it wasn’t like terrible but mildly disappointing to him, but he felt bad immediately for thinking that, she was still a beauty in that as well. She possessed a charm and a comfort that he had never seen before. As he stared at her, his eyes wandered over her form, from head to toe. She was not what he pictured as his wife but she was a welcome change of pace from the typical beauty of the realm. He took a deep breath and tried to settle the nerves in his stomach as he finally spoke. He didn't want to appear rude or disrespectful to his betrothed, there could be a chance that their romance could bloom. He took a step forward to the woman.

"My Lady." Jace bowed his head formally, He tried his best to ignore it and appear respectful.

She gasped as he spoke as she hadn't heard him arrive, "My prince," she bowed her head as she kissed the head of a baby bird before helping it into the birdhouse and closing the small doors, she turned to him her hands Infront of her stomach picking at her nails as she can barely met eyes with him,

Jace would chuckle gently to himself at the sight before him. The way she took care of the birds and how she fiddled with her fingers. It reminded him of his mother in a way, she had a delicate manner about her. He had not expected this girl to be his wife, but she had captured his attention. The way she looked at him was what caught him most. "You care deeply for those birds don't you?"

"I do, I have watched over them in my room now for six generations. I make sure to take them in before each storm," she answered "I'm - forgive me but... Please do not feel you need to make small talk with me,” she said which stopped him a moment, “I understand that the meer sight of me is likely enough for you to make your decision please do not feel you need to be polite to me. You may just go,"

Jacaery’s heart skipped a beat at the words. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. Was she really allowing him to back out if this arrangement made him uncomfortable? That moment was all it took for him to understand what kind of person she was. A kind, sweet, generous woman who was undeserving of anything but the best. At that moment, Jace knew he had to try and make this one work. "I won't be leaving, my Lady."

"why ever not?"

Jace's smile grew upon his face as he looked her in the eyes. "Because just from what you have shown me, I can already see that you are more than what I ever could have hoped for in a wife. I have never had the opportunity to choose my bride, and you were not in my mind as what I sought after, but you seem to be exactly what I need."

"Please... Do not toy and tease me Prince Jacaerys"

Jacaerys paused at her words. She seemed very guarded and he thought he could fix that. He took a few steps toward her, she had a beauty about her that was much more than looks. "I do not toy or tease, my lady. You have captured my eye, my heart, and my interest. I have no desire to joke in this matter."

she stepped back widening the space between them "I offer this to you now. You may go. Now. And I will think no ill of you, you have my permission to go, to leave, and I will not argue with you. Please go. I could not bear another jest..."

The Prince's smile faded as he saw the terror in her eyes. She truly believed that she was unlovable, he could see it in her eyes like she was damaged from previous rejections. He could see a part of himself in her. A part that hurt, felt unwanted, unloved by the realm and even his own blood had called him a bastard, and he felt somewhat unwanted becuase of it. "I do not joke in this, nor do I wish to mock you as some cruel jape. I came here and I saw you, the sight before me was all I needed to see. A beauty that makes everything appear dim by comparison." he explained, "I came here to wed you and I'll be damned if I leave without you by my side as my wife. Let the world mock and laugh at us, but I would rather have someone sweet, and kind, that I can love by my side instead of one who fits their mould of beauty with no way of kindness of conversation. I see a beauty and a strength in you that others may not. I would marry you tomorrow if I could. But I beg of you, give me a chance."

she nodded and after a moment offered her arm to lead them both inside

Jace was stunned when she accepted, taking her arm as he followed her inside. He could feel his heart beating out of his chest, she had offered him the chance he had been looking for his entire life. She wasn't beautiful by Westerosi's standards but that didn't matter, she was beautiful to him. He glanced at her as he walked beside her, noticing her hands once more. They were soft, feminine, and full of beauty. Once inside, he couldn't help but notice the smell of the chamber itself and how it mixed with her sweet perfume. Everything about her was perfect.

Masterlist Of Jacaerys Velaryon

Tags (Sorry didn't see them till now)

@astarborntowrite

@ximetrevino2021

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mixu · 1 year

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Naruto and H1n0t0's wedding chapter confirms SNS

Today in why Shippuden’s ending actually supports sns case, we’ll analyze the last sequence of the last chapter. (If you haven’t read the previous parts, you can find them here pt. 1&2, pt. 3, pt.4, although it’s not necessary to read them in order.) So, without further ado:

Pt 5. Naruto would rather be anywhere but here

As usual I leave my crappy clip from the scene then we’ll examine the expressions, body language of the characters and some of the editing. There’s very little dialogue but a lot to unpack.

The scene starts with Naruto and Hinata staring up at the Hokage Monument.

Who knows how long they’ve been at it, but Hinata is making the same face I make when I go to the museum and fail to understand why someone takes more than 5 minutes to appreciate a painting (excuse my uncultured ass). She then tells Neji’s ghost she is getting married (as if poor Neji cared) and turns to look at Naruto who is uncannily serious for someone who is about to marry the love of his life.

We get a close off of Minato’s face and Naruto’s profile, still serious. What is he thinking about? I very highly doubt he’s thinking about the honeymoon.

Then we get Hinata true to her stalker self, blushing, looking lovingly, dreamingly at Naruto, when Naruto doesn’t even know she’s there. She’s getting married to the man she loves (if you count that as love) so, acceptable, understandable expressions. And I want to emphasize how many expressions of Hinata they show us in contrast to Naruto’s during the whole sequence (3 is being generous).

One could argue that Naruto is looking back at her, but is he? Then why don’t they show us a broader shot of them staring at each other lovingly? Because that’s not the case. That’s their relationship in a nutshell: Hinata staring at Naruto incessantly while Naruto is barely aware of her presence. Furthermore, when Hanabi and Hiashi enter, making Naruto and Hinata turn around, Naruto first looks at Hinata as if asking “you were here the whole time?” then goes back to serious mode.

The following shots of the Hyuuga give us so much information. Hanabi is excited, smiling because she has no clue of the farce, while Hiashi is stern as he has always been, but he had changed after the Chuunin exams, didn’t he? Why does Hinata suddenly looks so worried? She was smiling a second ago? The transition of Hiashi’s expression reminds me of that meme where the father says “He looks gay to me, but whatever makes my princess happy.” So, with Hiashi’s blessing, Hinata smiles again. Once more, notice how many different expressions she has, when Naruto doesn’t even appear in the shot.

What follows is pure gold.

Is it just me or Naruto takes ages to return Hinata’s handhold?

Next, the first image of this batch is so hilarious to me. Hinata is looking down at their hands as if to confirm it is actually happening. Hanabi is more excited than anyone in the room even when it is Hinata and Naruto who are getting married. Naruto’s expression in images 1, 2 and 6 might have been as well copy pasted. Why? He is your main character, why are you hiding his face on every opportunity. Plus, number 4 is so bad. It looks like he is bracing for battle.

Naruto asks Hinata if she's ready, and off they go into a mediocre, loveless marriage for the sake of Konoha and Kishimoto’s, SJ and SP wallets. Look at Naruto’s half-assed smile.

