Hi there! I am a novice fanfic writer who just got back into writing after a decade long hiatus, and currently focused on Aemond Targaryen from House of the Dragon. I have plans to eventually explore other characters once I get the inspiration.
Inbox/ask box is open, I am always open to new ideas :)
Summary: Sent to the capital as a girl, Celaena could not have foreseen what her life would one day become. She could not have known that, in tying herself to Viserys' second son, she would also bind herself to a fate very few could understand. One that will compel her to make a choice, as war looms on the horizon, between the man she loves, and the one who may be able to save her life.
Warnings: canon-typical violence, alternate universe(ish), slight canon divergence, original female character(s), oc x canon romance, angst, pining, implied sexual scenes, some language, major character death(s), more warnings to be added as the story goes on!
Other: please let me know if you would like to be added to a tag-list!
dividers by @zaldritzosrose (thank you so very much!!!)
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Locked away in chambers that are not her own, it takes a moment for Celaena to remember that the tips of her shoes are stained red with Otto Hightower's blood.
It takes a moment, while she absorbs every last detail of her surroundings, for the true nature of her circumstances to fully sink in. For her heart to begin thundering an erratic pattern of beats against her ribs, while every attempt at drawing a breath seems to snag at the back of her throat.
She is a prisoner. The words may not have been spoken outright, but the omission hardly negates their truth. It does nothing to safeguard her against the terror that winds its icy tendrils around her heart at the thought of what is to befall her, now. Terror that delivers a sharp squeeze, when her fingers brush on instinct against the fabric of her dress where it rests against the plane of her stomach. Terror that intensifies, with the thought of how the flatness of her abdomen will soon begin to change.
Maester Orwyle had confirmed the reality of it, himself, a mere fortnight ago. A reality she had soon shared with her husband, unable to fathom the thought of keeping it to herself until it became all but impossible to ignore.
Aemond. Gone to Harrenhal, to challenge his uncle, and yet Daemon Targaryen is here, in King's Landing, very much alive.
Whether he had met her husband in battle or not, Daemon himself had said nothing of it. In truth, he had barely even acknowledged her at all, save for one cursory glance before departing from the throne room with his gold cloaks to hunt for Aegon, thus leaving her to wonder over her husband's fate, alone.
Alone, as she had been when her parents first sent her to the capital, all those years ago, to befriend the young princes in hopes that one of them would one day desire her to be his bride. Alone, to fear the worst for a man she had come to love, against her own better judgment. To fear for herself, knowing that she now carries a very real threat to the new queen's continued reign.
Celaena can still recall a time when Rhaenyra had seemed as a second mother, in her eyes. A source of warmth and inner strength to cleave to, when the rest of her world as she had known it had been torn asunder. But the woman that sat the Iron Throne earlier that very day had seemed entirely different. Harder. Colder, and not at all likely to permit the child Celaena now carries to survive, and present yet another threat to her rule.
Much like Otto Hightower, it is entirely likely that Celaena, herself, is soon to die.
In all of her time spent around the former Hand of the King, she had never come to like the man.
Rhaenyra had been the one to land the killing blow. That much had been clear from the very moment Celaena had looked upon their would-be queen, poised upon the Iron Throne. It had been clear, even before she had become aware of Alicent Hightower's sharp intake of breath, a sure sign of how quickly all of the queen dowager's best laid plans had rather suddenly gone awry.
She wonders if Alicent regrets it now. If she is questioning her decisions in the aftermath of everything that has transpired.
She wonders if the desired result of those decisions will ever be worth the price.
By the time two gold cloaks arrive to take her before the queen again, Celaena finds that she rather doubts it. A realization that sobers her as she allows herself to be guided through the halls of the Red Keep, and then inside of another chamber, in silence. A silence that is marred only by the sound of the footsteps of both herself, and her escorts, until they come to a stop once more.
Helaena is there.
It is the first thing that Celaena notices, as she finds herself pushed forward into the room. The first thing she allows herself to feel some small measure of relief in, in spite of their circumstances, the only thing keeping her from closing the distance between them being the lingering hold that one of the gold cloaks still has around her upper arm.
For her part, Helaena seems to regard her arrival with equal eagerness, the slightest step she makes to carry her forward only halted by the cautionary hand soon extended by her mother. A gesture that is soon followed by a wary expression directed her way that Celaena cannot even begin to understand.
"What do you know of your uncle's dealings as Master of Coin?"
The question comes from Rhaenyra. A presence which Celaena had not immediately noticed, given her preoccupation with Helaena's, and one that soon has her straightening instinctively beneath the new queen's discerning gaze. One that renders her fearful, even if she exerts every effort to refrain from allowing that fear to make itself known in her expression.
Before her stands a woman that Celaena can no longer say that she knows. A woman who has lost much, and now seeks retribution for it, in whatever way she can find. It would be a lie for her to pretend that her heart does not ache for Rhaenyra—for her accumulated losses, even now—and yet, Celaena would be equally foolish if she were to dare to hope that such sympathy and understanding would ever be capable of winning her any favors, now.
Now, when Helaena's worried frown, and Alicent's visible apprehension tell her far more about the precariousness of her circumstances than their words ever could.
"His—dealings? I am afraid I do not understand."
"Where has he sent the crown's gold?" Rhaenyra demands, risking a step closer just as Celaena finds herself aware of the tightening of the gold cloak's grip upon her arm, as though there is truly any chance that she would be bold enough to prove herself a threat, "Surely you must know something."
"I can assure you that I do not."
"A suspicion, then. Some recollection of a conversation you overheard, or—"
"Your Grace, my Uncle Tyland is many things, but a man who shares his business with a woman, much less his own niece, is not one of them," Celaena persists, the obvious doubt that remains in Rhaenyra's expression a thing she forces herself to ignore, even as it threatens to tear away the very last shred of her resolve, "Perhaps, if you were to send a raven to my mother, she would be able to get word to my father, and inquire—"
"Your father is dead."
Regardless of how a part of her had already suspected the futility of her own words—the utter unlikelihood of her parents ever disclosing anything that her uncle might or might not have done with gold they would maintain belonged to Aegon, and not his half-sister—Celaena had not been capable of anticipating this. Where the prospect of Rhaenyra's continued doubt in her honesty, and perhaps a shift toward harsher methods of interrogation had lingered at the back of her mind, the revelation that the queen now bestows upon her seems entirely dedicated to the act of bringing her down at the knees in a way Celaena had never once dared to anticipate.
It very nearly succeeds, Celaena's posture wavering and requiring her gold cloak companion to abandon his grip on her arm in favor of a tighter hold upon both of her shoulders, instead, as the ringing in her ears—the dizziness that now assails her—threatens to pull her under. Something that Rhaenyra herself seems to regard with open curiosity, as though the anticipated response to her declaration had been altogether different from the one presented to her, now.
Dimly, as though through some great fog, Celaena realizes that she cannot truly blame the queen for her surprise. Not when she, herself, had made little secret of the distance that had always seemed to exist between herself and her father, even when she was a young girl. A foolish girl, who thought that perhaps if she married a prince, she might earn back even a fragment of her father's approval and affection.
That foolishness, she realizes, is likely the very thing that will inevitably get her killed.
"Then I confess, I do not see how else I can help you in obtaining the answers you seek."
The words she finally manages to speak are bold. Too bold, though the realization is not entirely enough to persuade Celaena to reconsider them. Not even when she becomes aware of Helaena's small murmur of surprise while Rhaenyra steps closer still. Close enough that she could strike her, with little to no difficulty at all.
For a moment, Celaena catches herself wondering if she will do so. She braces herself for it, as best she can, knowing that if it happens, it will mean the severing of whatever bond there may yet be, between them. A thing which, even now, a part of her dares to hope could still exist.
When moments pass without such violence, Celaena once again allows herself to breathe, the shuddering gasp bringing the flush of embarrassment to her skin even as she tries her best to ignore it. Yet even as she attempts to stow away her momentary relief, and the admittedly naive hope for even the possibility of clemency that rises in its wake, Rhaenyra's next inquiry all too quickly moves to rip both from her grasp.
"Where are Aemond and Vhagar?"
"I—he flew to Harrenhal—"
"She does not know of his whereabouts, anymore than I do, Rhaenyra," Alicent interjects, her sudden appearance at Celaena's side causing the remaining gold cloaks to converge around them, hands hovering atop the hilt of their blades, "It is as I told you. Aemond has fled, as I promised. Aegon has abandoned the throne."
"And you would have me believe that they will no longer be a threat?"
"You promised we could go. We told the guards. We ran."
"When Aemond has been found, and the challenge to me removed, you will go free," Rhaenyra assures, the look she directs toward Helaena in response to her half-sister's plea clearly intended to provide comfort, though judging by Helaena's answering frown it has already fallen flat, "Until then, I cannot be seen to favor Hightowers."
"Is it favor?" Celaena states, once again finding herself pinned beneath the steel in Rhaenyra's gaze, though it is hardly enough to prevent her from pressing on, "Or is it simply showing mercy to those who have little and less to do with actions perpetrated by their husbands and fathers?"
Fool. She is a simple-minded, brazen fool, and the queen will likely see fit to punish her for it—
"I do not want to stay in this room."
Once again, Helaena's words provide a distraction. One which Celaena is immeasurably grateful for, as the fire that had kindled in Rhaenyra's eyes as she looked upon her was all too quickly becoming far too much for her to bear. Yet even in the midst of that relief, she is hardly blind to the lingering tension that rests about the queen's shoulders. A shroud of sorts, weighing down upon her whether she would wish to cast it aside, or not.
A shroud that seems to provide no small supply of irritation, given the barely contained hints of it that make themselves apparent in Rhaenyra's reply.
"I will not treat you unkindly. You will be fed, and clothed, and have a maid to suit your needs," She declares, casting a glance between them as though searching for any signs of impending protest or display of discontent, "You may walk under guard in the Godswood, and I will have Jahaera brought to you for an hour, every few days or so."
"You cannot mean this, Rhaenyra, please," Alicent pleads, then, whatever restraint she may have shown, before, clearly falling to the wayside in light of the restrictions now placed upon them, "Jahaera needs her mother. To keep them apart—"
"You must understand that none of this pleases me. I do not seek to punish an innocent child, but—"
"But you will keep her from Helaena, regardless. You will force me into a position such that I must hope for the—for the capture and death of my son? That Celaena must pray for the loss of her husband?"
"I can only imagine how difficult that will be," Rhaenyra retorts, the words flat and unyielding. A clear display of a mother already well-versed in the loss of her own sons. One who has clearly decided that her sympathies will no longer extend to those who stand before her. Those fathered by, or wed to men who would no doubt oppose her until their very last breath.
It is in that moment that Celaena realizes she was wrong. That any lingering hope she may have held for earning Rhaenyra's mercy, even if only enough to secure it for Helaena's sake, and not her own, is well and truly dead.
A reality that is only confirmed when she becomes aware of the implications behind the queen's next words.
"Celaena will soon be called upon to draft a message to her mother regarding the location of my missing gold, under my guidance. If her mother has any knowledge of its whereabouts, I would have her know that her daughter's fate is now tied to her cooperation. Until then, the three of you will remain here, under guard, as I have already told you."
Without another word, Rhaenyra is soon sweeping from the room, the gold cloaks that had arrived with her following along in her wake. The door closes behind her with a hollow thud, and carries with it the feeling of a fate—three fates—that have, for better or worse, been irrevocably sealed.
Left to their own devices, Celaena watches as Alicent sinks onto a nearby chair, head held in her hands as all of the strength seems stripped from her bones. She notes Helaena's trek toward the open window, as well, the call of gulls wheeling over the Blackwater Bay seeming to beckon her forward as nothing else could.
Though dread lends a certain leaden weight to her footsteps, she soon finds herself moving toward the window to join her goodsister, the way in which Helaena's hand almost instinctively reaches for her own a comfort Celaena had once believed to be lost to her, for good. Yet, even as she savors that comfort, reminding herself to be grateful for it, given the limited time that any of them may now have left, a part of her cannot help but wonder.
Perhaps, instead of survival at the mercy of their would-be captors, it would have been better for all three of them to have ended up dead.
celaena's hands are covered in blood.
warm and red, it drips from her fingertips to the flagstones beneath her feet, the sound of it somehow capable of rendering her blind, deaf, and dumb to absolutely everything else. stomach roiling, she staggers back until her spine bumps against a bedpost, while each failed attempt at drawing a suitable breath rattles uselessly within her throat.
lost in the aftermath of it all, it is as though her mind cannot fully come to grips with what has happened. as though she cannot seem to reconcile the bloodied blade upon the floor at her feet with the violence that allowed it to be there, in the first place. with how she had been the one to wield it, driving it into the belly of one of the men who came to attack them in hopes that the distraction would allow Helaena and Jahaera to get away.
they had, or so she hopes, the tremors that now wrack her frame making it difficult to continue standing. to continue existing, when everything that she ever thought she knew about her world had been turned on its edge in the blink of an eye. and it is not until she registers the sound of footsteps approaching—footsteps that precede the sensation of familiar, calloused hands coming to frame her face—that she is capable of dragging herself back to the world in any capacity, at all.
"celaena, look at me. look at me," aemond pleads, the word carrying far more roughness—far more desperation—than she can recall ever hearing from him, before, "you are safe. you are alive. and they are never going to touch you, again."
sorry but someone assuming you have "left a fandom" when you don't post about it a lot anymore feels like bilbo coming home to the sackville bagginses having him presumed dead and selling all his stuff. girl i was just on a little quest????
Dreadful as the Dawn - 16: The Blood of Old Valyria, Diluted
Part 15 | Masterlist
King!Aemond Targaryen x OFC (M'rone Vilendrys) darkfic - 18+ MDNI
Shortened summary: Braavosi artisan M'rone Vilendrys finds herself intertwined in the frenzied king Aemond Targaryen's politics of fear. He may have sired a bastard on a witch queen, he may be looking for a wife to sire an heir on, yet his depraved desires for strange affections he reserves for M'rone exclusively.
Includes: DD:DNE; non-con; darkfic; forced and abusive relationship; child abuse (Aegon and Viserys); talk of pregnancy and child bearing; mentions of forced abortions; misogyny; violence; death; eating disorders; child death; and lots of other dark elements, my tags for this fic are not exhaustive
Chapter summary: faced with yet more bad news from Harrenhall, Aemond takes Jaehaera to Dragonstone.
Chapter warnings: mentions of eating disorders, violence, death of a parent during childhood; depictions of addiction, dissociation, formation of a trauma bond (not the pop culture meaning), dub-con? but I would still call it rape/non-con
Word count: 9.4k
divider by @/strangergraphics
He does not mind this. The quiet of this bleeding red evening pooling around them, the bitter remnants of wine in his mouth, M’rone’s head resting on his lap. He does not mind it at all, even if he perhaps should. For under the poppy’s spell, M’rone does not as much sleep, as fade. It is a state more akin to death, than slumber. He well knows it himself. They gave it to him when Luke had cut out his eye. Ever since, he has abhorred the taste of it. But not when he tastes the diluted residue of it on her lips.
Combing his fingers through her ashbrown hair, he leans back a bit further in the couch and lets out a sigh. It has been a weary day of tending to matters of state and family. The Small Council has decided that the time has come to see to tax cuts. It is much to his dismay, but then again, he has no intention of inciting the smallfolk to storm the Keep’s walls. He has gotten as much out of them as he could, to strain them further would be detrimental to his own rule. And so other sources of gold must be excavated. Some of the Council members would mine it through marriage, engaging his niece to the young lord Tyrell or Lannister.
That does not suit him. He may respect his mother and her lineage in his own way, but little good has come from the dragon marrying into too powerful a house. Their blood has been diluted too much. Yet, it is clear that the gold must come from the noble families of the Realm. It is not a route he is enthusiastic about, but then again, what else have the highborn done as of late except for scheme and make merry? Perhaps a revision of the tax on inheritance would remind them of their duties to the Crown. Or one on the acquisition of Qartheen silk. He traces his fingers over M’rone’s lips, feeling her breath fanning against his fingertips. Certainly, Tyland Lannister will come up with a decent scheme, mayhap even one that may finally allow for the reconstruction of the Dragonpit.
If only there would be a dragon to house there. Lords and smallfolk alike have taken to lament about Silverwing. Her lair on the Red Lake suits her well, just as hunting cattle, wildlife and, on the odd occasion, men does. She is not merely behaving as a dragon would, she is becoming feral. While many may think it, until today none had dared say it. And for good reason, for when that petty knight of Crakehall dared to petition for leave to slay the dragon, there was only one reply Aemond could possible give. A death sentence. None will slay any dragon as long as he is king. But admittedly Silverwing needs a rider, one trained, one with the right blood.
But when today at luncheon he mentioned her to Jaehaera, his niece burst out into panicked tears. His mother had to take her away to the sept, where she always gathers her calm, and while Rhaena had not said a single word—she knows better than to try so—he had seen her smile. Feint, but still.
That fucking bitch. She is lucky that she is carrying his child, or he would have already discarded her. He has another way to have his heir. One that is far more perilous, but at least not so maddening. M’rone smacks her lips, softly, and he cannot help the smile. No matter how dreary his days are, at least his nights are pleasant. Calm. He would have preferred a bit more conversation with her this evening, but she was in a bad state. She usually is on the days a letter of her sister comes. And so, he allowed her that sip of milk earlier than is their custom.
He knows it is no good. The milk alienates her from herself and it is she he needs. But then again, he has no use of her when in hysterics. He hates to see her in hysterics. At least like this she makes a pretty doll. He slips his index and middle finger between her lips. And what a sight it is. One that makes him inhale sharply, that sends a fizzling need to his abdomen. He has never done more than this when she is so deep under the poppy’s spell. But why should he not? She is his, and only his. He is in need of her now, so he may just as well.
But before he can even slip his hand under her skirts, a knock on the door disturbs his plans. He does not reply, but it matters little. Ser Criston Cole enters either way. Cole, for all his uses and loyalty, barely puts in any effort at all to hide his dismay at finding Aemond so. No matter how many months of this have passed, he still finds M’rone’s presence disturbing. Let him have his opinion on the matter, he well earned his right to have one. But Aemond cannot help but poke the bear. He places his finger over his lips, urging Cole to be silent. The Hand of the King lets out a sigh and offers him a letter.
‘A messenger came from Harrenhall.’ Cole is not even attempting to whisper. ‘Unwin Peake is dead. His second in command, Lymond Reyne, apparently swore fealty to… his queen, Alys Targaryen. What remained of their host have joined her forces in Harrenhall.’
Aemond hums, trying to swallow his anger. His indignation. Of course they have. Of course this is what has happened. Throwing host upon host at Alys has been like carrying water to the sea. Or rather, blood to a witch. Without a reply he accepts the little scroll of a letter Cole brought with. His mood is ruined once he sees the stamp. A purple dragon.
‘This came by raven just now,’ Cole continues. ‘Forgive my forgetfulness, your grace, but which house uses a purple dragon in its heraldry?’
He clenches his jaw. Looking Cole dead in the eyes, he replies with barely retained fury, ‘Alys Targaryen’s.’