This clip is 74 sec long and we only get to see Naruto’s face/head during 19 sec. That’s roughly a quarter of the whole sequence, and even when Naruto appears, we rarely get a close off of his face. Furthermore, when we do get a close off, there’s no range of emotion (watch Dragon Ball or FMA Brotherhood’s last chapter and compare Edward and Goku’s portrayal to that of Naruto). Why would the studio hide the main character like this? Why focus so much only in the love interest and not the couple? Because there is no happy ending for Naruto. He got trapped between duty, his promises and the expectations cast upon him, and the worst part is those who were supposed to look after him looked the other way.

You can read this post in which the author analyzes similar inconsistences across Gaiden and Boruto. The conjecture is pretty much the same: Naruto gave up Sasuke and married Hinata because that was what everyone told him, directly or indirectly, he was supposed to do.

None of these choices are accidental. We saw what the studio wanted to show us like we read what Kishimoto wanted us to read. Perhaps those last chapters weren’t as clumsy as we thought, but we were too hurt by the Last, Boruto and chapter 700 to notice the characters were responding accurately given the circumstances they were facing and the values of their world. And, people can say whatever about us sns being delusional, but Naruto didn’t get a happy ending (I won’t even talk about Sasuke because there’s no doubt that he got the short end of the stick). We know how happy Naruto is supposed to look like.

So, this is it. Even this wedding fiasco reinforces SNS and now it hurts a thousand times more. Thanks for reading my ramblings and sorry for the quality of the images and the video. I don’t have time to make better edits but I really wanted to share this. I’ll go back to the fanfic world where everything is right.

#sns #sns analysis #sasunaru #narusasu #anti naruhina #anti naruto ending

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wings-of-fire-confessions · 8 months

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Rant on Kestrel and Kestrel Apologists:

TW: Child abuse, Abuse Apologism, and angry controversial ranting.

Kestrel is one of the most easily hateable characters and is a IRREDEEMABLE dragon.

She is literally a CHILD ABUSER. She physically and verbally ABUSED the DoD. She also let and even used her strong>weak favoritism, racism, and ableism from her strong>weak mindset towards Sunny affect the way she abused the DoD.

She also literally abused the DoD since they were TODDLERS, which is revealed within the book Dragonslayer, since Sky, who was around 1 year old - who’s currently eight years old - saw Kestrel HIT the DOD because they were playing, like any child would do, with Glory showing signs that Kestrel was abusing her the most - who are currently now 7. This means that she started to abuse the DOD where they LESS THAN 1 years old - just as, or even younger than the currently age of CLIFF, who’s nine months old!

🔥There is literal PROOF that Kestrel physically and verbally abused the DoD on the wiki AND within the books.🔥

I also want to remind people that in the prologue of The Dragonet Prophecy, when the Skywing egg died, instead of suggesting to give the remaining eggs to dragons within the Talons of Peace that actually want to be parents and/or raise the dragonets themselves - she literally wanted SMASH the DoD eggs - KILLING them instead!!

And within the prologue of TDP as well, she stated that she literally didn’t care how she affected the dragonets, as long as she raised them to be within the prophecy.

Kestrel NEVER cared for the DoD. She CHOSE to abuse them. The only reason why she tried to save them from Scarlet and appeared to Morrowseer in the epilogue was because it was her JOB. Nothing else, especially since she stated HERSELF somewhere within a main part of the first book that she literally didn’t care about them.

So when I see the majority of the fandom - or at the very least, the fandom on Youtube and some parts of the WoF wiki - is sympathizing over hating Kestrel, I honestly don’t get or like it at all, what-so-ever.

And when I hear some people say things about Kestrel that are somewhat similar to THIS:

“Yes, she abused those kids, but it was because she was grieving the death of her own kids!”

“She did abuse them, but she was just doing so because of the death of her children.”

or even

“She wasn’t abusing them, it was a form of tough love!”

It makes my literal blood BOIL.

Because while defending a fictional character’s abusive actions is much, MUCH different than defending abusive actions of a person in real life - let alone child abuse -

Defending actions like these is still indirectly connected, regardless whether it is fictional or not, due to the fact that child abuse is a literal thing happens to people in Real. Fucking. Life. Like - to this very damn day. Especially since these excuses towards child abuse like this are even used to excuse real people literally being or was abused as kids as well.

Grief is NOT an excuse to abuse literal children. NOTHING IS!!! Abuse is a CHOICE - regardless of how people were raised, or even by how mentally impaired they are. It explains it, but does NOT excuse it. EVER.

There are literal dragons within Wings of Fire - and literal people IRL even - who suffered through MORE grief and/or trauma in the past than Kestrel, that, despite it, we’re still better dragons in the end. Like GILL, for example, who lost not one, not two, but TWELVE of his daughters. And despite this, he was STILL a good dragon who cared a LOT about his subjects and sons, and tried his best to stop the literal war that happening within pyrrhia - in order for ALL dragons to live in peace - and even created a protest within Scarlet’s arena in order for EVERYONE to NOT be forced to battle each other to death for a horrible and iconic villain for her own joy and amusement.

*Sigh* I am SO sorry for making this angry, probably hateful, and VERY long rant. This was something that was bothering me for MONTHS on end, and wanted to let it out so people can know my view about Kestrel and the way she’s treated within the fandom, although this is probably a improper and bad way to do it.

I am NOT saying people shouldn’t like Kestrel as a character, or even as a dragon, for how awful she is. I’m also NOT saying people shouldn’t feel bad for what happened her either, because what did happen to her, was, indeed, downright AWFUL. Feeling things like this about her is ok!

However, it’s one thing to like a character for how awful they are and feeling bad for what happened them-

than literally EXCUSING and even JUSTIFYING her literal abuse towards literal dragon CHILDREN because of how bad you feel about and/or how intensely you sympathize her.

So yeah - In conclusion: Kestrel one of the most easily hateable characters and is an irredeemable child abuser, who physically and verbally abused the DoD since they were the age of toddlers. She also never cared for them, and only attempted to save them because it was her job. People also shouldn’t justify or excuse Kestrel’s behavior as well, since it unintentionally and/or indirectly defends the same type of abuse that is currently affecting people IRL. And while yes, you can like her character and feel bad for her, you should NOT justify her actions towards the DOD at all. WHAT-SO-EVER.

Anon also left some evidence. I put some of it below:

Abuse Against Glory

Abuse against Clay

Abuse Against Starflight

Abuse Against Everyone

#wings of fire confessions #wings of fire #wof #wof confessions #kestrel #kestrel wof #child abuse #abuse tw #child abuse tw

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zeciex · 9 months

Text

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on.

This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you," the witch said....

Daenera Velaryon returns to King's Landing with the intention of bolstering her mother's position and reminding both the Greens and nobility that Rhaenyra is the rightful heir to the throne. She has a specific goal in mind: to be a constant source of annoyance to the Greens and is willing to play the political game without hesitation.

However, what catches her off guard is the way Aemond gazes at her and seems to relish in her suffering. He openly expresses his desire to bring about her downfall, her ruination.

This situation leads to a tense game of cat and mouse, with each move escalating the already high stakes. Will their precarious situation crumble as the dragons soar above, or will fate intervene?

After all, love often demands the sacrifice of duty, just as duty can sometimes lead to the demise of love.

Characters: Aemond Targaryen X OC, HOTD characters.

Chapter 1: A prophecy foretold

AO3

“Be careful, princess,” Ser Harwin warned as Daenera slipped on the leafy ground of the Kingswoods, her arms flailing in an attempt to stabilize her. She quickly waved him off, eyes focused on the bush of dark berries. She trotted towards the bush and began to pick the berries, brows furrowed in concentration, the apple of her cheeks bright pink in the fresh cool air.

“Are you my true father?” Daenera asked suddenly, the question thrown out into the world as if it weren’t a loaded, dangerous question.

Ser Harwin froze against the tree he was leaning on, his eyes scanning over the little princess and her dark hair that was so much like his own, curling around her chubby face and spilling down over her shoulders and back. The princess seemed wholly unbothered by the question.

“Why would you ask such a thing?” Ser Harwin questioned back, trying to gauge the princess's reaction.

Daenera shrugged, the frown deepening and the pace with which she was picking berries slowing. “I am not stupid. I don’t look like Laenor nor do I look much like my mother, but one cannot deny that she birthed me, so the only reasonable conclusion is that Laenor isn’t my true father… And… I look more like you.”

The rationality with which she spoke astonished Ser Harwin. Yet, it was clear that the reason behind the questions was a soft prayer to understand and to have explained why she was different from her uncles or cousins.

She was far too perceptive for a girl her age.

“Would it disappoint you?” Ser Harwin asked, his voice gentle and warm.

Daenera pursed her lips in thought, trying to put words to her thoughts. It wasn’t easy to be faced with the possibility of being a bastard. “Do you love my mother?”

“I do,” Ser Harwin answered without a question, the devotion he held for Rhaenyra evident in his voice and burning in his eyes. He looked at Daenera with fatherly devotion.

“Then no, I should think not. If you love each other, then I don't see a reason to be disappointed… But Laenor is still my father.” Daenera said, finally looking up at the Commander of the City Watch.

Ser Harwin smiled. “Of course. I can never replace your father.”

It was true in multiple ways. He could never replace Laenor. The truth could never be revealed.

Daenera went back to picking berries, the tip of her fingers painted burgundy. “I would like you to be my father as well.”

“You know I can’t really be your father, right?” Ser Harwin pushed off the tree to kneel down by the princess, placing his hands on her shoulders to make her look directly at him. Her big blue eyes blinked up at him. “You cannot tell anyone this. Not even your brothers. It will put you all in a dangerous position.”

“I know.”

“You can’t treat me any different. Laenor is your father, in name and blood, do you understand?”

“I do, I know.” The princess grumbled, pouting a little. “I can’t tell my brothers. I can’t tell anyone. And I can’t acknowledge you as my father.”

“It is a secret that will protect everyone you love.” Ser Harwin said, making sure she knew.

“Try these.” Daenera handed him a handful of berries, before walking back to pluck some more.

Ser Harwin inspected the berries. “Are they poisonous?”

“No,” Daenera answered. Ser Harwin propped the handful into his mouth, the taste sweet. “I don’t think so, although I cannot be sure, they look like blueberries but they could also be nightshade.”

Ser Harwin choked, coughing on the juices and spat out, trying to catch his breath. It was only then he noticed the sly, mischievous smile on Daenera’s lips. “Are you sure you do not wish me dead?”

“I’m only teasing, they’re regular blueberries.” She answered, putting a few berries into her mouth for emphasis. A big grin split across her face.

Ser Harwin shook his head. “You could have killed me.”

“I took the chance.”

“You’re a wicked little princess,” he chided, beating on his chest to try and loosen whatever lingered in his chest after choking. He glanced towards the sky, looking past the green rustling leaves of the trees to the blue expanse of sky. “We should head back to the Keep.”

“Must we?” Daenera whined, shoving the remaining berries she had picked into a tiny satchel by her hips.

Ser Harwin held out a hand for her to take.

Wiping her hands on the skirt of her dress, she smeared the purple juices onto the fabric, staining it irrevocably. It wasn’t an expensive dress, but Joyce wouldn’t be happy with her. She took Ser Harwins big hand, finding comfort in his warmth.

They walked across the forest floor, the sun streaming through the trees as morning became noon, warming the air. There was a sudden shift in temperature then, the sun seemingly unable to pierce through the thick growth of trees, casting everything below it in cool shadows. Among those trees was a wagon, one of those used to live in as one traveled across the land.

Daenera slowed her pace, eyes stuck on the red and purple painted wagon, the same color the tip of her fingers were. Along the roof of the wagon hung clusters of talismans and trinkets. The sight of it made the hairs on the back of her neck rise.

Ser Harwin tried to pull the princess along with him, uneasy by the whole thing, but Daenera wouldn’t budge, eyes fixed on the dark-haired woman with kohl smeared around her eyes, a deep red that seemed almost black. Ser Harwin’s hand found the hilt of his sword.

“Are you a witch?” Daenera asked.

“Come princess.” Ser Harwin beckoned her. She pulled her hand from his grasp as she turned fully to the woman.

“Some may call me a witch, others will claim me a fraud, and a few a priestess. It is all in the eye of the beholder.”

“I don’t understand.”

The witch smiled. “I tell people their futures… if they’re willing to pay the price.”

Daenera’s eyes widened in intrigue. Who wouldn’t want to know their future? “Can you tell me mine?”

Ser Harwin was less intrigued by the woman. “Daenera. We really should get back to the Keep, your mother awaits you.”

“But I wish to know my future,” Daenera said stubbornly.

“Whatever she may tell you, it will only serve to sow doubt and discord. We are not meant to know our futures.”

“If you’re afraid you can stay out here and keep guard, but I’m going in,” Daenera told him in all her princessly authority. She picked up her skirts and made her way towards the woman, who smiled slyly.

The witch led the princess through a ruffled veil of string and glass beads, into the darkness of the wagon. It was only when she had entered that her heart began to drum in her chest as the shadows crept over her skin making a shiver go down her spine. Doubt and uncertainty seeded themselves in her chest.

What if her future was boring? What if she were to marry some ugly, old, fat man? What if she were told she’d never have children? or find true love?

The witch sat behind a round table. The only candle in the room was unable to light up the entirety of the space, only serving to deepen the shadows and make them dance with each flicker, almost mockingly. Daenera clutched her hands nervously.

“So you wish to know your future, little princess,” In this lighting, the kohl around the woman's eyes only served to make them seem hollow, the flame dancing in the darkness of irises. Something else looked back at Daenera from the depths. “Knowing one's future comes with a prince.”

“I have money,” Daenera answered, trying to unfasten the pouch of coins at her hip.

The witch laughed, coldly. “It is not money that I want.”

Daenera looked at the woman in confusion.

“The price of knowing your future is one of blood.”

Fear gripped Daenera and she anxiously took a step back, wondering whether she should call for Ser Harwin. “Blood?”

“One drop and I will give you a prophecy of your future. You will be able to ask three questions, no more.” The witch removed a long thin hairpin from her hair. At one end there was a red ruby, gleaming like fire, while the other end was thin like a needle. Something in the back of her mind told her to turn around, to heed Ser Harwin’s warning, to go back to the castle and forget it all.

But like a moth to a flame, she could not turn back.

She was rooted to the floor, the shadows clawing at her, tugging her forward like a puppet on a string.

The witch's grin widened. She held out her hand for Daenera to place her own in. Once she had the princess's hand in hers, she pressed the hairpin down on her finger, breaking the skin. A drop of blood welled up as she squeezed the finger, the same deep red as the ruby, the flame of the candlelight flickering in it.

Daenera was shocked when the witch brought her finger to her mouth, sucking the blood off her finger. She tried to pull her hand to her but found the witch's grip on her wrist unyielding. It wasn’t until Daenera used all her force that she was able to break free, gripping her wrist and holding it to her chest.