Cole’s mouth falls open in anger. ‘That bastard misuses your name.’
‘Hush now, Cole,’ Aemond sneers, ‘Do not wake my lady.’
Ser Criston scoffs, shakes his head. He does not reply immediately. But when he does it is a play with fire, ‘At least this one knows her place.’
‘Get out,’ Aemond commands.
But Criston is not one to back down, not one when riled up like this. ‘Will we now finally deal with the witch directly, your grace?’
‘Cole.’
‘You have not ascended the throne to become lax and passive, Aemond! You have thrown two hosts of considerable size against this insult which has by now transgressed to be a true threat, and none but perversion has come of it. In the past you and I marched on Harrenhall and seized that castle. The time has come to do so again. Will you do it?’
In his lap, M’rone stirs. She blinks, slowly opening her eyes. She mutters something in Braavosi. He cups her cheek in his hand and hushes her, and she drifts of again.
‘Or will you just stay here to sulk and fuck your new whore?’ Cole spits.
Aemond slowly rises, careful to lay M’rone’s head comfortably on a cushion. It has been a long while since he and the White Cloak spoke so frankly. He thought they had outgrown such discussions. When he was a boy, Cole was as close to a father as he a prince could ever have. But the knight was never really enough. And by now he has outgrown his need for such a man. If only he would have outgrown his need for this man altogether, then he could just dismiss him and be rid of all this bother. But Cole, for all his faults, is an asset.
‘Is that what you think I have been doing, Cole? Brooding and whoring?’ He folds his hand behind his back, holding the unread letter in a frustrated grip. ‘If you have grievances, lay them before me instead of fueling them into insults against a woman who has nothing to do with them. This pettiness does not suit a knight. Nor my Hand.’
Cole inhales slowly, and finally, he bows his head. ‘Your grace.’
‘I think you will agree that I had my reasons to try and avoid flying out to meet that witch queen myself. Now she has two hosts. What would she have done should she have had a dragon, and a king?’
‘She could never—’
‘She could. And I think she has. It is difficult to know, but I am quite certain… She told me, you know, that she had lost babes in the womb, only one was born, but already dead. How then, did I sire a son on her? All those children she lost, she lost likely because she meant to lose them. And the one son she did bear, she let live only because she meant to have him live.’
‘She is a wicked woman, that is known. And that is why you must now confront her.’
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘But I cannot meet her in Harrenhall.’
‘She will not be lured out.’
‘Not to King’s Landing, no.’
‘You think she may meet you elsewhere?’
He hums. Perhaps. Dragonstone might seduce her. But he would not have her so close to his house’s original seat. Perhaps she would agree to meet him at the God’s Eye. That would be somehow poetic, would it not be? No, it is difficult to say. For it is difficult to decide. What to do with Alys Rivers, what to do with her son? Even if he could kill her—which he doubts—he could not kill the boy. His son, true born in the eyes of the old gods. Be that as it may, confrontation is inevitable. Before he can do that, however, there is a matter he has to see to. A reassurance of some sorts.
‘Have the princess Jaehaera be dressed to fly out, Cole.’
‘Your grace?’
‘You heard me. I will go to Dragonstone.’
Cole gives a sharp nod, and, apparently reassured of his king’s capacity, he retreats. With a tired sigh, Aemond opens the letter.
My beloved king, my dearest husband, Aemond Targaryen,
How generous you have been as of late. I gratefully accept your latest gift. Our dearest boy was very excited to hear that he will have a baby brother. I am certain that he will be a good older brother. Like his father, he is such a dutiful boy.
Do take care of Her Grace in these trying times. A first pregnancy is a difficult affair, even more so when one’s husband is busy doting on another. Tell her that I wish her well.
Forward my regards to the Master-Artisan M’rone Vilendrys as well. I presume that, as your second wife will be indisposed, you will bring along your mistress to Harrenhall. I look forward to receiving the both of you, as do these molten black stones.
Your beloved wife,
Alys Targaryen of Harrenhall
He lets out a slow, trembling breath. Even with such a distance between them, she can so easily pry her fingers beneath his skin. Shaking his head, he strides to the hearth and throws the letter in the fire. From behind him comes M’rone’s tired voice, ‘Dragonstone? Jaehaera?’
He lets his head hang back. ‘Go to sleep, Moondrop.’
‘My king, she is not ready.’
He turns to her. How lost she looks, sitting on her knees like this, that poppy haze in her eyes. He nears her and presses a kiss on her brow.
‘Go to sleep. I will be back before noon.’
Of course it just has to fucking rain. It matters little to him. He has flown Vhagar through storms and blizzards. Jaehaera, however, has shown to be uncomfortable in the skies even on a clear, summer day. Under the cold shower of this downpour she whimpers, on the verge of tears. On the verge of a long, long scream.
The whole flight he waits for her to start screeching. Just as she used to do after Jaehaerys was killed, just as she used to do in the first few weeks he’d returned to King’s Landing. He knows that scream still boils in her stomach, threatening to erupt any moment. And so as Vhagar flies them through the dark clouds of night, he waits and waits and waits for it.
She only sets to scream when Dragonstone comes into view. He clenches his jaw, grips the reigns tightly and lets her. If she so needs to cry out her fear, then let her do it here where no one will be the wiser of it. Not only riderless, but full of fright. What sort of Targaryen is she?
When Vhagar comes down crashing on the rocky shores of their ancestral home, Jaehaera has finally stopped.
‘Sorry,’ she whispers.
He offers her no reply, for all that he could say is reprimand and admonishment. That would do her little good. Not now. But as he helps her down, he catches her gaze and she catches his meaning. She can make it up to him. If she finally claims her inheritance.
Much to his displeasure a retinue is already approaching. He had Vhagar land here, close to the main entrance into the maze of caves below the Dragonmont for efficiency. They have no business in the castle and he does not mean to tarry. He is of mind to ignore the company, until one of the riders calls out, ‘My daughter, my heart!’
Jaehaera freezes into shock, her fingers clenching harder around his hand. It is better than crying, such as she did last when she saw her father. And for once, Aemond must relent—for he finds himself at a loss of words as well. He had not recognized Aegon in the dark and rain, barely illuminated by the clunky lanterns his retinue brought with. But it is not only the light and shadows which obscured them. Since when is his brother able to mount a horse?
‘Go greet your father,’ Aemond tells his niece.
For all her delicacies and faults, she remains an obedient child at heart. She does as is told. She slips her hand from his and, pulling the hood of her coat further over her silver-haired crown, she approaches her father. Her father, his brother, this broken shade of king, who remains mounted on the horse he should not be able to ride. The princess bends into a courtesy.
‘G-goodnight, father.’
A wide smile trembles on Aegon’s scarred face. Away from court he goes unmasked. Something must have grown in Jaehaera, for where the sight of her father’s old burns used to make her cry, now what remains of her unease is easily obscured by the dark of night.
‘What a pleasant surprise, my daughter,’ Aegon says. ‘Brother, come on, so we may go inside.’
‘This is no social call,’ Aemond replies.
His older brother urges his horse to draw nearer. It is not to Vhagar’s pleasure, who grumbles lowly. ‘Then what sort is it?’
‘Aōha tala mastas zaldrīzī dārligon.’ Your daughter has come to claim a dragon.
And the rain continues to fall, the wind continues to soar. Maybe his brother did not understand. He always struggled with High Valyrian, never quite making the language his own. But this is not a silence of misapprehension. That Aemond realizes as soon as Aegon has recovered from his shock. Urging his horse closer, he hisses,
‘You fiend!’
‘Sīr daor.’ Not now.
‘She is too weak. They will devour her.’
‘She is of the blood of the dragon, brother.’
‘She is my blood!’ Aegon’s anger is unsettling his steed, who neighs and struggles to keep distance between itself and the dragon in front of her. ‘Jaehaera, you come to me now.’
‘F-father…’ Jaehaera stammers, setting a step back.
‘Take her!’ Aegon calls to his knights.
But they do not move. Only one—braver than the others—offers a meager excuse for their passivity, ‘We cannot interfere in the king’s business, my lord.’
‘Your grace,’ Aegon sneers. ‘It is “your grace” to you. I was king before he was! He sits on my throne at my leisure, he—’
‘Careful now, brother,’ Aemond interrupts in a loud, taunting voice.
He is taking it too far. Both of them had agreed. A year and a half ago to two of them agreed. Aemond would sit on the throne, and Aegon would live however he saw fit. But quietly, half forgotten. They agreed that the Dance was over, but as long as Jacaerys Velaryon remains alive, it could as well start again. The Realm’s displeasure at their ailing and deluded king—one too broken to survive another war and continue the dynasty—thus had to be responded with with a smooth exchange of power, one it would barely notice, to someone more able to take on the burden. So they had agreed. And yet here he speaks the very words which might restart it all over again.
‘Vhagar is hungry and tired,’ he continues. ‘It makes her… hm… snappy.’
It is as if Aegon is only now realizing what he did. Yelling treachery right in front of a dragon. Aemond would be lying if he ever dared to boast that he would not mind becoming a kinslayer for yet a third time. Once sufficed to sentence him to hell, and perpetual scrutiny. The Realm will not forgive nor forget what he did to Luke and while his slaying of his uncle was more honorable, it was not less criminal in the eyes of whatever gods one chooses to believe in. And so he would not wish to spill the blood of his own brother—but he has committed more horrendous crimes when necessity called for it.
He will commit more horrendous crimes to keep these Seven Kingdoms.
Having realized his mistake, Aegon instead turns to Jaehaera.
‘Sweetness, you do not need to do this. You do not want this. Come with, we will go in the castle. We will get you warm.’
‘I-I want to do this, father!’ Jaehaera calls.
‘My daughter, even in this dark downpour I can see you are j-just fooling us. Come with!’
‘It is the truth,’ Jaehaera insists. ‘I want to and I am able to. I am… I am Targaryen. And I have to do this, for… for Jaehaerys!’
Aegon lets out a sound between a groan and cry, but Aemond can only smile. So she does have it in herself, somewhere underneath all the rubble the war left inside her mind. No more words come from Aegon. It has been decided then. Aemond draws closer and takes hold of the black horse’s reigns. Aegon leans back, as if truly and utterly frightened.
‘She will claim Shrykos. For your boy.’
There is nothing left to say. Even now, the mention of his son is enough to shatter Aegon. He is, after all, a man made of black ash and brittle bone. Aemond gestures towards one of the knight’s holding a lantern. If they are here, he may as well make use of what they brought with. Lantern in hand, Aemond takes hold of Jaehaera’s hand. As the rain finally dwindles, the two of them make for the gaping entrance of the Dragonmont.
Once swallowed by the cavern’s mouth, the heat of the island makes itself known in full force. Outside, rain and night made it waver, but here the volcanic warmth of the island reduces the moisture in their clothes and hair into a suffocating damp. His hand, wrapped around Jaehaera’s, has become clammy, but his grip remains one of assured and assuring iron. He does not need to look at his niece to know she is frightened. He knows it by the way she walks; faltering, wavering.
Having only received entry to Dragonstone as the Dance had already ended, he had to learn to navigate the cavernous labyrinth on his own. So used he has become to roaming this place in solitude, that he is ready to draw his sword when from the opposite direction a figure approaches, carrying a torch. But he catches on quickly enough. A dragonkeeper. Of course. He had the few they gathered sent here himself.
High Valyrian trembles in the air, ‘Aōhys eglivys, this is unexpected.’
‘Targaryens in the caverns of Dragonstone,’ he drawls as he continues on, dragging Jaehaera along with him. ‘Yes, how rare.’
The dragonkeeper can hardly be older than him. She is scrawny, indicating that the years of war took their toll on her as well. Malnourished, young, unscarred. That will come soon enough. For now, her High Valyrian is flawless, and her presence here, in this damp, hot place, speaks of her devotion. That counts for something, even if it does little to compensate her lack of experience.
‘If you mean to… None are prepared, your grace. The dragons here have not abode to a rider for a long time.’
‘I am well aware.’
Nervously, the dragonkeeper follows them. ‘The princess has not been with a dragon for a long time.’
‘She just flew here on one,’ Aemond replies undisturbed.
They set onto the serpentine steps up to the summoning platform. It is in a bad state, has been for a long while now. Damage from when Rhaenyra defiled their birthright one of the older servants at Dragonstone once told him. The Red Sowing. His blood runs hot at the mere thought of it. So enraptured he is by this smoldering anger, that when Jaehaera trips and falls behind him, he pulls her up without another word.
The dragonkeeper dares to speak again, ‘Are you certain that—’
‘Yes,’ he snaps. ‘The princess has come to claim a dragon. It is simple, and yet you fuss.’
Finally they have arrived at the platform, the dark scene illuminated by dying mounted torches. He helps Jaehaera onto it. She does not say anything, does not even look at him, but he can sense it: fear. He bites on his tongue to keep himself from making what would doubtlessly be a detrimental comment. He is not a fool; he well realizes that unleashing his fury on her now will only make it worse.
‘Aōhys eglivys,’ another voice calls.
The other dragonkeeper, this one older, less fidgety, comes from the steps that descend onto the platform. From the castle.
‘For which dragon have you come?’
Jaehaera’s gaze has drifted to the platform’s edge, to the impenetrable dark that looms there. Crouching so that he is level with her gaze, Aemond takes hold of her shoulders and makes her turn to face him. Her indigo eyes meet his amethyst one.
‘Your mother claimed Dreamfyre when she was the very age you are now. I was there with her when it happened, in the Dragonpit.’
‘Uncle, I am frightened,’ she whispers.
‘Were you frightened of Morghul?’
She shakes her head.
‘Then do not be frightened now. Keep your head up, keep your breath steady and tell the keepers for which dragon you came.’
She nods. Once he has straightened his back, she speaks with great effort to sound certainly fearless, ‘I have come for the dragon Sh-Shrykos.’
The dragonkeepers exchange a look and then grip their spears tightly, stepping forward. Jaehaera looks back at him, and he gives a final nod. Blinking rapidly, Jaehaera turns to meet her fate. And Aemond, knowing better than to interfere in such a moment, takes a step back.
This is something she has to do.
And yet, when he watches the scene unfold he begins to unravel. His pulse quickens and nausea settles in the pit of his stomach. If this does not work, what then? But he shakes off the thought. She has to succeed, she simply has. She is a princess of house Targaryen, she is the blood of Old Valyria. This is what she was born for. But still, he cannot help it. He watches with bathed breath, clenches his jaw as he listens.
‘Shrykos,’ the dragonkeepers call, ‘We call on you. Come forth.’
And they begin to sing. Hāros Bartossi. Uncanny. Somehow it is as if even now she is singing along with them. M’rone.
Jaehaera approaches the edge of the platform, so far that he almost calls out for her to take half a step back. Even from afar he can sense the effort she is putting in to not cower. Her hands are clenched into tight fists by her side, she is trembling. But she remains standing, with her head held high.
Good girl.
The dragonkeepers’ song dies on its final note, leaving behind only bare silence. For a long while nothing happens except for the dark swelling, the quietude malforming. Just when Jaehaera sets a discouraged step back, something stirs.
Shrykos arises from the shadows with ferocious anger. Aemond cannot help but smile. He has grown. In comparison to Vhagar he is small, the size of a modest galley perhaps, but good grief, he has shed the scales of his young years and grown into a mighty beast. How long has it been since he last saw him? Four years? He had almost forgot the copper color of his scales, shining amber in the orange glow of the torches. But what uncanny eyes Shrykos has. Such deep green.
The dragon lets out a low rumble, making its dismay known. Jaehaera remains where she is. Aemond can only hope she is not crying, nor swallowing down tears. In the face of a dragon one cannot show fear. Shrykos moves his head closer to her, sniffling her. If he at all recognizes her, then he does not let it show. She might as well be anyone else to him. That was to be expected. Outside of a dragonbond, these are not the sort of creatures the form attachments.
‘Shrykos,’ Jaehaera says—too softly, too uncertaintly, ‘Shrykos, dohaeras.’
The copper dragon lift its head a bit higher, now truly towering over the princess that dared to call on her. There is not a hint of interest in his behavior, except for one mixed with hunger for blood. For fire.
He will not accept her.
The realization is sharp as a knife. And yet, Aemond shoves it aside. No, he has to. She is a Targaryen, she is sister to his first rider. He has to accept her.
‘Dohaeras, Shrykos!’ Jaehaera calls again, but this time her voice is only loud with panic, not authority.
It has already failed. He knows. The Dragonkeepers know. And yet, when they look back at him he shakes his head. It has to work.
‘Make him obey you,’ he mutters under his breath.
But then all she screams next is entirely wrong, ‘Please, Shrykos!’
One does not plead to a dragon. He knows what he is coming now. And he is already running to drag her away. But Shrykos anger is brighter and faster; and dragons are fire made flesh. The beast opens it mouth wide, the dark red of its flames already boiling in the back of his throat.
‘Daor,’ the Dragonkeepers call.
And both of them, even the young one, stand their ground, raising their spears to the princess’s defend. But what are spears against fire?
‘Jaehaera, run!’ Aemond calls.
But she flees too late. And he grabs her shoulder too late. Shrykos spits his flame of anger and hunger; not so bright, not so hot as he could have, but it is enough. Aemond pulls Jaehaera back, but she is already screaming. The Dragonkeepers are screaming. Shrykos flies off, deep into the belly of the Dragonmont—and Aemond and Jaehaera stumble onto the warm, moist stone of the platform.
‘I am sorry,’ Jaehaera cries.
Aemond pulls her closer and hushes her. His heart is racing, aching.
The dragon rejected her. She failed. He failed.
‘I am so so sorry,’ she whimpers, and then, ‘Uncle, it hurts!’
He raises her arm, and swallows. It is a nasty burn, covering her wrist and arm up to her elbow. Yet, it is not so bad as he feared. Red and blistered, but not black. She will heal, but it will scar. And all will see: the blood of Old Valyria, diluted.
He moves to sit on his knees, helping her into the same position. As she cries over her wound and fright, he looks at the Dragonkeepers. The younger one, she has been burned as well; her face and torso a patchwork of blistered and blackened skin. Oh yes, now he hears it. Her screaming as her elder is kneeling over her.
Aemond helps a sniffling Jaehaera onto her feet. ‘We have to soak it in water,’ he says as he guides her away from the mess, ‘But a Maester’s medicine will have to wait until we have returned to the Keep.’
‘My father…’ Jaehaera wavers—like always.
‘If he sees this, he will loose his mind again,’ Aemond says listlessly. ‘He will not help you. He will only rage and cry. Do you want to see that?’
She shakes her head softly. And that is that. In shame they return the same way they came. Dawn is breaking over the island in fiery red.
The sun is already setting by the time they return to the Red Keep. To say that he is fatigued is an understatement. Exhausted and starving. He feels more akin to a wild beast than a man. Jaehaera is undoubtedly feeling the same. She is lucky that he shackled her to the saddle instead of himself, because fell asleep on Vhagar. Her burns require beyond immediate attention. He is well aware that she should have seen a Maester precisely when it happened, but he could not suffer even the thought of entering the place where Aegon dwells. Then again—if she is still bothered by the wound, she does not let it show. If she realizes that by all accounts her wounds should be more severe, then she is wisely staying silent on the matter.