The woman closed her eyes and breathed in through her nose, leaning back in the chair. When she opened her eyes again, they seemed black. They fixed Daenera to her spot, unable to break free of their spell. Her heart hammered in her chest, like a little bird trying to break free.

“I see your future being woven, black and green, red and blue, a grand tapestry. Your future is one of great trials and tribulations. You will be tested by fire and betrayal as those around you seek to use you for their own gain. So many threads, so many possibilities.” The witch's voice was low and melodic, like a hymn echoing in the dark of a crypt. It crept over Daenera’s skin, burrowed into her bones and settled there, forever a part of her. “The Dragons will dance and fire shall rain from above. Terror rides the wind. The Stranger will visit you many times, he follows you and you will see some of those you love in his care. Some you will pass over to him yourself.”

Her bones felt like ice, and she shivered, wanting nothing more than to warm herself by the candlelight.

“You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you.” The witch hummed, closing her eyes again as she ran her tongue over her lips, licking at the traces of the princess's blood. “Blood will play a significant role in your life, with debts made and paid in equal measure. Pain will be your constant companion as the cursed power in your blood will be wielded with the precision of poison. But remember, poisoned cups may be turned around on yourself, and the power of curses always has a price.”

“Mmm,” the witch hummed, eyes rolling as she searched her mind. “Love will come to you, a double-edged sword. Your first marriage will be loveless and your second cloaked in betrayal. Who will you be able to trust?”

The witch laughed at Daenera’s crestfallen face. “But through both of these unions, you will find love that burns bright and fierce.”

The witch tapped on the table, a rhythmic tempo, like the beating of a heart. Her eyes opened again. “What is your first question, princess of flowers?”

Daenera let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. Her mouth had gone dry and she glanced down at her hand, finding red crescents littering her skin from where her nails had dug into it. Her mind whired with thoughts. “Who is this love of mine?”

It was such a childish question, but Daenera was just a child. She still dreamed of knights and boundless love.

“The boy with the stars in his eyes will capture your heart, but be wary of the danger that he represents. Twin flames, one soul. This is the love that awaits you. You will be torn between the desire for love and the fear of being consumed by it. What is your second question, princess of poison?”

It was hard to choose one. There were so many. She could ask more about this love, about the marriages, about whether she would be happy. Or she could ask the more foreboding questions.

“Who will betray me?”

The witch laughed, roared with it. “Betrayal will come from all sides, from enemies and loved ones alike. Even your own heart and blood will betray you. Ultimately, the choice will be yours. Will you succumb to the fire and the betrayal, or will you rise above it and find power? The path ahead is fraught with danger, but there is hope for a brighter tomorrow if you are willing to fight for it.”

It had been a mistake entering the witches' wagon. A big mistake indeed. She did not wish to know any more from this witch. Fear had sunk its claws into her, uprooting her from the spot in the wagon. Daenera took a step back, tears stinging in her eyes. Why did her future sound so horrible? This isn’t what she wanted to hear.

“What is your final question, princess of curses?”

“I don’t want to know anymore.” Daenera answered, voice quivering and breaking.

The witches' eyes sharpened. “You started this. The deal is not done yet.”

“I don’t want to know more!” Daenera yelled at the witch, loud enough to summon Ser Harwin. He bound into the wagon, far too big for its size, and yet he stood there, between Daenera and the witch, hand threateningly on the hilt of his sword. The witches' eyes narrowed at him.

“We are not done yet.” She insisted, a feral look in her eyes. “You must ask the final question.”

“I don’t have one!” Daenera yelped, hiding behind Ser Harwin.

“The princess is ready to leave, so you will allow her to.”

The witch flicked the hairpin at Ser Harwin, the sharp end of it grazing the hand that gripped the hilt of the sword before it embedded itself in the wood of a cabinet. The witch took a deep breath, her dark eyes burning into Ser Harwin, who slowly backed away while she followed, the princess being pushed out of the wagon.

“The fireflies will burn your future to the ground. Leave that landing of kings and you shall not return.” Despite the clear threat of Ser Harwin’s hand on his sword, the witch remained unbothered, following them out into the fresh air, the sun having yet to penetrate the crown of the trees. “All strong men shall fall. Even the strongest. Even the cleverest. Even the small, the first, the sweet. And it shall all begin with you. So beware the fireflies and their ambition.”

Daenera ran a little way away before turning, waiting for Ser Harwin as he walked backward towards her, never losing sight of the witch.

“If you do not ask your question now, princess, you will leave the contract unfulfilled.” The witch said forebodingly. Reaching up to one of the trinkets, she grabbed on, tugging at a few branches and rope to release the golden coin held in suspension in the middle. She looked back at the princess and flicked the coin at her. It flew in an arch and landed at the feet of the princess.

Daenera picked up the coin. On one side a spiral had been carved into it, while an eye ordained the other side. She looked back up at the witch with confusion written all over her face.

“When you are finally ready to ask that question of yours, bury this in the woods and come back when there’s no moon in the sky.” The witch said in a foreboding tone. “But know this, the question will haunt you until you ask it.”

Ser Harwin turned around and picked Daenera up. He wanted her out of the forest. Daenera watched as the witch smiled and waved at her before disappearing into the wagon.

Daenera remained quiet until they were sitting on the horse, crossing the treeline out into the open field, with Kingslanding in sight. It was comforting. Only then did she give voice to the thoughts in her head.

“Do you think what the witch said was true?”

“What did she say to you?” Ser Harwin asked gently, not wanting to frighten the princess anymore than she already was. For he knew the encounter had shaken her.

“She said that my future would be one of betrayal and fire. That… that blood will play a role and that mine is cursed.” It was hard to put words to. Her mind skipped parts and sowed others together. How could she explain it all? “I will find love, but he will betray me. Everyone will. And that the Stranger follows me… I don’t want to die. I don’t want anyone to die.”

“The Stranger follows us all,” Ser Harwin spoke, trying to calm the child in his arms. She may act grown and be perceptive for her age, but she was a child still. The notion of death was a far out concept one didn’t think much of at that age. “Everything that lives must die in the end. That is what makes us mortal.”

Daenera went quiet, trying to blink the tears away.

“We must all die. Did the witch tell you when and how people died?”

“No.”

“Then it could be when we’re all old and in bed for all you know. Death is what lets us know we’re living. Don’t put too much thought into what the witch said. Things like these are vague for a reason. You’ll find that it can be fitted onto most people. She just wanted to scare you.”

But the witch hadn’t been all vague, had she?

“But she also said that I’d be betrayed.”

“By who?”

“Everyone.”

“People like the witch make a game out of telling the future, they tell you riddles and let those haunt all your future actions. You can’t trust anything she said for the future isn’t set in stone,” Ser Harwin explained. “To know the future is to tie a noose and hang oneself with it. Forget what the witch told you, don’t let her riddles tie you a noose.”

“To know the future is to tie a noose and hang oneself with it,” Daenera repeated his words back to him in a musing, thoughtful tone. “So you don’t believe what she said to you?”

“Fireflies cannot start fires,” Ser Harwin dismissed the witches' prediction. He wouldn’t give it any more thought, just as he told her not to. His future was with the city watch and the royal family, however, they needed him. There weren’t even any fireflies in King's Landing.