With a command to bring Jaehaera to Grand Maester Munkun, he leaves her in the care of Sara Snow. What a ghost of the Stark bastard she has become. He is assured by Halys Reed and Septa Klara that she has ceased skipping meals, but clearly the nourishment she does take does not suffice. As soon as Jaehaera is ushered away, he turns to ascent the serpentine stairs—it is here ser Criston joins him, falling silently in place behind him. He can feel Cole’s gaze scorch his back. He knows well enough what the Hand of the King is thinking. Aemond should return to his quarters. After a full day of absence a pile of paperwork will be waiting for him, a line of council members and lords and knights might as well have formed before the door. The Realm will not stand to be neglected. But it can wait. It must wait. There is only one place he stand to be right now. As soon as Cole realizes where he is going, he speaks, ‘Your grace, I take it that it did not go according to plan.’
‘Not a word on the matter.’ Aemond does not even grant Cole the mere courtesy of looking back at him while he gives the command. ‘No one will speak on it. No one will even think of it.’
And Cole, wisely, remains silent as the grave. When arriving at the door to M’rone’s quarters, Aemond pauses. Holding the doorknob, his gaze strays to the knight already standing guard. Morrigen. The brutish knight bows his head, but he too, keeps his tongue. It is one of the reasons he was chosen for this. He is not a man of many words, not prone to speak unless spoken to. Aemond hums, and enters.
No sooner has Morrigen drawn the door close behind him, or Ivelenn Serrett and Adain Corbray rise only to sink into low courtesies. In eerie unison they say, ‘Your grace.’
The dowager queen did well in pairing them for this duty. Both are obedient girls, although the lady Serrett is far more eager to please than the lady Corbray. Both are eager to please their fathers. And yet, their fathers have entirely opposing views on the state of the Realm. And the very lady their daughters are here to serve. He had half expected Adain Corbray to create a scene of some sorts, but if she has distressed M’rone in some way or another, his Moondrop has kept her mouth shut. He walks past the two ladies-in-waiting and as they return to their needling, he closes in on M’rone.
As usual she is working on that painting. The piece is slowly coming together. While it still needs a good amount of work before it can be considered completed, one can already see it: is as beautiful as it is awful. One does not need to have an eye for the artistic to realize that the piece is technically complex, and that only one with refined skill could have composed it. And yet, it is difficult to admire it when one is so struck by the horror of it all: masses of people drowning. Dragons drowning.
M’rone has no eye for it at the moment. She has set her palette aside, and instead fidgets with that pendant of hers; a swan crafted from silver. In her distraction, she does not even turn her head to face him. Perhaps she truly has not noticed him yet. He follows the direction of her gaze and finds it rests not—as he half expected—on the portrait of her late husband on the mantelpiece. For the better. If he had found her staring at it now, he would not have been able to control himself. He would have thrown it in the fire. The simple wooden box on the chest of drawers she is staring at is anything but remarkable. She must merely be lost in thought.
He skims his fingertips over the nape of her neck and with a jolt she looks up. She blinks slowly and lets out a deep breath. He bites the tip of his tongue. He has not come to argue. He does not have the stomach for it. Neither can he, however, stomach the dullness in her gaze. The milk of the poppy still clouds her mind.
‘You have returned,’ she says slowly, and her gaze already falls on the pendant in her hand.
She cannot even look at him if only for a few seconds.
‘Let’s have dinner.’
No sooner has he uttered the words—more command than proposal—or a maidservant dips her head and hurries off. He barely took note of her, but now that she moves from her place, he remembers. Tyrah. He almost forgot. He should speak with her. She will have insights in M’rone’s condition others will not, not even the young ladies, who sit by the window pretending not to be eavesdropping.
‘If you wish, your grace,’ she whispers.
‘We will have the meal here,’ he calls and Tyrah mutters a word in acknowledgment, before seeing herself out to see to the task.
‘My lady.’ He lets out a sigh and kneels, so that now her lowered eyes naturally fall on him.
He should not diminish himself in this manner. But he cannot be bothered to care. He is tired and starving and raging, but what a soothing sight she is, clad in this purple dress, adorned with Myrish lace, covered by a white painter’s apron; her hair braided and adorned with pearled pins. As usual he finds himself distracted by her throat, by the greyscale scars and the bronze necklace that sits there.
He meets her gaze. ‘What is this?’
He takes the pendant from her paint-smudged fingers. It is a taunting gesture, one meant to irk her ire, but she does not even seem to mind.
‘We spoke of it already. Do you not remember, your majesty? On the seashore.’
He well remembers. But this is the most words she has spoken in one go. Just to keep her going, he comments, ‘You spoke little of it.’
She bats her lashes at him. ‘You wish for me to speak more of it?’
‘It is important to you,’ he says.
‘My mother gave it to me on her deathbed,’ she says—as if it is nothing, as if only relaying second-hand information.
He places the pendant back on her palm, before cupping it with both of his hands. She is cold to the touch today, despite the fire burning. His moonlit swan. She is waning.
It is an abyss and I am falling down in it.
‘You have never spoken of her.’
She smiles, sadly, sweetly. ‘There is little to say, your grace.’
‘Tell me.’
‘I would rather not. She was taken from me when I was a mere girl. If I speak of her… I am that girl again. I would rather not be.’
Be that girl again, he thinks, for me and only me.
What a stupid thought, and yet it is what he desires. Not her rage, nor her sharpness; not her dullness, nor her meekness. He wishes her soft and sweet and mellow but only for him, none other.
‘Moondrop,’ he whispers, but she hushes him.
‘You mean to unravel me, my king. It is not fair. Hypocritical even, for you avoid speaking of what has come of your excursion.’
Is this all calculation, this gentle tone in her voice with which she so easily gets under his skin?
‘You are tired,’ she says. ‘Come, sit.’
This is a first, her seeing to his comfort on her own accord. Perhaps that is why he allows her to guide him towards the couch, perhaps that is why he just sits down and watches her as she unties her apron and retreats into her bedroom. Letting out a slow breath he leans his head back. She is changing the tune of their dance. The very pace and rhythm of it. He cannot say that he minds it.
She has stripped of her jewelry for dinner. Even took of her shoes. When the meal was served at the modest, round table in her sitting room—an intimate setting he prefers over the long dining table in his own chambers—she came barefoot and her hair undone. Under the poppy’s haze she looks as fatigued as he is after flying near fifteen hours on dragonback.
With a gesture he dismisses the servants, as well as M’rone’s ladies. Once alone, he pours her a cup of wine, for which she reaches even before she has taken a bite of the food. In the dying red of dusk, she strikes an awful picture. Neither of them says a word for a long while. It is not unusual. She is not the one to make idle conversation, neither is he. But mostly he prefers the silence as it makes it easier to keep track of how much she is eating. He does not want her as frail as Sara Snow.
Only when satisfied with how much she has eaten, does he speak, ‘Have you worked on that… project of yours all day, my lady?’
‘You think it so ghastly?’
‘It is better if we do not dwell on my opinion on the matter.’
‘I do not agree, your grace, after all I only paint it to vex you.’
He clenches his jaw, but then she snickers, somewhat amused with herself, and he cannot bring it in himself to be annoyed with her. Let her have her small pleasures at his expense. It is not as if it could unsettle the balance of things.
But her amusement dies and then she says evenly, ‘If you truly care about my doings, your grace, then I will let you know that I inspected the restorations in the queen’s chambers.’
He sets down his cutlery and leans back in the chair.
‘You should not have.’
‘I had to see what those artisans did to my hard work.’
‘Hm. And what did you think of it?’
‘They are ruining it.’
He needs to keep himself from smirking. For all her complaints about his pride, she has her own. And it suits her.
‘You do not need to think of it.’
‘I think little and less these days,’ she mutters and then as if it those words held no value at all, she switches the subject, ‘Did you read it, Drenace’s letter?’
He sighs. In some way or another this sister of hers remains a shadow hanging over the two of them. No matter that she is hundred of miles away from this city, it is not enough a distance large enough for her not to disturb them. ‘Yes.’
‘Who is this Daemion Velaryon to style her the Siren of Braavos?’
‘You take the alias as an insult?’ She does not reply and he reminds, ‘Your sister does not seem to mind. She seems rather pleased on Driftmark, painting the portrait of that petty knight’s wife.’
M’rone clenches her jaw. ‘She has matters to tend to in Braavos.’
‘She has to claim your inheritance,’ he observes.
‘It is hers now.’
‘She does not appear to agree.’ He tilts his head. ‘If you are so displeased, my lady, I may call Daemion Velaryon and his wife to court. Likely, with them removed, Drenace should feel inclined—’
‘No,’ M’rone interrupts. ‘That is not what I…’ She closes her eyes and shakes her head.
He reaches for his cup of wine and takes a sip of the Arbor gold, before inquiring, ‘Did you mean to live veraciously through her?’
And her eyes open wide, shocked. Apparently he hit the nail on the head.
‘To have her be what you wanted to be yourself, until I gave you a new life altogether. I cannot blame you for it, but still,’ he continues. ‘I understand that you need time to adjust and come to, but, Moondrop, one day you will have to wake up and experience yourself as you are with me.’
Her mouth dips into a pout, as if suddenly struck by a nauseating grief. And then, the lines on her face even out and her eyes dim and all she says is, ‘You flew all the way to Dragonstone, your grace, setting off in the middle of the night with such urgency, and now you speak no word on it.’ She tilts her head. ‘You met disappointment in that dragon’s den, did you not?’
He well knows what this is: he got too close to her truth and so now she is growing claws and tusks. She means to provoke him. In different circumstances he would not give her the satisfaction. But he fears that no matter his resolve to remain his calm, if she keeps this up, his frustration may get ahead of him.
‘I did.’
‘How is the princess?’
‘Well.’
‘You lie.’
‘I owe you no explanation.’
‘You do not. But have you explained it to yourself? You took a vulnerable child into a dragon’s lair—’
‘I took a Targaryen princess to claim her birthright,’ he interrupts.
She presses her lips into a thin line and raises an eyebrow. It is enough. With a sneer he pushes the chair back, and, palms pressed flat on the table, he pushes himself up to stand.
‘You are not here to have an opinion on the matter.’
Better women would have cowered when spoken to like that by a king, but he well understands that she has ceased to think of what is best for her. An eerily void expression sets on her scarred face and not for the first time he is at a complete loss as to what is going on inside her head. He cannot stand to look at her when she is like this. What to do? He knows what to do. He should put her in her place, and yet—how? No matter how close he is to her, he just cannot seem to reach her. And even if he could get to her, it will not make a difference. For it is not she who irks him, nor her words. It are the plain facts.
Jaehaera failed. He failed. And hundreds of miles north, in the damp of Harrenhall, Alys is telling their son bedtime stories about witches and dragons.
He sets to pace through the room, like some caged animal. M’rone pats her mouth clean with a napkin and then shifts on her chair to look at him.
‘I told you once before. Either you call on me and I will speak as I please, either you cast me away and you will not have to hear me.’
He comes to a sharp stop, but when he faces her, she only draws closer.
‘And now it pleases me to say that I see you. I see you, my king, and your fear.’
That, that is enough to make him waver. My king. She is playing him like a fiddle. Inquisitive curiosity glimmers in her dark eyes, but only for a fraction for a moment.
‘You are mistaken,’ he dismisses, pushing away her hand reaching for him.
But she is not to be deterred. ‘I am not. I see it quite clearly. You are afraid because the only thing that could undo a king like you are your own mistakes. And such a mistake is catching up on you.’
There is something in her voice, something wrong. Something precisely right. She could not know, no one could know, except for—no, no, it is lost to memory. Except his and hers. And no one would trust hers. But yet, how she speaks. This time when she raises her hand, he lets her do as she sees fit. And she sees fit to untie his eye patch and drop it on the floor. As her fingertips skim over the scarred skin under his carved out eye, she says, ‘You took her to wife before a heart tree. That boy is no bastard. You do not know if you made the mistake yourself, or if it was a spell that bound you. You do not know if you are afraid of her or of your own shadow. But you dare not return to that place on your own accord. And even then, you have burned too much of your own blood already, you could not do it again.’
His body moves on its own accord. And how it has been honed to do this, to commit violence and wreak havoc. His hands wrap tightly around her neck. But she does not seem alarmed. Her lips part, her eyes flutter and her fingers dig into the collar of his doublet.
‘W-will you finally see it through?’
He should. If he knew what was best for him, he would squeeze her throat harder and harder until it is over. He cannot do it. He knows perfectly well why he cannot. He could not do without her.
‘You know nothing,’ he hisses in her ear, his grip already relenting.
‘Helaena told me,’ she whispers.
Startled, he lets go of her. But she clings to him. ‘You needed a sign of the gods. That is why you took Jaehaera. But you were denied your omen, and now—there is only fear.’
‘Enough,’ he breathes, pleads.
‘Only fear, only me,’ she murmurs, cupping his face in the palms of her hands.
And then she leans in to kiss him. She tastes of bitter, bitter wine. And yet, this sensation of her lips brushing against his; it is bittersweet. She has struck a brittle cord inside of him, which resounds in a tone he has not heard for years. He has tried to forget for years. He wraps his arms around her waist, pulling her close, and she gasps for air against his mouth.
‘I feel strange,’ she says.
He rubs his nose against her, trying to catch her gaze, but she keeps her eyes shut, ‘What is it?’
‘Could it be that I missed you? No, it cannot be.’
‘It can be,’ he urges her on. But this time when he leans in to kiss her, she leans away. ‘Moondrop, my moonlit swan, it could be that you need me.’
‘How awful.’ She pries his hands of her waist, but only to hold them in her own. She takes a step back, pulling her with him. ‘Will you be gentle with me?’
‘Will you be with me?’
She does not reply immediately, just guiding him back into the bedchamber. Her cheeks are flushed deep pink, but with desire or something else, it is difficult to say. Perhaps she cannot say either.
‘Let’s try to pretend.’ She urges him to sit on the bed, and as soon as his back rests against he headboard, she moves to straddle him.
As soon as her weight comes to rest on him, he digs his fingers deep in her thighs and lifts his hips—rubbing his half-hardened manhood against her core. It is fraud, for her to so easily unravel him, and yet, it feels good. It feels right.
‘I cannot pretend to be something else than I am, Moondrop,’ he breathes.
‘Then I will pretend.’ Eyes fluttering she wraps her arms around his neck. She grinds against him, meeting his movements. He chokes on a malformed moan.
‘I will pretend… to love you,’ she whispers. ‘My king.’
He is too lost in the fire of this sensation, the velvet of her voice, the moonlight of her words to care to wonder what she means; why she is doing this; what she is chasing. Let her do this, let her lie and delude. For it is sweet deception. He leans in to kiss her again, and this time she lets him. This time she nibbles on his lip. Her fingers fumble with the laces of her dress, but when he raises his hands to assist her, she is already pulling her gown and shift down. As soon as her breasts are bare to his craving gaze, he leans in to wrap his lips around her nipple.
She lets out a sigh and rakes her fingers through his hair. ‘My sweet.’
But only when deeply, fully lost in each other’s touch and pleasure; only when completely and utterly unraveled into bliss and delight, does he dare to ask of her,
‘M’rone, M’rone, tell me. Tell me you love me.’
And so comes her reply, soft and sweet and mellow, ‘Aemond… I love you.’
But night falls and pretenses are placed aside. And when afterwards she lays waning away in his arms, she whispers, ‘Maybe we are more alike than I dared to admit. Because who do I fear? You or my own shadow?’
He cannot help it. His first instinct is to pull her closer. ‘It was you who acted this evening.’
‘It seems so.’ And then, ‘I regret it already.’
He swallows heavily. It was all a ploy then. Of course it was, she told him. And yet…
‘Let me then tell you something to soothe you, my lady.’ She half turns her head to face him, an adorable frown adorning her brow. Smirking bitterly he says, ‘I love you.’
Her eyes widen in fright.
The members of the Small Council have already left their seats at the table, when the king speaks up, ‘Ah yes, before you all go, there is a matter that requires your combined efforts.’
‘Your grace?’ Tyland Lannister calls.
Of course Aemond waited until this precise moment to address this question intentionally. The council members stand scattered, their minds already elsewhere, and now they must hurry to return their attention to state matters so abruptly.
‘Do not be concerned, lord Tyland, I am certain that you will figure out how to gather the coin.’
‘Your majesty, what do you speak of?’ Manfryd Mooton.
Something he thought over all night. For all M’rone’s caprices, she spoke truth. The reason he fears a return to Harrenhall is because he fears himself; as he was in the past, as he may become once returned to that place, as he will become when faced with that Targaryen boy raised so by his mother to be like his father. But he cannot outrun this forever. He must face his shadow. He may at least decide how to do so. He may as well make his shadow work to his own advantage.
With a sigh he rises from his seat and walks to the board on which a detailed map of his Realm is hung.
‘My lords, you will prepare for a royal progress,’ he announces.
The council members exchange worried glances, but it is only Criston Cole who speaks, ‘Your grace, perhaps now is not the time.’
‘You agree that the Realm is recovering, my lords,’ Aemond says and even if begrudgingly the members must concede to agree. ‘And you will agree that the Realm, hm, is still fidgety with grievances that it feels must be placed before the Crown.’
‘Yes, your grace, but the lands are in disarray, roads and bridges are still being repaired, many lords may not have the means to host—’
‘I do not mean to be pampered,’ he interrupts Jasper Wylde. ‘The lords of the keeps I intend to visit will find the means to host a royal entourage of modest size. Undoubtedly, they will do so gladly for the opportunity to discuss their grievances directly with the Crown. Grand Maester Munkun—’ The old man bows his head and steps closer. ‘—a detailed route and a list of all households we will visit will be on your desk by noon. We go south first, to the Stormland, then make west for the Reach, all the way to Oldtown.’ He traces his route over the map. ‘First we tackle easy territory, and set a positive precedent. Everywhere we go, I will hear petitions. Everywhere we go, the people will look onto Vhagar. Everywhere we go, either her grace the queen, if she still is able to travel, either her grace the queen dowager and the princess will meet the womenfolk. Do you hear me, my lords? This will be a joined effort of the royal household, and the royal household will see to do it well. Only once the Stormlands and Reach have seen their king, do we go back north, through Brightkeep Water, and Old Oak, we will make for the Red Lake.’
‘Silverwing,’ is all Cole says, and Aemond turns to his Hand with a wry smile.
‘All must be prepared, my lords. The court will be constantly moving, so see to it that matters of state can be attended to even when we are on the road. I do not mean to have an outrageous entourage, not the sort the Old King took with him. I mean to be efficient and swift.’
There seems to have fallen a tentative enthusiasm over his council, for no further protests are whispered, and for the first time in ages Cole looks at him in that way he used to enjoy when he was a boy still. With pride.
As usual, he has to disappoint.
‘Grand Maester, in the meanwhile, call Alyn of Hull to court.’ That was the easy part, ‘Ah, and yes… hm, write to Alys Rivers in Harrenhall. I will meet her and my bastard at the Red Lake.’