“If you do not believe her, then I won’t either.”

The Red Keep has always been a great big thing looming over King's Landing with its high, towering walls built upon the highest hill. Daenera had often wondered how they had managed to build it so tall. Her and Ser Harwin rode through the gate into the tiltyard. Ser Harwin swung down from the horse and then helped Daenera down, the girl brushing out her dirty and crumbled skirts, hair in a tissy around her face. She was handed her bigger satchel and the few books she had taken with her before Ser Harwin led the horse towards the stables.

Daenera didn’t wait for him and began up the steps to the keep, following behind Aemond who had been sparring alone in the tiltyard, trying to improve his skill. They silently fell into step with each other.

“Out foraging in the forest again?” Aemond questioned.

“Out training alone again?” Daenera questioned right back.

“Training alone is better than training with your brothers. They seem to lessen my skill rather than improve it.”

“Maybe that’s because they’re better than you, and if so, then you should keep at it.”

Aemond narrowed his eyes at her as they turned the corner, beginning the long journey up the steps towards Maegor's holdfast where both of their rooms were.

“I would have thought that the Commander of the City Watch would have better things to do than to babysit you,” Aemond argued. “Like commanding the City Watch for example.”

“And I would think Ser Criston Cole would pay more attention to teaching you, but I suppose not, given that you’re training alone,” Daenera mused back with narrowed eyes.

“I don’t need a babysitter.”

“And as for Ser Harwin babysitting me, it is a great honor to be entrusted with a princess is it not?”

“That is what we have the Kingsguard for,” Aemond pointed out. “Strange that you won’t be entrusted to them, but are with the Commander.”

Daenera swallowed, eyes darting over Aemond to try and see what he was thinking. At the moment he was a stone wall with hair standing in tots around his head and dirt on his red cheeks. No, she would not reveal anything either. “I like Ser Harwin. He’s a good man and if it wasn’t because he was the heir to Harrenhall, he too would be a Kingsguard.”

“I see, so it’s because he’s to have kids he’s not wearing the white cloak,” Aemond hummed, his words sharp and prodding. “I suppose he didn’t want to be an oathbreaker…”

“Besides, could you imagine Ser Criston with me in the woods?” Daenera continued, trying to conjure up the image of Ser Criston standing among the trees in his white cloak, glaring at her and sneering at her to hurry up, the embodiment of ‘I don't want to be here’. He always hated her and her brothers. Daenera didn’t understand why. “He treats us badly and without respect.”

“He treats you badly and without respect.”

“I like Ser Harwin much better,” Daenera said.

“Hm, you’d have to, wouldn’t you?” Aemond muttered under his breath.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.”

“I suppose you wouldn’t know what it's like to like someone and be liked back,” Daenera shot at him. They had come to a standstill outside her mothers rooms. They regarded one another.

“You smell of sweat,” Daenera told him.

“You smell of horse,” Aemond answered right back. A smile grew on both their lips, the tension in the air dispelled immediately. “Are you coming to the dancing lessons later?”

“Of course, are you?”

“Unfortunately,” Aemond grumbled, waving as he walked away.

Daenera had often wondered when things had changed between them. When they were younger all of them were friends and played with one another, but slowly Aegon and Aemond had withdrawn, beginning to shoot snide comments towards her and her brothers. It was as if a chism had opened up between them. She didn’t understand it, but she had learned that people grew apart. And she wasn’t really that upset over not being good friends with Aegon. He had turned into quite the asshole, always ready with a malicious jape or prank. And her brothers, her stupid and naive brothers, fell for Aegon's scheming every time.

Between her and Aemond there was either constant war or truce. They constantly jeered one another, constantly poked at each other's weak points, sparred with words, and yet, they could smile at each other and call it a day. It was a strange sort of rivalry. And maybe it stemmed from a silent understanding of one another, second borns, dragonless, buried in books and duties.

Daenera entered her mothers rooms finding Laenor sprawled out over the chamise, an arm over his eyes, boots still on his feet, quietly snoring. Rhaenyra was buried in a book in front of the fireplace, hand on the swell of her stomach. It wouldn’t be long before Daenera got another sibling. Rhaenyra looked up from her book, smiling softly at her only daughter.

“How was the woods?”

“Enlightening,” Daenera answered, feeling the grip of those shadows linger on her soul like a bruise. She shook the feeling off and hurried to her mother, opening the bag to reveal her treasures and findings, which all looked like shrubs and weed to Rhaenyra. “I got some Dandelions, Musk Mallow, Pennyroyal and some Thistle. And some herbs and mushrooms, though I didn’t pick a lot of those because I’m not entirely sure of them yet. I also got some blackberries, which I fed Ser Harwin.”

“And told me they were nightshades,” Ser Harwin recalled, sliding into the rooms. His eyes went soft at the sight of Rhaenyra, her hand cradling her stomach, while her other gripped Daenera’s hands. His child and their mother. Rhaenyra raised a brow at her mischievous daughter.

“They weren’t,” Daenera reminded him. “Or you’d be dead.”

“I could have died choking on the berries you gave me.”

“It was a harmless prank, don’t take it to heart Ser Harwin,” Daenera told him. Ser Harwin tried to hold back his smile, the corners of his eyes wrinkling.

“Forgive her, Ser Harwin, it seems my daughter has quite the mischievous side,” Rhaenyra said, shaking her head at her daughter, a smile on her lips, knowing it was all in good fun.

“Already forgiven.”

Rhaenyra’s water broke a fortnight after Daenera’s adventure in the woods. When Luke was born Daenera was there, sitting quietly in one of the chairs, trying to understand what was happening while Laenor held her mothers hand, trying to calm both his daughter and his wife at once. Rhaenyra had waved him off then, sending him to the teary eyed Daenera to comfort her. Now she had a bigger role to play.

With her interest in healing and medical practices, she stood beside her mother, steeling herself for what was to come, trying to be as brave as a dragon, despite the fear clawing in her chest.

Rhaenyra was covered in a sheen of sweat, trying to breathe through the pain of labor, hair sticking to her skin, made wavey by the salt of sweat and the humidity of the room. One of the midwives kept patting her forehead with a wet cloth, the constant touch and fussing beginning to irritate the heir to the throne.

Rhaenyra swatted the midwife's hand away. “Stop patting my head as if I were a sick child.”

“The wet cloth will help with the heat of childbirth and will calm you,” The midwife explained, wetting the cloth again and bringing it back to pat at Rhaenyra’s chest.

Another contraction went through her, body tensing up with pain, a guttural groan ripping through her throat. She again swatted the nurses hand away, this time growling. “Stop it you cunt!”

The oldest midwife gestured for the other to leave, not wanting to add to the tension and irritability that childbirth often brought upon women.

“Is it awfully painful?” Daenera asked, her voice low and filled with concern.

Rhaenyra turned her head to the side and forced a smile, looking at her daughter. She extended her hand and pushed aside a strand of dark hair falling into her daughter's face. Her hand rested on the curve of her daughter’s cheek, and her thumb brushed gently over the skin.

“It is. Awful and painful.”

“Then why do you do it?” Daenera asked, confused. Why would anyone willingly go through that sort of pain? It seemed like an awful lot of trouble, and an awful lot of blood, sweat and tears. Daenera couldn’t imagine wanting to go through that. The concept was so strange to her.