His announcement is immediately met with loud objection from all. But he pays it no mind. These old men could not ever understand. This is a matter of dragons.
‘My lords, are it no you who so urge me to deal with both Harrenhall and Silverwing?’ Not waiting to hear their protests he brushes past Halys Reed. The crannogman has kept his silence for the whole meeting, but Aemond has seen his green eyes. Something is bothering the Master of Whisperers, but he will never found out what it is, will he? Making for the door, he assures the old men, ‘Do not be concerned. I do not intend to legitimize the boy.’
The king would go on to take M’rone Vilendrys as his favored bedmate. Shortly after, Tumyro Vilendrys died after an unlucky fall from the cliffs on which the Red Keep stands. M'rone had already lost a stillborn child and her husband earlier that year, and took her father's death especially badly. Grand Maester Munkun's records teach us that she took milk of the poppy most evenings. Her morose presence gave rise to both unease and pity in the ladies of the Keep. Even the dowager queen Alicent once voiced her concern to the king for all to hear: "The lady Vilendrys is unwell, your grace, perhaps it is grief, perhaps it is homesickness. Whatever it is, on your honor, you should see to return her happiness." [...] It is reported that M’rone often voiced her belief that her father’s suspicious death was the king’s doing.
An adapted and extended excerpt from this
Valar morghulis. She has never uttered those words lightly, she has known the weight of them ever since she was still a girl and her father scattered her mother’s ashes there where the Shivering and Narrow Seas meet. If after that there lingered any doubt within her as to the inevitability of the Many-Faced God, she learned better during the last weeks of the past winter; for that god of bitter mercy came for those closest to her. The man who brought her true happiness. Their babe still inside her. All men must die, even babes in the womb. And yet, her father’s death was not ordained by any god.
From chapter 12 of Dreadful as the Dawn
"The Vilendrys woman was not highborn, but in Braavos apparently even artisans are considered good company. Either way, she came to the Red Keep to work her craft. But then she caught king Aemond Targaryen's eye and, well, she was to master a new art entirely. She did not take well to being a concubine. You do know what a concubine is, Sansa? Well, it is a woman who services a lord or a king in the ways a wife does, but without the gods' blessing and to the shock of the blushing ladies of the court. While a scandalous station, better women would have used to that to their advantage. Better women would have slipped poison in that king's cup if they were so opposed to it. Or his wife's cup for that matter. But perhaps this one thought to have found strength in refusing to play her part, in refusing to react at all. What do you think? Never mind, do not think, just listen. It is said that she hated her lover, and yet she suffered him for years. Sometimes that is the only thing a woman can do. Suffer it. She did precisely that. Until one day she claimed for herself a power that was beyond obscene. The sort which could even sicken and frighten a Targaryen king. Then she had her way. What a perfectly dreadful ordeal."
— Cersei Lannister to Sansa Stark about M'rone Vilendrys
Description: Aemond Targaryen was cruel and ruthless, a Green Prince who fell in love with the Velaryon Ghost.
Warnings: This is AU,, so the dance happens but without Aemond. Smut, P-in-V, the feels for unrequited love but it’s just Aemond being Aemond. Mean!Aemond, cold toward the reader, oral female receiving. Aging up Aemond, he’s around the same age as Laenor/Reader, Pregnancy, mentions of childbirth not too much in detail, I lowkeyyy got carried away with this one. Kind of a slice of life?
Author’s Note: I literally have so many drafts! So I want to clear those out first! I wrote this almost a year ago! Happy Readings!
sometime at the beginning of the dance of the dragon
Location: Pentos
Before Viserys I death, Targaryen Golden Era
──────── Driftmark ────────
The dawn in Pentos never arrived with the sound of trumpets or the screaming of dragons. It came with the rhythmic thrum of heavy ropes snapping against wooden masts and the low, melodic chanting of dockworkers hauling crates of lysene silk. You stood on the stone balcony of the manse, a structure of pale marble that seemed to grow directly out of the sea cliffs. The banners of House Velaryon—the silver seahorse on a field of turquoise—snapped sharply in the salt breeze, a silent declaration of who truly commanded these waters.
You moved through the morning with a quiet, deliberate grace. Your voice was never raised, yet when you walked the long wharves, the chaos of the port settled into an orderly hum. You did not carry a sword; the weight of a ledger was enough to command the respect of captains who had sailed the Seas. They knew the Ghost of Pentos saw every coin, every grain of salt, and every bolt of cloth that crossed her docks.
In the solar, the air smelled of dried parchment and the sharp tang of ink. You sat at a desk of dark ironwood, your fingers tracing the wax seals on letters from Driftmark. Your father’s sprawling, restless script spoke of blockades and brewing storms in the Gullet, of a realm preparing to bleed. You read them with a calm, steady gaze, your expression as unreadable as the horizon.
You dipped your quill and began to write, your hand fluid and sure. You did not draft manifestos or declarations of war. Instead, you coordinated the shipment of winter wheat to the Stepstones and moved gold through the Iron Bank to ensure the Velaryon fleet remained the best-fed and best-clothed navy in the known world. You were the silent engine of their survival, providing the sustenance they needed while refusing to partake in the hunger for the throne.
By midday, you were at the tide line, watching a massive carrack pull into the harbor. The sailors looked down at the lone woman on the shore, clad in simple sea-grey wool with a single strand of pearls at her throat. You were a Velaryon of the sea, anchored by the tides, thriving in a peace you had built with your own two hands.
Soon, The evening mist had begun to roll in from the Narrow Sea, draping the marble spires of Pentos in a soft, grey shroud. You sat on the edge of the stone terrace, your bare feet dangling over the precipice where the garden met the salt-spray.
In all the usual madness of your day you had forgotten it was your nameday, a date you usually let pass with nothing more than a quiet glass of spiced wine and a longer look at the horizon.
The heavy, rhythmic beat of wings had announced your mother’s arrival long before her boots hit the stone. Rhaenys Targaryen did not descend like a conqueror; she landed with the practiced grace of a woman who was born to the sky. Now, she sat beside you, the Queen Who Never Was, looking strangely small without the saddle of Meleys.
Between you sat a cedar chest, its lid thrown back to reveal a dragon’s egg. It was a stunning thing, the scales a deep, iridescent teal that shimmered like the water in the deep trenches of the Gullet.
“Are you okay? Are you eating? You look skinnier—thinner—unhealthy.” She said worried
“I’m fine, mother,” you whispered, your voice barely lifting above the sound of the tide as you reached out to trace the cold, stony ridges of the egg. It felt heavy with a potential you had long ago decided to leave behind.
“I know—your father worries. You know him,” Rhaenys said, her eyes fixed on your profile, searching for a trace of the restless fire that consumed the rest of their house.
“I know. I am fine. I am free. I feel amazing.” You turned to her then, a genuine, soft smile tugging at your lips. There was no bitterness in your isolation, only the profound relief of a woman who had stepped out of a burning room and into the cool night air.
Rhaenys reached out, her hand warm against your shoulder. “Laenor and Laena miss you. They speak of the Ghost of Pentos as if you’ve become a myth they’re afraid to lose.”
“I miss them more,” you admitted, the quiet ache of distance finally surfacing. “And the nephews that Laenor... breeded.”
The smirk that crossed your face was a flash of the twin who used to race him through the halls of High Tide. It was a shared secret, a silent acknowledgment of the truths hidden behind the Velaryon name.
“They are good boys,” Rhaenys said, her voice softening with a grandmother’s fierce pride. “Strong, kind, and clever. You would love them, and I would love for you to meet them. They deserve to know the aunt who keeps the world turning while their parents play at court.”
You looked back at the egg, its teal scales catching the dying light. It was a beautiful tether to a life of fire and blood, but as you watched your merchant ships guided by the Velaryon banners into the safety of the harbor, you knew your power didn't need to hatch to be real.
“Perhaps one day,” you said softly, closing the lid of the chest with a gentle click. “When the winds stay fair and the dragons stay in their pits. For now, tell them their aunt is watching the sea for them.”
The weight of your mother’s silver-threaded cloak was warm against your cheek as you settled into her side, the two of you silhouetted against the vast, darkening expanse of the Pentoshi coast. For a moment, you weren't the Ghost of Pentos or the merchant queen of the Narrow Sea; you were simply a daughter seeking the familiar scent of sea salt and dragon smoke that followed Rhaenys everywhere.
“How are my nieces?” you whispered, the words catching slightly in the humid air. You thought of Baela and Rhaena, fierce and bright, growing up in a world that seemed determined to cage them in one way or another.
Rhaenys tilted her head, resting it atop yours, her hand coming up to cover yours where it lay on your lap. “Great,” she murmured, her voice vibrating with a rare, relaxed warmth. “They miss you more than words can imagine. To them, you aren't a ghost at all. You are a hero—a Lady who bowed to no beast. You always send them gold and sweets, and they think you live in a palace of glass at the edge of the world.”
You let out a soft, breathy laugh, the sound disappearing into the wind. “A palace of glass. If only they saw the ink stains on my fingers and the dust on my ledgers.”
“They see a woman who chose her own horizon,” your mother corrected gently, her grip on your hand tightening. “They see a Velaryon who didn't need a dragon’s wings to fly away from the things that would have broken her. Every time a shipment of Pentoshi honey or Myrish lace arrives with your seal, Baela declares it a bounty from the Sea Goddess herself.”
You smiled, eyes closing as you imagined the girls tearing into the crates you’d spent weeks carefully curating. You sent them the best the Essosi markets had to offer—not just for the luxury of it, but because you wanted them to know there was a world beyond the grim stone of Dragonstone and the stifling politics of the Red Keep.
“They are strong, then?” you asked. “I miss them—I hate to admit I even miss Daemon.”
“Fierce as the fires they were born from,” Rhaenys said. “But they lack your stillness. They haven't learned yet that the quietest heart often holds the most territory and Daemon—“ she laughs for a moment “Daemon is Daemon.”
The two of you sat in silence for a long time, watching the silver seahorse banners ripple above the harbor. In that moment, the dragon’s egg in the chest felt less like a burden and more like a bridge—not to a life of war, but to the family that looked toward the east and saw a beacon of what it meant to be truly free.
As night fell, The silhouette of Meleys became a mere speck against the bruised purple of the dawn sky before vanishing entirely into the clouds. The roar of dragon wings, which usually vibrated in your very marrow, faded until the only sound left was the rhythmic, indifferent lap of the tide against the sea wall.
You stood on the balcony for a long time, the salt spray misting your skin. A deep, hollow ache settled in your chest—the kind that only came when the scent of home departed as quickly as it had arrived.
But as the sun climbed higher, hitting the white stone of your courtyard, you felt the familiar steadying of your heart. You looked down at your hands; they were still, unburdening themselves of the tension that always came with the Targaryen name.
It was safer this way. Here, the only fires were the ones in your hearth and the beacons that guided your ships. Here, no one looked at you and saw a piece on a board or a womb to be traded for an alliance. You were the Ghost, a woman who had successfully untethered herself from a sinking ship.
You turned away from the empty sky and walked back into your solar. The teal dragon's egg sat on the table, a beautiful, stony weight. You didn't reach for it. Instead, you picked up your quill.
The ink was black and wet, a sharp contrast to the dragon fire your mother carried. You began to draft a new ledger for the spring harvest, the scratching of the nib on parchment a grounding, rhythmic comfort. You were sad, yes—you would always miss the brother who shared your face and the sisters who shared your blood—who was now sadly gone—but as you looked out at the bustling harbor flying your father’s banners, you knew you had won a prize they never would.
You had your soul, and it belonged to no one but the sea.
──────── Driftmark ────────
The marketplace of Pentos was a labyrinth of noise—the rhythmic clack of weavers' looms, the sizzle of street food, and the melodic bartering of merchants. Yet, for all the sensory chaos, you felt the silence following you. It was a cold spot in the air, a shadow that didn't move with the sun.
You had felt it for three days. A ripple in the steady water of your life.
You stopped at a stall selling sun-dried figs, your fingers hovering over the woven baskets. You didn't look back, but you saw him in the reflection of a polished bronze platter hanging nearby. A tall, cloaked figure, his movements far too disciplined for a common traveler. He didn't browse; he tracked.
You turned into a narrower alleyway, one that led toward the sea-wall where the crowds thinned and the wind swallowed sound. You heard his boots—the heavy, rhythmic strike of high-born leather on cobblestone. When the salt spray began to mist the air, you stopped.
You shifted slowly, your movements fluid and devoid of the panicked haste he likely expected. Your hand didn't even twitch toward the slender blade at your hip; it remained at your side, relaxed. Your eyes, the deep violet of a calm sea at dusk, met his.
Under the deep shadow of his hood, a single, hauntingly familiar purple eye stared back. The other was hidden, but the tension in his jaw and the scarred line across his face told a story of a boy who had grown into a weapon.
“Do you wish to kill me?” you asked softly.
The words weren't a challenge or a plea.
"Do you wish to kill me?" you repeated, your voice a soft, melodic contrast to the harsh clatter of the nearby market.
He didn't answer immediately. His gaze dropped to your hands, noting they weren't white-knuckled or trembling. You stood with the easy posture of a woman who owned the ground beneath her feet, not a princess hiding from a war.
"You are a difficult shadow to follow, My Lady," he finally said, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that felt like velvet over stone. He didn't move to draw a weapon, but he didn't relax his guard either. "Most would be terrified to find a stranger at their heels in a place like this."
"Fear is a very loud emotion," you replied with a small, tranquil smile. "It drowns out the sound of the sea. I prefer the quiet."
You took a slow step toward him, your movements as fluid as the tide. You didn't see a Prince of the Realm; you saw a man who looked like he hadn't slept in a week, his skin pale and wind-bitten.
"You look weary," you whispered, your thumb grazing the edge of his hood. "My mother flies a long way to visit this shore. If you have been sent to watch her, you've wasted your journey. She is already gone."
Aemond felt the air leave his lungs. He had been sent by his grandfather to find a conspirator, a hidden treasury, or a secret army. Instead, he had found a woman who smelled of sea salt and expensive ink, who looked at him not with the terror he was used to, but with a devastating, quiet kindness.
"I was not sent for her," he lied, his voice dropping an octave, though he didn't move his face away from your hand. "I was sent to see what Pentos was hiding."
"And what have you found?" you asked, your eyes searching his.
"A ghost," he murmured, his gaze dropping to your lips.
"Then follow me to the manse. The wind is picking up, and I find that secrets are much easier to keep over a warm meal." The path up the cliff was narrow and steep, carved into the very face of the white stone. You climbed it with the sure-footed ease of someone who had memorized every jagged edge and smooth pebble, your sea-grey skirts fluttering like a gull's wing in the rising wind. Behind you, the heavy, rhythmic thrum of Aemond’s boots followed. He didn't speak; he simply loomed, a dark shadow against the brilliance of the setting sun.
He was glaring at the back of your head, his hand white-knuckled on the hilt of his sword. He hated this. He was a prince of the blood, the rider of Vhagar, the greatest living weapon in the Seven Kingdoms. He should be over the God's Eye, or raining fire upon the Black Queen’s strongholds. Instead, his grandfather had sent him here, across the Narrow Sea, to stalk a woman who spent her days arguing over the price of peppercorns.
To him, you were a loose thread in the tapestry of their war—a Velaryon treasury that needed to be seized or silenced. He could feel the ancient, simmering heat of Vhagar resting on the distant beach below, a monster capable of turning this entire city into a graveyard of melted glass. One word from him, and you, your ledgers, and your peaceful little life would cease to exist.
You reached the summit and pushed open the heavy oak doors of the manse. The hinges didn't creak; they were well-oiled and silent. Aemond stepped into the foyer, his single eye darting to the corners of the room, looking for the ambush he was certain was coming.
"Where are your guards?" he rasped, his voice echoing off the vaulted marble ceiling.
"I have no need for men with spears," you said softly, walking deeper into the house. You didn't look back to see if he was following; you knew he was. "The sea protects me from my enemies, and the cliffs protect me from the wind. Beyond that, I find that people rarely bother someone who is willing to listen to them."
The house was breathtakingly empty. No servants scurried through the halls; no master-at-arms paced the battlements. It was just you, the salt air, and the sprawling silence. You walked into the kitchen, a room filled with the scent of dried herbs and citrus, and began to light a small fire in the hearth.
Aemond stood in the doorway, his silhouette cutting a sharp, jagged shape against the domestic warmth. He looked entirely out of place—a hawk in a dovecote. His gaze landed on your defenseless back as you leaned over the flame. He could kill you now. It would be a mercy, really, compared to the war that was coming for the rest of your kin.
"You are a fool," he spat, though the venom in his voice felt forced, even to his own ears. "You sit here in the open, flying your father's banners, unprotected. Do you think your name is a shield? Do you think my family will let you sit out the dance while you line your father's pockets?"
"I think," you said, turning around with a wooden bowl of dark, glistening olives in your hands, "that you are very hungry. And I think that if you were going to kill me, you wouldn't be standing in my kitchen complaining about my lack of security."
You set the bowl on the heavy timber table and gestured to the chair opposite you. "Sit. Tell me why a man with a dragon's shadow on his soul has come to find a ghost."
Aemond’s jaw tightened. He wanted to scream, to draw his steel, to show you the terror he was capable of. But as he looked at your steady hands and the quiet, flickering light in your eyes, he found himself pulling out the chair and sitting down. “Why was your mother here?”
"My mother," you said again, your voice a cooling balm to his heat.
"Obviously!" he spat, the word cracking like a whip. "I am not blind. I know who she is. But what was she doing here, in a port that belongs to the Sea Snake? What business does the Queen Who Never Was have with a ghost who claims to want no part in this war?"
You didn't flinch at his tone. You simply reached for the cedar chest, your fingers grazing the teal scales of the dragon’s egg visible through the lid. "It is my nameday," you answered softly. "She came to bring me this. And to bring me the things that matter more than gold or steel."
You looked up at him, your expression peaceful. "She gives me gifts from Laenor and Laena. My sister is dead, yes, and yet my mother talks of her as if she is still alive. As if she is just over the next horizon."
Aemond stopped his pacing, his single eye fixed on the egg. The mention of the dead woman whose dragon he now commanded caused a flicker of something dark and complex to cross his face.
"She speaks of ghosts because she is surrounded by them," Aemond murmured, his voice losing its edge, falling into a low, dangerous rasp. "But why fly all this way for a daughter who refuses to fight? Why waste a dragon's breath on a nameday?"
You didn't stop your work. You sliced a loaf of crusty bread, the rhythmic thud of the knife against the wood providing a steady heartbeat to the room. "Is it? My mother carries her memory like a living thing. In this house, time doesn't move the way it does in King’s Landing. Here, people are only truly gone when we stop speaking their names."
You set the bread down and looked at him, your expression devoid of the judgment or fear he was so accustomed to. "She came because I am her daughter. Not because of a blockade, or a throne, or a council meeting. She came to give me a piece of my family because she knows I will never go back to find it myself."
Aemond leaned forward, the firelight dancing in the depths of his sapphire eye, making it glow with a cold, artificial light. He looked haunted, the weight of his mission clashing with the unsettling peace of your presence.
"She gives you a dragon's egg?" he spat, gesturing toward the chest with a gloved hand. "To a woman who hides in the shadows of Pentos? What a waste of a legacy. A dragon is not a nameday bauble to be kept on a shelf. It is fire made flesh. It is power."
"To you, perhaps," you replied softly, sliding a plate of bread and cheese toward him. You didn't raise your voice, even as he insulted your life. "To me, it is just a stone that reminds me of the sister I lost and the mother who still loves me. I have no intention of hatching it, Aemond. I have no intention of riding."
He stared at the food as if it were poisoned, then back at you. His anger was a shield, but you were refusing to strike it. "You sit here in this silence," he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous, low register, "while your father’s ships prepare for slaughter. You are a Velaryon. You are the Ghost. Do you truly think you can stay 'fine' when the world burns? Do you truly think a dragon won't find you here?"
"A dragon has already found me," you whispered, leaning your hip against the table and meeting his gaze with a steady, unblinking calm. "And yet, here I am. Still fine. Still breathing. You haven't touched your bread, Aemond."
The use of his name, spoken with such soft familiarity, hung in the air like a bridge between your peace and his war. Aemond’s hand, which had been hovering near his hilt, slowly relaxed, his fingers brushing the grain of the wooden table instead. He looked at you, truly looked at you, and for the first time, the Prince who had come to kill a ghost felt like he was the one being haunted.
He looked down at the simple meal, then back at you, his single eye narrowing as if trying to discern a trap. "You speak as if we are old friends. You know who I am, and you know what I represent. My grandfather wants your gold, and my brother wants your head to stop the flow of silver to the Blacks. And yet, you offer me bread."
"I offer you what you need," you replied, your voice remains a soothing hum. "You didn't fly across the sea because you wanted to burn a merchant's house. You came because you wanted to see if the rumors were true—if there was someone of your blood who managed to walk away from the fire and survive."
Aemond stood abruptly, the chair scraping harshly against the stone floor. He paced to the window, looking out at the dark cliffs and the distant, rhythmic light of the harbor. "You haven't walked away. You are simply hiding. But the tide is rising, and soon, there will be no shore left to stand on."
He turned back to you, his face half-hidden in shadow. "I should take that egg. I should take you. I should give the Greens the Ghost they so fear."
"You could," you agreed, crossing your arms loosely. "But then you would lose the only place in the world where no one is screaming at you to be a monster. Is that what you want?" Your hand reacting to his sleeve.
Aemond’s reaction to your touch was not a softening, but a recoil. He jerked his arm away as if your fingers were white-hot iron, his face contorting into a mask of pure, sharp-edged loathing. The vulnerability you thought you saw vanished, replaced by a cold, predatory sneer that made the kitchen feel like a tomb.
"Do not presume to speak of what I am," he hissed, his voice cutting through the quiet like a serrated blade. He stepped toward you, using his height to pin you against the heavy timber of the table. He didn't touch you, but the sheer force of his malice was a physical weight. "And do not speak of my name with that pathetic, honeyed tongue. You sit here in your silk and your salt, playing at being a martyr of peace, while you profit from the very blood you claim to abhor."
He looked down at you, his single eye scanning your face with a clinical, detached cruelty. If he found anything about your presence appealing, he buried it under a mountain of spite.
"You asked if I would kill you with her dragon," he murmured, leaning down until his lips were inches from your ear. His breath was cold. "Perhaps. Or perhaps I'll simply leave you here to watch the horizon until the day my brother's fleet arrives to strip this marble from the cliffs. You think you are free because you have no guards? You are not free. You are a pig in a pen, waiting for the butcher to decide the date of the feast."
He straightened up, his gaze flicking to the teal dragon egg with utter contempt. He reached out and slammed the lid of the cedar chest shut, the crack of wood echoing like a gunshot.
"Keep your bread," he spat, turning his back on you to stare out at the darkened sea. "And keep your silence. It won't save you when the fire reaches this shore. I am here to ensure your father’s gold stops flowing to the usurper. If you get in my way, I won't need a dragon to deal with you. I'll do it with my own hands, and I won't feel a shred of remorse for the 'Ghost' I've laid to rest."
He stood there, a jagged silhouette of leather and silver, radiating a coldness that no hearth fire could ever hope to warm.
"You think because I sat at your table that I have forgotten my purpose?" he continued to sneer, his voice dropping to a low, guttural threat. "I didn't come here for a meal. I came to see if the Ghost of Pentos was worth the effort of a dragon's flame. So far, I find you nothing but a coward hiding behind the memory of a sister you weren't there to save."
He stood up straight, looming over you, his leather brigandine creaking. He looked at the dragon's egg with pure, unadulterated contempt.
“I’m perfectly fine.” You smiled with a simple shrug
"You aren't fine," he spat. "You are irrelevant. You think you’re free? You’re just a bird in a cage who has forgotten that the door is only open because I haven't decided to kick it shut yet. I find the smell of this house—of your 'freedom'—sickening."
He turned his back on you, walking toward the hearth as if he couldn't stand to look at your calm expression for another second. "If you have letters for your father, write them tonight. Tomorrow, I may burn you.”
You didn't offer a rebuttal. You didn't plead for your life or defend your father’s honor. You simply stood by the hearth, the warmth of the fading fire at your back, and watched him. His words were designed to draw blood, to make you flinch, to provoke the screaming Targaryen temper he was so familiar with, but you remained as unyielding as the cliffs outside.
Aemond didn't look back. He stalked toward the door, his heavy cloak snapping behind him like a threat. The air in the room seemed to follow him, turning cold the moment he stepped over the threshold and into the darkened hall.
"Good night, Aemond," you whispered.
The parting was so soft it was almost a prayer, drifting through the shadows to catch him just before he disappeared. You saw the slight, momentary hitch in his shoulders—a fracture in his rigid posture—before he vanished into the gloom of the guest wing. He didn't answer. He didn't have to. The sound of a heavy door thudding shut in the distance was the only response you received.
You didn't linger in the kitchen. You extinguished the candles one by one, moving with a practiced, rhythmic calm that refused to be unsettled by a prince’s cruelty. You climbed the stairs to your own chambers, a room that smelled of lavender and the deep, dark scent of the midnight sea.
Once inside, you didn't bolt the door. You had lived your life without locks, and you would not start today, even with a kinslayer under your roof. You sat by the window, watching the distant, rhythmic blink of the lighthouse in the harbor. Down on the beach, far below, the massive, hunched shape of Vhagar was a mountain of obsidian against the starlight, her occasional, low rumble vibrating through the stone of the house.
He was mean, he was cold, and he was dangerous. He looked at your peace and saw a target. But as you laid down in the silence, you knew something he didn't. You had seen the way his hand trembled when you mentioned your sister. You had seen the exhaustion behind the sapphire.
He could threaten to burn your world to ash, but for tonight, he was just a guest in a house that didn't fear him.
The light of the morning was pale and watery, filtering through the high windows of the solar. You stood a few feet away, your toes curling against the cool marble floor, watching the man who had threatened to unmake your world just hours before. On the cushions of the low divan, Aemond looked less like a conqueror and more like a relic of a forgotten age. The harsh lines of his face had smoothed in the half-light, his silver hair spilled across the dark fabric like moonlight on oil.
You watched the subtle hitch in his throat, the way his knuckles whitened where his arms were tucked across his chest. He was a creature of instincts; he had known you were there the moment the hem of your shift brushed the floor.
"You are peaceful in your sleep, Aemond," you whispered, your voice a soft ripple in the morning quiet. "How long do you plan to be here before you kill me?"
"A moon," he answered. His voice was a dry rasp, devoid of the sleep-heavy warmth most men possessed upon waking. His eyes remained closed, the long lashes casting shadows over his cheekbones.
"Well then," you said, turning toward the small kitchenette where the morning’s fruit and bread sat waiting. "You best help around if you plan to spend your time here."
The reaction was instantaneous. His eyes snapped open—the violet one sharp and cold, the sapphire glinting with a sudden, jagged light. He sat up in one fluid, aggressive motion, the cushions shifting beneath his weight.
"I am a Prince," he snapped, the word dripping with an arrogance intended to remind you of the crown you had walked away from. "I am the blood of the dragon. I will not play servant to some Velaryon ghost who has forgotten her place."
You didn't turn around. You simply picked up a pitcher of fresh water, pouring it into a basin with a steady, rhythmic splash. "In this house, there are no Princes. There are only those who eat and those who provide. I have no servants to fetch your water or brush the sand from your boots. If you intend to stay a moon, you will find the silence very hungry indeed if you do not contribute."
Aemond stood, his frame looming large in the small room. He looked at your back, his jaw tight enough to crack. He was used to being served, feared, or fought. Being told to work was a novel insult he didn't quite know how to handle.
"You are bold for someone whose life hangs by a thread," he hissed, stepping toward you until the scent of leather and cold air preceded him.
"And you are remarkably loud for a man trying to hide from a war," you replied, finally turning to face him. You held out a basket of laundry—linens that smelled of lavender and sea salt. "The well is behind the house. I suggest you start there. Unless, of course, the great Prince Aemond is afraid of a little water?"
Aemond followed you down the cliff path, his mood as foul as a gathering storm. He had spent the last hour soaking his fine leather boots and cursing every ancestor who had ever crossed the sea, but the weight of the water bucket in his hand felt heavier than it should have. His palm still burned where your skin had touched his at the well—a soft, steady pressure that had made his breath hitch in a way no dragon-ride ever could.
He grumbled under his breath, a low string of High Valyrian insults aimed at your head, but he didn't turn back. He watched the way you moved ahead of him, your hair caught in the sea breeze, revealing the graceful line of your neck before veiling your face again.
"I wouldn’t need to learn this nonsense!" he snapped at your back, his voice echoing off the white stone. "At any given moment, I could be at the head of a council! I am a prince!"
"I know," you whispered, stopping at the edge of the bustling harbor. You turned to face him, the turquoise banners of the Sea Snake snapping above you. You didn't look at him with the awe a prince expected; you looked at him with a knowing, quiet clarity. "Come, let’s go to the ports. I know that’s why you’re really here. You want to see if I’m smuggling goods, men, gold, or grain to the blacks. To see if I’m rallying Pentos for their cause."
Aemond’s expression shifted, his single eye narrowing until it was a sliver of violet ice. He dropped the pretense of the disgruntled guest, his posture straightening into that of a soldier. He stepped closer, crowding your space, the smell of the salt-tide mixing with the cold iron of his presence.
"You speak of treason very casually," he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous, low vibration. "Do you think that because we share blood, I will look the other way? If I find so much as a single crate of Myrish crossbows destined for Dragonstone, I will burn these docks with you tied to the mast."
"Then look," you invited, gesturing toward the rows of massive carracks and merchant ships. "Walk the line with me, Aemond. Check every manifest. Count every bag of grain. If you are to be my shadow for a moon, you might as well see how a ghost manages her empire."
You began to walk, weaving through the shouting sailors and heavy-laden wagons. Aemond stalked behind you, his hand never far from his sword, his gaze scanning every face and every seal. He was looking for a war, but all he found was the clockwork efficiency of a woman who commanded the sea without ever needing to shout.
"That ship," he pointed out sharply, gesturing to a sleek vessel flying no colors. "Where is it from? What is in the hold?"
"Saffron and silk from Yi Ti," you answered without needing to check your ledger. "It goes to the Free Cities. Not a single blade on board, unless you count the kitchen knives."
He let out a sharp, frustrated breath, hating that you had an answer for everything. He wanted to find a reason to hate you—a reason to be the butcher his grandfather expected—but as he watched you navigate the chaos of the docks with nothing but a soft word and a calm gaze, he found himself increasingly unsettled by the silence you carried.
──────── Driftmark ────────
The first week was a war of attrition, fought not with steel, but with the steady, quiet rhythm of your life. Aemond arrived as a storm, intending to shatter your peace, but he found himself caught in the doldrums of your kindness.
By the third day, his sharp, biting remarks about your "useless" existence began to lose their edge, mostly because they were met with a calm nod and a bowl of warm stew. He spent his afternoons stalking the docks, his hand white-knuckled on his sword hilt, looking for a reason to burn your ships. Instead, he found only the way the sailors bowed their heads to you in genuine reverence—not out of fear of a dragon, but out of respect for the woman who ensured their families were fed.
By the fifth day, the silence of the cliffside manse had stopped feeling like a void and started feeling like a sanctuary. He found himself watching you from the shadows of the hallway, mesmerized by the way you hummed to yourself while organizing ledgers. He hated the way you looked in the moonlight, soft and untethered by the heavy chains of duty that strangled him. He hated that he knew exactly how much sugar you liked in your tea. Most of all, he hated the way his heart skipped a beat when you walked into a room, though he told himself it was merely his warrior's instinct reacting to a threat.
He remained cold. He remained mean. He snapped at you for the way you folded his clothes and sneered at the "pauper’s work" you forced him to do. But every night, when he lay on the cushions in your solar, he found himself listening for the sound of your breathing in the next room, anchored by the very ghost he had been sent to exorcise.
On the seventh day, the air was particularly sweet, smelling of jasmine and salt. You found him sharpening his blade on the terrace, his movements jagged and restless.
“Come! I have a surprise for you, sweet Aemond,” you smiled gently, your voice cutting through his dark thoughts.
Aemond froze at the sound of the epithet. "Sweet Aemond." The words felt like a mockery, a jagged piece of glass wrapped in velvet. In the Red Keep, he was "the kinslayer," "the usurper’s brother," or "the rider of Vhagar." No one had ever dared call him sweet, not since he was a boy clutching a hollow hope for a dragon of his own.
He stood by the window of your solar, his tall, lean frame casting a long shadow over your ledgers. Over the last week, his internal map of you had become dangerously detailed. He knew that you woke before the gulls did; he knew that you took your tea with a sprig of mint; he knew that despite his biting insults, you never once raised your voice to defend yourself. It infuriated him. Every time he snapped at you, expecting a fight, you simply offered him a plate of honeyed cakes or a quiet smile.
"Do not call me that," he ground out, his voice a low, warning rumble. He turned to face you, his hand instinctively gripping the hilt of his sword. "I am not one of your nieces to be pampered with sweets and soft words. I am a Prince of the Realm, and I am here on a mission of blood."
But you were already moving toward the door, your skirts swishing against the floor with a rhythmic, soothing sound. You didn't even look back to see if he was following, a move that grated on his pride because it showed just how little you feared his temper.
"The blood can wait until tomorrow, Aemond," you said over your shoulder, your voice a gentle hum. "The sun is at the right height, and the tide is perfect. Come."
With a sharp, frustrated exhale, he followed. He told himself he was only going to ensure you weren't meeting a spy in the cliffs. He told himself he was merely monitoring a high-value target. He certainly didn't tell himself that he had begun to look forward to the way the sea air caught in your hair.
You led him down a path he hadn't seen yet—not toward the docks, but toward a hidden cove shielded by a natural arch of white stone. The water here was a brilliant, translucent turquoise, still and clear as a mirror.
"What is this?" he demanded, his eye darting to the caves. "Some hidden treasury? A smuggling point?"
"Look," you whispered, pointing toward the center of the cove.
The "surprise" wasn't gold or steel. It was a pod of sea-dolphins, their silver backs breaking the surface of the water in a coordinated, peaceful dance. In the center of the cove, a small, weathered boat was moored, filled with buckets of small silver fish.
"You brought me here... to look at fish?" Aemond hissed, his face contorting with a mix of confusion and mounting rage. "I have a war to win! I have a dragon that could swallow this entire cove! I did not cross the Narrow Sea to play at being a naturalist!"
"I brought you here to see something that doesn't want anything from you," you said softly, stepping closer to him. You didn't touch him this time, but the space between you was charged with the heat of his frustration. "No councils, no grandfather, no oaths. Just the world as it is. Sit, Aemond. Feed them. I promise, the war will still be there when we get back."
He looked at the bucket, then at your face. He looked like he wanted to strike the basket from your hands, but for a fleeting second, the sapphire in his eye didn't look like a cold gem—it looked like a fragment of the very sea you were showing him.
The thought crossed your mind before you could even process. The splash was deafening in the quiet cove, a violent intrusion into the stillness of the water. Aemond went under with a muffled shout of surprise, his silver hair billowing like smoke beneath the surface. When he broke the water, he was a vision of pure, freezing fury. He lunged forward, his movements hampered by the sodden weight of his leathers, and caught you by the waist. His grip was bruising, his fingers digging into your skin with an angry, condescending force that intended to punish you for your insolence.
"You insolent, mindless girl," he hissed, the water dripping from his chin as he hauled you flush against his chest. "I could have you drowned for less. I should take your head for even thinking to touch me."
You didn't pull away. Instead, you let your body go limp in his hold, your hands rising slowly to cradle the nape of his neck. Your skin was cool against his feverish heat. "You’ll be alright, sweet prince—"
"Don’t call me that," he ground out, his breath hitching as you pulled him a fraction closer. The water swirled around your waists, the turquoise depth making the world feel small, private, and dangerous.
"What should you have me call you?" you voiced softly, your eyes searching the turbulent violet of his. "Warrior? Kinslayer? It wouldn’t matter anyways. You’re here to end me at the moon’s end. Why worry over a name spoken by a ghost?"
Aemond didn't answer. The venomous retort died in his throat as his gaze dropped. The seawater had turned your silk shift into a second skin, the thin fabric clinging to every curve. His eye flickered to your lips, then down to your chest, where the cold water had made your nipples peak against the wet green cloth. He felt the sudden, violent thrum of his own pulse in his ears, louder than the crashing surf beyond the archway.
He had come to Pentos to destroy a legacy, but as he looked at you, he realized he was the one being unmade.
He didn't realize how close you both were until the tips of your noses brushed. He was still trying to find a way to be cruel, to find the words to push you back into the sea, but you didn't give him the chance. You leaned in, closing the final inch, and pressed your lips to his.
The kiss was slow and aching, tasting of salt and a deep, buried hunger. It wasn't the kiss of a prince and a victim; it was the collision of two people who had spent their lives in different kinds of exile. Aemond’s hands, which had been poised to shove you away, suddenly slid upward, his fingers tangling into your wet hair with a desperate, possessive growl. He kissed you back with a ferocity that spoke of every insult he’d hurled at you, every cold look he’d given you, and every night he’d spent listening to you breathe.
Aemond’s voice was a ragged, broken thing, caught between the Prince who demanded order and the man who was currently losing his footing in the tide. He tried to pull his head back, to regain some semblance of the cold, untouchable wall he had built around himself, but your tongue darted into his mouth, silencing his protests with a slick, bold heat.
"You think—" he started again, his breath hitching as you pulled away just an inch, only to dive back in. "That kissing me—seducing—"
He was trembling now, the water around you shivering with the tension in his muscles. He wanted to call it a trap. He wanted to sneer at your "merchant’s tricks," but as your lips moved to the sensitive skin of his neck, kissing him with a terrifying, gentle precision, his head fell back against the stone of the archway.