“Because it is worth it. You and your brothers are worth every second of pain,” Rhaenyra told her. Another wave of contractions rushed over her and she pulled back from her daughter, gripping the bed sheets with enough force to turn her knuckles white.

“Do not push yet, my lady,” the midwife ordered, looking under the fabric of her mothers dress.

There were no Maesters present, she didn’t trust them after what happened to her mother, she saw them as rats. Instead she put her trust in her midwives, the ones who had helped her through the birth of her first three children and had served as her maids for years. She trusted them.

“Why did the gods make us like this?” Daenera asked. “Why couldn’t we just lay eggs like the dragons?”

Rhaenyra chuckled at her daughter's words, as did the midwives. “Laying an egg doesn’t seem all that fun either, Dae. They are about the same size as a newborn baby, the pain would be the same.”

“Hm… I suppose it would be boring having to keep the egg warm until it hatched. I just think the gods are cruel to put us through that much pain.”

“The gods give us this pain so that we know we can endure,” Rhaenyra said.

“But not all endures,” Daenera whispered.

“No, not all can endure it. But I will. Do not worry for me, my flower,” Rhaenyra comforted her daughter, who squared her shoulders and straightened her back, determination edging her otherwise soft features. She might not look all that much like Rhaenyra but the shape of her eyes, but she possessed the same fire that all Targaryens had.

“You don’t need to comfort me, mother, I do not doubt that you shall survive. I should be the one to comfort you.”

“Give me your hand, sweet child.”

Daenera gave her her hand, holding it tight as another contraction hit. This time Rhaenyra was told to push. And she did. She breathed in deeply, Daenera following her mothers lead, and pushed as hard as she could.

The fat midwife came up behind Rhaenyra for support, holding her other hand and helping her to sit in the right position on the bed . Pain and effort flashed across Daenera’s mothers face, contorting it and making grimaces, and yet, in the pain of birth, Daenera thought her mother the most beautiful woman in the world, even when her face turned red.

There was a sound Daenera hadn’t heard before, of dripping water, soaking into the sheets. Childbirth was terribly messy.

“You are doing great, mother,” Daenera encouraged once her mother breathed a little easier after the contraction. Rhaenyra smiled at her daughter, proud that she hadn’t turned away.

It felt like forever before the baby came, water and blood squirting everywhere on the bed as the child slid out, her mother falling back into the bed, body wrecked by exhaustion.

Rhaenyra half cried, half laughed, relieved that the child had come rather easy. Daenera’s eyes were big and focused on the grimy baby in the midwife's hands.

“A boy, princess,” the fat midwife announced.

Daenera grinned widely at her mother. “A brother. I’ve got another brother.”

Rhaenyra smiled, relieved to see that there wasn't a hint of disappointment on her daughter's face. Instead she beamed like the sun, excited at the prospect of a new family member. The newborn let out a strong cry, taking in air for the first time, as Rhaenyra released her daughter's hand to welcome the baby into her arms. “Healthy?”

“Kicking like a goat, princess,” the midwife answered, just as happy as the rest of them.

Rhaenyra cried with relief and happiness, the babe squirming in her arms, crying its heart out with life. Daenera looked over her shoulders at the baby. It looked like a baby should, she supposed, but she couldn’t yet tell all its features. What she could tell was that Laenor wasn't likely to be the father.

“Look at his tiny hands!” Daenera gushed, reaching to touch it. The baby wrapped its hand around her finger. “It's so strong.”

The midwife that had disappeared out the doors to bring the tidings forth came back, worry evident on her face. “Princess…the-the queen has requested that the child should be brought to her… immediately.”

Daenera’s face fell in confusion and Rhaenyra’s in apprehension and suspicion. They both echoed at the same time. “Why?”

The midwife held no answer.

Rhaenyra pushed herself to her feet, the movement labored and painful, a groan falling from her lips. It was wrong. She shouldn’t be standing, she had only just given birth. Why would the queen send for the baby the moment it was born? What was so important? Why was she so impatient? Daenera felt anger on the behalf of her mother. The baby was still attached to Rhaenyra by the umbilical cord.

“It’s not right,” Daenera said, unable to hide her dissatisfaction. “You’ve just given birth, can the queen not wait?”

“Evidently not,” Rhaenyra uttered, she wasn’t ready to hand over her newborn just yet. “I’ll take him myself.”

“You should remain abed, princess-,”

“Yes, I should! Bring me my dress!” Rhaenyra yelled in aggravation. It was egregious to force her to let go of the child she had only just given birth to, and even more so to expect her to just hand it over for some sort of inspection. Bitterness and anger burned within Rhaenyra’s chest. It wasn’t right what Alicent was doing. It was humiliating and demeaning.

The midwives fussed around Rhaenyra as Daenera watched with big, concerned eyes. The sounds her mother made were the same as when she was giving birth. Was there another? Rhaenyra reluctantly handed over the baby to a midwife.

Daenera tried to get the excitement back, but the worry overshadowed the feeling.

The midwives peeled off Rhaenyra’s underdress she had worn throughout the birth, the wet fabric clinging to her skin, coloured by blood and the water of the womb. Every movement seemed a great effort and very painful. Her baby brother cried for his mothers loving warmth.

They then helped Rhaenyra into a blue underdress before putting another dress over it, the bodice loose and of a different fashion than what she usually wore. She tried to calm the child with shushing, all the while feeling the painful contractions pull at her insides. “Mhmm, mm, it’s coming.”

Daenera watched her mother fold over in pain as the midwives sunk to their knees, pushing the princesses skirts up. “The afterbirth!”

This time water drippled to the floor as Rhaenyra pushed, trying to get the thing over with. Daenera’s eyes had gone wide. “Are you giving birth again?”

“No, no, no,” Rhaenyra groaned, licking her lips as her face contorted in pain with another push. “It’s… the afterbirth. It’s like a protective sack for the child.”

“You give birth twice?!” Daenera exclaimed in exasperation and disbelief. Did all women give birth twice for one baby?! The gods are truly cruel.

Rhaenyra laughed through the pain, though the laughter got as distorted as her face. Blood ran down her legs with each push.

“Here it comes,” Rhaenyra hissed through clenched teeth.

Once the afterbirth had come out, one of the midwives examined it to ensure that nothing was left inside the princess, while the other two servants assisted in lacing up the dress. Only then, the baby was carefully placed in its mothers arms, wrapped in a soft silk blanket, with gold embroidery at the edges.

Rhaenyra waddled though her rooms, heading towards the doors when they were suddenly swung open by Laenor, his face revealing his excitement.

“A boy. I’ve just heard,” he greeted them, relief joying the excitement on his face.

“Yes.”

“Well done… Where are you going?” Lanor asked, confused at his wife's persistent walk.

“ She wants to see him,” Rhaenyra bit out.

Daenera was the one to elaborate. “The queen wants to see the baby immediately, she said.”

“What, now?” Laenor asked in the same disbelief as Daenera felt. “I’m coming.”

“I should hope so.”

“I’m coming as well,” Daenera joined in.

Rhaenyra came to a halt, casting her gaze down at her second born, a daughter who adored her and would be at her side wherever she went. However, this time she could not accompany her.

“No, you’ll stay right here,” Rhaenyra told her.

“Why?! I want-,”

“Stay, Daenera. This isn’t a child's game,” her mother cut her off. Trying to quell the anger she drew in a deep breath, then looked upon her daughter. “It is best if you stay. Go find your brothers and tell them the news.”

Daenera knew she wouldn’t make any difference in arguing, so she instead nodded and ran down the halls, picking up the skirts so as to not fall in them. Jace and Luke had just arrived at the tiltyard with Ser Harwin following suit, two dragon keepers carrying a brazier between them, the heat of which distorted the air around it.

Daenera huffed and puffed, cheeks red. “Its-it’s a boy.”

Jace and Luke jumped with excitement, gripping onto one another as they jumped around in a celebratory circle. Ser Harwin’s eyes were beaming, though the smile on his face was small.

“Come on, let’s get back to mothers chambers!” Jace yelled, gripping Luke’s arm, pulling the younger with him. “Let’s see who’s fastest!”

Jace ran off, Luke right at his heels, yelling about how unfair it was because he had a headstart and longer legs.

“Please, Ser Harwin, would you join us in our celebration?”

“I would like that very much, Princess Daenera.”

The two of them walked up the steps and into the hall once more, meeting a fleet of people, all congratulating the princess on her new brother. Daenera accepted their congratulations with a smile and a nod. It was only when the halls were less crowded she began speaking again. “The queen sent for the child immediately after he was born. Mother refused to let him go, so she went along with him.”

“Your mother walked all the way to the queen's chambers?” Ser Harwin asked. He knew of the animosity between the queen and the princess, knew of the bad blood and the rivalry, but he had not thought that the queen would force a woman who had just given birth to walk all the way through the castle to see the child.

If anything, as a woman herself, she should have let the princess heal or come to her herself.

Ser Harwin found it vile, and he couldn’t blame Rhaenyra for the spite that seemed to course through her veins.

“Yes,” Daenera’s voice quivered with the single word.

“Your mother is strong. Stronger than any woman I’ve ever met, do not worry for her,” Ser Harwin told the young princess.

“How can I not, when she was still bleeding when she left,” Daenera said. She would never forget this slight, nor would she forgive it.

By the time Daenera and Ser Harwin entered Rhaenyra’s apartments, the brothers had resumed their play with their toys. Each had two lines of wooden soldiers marching against one another. Luke was flying a wooden dragon in the air, attacking Jace’s troops. Ser Harwin knelt down to observe the game while Daenera sat on the settee, one leg bouncing in impatience, not listening to her brother's play.

“And he sees a big, scary dragon!” Jace told Luke, holding up the biggest dragon to combat the one Luke had.

It was then when the doors opened again, letting in Rhaenyra and Laenor. Ser Harwin was the first on his feet, then Daenera, Jace and Luke. Jace hurried over to the brazier containing the dragon egg that he, Daenera and Luke had chosen for their new sibling.

“Look!” Jace presented for their mother.

“We chose an egg for the baby,” Luke elaborated, looking down at the big, copper coloured egg.

“Ah, that looks like the perfect one,” their mother told them, allowing Ser Harwin to help her sit down. She sounded exhausted.

“I let Luke choose,” Jace told their parents.

“Thank you, Jace,” Luke thanked his brother. Jace had after all chosen both Daenera’s egg and Lukes. It was only fair that he too should choose one for his sibling.

“It’s not everyday an egg leaves the dragonpit, princess,” Ser Harwin began, slowly walking towards Laenor and the baby. “I thought it best to escort the lads.”

Ser Harwin looked down at princess Rhaenyra, who in turn looked up at him. They gave each other a look that Daenera didn’t fully understand, it was the look of a shared secret, a look of devotion, loyalty and love. One not easily replaced or forgotten. It was subtle, but it was there.

And Daenera couldn’t understand it.

“Laenor and I thank you, Commander,” Rhaenyra replied.

“Another boy, I was told,” Ser Harwin said. Rhaenyra flashed the father of her children a smile, hand brushing over the deflating swell of her stomach, trying to alleviate the pain within.

“What a fine knight you’re going to make, eh?” Laenor mused at the baby, gently rocking it.

“Might I?” Ser Harwin asked. He knew it was overstepping his bounds, but he wished to hold the child he helped make. Daenera looked at her mother, who was watching the two fathers, one in name and one in blood. Laenor had to know, and if he knew, then they all had some sort of silent agreement.

“Ser Harwin wishes to be introduced to Joffrey,” Rhaenyra spoke, her voice smooth and quiet, not at all the same as when she was straining with pain.

“Of course,” Laenor said, handing over the baby.

“Joffrey, is it?”

“Mhm.”

“Father, please may I hold Joffrey?” Luke asked, reaching for his brother, no longer able to stand the wait. Laenor dismissed the notion, guiding the two boys out of the rooms.

Daenera remained for a moment, looking from a smitten Commander of the City Watch, to her loving mother. Their eyes med and Rhaenyra gestured with her head for Daenera to follow the boys out. Daenera nodded in agreement and headed out.

The boys went ahead of Daenera and Laenor, even in their reluctance of leaving their newborn brother, they still felt excitement at their lessons at the dragonpit. Daenera was less excited only because she herself didn’t have a dragon.

“Can I skip today's lesson at the Dragonpit?” Daenera asked her father.

“Why?”

“I don’t have a dragon to train with for one,” Daenera argued the same point she had used so many times before. Being at the Dragonpit, having lessons in dragons, how to train them and how to speak to them and eventually ride them, were a continuous reminder of what she did not have. It always left a bitter taste in her mouth. What good are dragon lessons when you don't have a dragon?

“Neither do Aemond and he’s still there,” Laenor reminded her.

“He doesn’t want to be there either,” Daenera argued back.

“You are a Targaryen and Velaryon both, it is part of our traditions and you should take part in them, even when you do not see the point,” Laenor told his daughter. “My sister-,”

“Didn’t have a dragon either,” Daenera finished his sentence, knowing it by heart. “And now she rides the biggest and mightiest dragon of them all, Vhagar. I know, I know. But perhaps I’m not meant to ride dragons! Perhaps it’s all a waste.”

“I don’t think that, Daenera,” Laenor said, holding out a hand in front of her, stopping her in her tracks. He knelt down on her level, his face not at all reflected in her own. “I think you’ll ride a dragon one day, and to do that you’ll need the lessons. Being a dragonrider is in your blood.”

“Can I just… skip today, please? I promise I’ll go next time and the time after that,” Daenera pleaded.

“You’ll promise not to make it a habit?” Laenor caved, unable to fully refuse his daughter.

“I promise,” Daenera answered.

“You know you’ll have to keep your promises. You need to be a lady of her words.”

“I am.”

“Good. What will you spend the time on then?”

“I’ll go see Helaena,” Daenera told him, wrapping her arms around his neck in a big hug. She kissed his cheek and turned on her heel, running towards the library to pick up the book she had been thinking about, before heading towards the queens chambers where she knew Helaena would be.

Daenera knocked on the door of the queen chambers, cradling her book in her arms, rolling back and forth on her feet as she waited for it to be opened. The heavy wooden door, so finely carved, creaked open to reveal the queen in her fine green dress, a deep emerald, curls of hair pinned up with ringlets falling down her back like a waterfall. Daenera smiled politely, leaning a bit forward to peek inside, catching a glimpse of silver hair.

“Princess Daenera shouldn’t you be at the Dragonpit?” Alicent asked, lips pursed in disapproval.