"—me—will stop your—" he tried to finish, his voice dropping to a desperate, broken whisper.
He felt the soft, rhythmic press of your body against his, the wet silk of your shift offering no barrier to the heat of your skin. His hands, which had started as a means to restrain you, tightened around your waist with a bruising, frantic possessiveness. He wasn't holding you back anymore; he was holding onto you as if you were the only thing keeping him from sinking into the dark.
"—end? Stop me from—"
The threat died in the air, unfinished and hollow. He couldn't say the words kill you. Not while your breath was hot against his pulse, not while your hands were tangled in his hair, treating him as if he were something precious rather than a weapon of war.
He let out a low, guttural sound—half-sob, half-growl—and buried his face in the crook of your shoulder. He was a rider of the oldest dragon in the world, a master of the skies, yet here in the shallows, he was completely undone by a woman who didn't even own a sword.
"You are a demon," he rasped against your skin, his teeth grazing your collarbone in a way that wasn't quite a bite but promised something much deeper. "A sea-witch sent to ruin me. You think this changes what I am? What I have to do?"
Even as he said it, he was pulling you closer, his hips searching for yours beneath the water, his resolve dissolving into the turquoise depths of the cove.
He ripped away from you, The water cascaded off him in silver sheets as he tore himself away, the sudden absence of his heat leaving you chilled in the surf. Aemond didn't look back; he marched toward the sand with the rigid, jerky gait of a man fleeing a battlefield he had nearly lost. His chest was heaving, his wet leathers creaking with every aggressive stride.
"I don't think anything, I just want to kiss you," you whispered to his retreating back, your voice carrying easily over the gentle lap of the waves.
He stumbled slightly, his boots sinking into the wet grit of the shore, but he didn't turn. "You are a seductress," he threw over his shoulder, the words jagged and defensive. "It won’t change—it won’t change anything."
He reached the dry sand and spun around, his silver hair plastered to his face, his single eye wide and wild like a cornered animal’s. He looked at you standing there, the green silk clinging to your frame, looking every bit the ghost that haunted his every waking thought. The sight seemed to snap something in him, replacing his fleeting vulnerability with a harsh, commanding bark.
"Come on!" he shouted, his voice echoing off the stone archway. "Let’s get you dried off! Now!"
It was the tone he used for squires and soldiers, a desperate attempt to reclaim the hierarchy that had dissolved in the water. He stood at the edge of the path, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, refusing to come back into the water to help you. He couldn't risk it. He knew now that if he touched you again while the salt was still on your skin, the "moon’s end" would become a promise he’d never be able to keep.
You waded out slowly, the water dragging at your hem, watching him with a serene, unbothered expression that only seemed to infuriate him further. As you reached the sand, he draped his heavy, sodden cloak over your shoulders—not out of chivalry, but to hide you from his own sight.
"Move," he muttered, his jaw set in a hard line as he shoved past you toward the cliff path. "Before you catch a chill and I have to listen to you cough for the rest of the fortnight."
The walk back to the manse was silent, save for the squelch of his boots. He stayed five paces ahead of you, his back a wall of iron, but every few seconds his head would twitch, his eye darting back just enough to ensure you were still there, still breathing, still following him into the dark.
The heavy oak doors of the manse slammed shut behind you, the sound echoing through the empty, marble hall like a gavel. The air inside was cool, but the tension between you was suffocating. You reached out, your fingers grazing the sodden leather of his sleeve, but Aemond lurched away as if your skin carried a plague.
"Do not touch me! Do not!" He snapped, his voice cracking with a frantic, jagged energy. He backed into the center of the foyer, water pooling at his feet, his silver hair dripping onto the floor.
You didn't flinch. You stood your ground, the wet silk of your dress heavy against your legs, a small, knowing smile playing on your lips. "Why?" you whispered, the word drifting through the shadows of the hall.
"I am not here to play stable boy!" he roared, his hands trembling at his sides. "To cook and clean and to play in the water! I am a Prince of the House of Dragons! I am the rider of Vhagar! I am here to kill you, to take your head, and to end this pathetic, ghostly game you play!"
In one fluid, lightning-fast motion, you reached to the small of your back. The metallic shink of a blade echoed through the room. You didn't point it at him; you held it out, hilt-first, the obsidian blade catching the dim light of the hallway.
Aemond recoiled, his hand flying to his own sword, his single eye wide with a shock he couldn't mask. He hadn't expected the Ghost to move with such lethal grace. He hadn't expected you to be the one to draw steel.
"Kill me," you said, your voice dropping to a low, steady hum that cut through his panic. You stepped toward him, forcing the hilt of the dagger into his chest until he was forced to take it or let it fall. "Why wait? Why torture yourself for another three weeks? Kill me now, Aemond. Leave my body here for my mother to find when she flies back, or for my father’s sailors to discover when they come for the grain."
You leaned in closer, your heart beating against the hand he held against his chest. Your eyes held his with a devastating, quiet clarity. "Don’t waste your time, sweet Aemond. If you are the monster they say you are, prove it. Put an end to the silence." You whispered as you pushed the dagger to his chest.
Aemond stared down at the dagger, then at your throat, his breathing coming in shallow, ragged hitches. The sapphire in his eye glinted with a desperate, agonizing conflict. He could do it. He could end the distraction, the sweetness, and the strange, terrifying peace you offered. But as the heat of your body radiated through the wet fabric, the Prince who had burned the Riverlands found that he couldn't even lift his arm.
"You think you are so brave," he rasped, his voice trembling as he dropped the dagger. It clattered onto the marble with a lonely, ringing sound. "You think this is a game. It is not a game."
He turned away from you, his shoulders hunched, looking utterly defeated by a woman who hadn't even raised her voice.
But then the sudden movement was a blur of leather and cold rage. His hand clamped around your throat, not to choke the life from you, but to anchor you, his thumb pressing firmly into the divot beneath your jaw. He yanked you forward so violently your toes nearly left the marble floor, and then his mouth was on yours—crashing, desperate, and devoid of any gentleness.
It wasn't a kiss of affection; it was a collision. It was the sound of his iron-clad resolve finally snapping in two.
You gasped softly against his lips, the sound swallowed by the heat of his mouth. Aemond groaned, a low, tortured vibration that rumbled from his chest into yours. He pushed you backward until your spine hit the heavy oak of the manse doors, the impact sending a jolt through your frame. He didn't let go. His fingers remained locked around your neck, his other hand coming up to tangle ruthlessly in your wet hair, tilting your head back to deepen the assault.
"Be quiet," he rasped against your lips, his voice a broken snarl. "For once in your life, be silent."
He was kissing you as if he could pull the peace right out of your lungs and claim it for himself. He tasted of salt, iron, and a frantic, starving hunger that a thousand years of war couldn't satisfy. Every time he pulled back for air, his forehead dropped against yours, his single eye wide and shadowed with a terrifying intensity.
"You think I don't see it?" he breathed, his grip on your throat softening, his thumb now tracing the line of your pulse, which was hammering as fast as a bird’s wing. "I see the peace. I see the world you've built away from the rot of our family. I see it, and I want to burn it to the ground just so I don't have to look at what I'll never have."
He moved his mouth to your ear, his teeth grazing the lobe. "You aren't a ghost. You're a curse. And if I don't kill you at the moon's end, I will be the one who is dead."
He pulled back just enough to look at you, his face inches from yours. The sapphire in his eye glinted with a desperate, dark light, and for the first time, the Prince wasn't sneering. He was looking at you as if you were the only shore in a world made of drowning.
You grabbed his hand intertwining in yours, you guiding through the kitchen, your feet slowly moving against the floor. The hallway was a tunnel of shifting shadows as you led him toward the stairs, your damp skirts leaving a trail of dark droplets on the marble. You could hear the heavy, uneven rhythm of his breathing and the faint, metallic clink of his scabbard against his thigh. He was like a leashed predator, snarling at the tether but unable to break it.
When you reached the heavy oak door of your bedchamber, the air changed. The room smelled of dried lavender and the clean, sharp scent of the midnight sea.
Aemond stopped at the threshold, his single eye darting around the room as if he expected a trap, but he found the unmade bed, the soft rugs, the single candle flickering on the nightstand which was more terrifying to him than a battlefield.
"I’m going to be cold tonight," you said simply, finally letting go of his hand. Your fingers left a ghost of warmth on his skin that made him flex his jaw.
"Why would I care?" he snapped, his voice a jagged rasp. He remained by the door, his silhouette tall and imposing, his wet silver hair clinging to the dark leather of his doublet. "I told you, I am not your protector. I am not your husband. I am the man who is meant to ensure you never see another winter."
You didn't answer. You moved to the washstand, your back to him, and began to unlace the sodden green silk of your shift. The wet fabric clung stubbornly to your skin, requiring slow, deliberate movements. The sound of the silk sliding against your shoulders was loud in the silence of the room.
Aemond’s breath hitched. He shouldn't have stayed. Every instinct he possessed told him to turn, to walk out, to fly Vhagar into the clouds until the memory of your scent was scrubbed from his mind. Instead, he took a step forward, then another, until he was standing directly behind you.
He didn't touch you, but the heat radiating from him was a physical force.
"You are doing this on purpose," he hissed, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous vibration near your ear. "You think that if you let me into your bed, the blade will stay in its sheath. You think a Prince of the blood can be bought with a night of comfort."
"I think," you whispered, finally letting the wet silk pool at your waist as you turned to face him, "that you have spent your whole life being a weapon. I am simply offering you the chance to be a man."
Aemond looked down at you, his gaze raking over your shivering frame. The coldness in his eye didn't vanish, but it was joined by a dark, simmering hunger that threatened to consume everything in the room. He reached out, his gloved hand trembling slightly as he hooked a finger under the strap of your shift, pulling you an inch closer.
"If I stay," he warned, his voice a broken growl, "there will be no peace in this bed. Only the storm."
"Then keep me warm, Prince of Blood," you teased, your voice a silken thread that wound around his throat tighter than any noose.
"I am more likely to burn you than warm you," he muttered, but his hand, still encased in its wet leather glove, moved of its own accord. He traced the line of your hip, his touch hesitant at first, then increasingly possessive. He hated how easily you could command him without a single shout. You grabbed his arm.
Aemond let out a sound that was half-snarl, half-surrender as you pulled him down. He landed heavily beside you, the sodden leather of his doublet a stark, cold contrast to the yielding warmth of your mattress. He tried to prop himself up on one elbow, to maintain some shred of the distant, haughty prince, but the proximity was a poison he had already swallowed.
"You are a plague," he rasped, though he didn't pull away when you tucked yourself against his side.
He couldn't help it; his gaze was drawn downward, tracking the rhythmic rise and fall of your chest. The candlelight caught the sheen of moisture still on your skin, highlighting the soft curve of your breasts and the way your damp thighs brushed against his dark trousers. The friction was a slow torture. Every part of him was screaming to maintain his coldness, but the sheer, tactile reality of you—soft, smelling of salt and lavender, and entirely too close—was eroding his iron will.
He looked at you, his sapphire eye burning with a dark, frustrated hunger. "You speak as if this is a game of courtly love. Do you have any idea what I am thinking right now? What I want to do to this peace you treasure so much?"
He rolled over, looming above you, his wet hair dripping onto the pillows. He trapped you between his arms, his face inches from yours. The "Prince of Blood" was gone, replaced by a man who looked like he was starving.
"If I lay with you," he whispered, his gaze dropping to your lips, "I will not be gentle. I do not know how to be. I am a creature of teeth and fire. Is that truly what you want in your bed, ghost?"
“Take these off," you whispered, your voice a silken command that cut through the frantic thrumming of his heart. You reached up, your palms cupping his face, pulling him down until his forehead rested against yours.
Aemond felt his resolve shatter. The sheer, unadulterated softness of your touch was a sensation he had never known—a devastating contrast to the cold steel and bitter duty that had defined his life. A sharp, physical ache of yearning surged through him, so intense it nearly brought him to his knees. He moved with a desperate, jerky haste, yanking off his sodden clothes and casting them aside until the Prince was stripped bare, leaving only the man trembling in the candlelight.
He lunged back onto the bed, hovering over you with his pulse leaping in his throat. "This is not a surrender!" he hissed, his voice a jagged rasp of denial even as he pressed his heat against your cool skin. "Nor am I sheathing my blade! I still have a mission, Ghost. I still have a duty to the crown!"
But his actions betrayed every word. His hands, though shaking, found the curves of your body with a starving possessiveness. He looked down at you, his sapphire eye burning with a dark, tormented light, terrified of the way you were making him feel—as if for the first time in his life, he wasn't a weapon being aimed, but a man being found.
"Do not think this changes what I am," he breathed against your lips, his fingers tangling in your hair as he prepared to lose himself in the very peace he had sworn to destroy.
He hovered over you, his skin hot and radiating a feverish energy that made the air between you hum. He looked down at you, his single eye wide and searching, filled with a terrifying, raw yearning he had spent his entire life suppressing. He had been taught to take what he wanted through fear and fire, but your softness was a different kind of battlefield—one where his usual weapons were useless.
"I will still do what must be done," he rasped, his hands coming up to frame your face, his thumbs pressing into your cheeks with a bruising intensity. "I will not let you ruin me. I will not let you turn me into a coward."
But even as he spoke the threats, he was lowering himself, his chest finally meeting yours in a shock of skin-to-skin contact that drew a sharp, guttural groan from deep in his throat. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling the scent of you as if it were the only air left in the world.
He didn't know how to do this—how to want someone without wanting to destroy them—and the confusion made him bite at your shoulder, a sharp, possessive nip that left a mark.
"You have hexed me," he whispered against your skin, his hands sliding down to grip your thighs, pulling you flush against him until there was no space left for the war to sit between you. "You are a ghost, and you are pulling me into the grave with you. Tell me you know what you’ve done."
He looked up then, his sapphire eye burning with an agonizing heat. He was waiting for you to mock him, to tell him he had already lost—but he was also waiting for you to pull him back down into the kiss that had started his undoing.
You guided him with a devastating patience, your hands sliding down his spine, urging him to settle into the heat. As a soft, broken moan escaped your lips, his rhythm shattered. He abandoned the slow pace, his hips driving into you with a sudden, frantic speed that stole the air from your lungs.
"Aemond—" you gasped, your fingers digging into the muscles of his shoulders.
"Don’t call for me!" he snarled, though the command lacked its usual bite. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breath coming in ragged, scorching bursts. "Don’t moan for me—like some—"
The insult died in his throat. He couldn't finish it. He couldn't call you a harlot or a spy when your heartbeat was drumming against his own, a steady rhythm of life that mocked his obsession with death. He was drowning in you, and the more he fought the current, the deeper he sank.
He slowed, not because he wanted to, but because he was overwhelmed. He pressed his forehead against yours, his silver hair a curtain that shut out the rest of the world. His single eye was open, staring into yours with a look of pure, unadulterated agony.
"I hate you," he whispered, his voice cracking as he thrusted again, slower this time, deeper, feeling every inch of the friction. "I hate how you look at me. I hate that you aren't afraid."
He gripped your wrists, pinning them to the pillows above your head in a display of dominance that felt more like he was clinging to a mast in a hurricane.
"You are nothing but a means to an end," he ground out, his voice a jagged rasp as he forced himself into you with a punishing, shallow rhythm.
But you didn't flinch. You arched your back, the movement dragging his hips deeper, forcing a guttural, choked sound from his throat. You moaned, a long, shivering sound that vibrated through his chest, and his eyes blew wide.
"Aemond—" you gasped, your legs hooking around his waist to pull him flush against your core. He breathing was now a ragged groan as the friction of your wet heat became too much to bear. His pace became frantic, a desperate, uncoordinated pounding that abandoned all pretense of a "mission."
He let go of your wrists, his hands diving beneath your back to haul you upward, dragging your breasts against the scars on his chest. He bit your shoulder, his teeth sinking in just enough to draw a sharp cry from you, which he drank in like wine. He was shaking now, his movements heavy and wet, the sound of skin slapping against skin echoing in the quiet room.
"I will burn you," he hissed against your skin, his thrusts reaching a fever pitch, deep and jarring. "I will take everything you are."
"Then take it," you whispered, your voice broken and breathless.
"Look at you," he sneered, though his voice was thick, losing its sharp edge to the heat of the room. "The Ghost of Pentos, reduced to a panting, moaning mess for a kinslayer."
He thrusted again—a hard, jarring slide that made your head toss back against the pillows. You let out a high, broken cry, your fingers scratching uselessly at the bedsheets. The sound seemed to goad him. He didn't slow down; he accelerated, his hips working with a cold, mechanical precision that sought to overwhelm you.
"Is this what you wanted?" he hissed, leaning down until his damp hair brushed your cheeks. He watched your eyes flutter, watched your lips part as you gasped his name again. "Does the war feel far away now? Does the blood on my hands matter while I’m inside you?"
You couldn't answer. You were a symphony of soft, desperate sounds, your body arching instinctively to meet every punishing drive. Your skin was slick with a mix of sea salt and sweat, glowing in the dying candlelight. Each time he pulled back, nearly slipping out, you made a small, wounded sound of protest that made his jaw lock in a frantic effort to stay detached.
"Aemond—please—" you whimpered, your legs tightening around his waist, dragging him back into the depths of your heat.
"Silence!" he commanded, though he was the one trembling. His hands traveling down to grip your hips, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your thighs until he surely left bruises. He began to drive into you with a deeper, more rhythmic violence, his breathing coming in ragged, ugly hitches.
You are nothing," he lied, his voice breaking as he buried himself to the hilt, holding there for a long, pulse-pounding second. "You are just a body. A place to wait out the moon."
But he didn't pull back. He began to move again, faster now, his face contorting with a pained, desperate need that was anything but cold.
Aemond tried to pull his head back, to maintain that sliver of distance that allowed him to pretend he wasn't being consumed, but you wouldn't let him. You reached up, your fingers digging into his hair and cupping his jaw, forcing his face down until he had no choice but to look at you.
"Don’t stop—please," you whimpered, the sound vibrating against his lips as you pulled him into a kiss that tasted of salt and desperation.
The "Prince" finally shattered. The cold, calculating rider of Vhagar vanished, replaced by a man who was drowning in a sea of his own suppressed desire. Aemond let out a guttural, primal sound—a choking moan of surrender that was muffled by your mouth. His hands flew from your hips to your hair, his fingers tangling ruthlessly in the strands as he abandoned all pretense of a measured rhythm.
He lost control.
The movements became frantic, a blurring, heavy friction that made the bed frame groan against the stone wall. his thrusts becoming deep, jarring, and unrelenting. His single eye was wide, blown out and glazed with a terrifying intensity as he watched your face shatter into the heights of pleasure.
"You... you curse..." he gasped, the words barely intelligible over the sound of his ragged breathing and the wet slap of skin.
The tension in his body reached a breaking point. His muscles turned to iron, his back arching as he let out a choked, pained cry. He drove into you one last time, burying himself to the absolute hilt as he came, his whole frame convulsing in a violent, prolonged release that left him sobbing for air against your neck.
He collapsed onto you, his weight heavy and honest, his heart hammering like a trapped bird against your chest. The coldness was gone, burned away by a fire that Vhagar herself couldn't have sparked.
The silence that followed was heavier than the storm of a few moments ago. You sank back into the pillows, your body feeling like liquid gold, every muscle humming with a weary, satisfied ache. Your eyes were heavy, the lids fluttering shut as you drifted in the afterglow, feeling the lingering heat of his skin against yours. In that hazy, half-light of the chamber, you felt safe—more at peace than you had been since he arrived.
But the shift beside you was sudden and sharp.
Aemond pulled away as if the bed had turned into a nest of vipers. He rolled to the edge, his bare back to you, his spine a rigid line of scarred ivory in the moonlight. The frantic, desperate lover was gone, replaced instantly by a man drowning in the icy waters of his own regret.
He sat on the edge of the bed, his head hanging low, silver hair veiling his face. His breath was still coming in shallow, jagged hitches, but now they were born of panic rather than passion.
He stared at his hands—the hands that had held you with such starving possessiveness—and felt a wave of nausea.
What have I done?
He was a Prince of House Targaryen. He was the protector of the realm, the rider of the greatest beast alive, the iron-willed brother of a King.
He had been sent here to bring a ghost to heel, to secure gold and eliminate a threat. Instead, he had been unmade in a pool of silk and sweat. He had surrendered his dignity to the very woman he was meant to judge.
The shame was a physical weight, more suffocating than any armor. He thought of his mother’s face, of his grandfather’s cold expectations, and of the blood he had spilled to prove his strength.
All of it felt tainted now, softened by the touch of your hands.
"Go to sleep," he ground out, his voice a low, bitter rasp that didn't hide the tremor in his tone. He didn't look back at you. He couldn't. If he looked at you, he might see the pity in your eyes, or worse—the same sweetness that had ruined him.
He reached for his discarded breeches, his movements jerky and filled with a quiet, simmering self-loathing. He wouldn't stay in this bed. He would find a corner of the room, or the hard stone of the floor, anything to distance himself from the warmth that threatened to turn his heart into a traitor.
Aemond stood abruptly, the sudden movement causing the bed to groan. He didn't even have his boots on yet, but he stood tall, his pale skin gleaming with a light sheen of sweat that he now seemed to loathe. He snatched his breeches from the floor with a violent tug, his jaw set so tight it looked as if it might shatter.
"Wait—Aemond—" you started, sitting up slightly, the sheets falling away from your shoulders.
"Don’t!" he barked, spinning around to face you. His single eye was wild, the sapphire glinting like a shard of ice in the dark. He looked at you—truly looked at your tangled hair and the flushed skin he had just been worshipping—and his face twisted into a mask of pure, defensive cruelty.
"I told you!" he hissed, his voice trembling with the effort to remain cold. "You were just a body! A convenience of the flesh! Do not mistake a moment of... animal necessity for something more."
He shoved his legs into his trousers, nearly stumbling in his haste to put a barrier between his skin and yours. He was breathing as if he had just run a league, his chest heaving. "I am a Prince with needs! You happened to be here, in this house, in this bed. Any woman would have served the same purpose."
It was a lie so transparent it hung in the air like smoke, but he clung to it like a shield. He couldn't admit—not to you, and certainly not to himself—that he had felt more in the last hour than he had in his life time. To admit that would be to admit defeat.
"You are still a target at the moon's end," he spat, his fingers fumbling with the laces of his clothes. "The sun will rise, and I will be the Prince I was born to be, and you will still be the ghost I was sent to haunt. Nothing has changed!"
He turned his back on you again, unable to maintain the glare.
──────── Driftmark ────────
The sun had not yet crested the horizon, leaving the manse in a bruised, violet twilight. You rose with a quiet, practiced grace, the cool morning air a sharp contrast to the lingering heat under the sheets. You didn't look toward the corner of the room where Aemond had spent the night—hunched in a chair or paced into a corner, guarding his pride like a wounded animal.
You dressed in a simple, heavy linen gown, the fabric scratchy and honest. Your heart felt heavy, but your resolve was like iron. You had offered him a sanctuary, a piece of your peace, and even the intimacy of your body, and he had met it with the only language he knew: vitriol and denial.
Fine. If he wanted to be the Prince of Blood, you would let him be alone in his royalty.
You moved through the manse with a ghost’s silence. You didn't start the tea for him. You didn't set a plate of honeyed bread on the table. When you passed him in the hallway—he was already up, leaning against a stone pillar with his arms crossed and his eye fixed on the floor—you didn't even turn your head.
Aemond’s head snapped up as you walked by. He looked wretched; the dark circles under his eye told of a night spent in a war with his own mind. He opened his mouth, perhaps to deliver another biting remark about your "needs" or his "mission," but the words died when you walked right past him as if he were nothing more than a shadow on the wall.
He followed you into the kitchen, his boots heavy and loud against the marble, a stark contrast to your bare feet. "Where are you going?" he snapped, his voice scratchy and tired.
You ignored him. You picked up a basket and a small paring knife, heading toward the garden.
"I am speaking to you!" he growled, stepping into your path. He looked down at you, his jaw tight, waiting for the sweetness, the "sweet Aemond," the soft smile that usually diffused his anger.
You looked through him. Not at him, but through him, as if he were made of glass. You stepped around him without a word, the hem of your skirts brushing his boots. You wouldn't give him the satisfaction of your voice. You had given him everything the night before, and he had called it a "necessity."
Aemond froze, his hand half-extended as if to grab your arm, but he pulled it back, his fingers curling into a fist. The silence you offered him now wasn't the peaceful kind he’d grown used to—it was cold, vast, and deafening.
"Speak to me—" he started, trying to wrap his voice in the iron authority of a prince, but the end of the sentence cracked, his voice dropping into a register of raw, unvarnished desperation.
You didn't stop your work. You knelt among the lavender, the scent rising around you as you clipped a few stalks for the morning’s wash. Your movements were fluid and indifferent.
"Why?" you asked, your voice as level as the horizon. "If you are to kill me—then there is no need to share conversation or—warmth, as you so kindly put it."
Aemond stopped a few feet away, his hands twitching at his sides.
"I am a Prince of the Realm," he ground out, though the title sounded hollow even to his own ears. "I do not take orders from the woman I am meant to execute."
"Then don't," you replied, finally standing and turning to face him. You still had the soft look, that beautiful face that made him weak. You began to walk past him, the basket tucked against your hip.
"Don’t walk away from me!" he shouted, the command snapping through the air, though it was hollowed out by that desperate plea that had preceded it. “Please!”
The word hung in the air, naked and jarring. Please. It was a word that didn't belong in Aemond’s vocabulary, a word he had likely crushed out of his soul the day he lost his eye and gained a dragon.
You stopped, but you didn't turn around. The morning sun was just beginning to hit the garden, casting his long, jagged shadow over the lavender at your feet. You could hear his breathing—heavy, ragged, and entirely too fast for a man who claimed to be in control.
"I cannot be 'sweet' Aemond," he whispered, the admission sounding like a confession of a crime. "If I am soft, I am dead. If I love, I am weak. You... you made me forget that for a night. And when the sun came up, I realized I had left my armor in the dirt."
He moved to stand in front of you, forcing you to look at him. His sapphire eye was clouded, the cold brilliance replaced by a dark, swirling confusion. "I did not mean to call you... just a body. I said it because I was afraid of how much I wanted to stay in that bed. I was afraid that if I didn't push you away, I would never find the strength to leave."
He looked down at your quiet, steady face, his jaw working. "Speak to me. Mock me if you must. Tell me I am a coward or a fool, but do not look through me as if I have already burned this house down. I still—I still want to be here.”
Your head cocked to the side, “is this your way of saying sorry?”
Aemond’s face went through a violent series of contortions. His brow furrowed, his jaw tightened, and for a moment, he looked as though he might snap at you again just to reclaim his dignity. The word "sorry" was a foreign tongue, a peasant’s plea, something beneath the blood of the dragon.
He looked away, staring intensely at a cluster of rosemary as if he could set it on fire with his mind.
"I am a Prince," he repeated, though the iron had left his voice, leaving it thin and brittle. "We do not... we do not offer apologies like common merchants over a bad trade."
"I do not know how to do this," he he continued , his hand reaching out and—this time—actually grazing your cheek with the backs of his knuckles. His skin was still hot, but the touch was hesitant, lacking the bruising force of the night before. "I do not know how to be in a house where the walls don't scream of duty. I am... sorry... that I tried to make you feel as small as I felt."
You only made a sound to acknowledge his statement.
"Does that satisfy you?" he asked, a tiny flicker of his usual bite returning to his tone, though it was softened by the way he refused to pull away from your personal space.
You smiled, “It does sweet Aemond, you surrender far sooner than I thought.” You teased.
You leaned in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to his mouth that tasted of the morning air and the night's lingering heat. "Come now! We have to go to the market. It will be a long day, my sweet fire, and you are going to help me."
Your finger traced a slow, deliberate line up to the nape of his neck, tangling in his silver hair. The reaction was instantaneous; his hand shot out, his fingers locking around your waist with a possessive, bruising grip that pulled you flush against his chest once more.
"I am a Prince of the Realm," he reminded you, his voice dropping into that familiar, icy drawl, though the way he looked at your lips betrayed him. "I do not play porter for common merchants."
You didn't flinch at his tone, instead tilting your head back to meet his gaze with a spark of mischief in your eyes. "Then you are in luck," you whispered, "because I am anything but common."
"You are a menace," he rasped, his thumb tracing the curve of your hip through the linen. "You expect me to walk among the rabble? To carry baskets of grain like a beast of burden? If my brother or the Hand saw me now, they would think I’d been drugged by a Pentoshi sorceress."
"Perhaps you have been," you teased, stepping back just enough to make him feel the loss of your heat. "But the sun is up, and my 'needs' involve the market. If you want to be treated like a Prince, you can stay here and brood in the silence. If you want to be with me... you’ll carry the honey jars."
──────── Driftmark ────────
The market was a cacophony of shouting vendors and the heavy scent of roasted spices, but Aemond moved through it like a ghost of war, his hand never leaving the hilt of his sword. He loathed the press of the "common rabble" against his fine wools, his eye darting with lethal suspicion at anyone who dared step too close to you.
Long fingers rested there loosely, almost lazily—but the readiness beneath the gesture was unmistakable. The blade was not decoration. It was a promise. One he looked prepared to keep at the slightest provocation.
His single eye moved constantly.
It flicked from face to face, from the shadowed mouth of an alley to the shifting bodies of strangers brushing too close. Suspicion lived in every movement of him, sharp and alert, as if he expected a dagger to appear from the crowd at any moment. More than once a careless passerby stumbled too near, their shoulder grazing yours in the tight press of the street.
Each time it happened, Aemond’s reaction was immediate
The faintest tightening of his jaw. A slow turn of his head. That pale eye narrowing with a dangerous, icy patience.
The offenders felt it without understanding why. One man faltered mid-step beneath that gaze, suddenly eager to look elsewhere. A woman clutching a basket of figs hurriedly veered away, murmuring apologies to no one in particular. Something about him unsettled the crowd, some quiet instinct warning them that this was not a man to jostle lightly.
He loathed this place.
It was written plainly in the tight set of his mouth and the cold disdain that lingered in his expression. The crush of bodies irritated him, the unwashed press of the smallfolk brushing against the fine weave of his dark cloak as though they had any right to stand so close. The noise grated against his senses, a relentless pounding of voices and movement that made his patience wear thin.
But the greatest offense, it seemed, was how near they came to you.
Each time someone pushed too close, Aemond shifted almost imperceptibly, his tall frame angling just enough to block the path between you and the rest of the world. It was subtle—most would not notice it—but his body placed itself between you and the crowd with an instinctive certainty that left no room for question. A silent wall of steel and restrained violence.
A merchant shouted loudly beside you, waving a bundle of dyed cloth in the air, his elbow nearly knocking into your arm as he tried to capture the attention of passing buyers.
Aemond’s hand tightened on the hilt of his sword.
Not enough to draw it.
But enough that the man noticed.
The merchant’s voice faltered mid-sentence as he glanced up, meeting that pale, unblinking eye staring down at him with quiet, murderous disapproval. Whatever argument he had been shouting died instantly in his throat. He stepped back without a word, clutching his cloth bundle to his chest as if it might shield him from whatever cold fury lingered in the prince’s gaze.
Aemond said nothing. He rarely needed to.
"There she is," a voice chuckled, thick with a familiarity that made the hair on the back of Aemond’s neck stand up. A broad-shouldered merchant, a man whose sheets you had once shared in the long months before the Prince arrived, leaned across his counter. He didn't just look at you; he devoured you with his eyes, his gaze lingering on the curve of your throat. "I was beginning to think you’d traded our fun for that silver-haired ghost following you around. Come here, let me see if you still smell like jasmine."
He reached out, his hand bold and reaching for your waist—the very place Aemond’s hand had been all morning.
Aemond didn't just intervene; he exploded.
With a snarl that sounded more like Vhagar than a man, Aemond lunged. He caught the merchant’s wrist mid-air, the sound of bone snapping under his gloved grip echoing over the chatter of the crowd. Before the man could even scream, Aemond had his dagger unsheathed, the obsidian edge pressed so hard against the man’s jugular that a bead of dark blood welled instantly.
"You dare touch what is mine?" Aemond hissed, his voice a terrifying, vibrating whisper that felt like a blade. The sapphire in his eye was a cold, demonic fire. He leaned in until his nose brushed the merchant’s, his face a mask of lethal, unhinged possessiveness. "You speak of her as if she were a common whore. She is my wife. She is a Princess of the Blood in everything but name, and you are a maggot crawling in the dirt."
"I—I didn't—" the man wheezed, his eyes bulging with terror.
"If you ever look at her again—if you even dream of her—I will peel the skin from your frame and hang it from your own stall," Aemond growled, his hand tightening on the man’s throat until his face turned purple. "She belongs to me. Body, soul, and every breath she takes. Do you understand, or shall I carve the realization into your chest?"
He threw the man back into his jars of cinnamon and cloves, the glass shattering like ice. Aemond didn't wait. He grabbed your arm, his grip bruising and frantic, and practically dragged you through the dirt paths toward the manse.
The walk back was a blur of his white-hot fury. He was vibrating with it, his breath coming in ragged, jagged bursts.
"My wife?" you whispered, your heart hammering at the sheer intensity of his claim.
"Shut your mouth!" he roared, spinning on you the second you cleared the manse gates. He slammed the heavy oak doors shut with a violence that shook the walls. "You think this is funny? You stand there and let that... that peasant handle you? To speak of bedding you in the open street? I should go back and burn the entire district to ash!"
You made it to the manse, he stomped in letting go of your arm.
He paced the foyer like a caged dragon, his silver hair wild, his hands shaking as he gripped his own hair. "You are mine! Do you understand me? You are not to be touched, you are not to be looked at! I don't care who you were before I arrived—that woman is dead! You are under my shadow now, and if I find one more man who thinks he has a claim to you, I will make the Stepstones look like a summer festival!"
You didn't shrink away. You stood there, watching the Prince of Blood unravel over the mere thought of another man’s hand on you. You smiled softly, a slow, knowing curve of your lips that only seemed to make his blood boil more.
"You’re smiling?" he rasped, stalking toward you until your back hit the door. He loomed over you, his chest heaving against yours, his jealousy a physical, suffocating heat. "You find my rage amusing, Ghost?"
Your hands slid up his chest, feeling the frantic, erratic thrum of his heart through his doublet. “Wife?” you whispered against his lips, your voice a silken needle under his skin. “You called me your wife after one night? After only one spice trader?”
You didn't wait for his retort. You pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the corner of his mouth, then another to the sharp line of his jaw. You felt his breath hitch—that sharp, jagged intake of air that signaled his internal walls were crumbling again.
“I said it to silence the cur!” he hissed, though the venom was gone, replaced by a desperate, suffocating heat. He tried to pull his head back, to look down at you with the coldness he’d spent a lifetime perfecting, but you followed him, peppering small, wet kisses along his throat.
“You claimed me, Aemond,” you teased, your teeth grazing the sensitive skin just below his ear. “In front of the whole world. My sweet, jealous Prince.”
“I am not... I am not jealous,” he lied, his voice breaking as his hands found your waist. His grip was still bruising, still possessive, but the anger was rapidly being swallowed by a different kind of hunger. “I simply will not have my property insulted by a man who smells of cumin and sweat.”
“Property?” You laughed softly, a low, melodic sound that made his pupils dilate until the violet of his eye was almost entirely black. You kissed him again, deep and slow, your tongue teasing the seam of his lips until he groaned, a low, pained sound of pure surrender.
He shoved his hands into your hair, tilting your head back so he could look at you with an intensity that felt like a brand. “Yes,” he rasped, his forehead dropping against yours. “Mine. If I must be haunted by you, then no other man shall even look upon the Ghost. I have stuck my cock in you! You are simply mine now!”
He slid down your body, his knees hitting the cold marble with a dull thud. His hands, still trembling with the remnants of his rage, gripped your thighs, pulling you toward the edge of his patience. He began to kiss you through the heavy linen of your gown, his mouth hot and demanding, his teeth catching on the fabric as he searched for the heat beneath.
“Aemond—” you gasped, your fingers digging into his silver hair as the friction of his tongue through the cloth sent a jolt of electricity straight to your core.
He didn't answer. He couldn't. He was a man possessed. He hooked one of your legs over his shoulder, lifting it high to expose you to his singular, burning gaze. The shift was hiked up, leaving nothing but the thin barrier of your smallclothes, which were already damp from the sheer proximity of him.
He didn't wait. He pressed his face into the apex of your thighs, his nose dragging against your sensitive skin before his mouth found you. He kissed you right through the material, a deep, suctioning press that made your knees buckle.
“Oh—” you whimpered, your head slamming back against the oak door as your body arched into him.
He let out a muffled growl against your skin, his hands sliding up to cup your buttocks, holding you steady as he devoured you. He was being intentionally rough, intentionally thorough, as if he could drink the memory of any other man out of your blood. The cold Prince was gone; there was only this—the wet, rhythmic sound of his devotion and the way he looked up at you, his sapphire eye dark and unhinged, watching the way you came apart in his hands.
“You are mine,” he rasped against the damp fabric, his breath scorching. “Tell me. Tell me who you belong to.”
Aemond didn’t give you the chance to answer. He was done with words, done with the linen barrier that dared to keep him from what he had claimed as his. With a violent, single-handed tug, he ripped the center seam of your smallclothes, the silk fluttering to the floor like a fallen flag.
He groaned at the sight of you—glistening, swollen, and completely exposed to his singular, starving gaze. He didn't hesitate. He buried his face against you, his tongue lashing out with a broad, rhythmic stroke that made your toes curl into the marble. He wasn't gentle; he was a predator at a feast, his tongue swirling and deep-diving into your heat while his thumbs pried you open even wider.
"Aemond—ah! Aemond!" You shrieked, the sound echoing off the high vaulted ceilings of the foyer. Your hands were frantic in his hair, alternately pulling him closer and trying to find purchase on his shoulders as the world dissolved into white heat.