Daenera would mirror the queen's face, if it wasn’t for the fact that it would make it unlikely that she’d be allowed to stay with Helaena. She also had to bite back sour words that were filling her mouth as she wished to give out a tongue lashing to the queen for her treatment of her mother. It wouldn’t do any good either.

“I’ve been allowed not to attend today and thought I’d instead spend my time with Helaena,” Daenera answered, eyes shifting back to Alicent trying to convey innocence and sincerity. “I’ve brought a book that I wish to read to her.”

“And what book might that be?”

“It’s about the warrior princess Nymeria and her life,” Daenera told the queen. There was a flicker of emotion flashing across the queen's face before she was able to conceal it beneath her carefully crafted mask. Alicent smiled shortly and stepped aside allowing Daenera to enter.

Daenera hurried over to Helaena and positioned herself in the chair beside the settee, legs inches off the ground, the thick volume of Nymeria’s life heavy on her lap. Helaena didn’t acknowledge her friend's presence, eyes transfixed on the centipede climbing from one hand to another, its many legs tickling across her pale skin. Daenera didn’t mind the lack of acknowledgement, she was used to it. Helaena might be in her own world most of the time, but she knew of her presence, Daenera was sure of it.

“This one has sixty rings and two pairs of legs on each. That’s two hundred and forty,” Helaena told no one in particular. Alicent at sat down beside her daughter, looking at the girl with a wistful look in her eyes. “It has eyes, though… I don’t believe it can see.”

“Why is that so, do you think?” Alicent asked her daughter, with a wish of understanding edged upon her face, softening her otherwise hardened features.

“It is beyond our understanding.”

“I suppose you’re right, some things just are.”

Daenera flipped through the pages of the book, the scent of old paper wafting up from the pages. Some of them were painted with images. She stopped at the page where they had left off the last time and Daenera picked up from there, beginning to read out loud.

“What is this?” Daenera suddenly said, frown tugging at her brows, her hand turning from one page to another, trying to figure out what had just happened in the story. “A page is missing.”

“ A love irrefutably torn, a path not taken, yet still fondly remembered ,” Helaena mused, her last words being nearly cut off by the abrupt opening of the doors.

Alicent got up, her heels clicking over the stone floor, while Daenera continued to try and figure out how she was to piece the story together without all of the pages. Who would do such a thing? It was obscene, that was what it was. In her wonderings, Daenera vaguely heard the guard speak.

“Your grace.”

“Aemond? What have you done?” Alicent breathed aghast at the sight of her second son, hair mussed up, dirtied and rumpled, with a sad look upon his face. Daenera glanced up to catch sight of him and his miserable expression.

“He did it again,” Helaena responded, her eyes suddenly present and looking upon her brother. Aemond’s presence always seemed to bring Helaena back down to earth, an anchor keeping her present. Sometimes it annoyed Daenera that she couldn’t always do that.

“After how many times you’ve been warned, must I have you confined to your chambers?” Alicent chastised.

Daenera pursed her lips, split between feeling elated of the chastisement and bad for the boy. It was an odd, conflicting emotion. She didn’t want him in trouble, that was why she hadn’t told her mother about his jeerings, the veiled accusation of her bastardry. But she couldn’t deny the contentment she also felt when he finally got chastised for something.

“They made me do it!” Aemond argued, miserable and angry. Hurt . Bullied .

“As if you needed encouragement,” Alicent asserted, knowing well how many times Aemond had snuck down into the depths of the Dragonpit and how many times the dragon keepers had to save him. By now it was a common occurrence. “Your obsession with those beasts goes beyond understanding.”

“They gave me a pig!” Aemond blurted, tears in his eyes. Helaena looked back at Daenera, her eyes dimming as she disappeared into her own world again, flickering down to the centipede in her hands, tiny legs drilling over her skin as it tried to escape. Daenera made a confused grimace and too forced her eyes back to the book, though ears keenly listened in.

“A what?”

“They said they found me a dragon,” Aemond continued distressed, the hurt and anger pitching his voice high, face scowling. Daenera pressed her lips together, keeping the words from tumbling out. They had pranked him. Mocked him. And he so willingly jumped in with both feet. While Daenera had resigned to her lack of a dragon, Aemond had not. It was his greatest wish. He already felt lesser than and with Aegon’s cruelty and emasculation, the anger that he didn’t have a dragon, burned spitefully and wrongly in his veins.

Daenera pitied him.

“The last ring has no legs at all,” Helaena mused quietly to herself.

“But it was a pig.”

“You will have a dragon one day,” Alicent assured her son. “I know it.”

“ He’ll have to close an eye ,” Helaena continued musing, eyes fixed on the many legs moving in tandem. Daenera looked up at the girl confused, but shrugged it off for one of her many oddities.

Daenera leaned in, voice low. “What will I have to do to get a dragon?”

Helaena looked like she pondered the question, head tilting, though eyes still focused on the insect. “I do not know yet… But fire will take your blood soon. Fire set by the fireflies.”

Daenera felt her heart sink into her stomach.

“...They all laughed,” Aemond said barely above a whisper. “They called it the pink dread.”

Daenera couldn’t contain the snort, the sound cutting through the room and striking an already wounded Aemond, who glared over at her in fury. A boy wronged. Daenera laughed though. “I’m sorry, but the pink dread is funny! It’s a brilliant name.”

“It’s not funny,” Aemond growled at her, indignant and annoyed. He stepped out of his mothers arms, angrily stomping the ground as he seethed.

“Did you really believe Aegon found you a dragon?”

“It wasn’t just Aegon! Jace and Luke were in on it as well. They strapped wings and a tale on a pig-,”

“Must have been a fight,” Daenera interrupted with her musings, flipping the page, unbothered by Aemonds deadly glare.

“They made you one as well,” Aemond sneered, his words bringing her eyes back on him, a brow lifting, the perfect picture of being unbothered by it all. It infuriated him even more. How could she be so dismissive? So unbothered? Was it because she was a bastard? “The Pig of Harrenal.”

A flash of disappointment crossed her face, nose scrunching up sourly. “Not as good a name as the pink dread.”

The Shadow of Harrenhal, an elusive dragon said to roam the vicinity of Harrenhal since the reign of Maegor The Cruel. Ser Harwin had frequently shared tales of this formidable dragon, portraying it not merely as a beast of flesh and fire but as a cunning creature. His words painted a picture of a creature that moved like a shadow, its presence felt yet unseen, like a ghost haunting the ancient ruins and the sacred woods alike.

“They’re mocking us-,”

“They were mocking you!”

“That is enough, Daenera,” Alicent chastised Daenera.

“Don’t let them bother you,” Daenera shrugged. “If you don’t take the bait, if you don't show that it bothers you, they’ll eventually grow bored.”

“How can you be so dismissive?! We’re Targaryens without dragons! Everyone laughs at us.”

“They may be laughing at you, Aemond, but they’re not laughing at me,” Daenera snapped the book shut, getting to her feet. She looked down at Helaena placing a quick kiss on her head, before bowing shortly at the queen. She passed between the table and the settee, heading up the few steps and towards the doors, meaning to pass Aemond by, when she paused. “If they laughed at me, I’d make them regret it.”

Aemond’s hands balled into fists at his sides. He felt his mothers hand on his shoulder, a silent command not to lose his temper at the princess once again. He watched her go, grinding his teeth in effort not to spew out his misgivings and grievances. She was so stupid and annoying . A bastard girl . Did she think she was better than him?

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