He looked up at you for a split second, his face smeared with your cream, his sapphire eye burning with a terrifying, carnal pride. "Look at me," he commanded, his voice a guttural rasp. "Remember this when you think of that merchant. Remember who owns the breath in your lungs."
He went back down, his teeth grazing your clit with a sharp, calculated nip that sent a violent tremor through your entire frame. You were a sobbing, moaning mess, your back drumming against the oak door as he used his tongue to mimic the act of his cock, driving deep and then flicking upward until you were hovering on the very edge of a shattering peak.
His fingers joined the assault, two of them thrusting into you with a bruising, relentless pace that matched the lashing of his tongue. He was relentless, punishing you for every second you hadn't been his, for every man who had ever looked at you before he arrived.
"Please—Aemond—now—" you begged, your hips bucking uncontrollably against his mouth.
He let out a muffled, triumphant sound against your thigh. He didn't stop until he felt the first violent clench of your climax. He drank in your release, his tongue working frantically to catch every drop of your surrender, his hands holding you so tight he would surely leave the ghost of his fingerprints on your skin for days to come.
He stayed there for a long moment, his forehead resting against your damp inner thigh, his chest heaving as he stared at the floor. The Prince of Blood was on his knees, covered in you, looking utterly destroyed by his own conquest.
His kiss was focused on your clitoris with a punishing, rhythmic devotion that had your head snapping back against the oak door, your breath hitching in ragged, broken sobs. You were dangerously overstimulated, your nerves frayed to the point of screaming, but he wouldn't let you drift away.
"Who do you belong to?" he demanded, his voice a muffled, guttural growl against your thighs. He looked up for a fleeting second, his face flushed with a terrifying, carnal pride. "Who? Tell me, you fisherman’s daughter!"
"You!" you shrieked, your fingers tangling in his silver hair, alternately pulling him closer and pushing him away as the pleasure became too much to bear. "Only you!"
He let out a sharp, triumphant sound, his teeth grazing you in a way that made your entire frame convulse. He pried your legs even wider, his thumbs digging into the soft flesh of your hips to anchor you.
"Say I’m your husband!" he commanded, the words coming out as a desperate, jagged rasp."Say it!"
"You are—you are!" you sobbed, your voice echoing through the vaulted stone foyer. Your knees buckled, and you would have slid to the floor if not for his crushing grip. "My husband! My Prince!"
The admission seemed to snap the last thread of his restraint. Aemond rose from his knees in one fluid, violent motion, his breath coming in scorched gasps. He didn't lead you to the bed; he didn't even move you from the door. He simply unfastened his leathers, his cock thick and pulsing with a frantic heat.
He hoisted you up by your thighs, his hand gripping your ass tightly, his spread your ass cheeks and drove himself into you with a single, brutal thrust that buried him to the hilt. You gasped, the air leaving your lungs as he fucked you, with an intensity that made the heavy doors rattle on their hinges.
Aemond’s facade didn't just crack; it disintegrated. The man who prided himself on being an untouchable weapon of war was now a shuddering mess of raw, bleeding emotion. He hammered into you with a rhythmic, jarring desperation, his hips slamming against yours with raw possession.
He pulled back just enough to see your face, his hands shaking as they cupped your cheeks, his thumbs smearing the tears and sweat across your skin. His eye was wide, wet, and filled with a terrifying, vulnerable light you had never seen before.
“Look at me, please,” he begged, the word sounding like a sob as he drove deep, his cock pulsing inside you. The command was gone, replaced by a starving, hollowed-out need. “Tell me I’m your sweet Aemond. Tell me I’m your sweet husband. Tell me—please.”
He was sobbing for the validation, his forehead crashing against yours.
“Aemond… my sweet Aemond,” you gasped, your voice breaking as you wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him into the crook of your shoulder.
“Say it again,” he rasped, his eyes fluttering shut as he buried his face in your hair, his movements becoming frantic and uncoordinated. He was coming apart, his climax hitting him with the force of a physical blow. “Tell me I’m yours. Tell me you won’t let them take me back to the war.”
“You’re—you’re stuck with me.” You whimpered
He let out a long, pained cry as he came, his whole body stiffening as he spilled into you. He held you there, pinned against the door, his chest heaving as he wept silently into your neck—a Prince of Blood finally surrendering to the ghost he was meant to kill.
Aemond stayed buried inside you, his weight heavy and grounding, but the air around him was already beginning to crystallize back into ice. He was retreating into the safety of his titles, his fingers curling into the wood of the door behind your head as if trying to find his grip on reality.
“That was—that was weakness,” he whispered, the words brushing against your lips like a confession of a sin. His nose grazed yours, his breathing still shallow and erratic, but his tone was regaining that sharp, defensive edge. “I am—I am not weak.”
“I know,” you breathed, your hands softly stroking the damp silver hair at the base of his neck.
“You are but a ghost,” he murmured, though he didn't pull away. He said it as if he were trying to remind himself that you weren't real, that this house wasn't his home, and that the warmth between your thighs was just a fleeting trick of the light.
“Yes,” you sighed, the sound echoing the bittersweet truth of your existence in his world. “I am but the Ghost of Pentos.”
“I am a prince,” he insisted, his eye finally opening to search yours, looking for a challenge, for an insult, for anything that would justify his return to the cold.
“I know,” you whispered back, leaning forward to press a gentle, feather-light kiss to his lips. It wasn't a kiss of passion, but of understanding—a quiet acknowledgment of the boy hiding behind the crown.
“A moment of weakness,” he whispered one last time, his eyes fluttering shut as he leaned his forehead against yours.
“Yes my dear husband—so weak.” You whispered softly, “So weak.”
──────── Driftmark ────────
The few week that followed was a strange, silent dance of domesticity and denial. Aemond remained a storm cloud in human form—grumpy, sharp-tongued, and perpetually scowling at the "insignificance" of your daily chores. Yet, for all his complaining, he never left your side.
He helped you pull the fishing nets, his fine leather gloves ruined by salt and scales, hissing about the indignity while his strong arms did the work of three men. He sat in your kitchen, peeling vegetables with the same lethal precision he used to sharpen his blade, muttering that a Prince of the Blood should be commanding armies, not dicing onions. But every time you brushed against him, he would lean into your touch with a subtle, desperate hunger, his "coldness" melting for a split second before he remembered to be a monster again.
On the final evening, the sun dipped low, painting the Pentoshi coast in shades of bruised gold. Aemond stood by the window, his silhouette sharp and lonely.
“I must return to King’s Landing,” he whispered, the words sounding heavy, as if they were made of lead.
“You must,” you copied his tone, teasing him softly as you leaned against the doorframe, watching the way the light caught the silver of his hair.
He turned his head slightly, his sapphire eye fixed on you with an unreadable intensity. The "moment of weakness" from the foyer hadn't truly ended; it had just settled into the marrow of his bones. He looked at you—his ghost, his wife of shadows—and for a moment, the Prince was gone.
"The moon has turned," he said, his voice dropping to a low, jagged rasp. "I have a crown to defend and a brother to keep on a throne. I cannot stay in this dream forever."
He walked toward you, his boots clicking rhythmically on the stone until he was towering over you. He reached out, his gloved hand cupping your jaw with a possessive, territorial grip. "But do not think for a moment that you are free of me. I am leaving a mark on this place. I am leaving Vhagar’s shadow over your roof."
He leaned down, his breath warm against your ear. "If I return and find another man has even dared to stand where I have stood... I will burn this entire city until only the two of us are left in the ashes."
“Come back to me, soon—or I will have to find you and I am better at accomplishing my goals, husband.” You whispered
Aemond’s hand tightened on your jaw, his thumb dragging across your lower lip with a pressure that was both a caress and a claim. At the word husband, a flicker of something raw and untamable flashed in his eye—a mixture of the pride he tried to kill and the devotion he couldn't hide.
"You threaten a Prince?" he rasped, his voice dropping into that dangerous, low vibration that usually preceded a kill. But as his gaze searched yours, he saw the steady, mocking spark of your resolve. He knew you weren't afraid of his dragon or his blade; you were the only thing in the world that saw him clearly, and that made you the most dangerous creature he had ever encountered.
"I am better at accomplishing my goals, husband," you whispered again, your breath hitching as he pulled you closer, his chest a solid wall of leather and heat against yours.
"Then you had best stay within these walls and wait for the shadow of wings," he hissed, his lips hovering a hair's breadth from yours. "Because if you come to King’s Landing, I will have no choice but to lock you in the highest cell of the White Sword Tower, just so I can be sure the world hasn't stolen you back."
He kissed you then—one final, brutal, and desperate seal of his claim. It tasted of salt and the bitter regret of a man who was leaving his heart behind in a city he was supposed to have conquered. He broke away abruptly, the cold mask slamming back into place as he adjusted his cloak, his silver hair catching the first light of the moon.
"Do not test my patience, wife," he warned, walking toward the balcony where the wind was already picking up. "I will return. And when I do, I expect a better welcome than a lecture on spices."
He stepped out into the night, a low whistle escaping his lips. A moment later, the very foundation of the manse shook as the Great Hoar, Vhagar, let out a truncated roar that vibrated in your very teeth. Aemond didn't look back. He couldn't. He mounted his beast and rose into the sky, a dark, jagged silhouette against the stars, heading back to a war that suddenly felt very cold and very small compared to the warmth of the woman he had left behind.
─────The Halls of the Red Keep ─────
Moons later, back at King’s Landing
Before Viserys I death, Targaryen Golden Era
The heavy silence of the Small Council chamber was a world away from the roar of the Pentosi surf, yet to Aemond, the air here felt thinner, colder—devoid of the salt and heat that made him feel alive.
Grandfather was still talking. Something about the Triarchy, something about grain tithes and the mounting cost of the iron-clad defense of the Gullet. Aemond didn't care. His gloved hand moved with agonizing slowness, rising to his face. He hooked his thumb beneath the leather of his index finger, pulling the glove off with a sharp snap of tension.
His bare fingertip rose, trembling almost imperceptibly, until it hovered just over his lower lip.
He didn't touch it yet. He just felt the phantom heat of it. There, on the right side, was the jagged little ridge—the "knick" you had carved into him with his own blade. It wasn't a clean scar; it was a rough, raised seal of ownership.
One flesh.
He finally pressed his finger against the scar, his nail catching on the uneven skin. The sensation sent a jolt of electricity straight to his gut, a sharp, visceral memory of the way you had looked in the moonlight, blood smeared across your chin, your eyes wild with the same ancient hunger that lived in his marrow. He could almost taste the copper. He could almost feel the weight of your body pressing him into the cold, wet sand, the way you had spread yourself open to take every bit of the man the world called a monster.
One heart.
You were astride him, a vision of moonlit silk and lethal intent. Aemond’s large, calloused hands were buried beneath you, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your ass, spreading you wide and pulling you down onto him with a desperate, rhythmic violence. He was thrusting upward, his hips snapping with a hunger that seemed bottomless, seeking the very hilt of his pleasure within you.
"Please," he whimpered, the sound lost in the salt-spray. He looked up at you, his sapphire eye blown wide, glassy with a mix of agony and worship. "Make it real. Cut the world away."
With a hand that didn't tremble, you reached into the leather sheath at his hip. You pulled out the Valyrian steel dagger he always carried—the blade he used for his enemies, now turned toward his own salvation. The steel caught the moon’s reflection, a silver sliver of death between you.
You didn't hesitate. You pressed the edge of the blade to your own lower lip, feeling the sharp, cold sting as you drew a thin line of crimson. Then, you leaned down, the tip of the dagger grazing the air between your mouths before you pressed the cold steel to his lip. You sliced just enough to let the blood well up, dark and heavy.
Aemond didn't flinch. He let out a low, guttural groan, his hips bucking harder beneath you, his fingers bruising your skin as he held you open to receive him.
You dropped the dagger into the sand and crushed your mouth to his. The taste was metallic and hot—a chaotic mixture of salt, spit, and the copper tang of Targaryen blood. You bit into his wounded lip, deepening the cut, and he returned the favor with a feral desperation, his teeth sinking into your skin as if he wanted to consume you entirely. 
The crash of the waves seemed to pause as the blood met, the copper heat of it sealing the seam of your lips. Aemond’s hands were shaking now, his fingers digging into your hips with a strength that would leave bruises shaped like his devotion. He was open to you—completely, terrifyingly undone—his body shuddering as he pulsed inside you, his rhythm frantic and seeking.
He pulled back just an inch, his lip glistening with the dark crimson of your shared wounds. His sapphire eye was wet, burning with a feverish, holy light as he stared up at you through the silver curtain of his hair.
"Say it," he choked out, his voice a raw, broken rasp. "Bind me, before the world finds us. Say the words."
As you leaned down, your sweat-slicked skin sliding against his, you pressed your forehead against his. You could feel his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird, desperate for the cage you offered. Together, your voices rose over the roar of the tide, a shared breath of salt and iron.
“One flesh,” you whispered against his bleeding mouth.
“One heart,” he groaned, his hips surging upward, burying himself as deep as the earth would allow, his eyes closing in a spasm of pure, agonizing bliss.
“One soul,” you both breathed, the Valyrian weight of the vow settling over the beach like a shroud of dragonfire.
“Now and forever.”
The moment the final word left your lips, Aemond let out a sound that was less a man’s cry and more a soul being fractured and reset. He buckled beneath you, his climax hitting him with the force of a physical blow, his head snapping back into the wet sand. He clung to you, his arms wrapping around your back to crush you against him, his face buried in the crook of your neck as he sobbed with relief.
"Aemond?"
The voice was sharp. Impatient.
Aemond’s hand dropped instantly, his face snapping back into a mask of terrifying, porcelain-smooth indifference. He looked across the table at his mother, Alicent, whose eyes were red-rimmed with worry, and then at Otto, who was watching him with a calculating, narrow-eyed gaze.
"You seem... distracted, my Prince," Otto remarked, his quill pausing over a scroll. "Is the wound from your 'skirmish' in the East bothering you? Perhaps the Grand Maester should provide a salve for your lip. It looks inflamed."
Aemond’s jaw tightened, the muscle leaping in his cheek. He felt the secret pulse of the blood-bond beneath his skin, a hot, rhythmic drumming that seemed to mock the stagnant air of the Red Keep.
"The wound is healing exactly as I intended, Grandfather," Aemond said, his voice a low, jagged rasp that silenced the room. He leaned back, his sapphire eye catching the light with a predatory gleam. "It requires no salve. Some marks are meant to stay."
He felt the heavy weight of the Valyrian steel dagger at his hip—the same blade that had tasted both your blood and his. He wondered if you were standing on the cliffs now, looking toward the West, feeling the same pull of the chain that bound him to your feet.
This was the agonizing space between the vow and the reality. This was the time when he had to leave the "Ghost" behind to return to the den of vipers, long before a cradle ever sat in the corner of your manse.
The Red Keep felt like a cage of cold stone. Aemond moved through the halls like a wraith, his presence so icy that even the Kingsguard lowered their eyes as he passed. He was back in the blacks and greens of his station, the leather of his doublet stiff and suffocating compared to the loose linen he’d worn while pinned beneath you on the sand.
He was a man divided.
In the evenings, when the sun dipped low and painted the Blackwater in hues of bruised purple, he would find himself in the highest balcony of the White Sword Tower. He wouldn't go to the brothels. The very thought of a stranger’s hands on his skin made his stomach turn with a violent, possessive revulsion. He had been marked by Valyrian steel and ancient blood; he was no longer available for the common hungers of men.
He stood in the shadows, his thumb tracing the jagged, healing knick on his lip. It was his only tether to sanity.
“I am not a fool,” he whispered to the biting wind, his voice a jagged rasp. “I do not love a phantom. I do not ache for a woman who belongs to the sea.”
But the lie tasted like copper and salt. He missed the way you would bite back. He missed the way you laughed at his brooding, stripping away the Prince until only the man remained. He missed the silence of Pentos, where he wasn't a kinslayer or a monster—he was simply yours.
He would never admit it to his mother, who looked at him with such pride. He would never admit it to Aegon, who would only mock the "softness" of his brother.
The shadows of the bedchamber were long and suffocating, the only light coming from the dying embers in the hearth. Aemond lay stripped to his waist, the fine silk sheets tangled around his legs like a snare. He looked like a fallen god, his pale skin glowing in the firelight, but his face was twisted in a grimace of pure, unadulterated longing.
His hand was closed around himself, his knuckles white as he moved with a slow, agonizing friction. It wasn't the easy release he used to find in the brothels; it was a ritual of torment. Every slide of his palm was an attempt to conjure the memory of your touch, the way your thighs had felt gripping his waist, the way you had looked down at him while you both bled.
He squeezed his eye shut, his breath hitching in his throat.
“Gods—wife,” he whispered, the word a ragged, forbidden prayer against the crook of his arm.
He could almost feel the phantom weight of you on top of him. He could almost smell the salt and the crushed herbs on your skin. His hips buckled upward, a sharp, desperate thrust into the empty air of the room, his teeth sinking into his scarred lower lip until he tasted the faint, metallic ghost of that night on the beach.
He thrust his hips up, his spine arching off the bed as he chased the ghost of your friction. He could almost feel your hands spreading him open, your fingers digging into his skin, claiming every inch of his royal blood for your own. The memory of your teeth sinking into his shoulder, claiming him like a beast claims its mate, made his cock throb with a painful, relentless heat.
He was whimpering now—the "One-Eyed Terror" reduced to a shaking, sweating mess in the dark. He wanted to feel the sting of your nails raking down his back. He wanted the copper taste of your kiss to drown out the rot of this city.
"Wife... gods, please," he choked out, his pace becoming frantic, his knuckles white in the moonlight.
He was picturing the way you looked right before the end—the way your face shattered with pleasure, your body tightening around him like a vice, dragging the soul right out of his chest. He buckled, his legs shaking as he surged one last time, his voice breaking into a loud, pained cry that echoed off the cold stone walls.
"I miss you!" As he came, the release was a violent, shuddering explosion that left him gasping for air, his heart hammering against his ribs like a war drum. He slumped back into the silks, his chest heaving, the cooling sweat on his skin feeling like ice. He lay there, staring at the ceiling, his hand still twitching against his thigh.
He was the Protector of the Realm, the rider of the largest dragon in the world, and yet he was nothing more than a starving man haunting his own bed. He had been marked by a ghost, and the mark was burning him alive.
The cold water of the basin hadn't been enough to wash away the scent of his own desperation. Aemond had moved like a man possessed, saddling Vhagar under the cover of a storm that the guards mistook for a natural tempest. The flight across the Narrow Sea was a blur of freezing wind and stinging spray, his heart beating a frantic rhythm against his ribs: Need you. Need you. Need you.
But when he arrived at the manse, the silence was a physical blow. The house was empty. The bed was cold.
He waited. For hours, he paced the small stone kitchen like a caged predator, the moon rising higher and fueling the dark, toxic brew of his emotions. He had spent moons starving for you, rotting in that gods-forsaken capital, touching himself until his skin was raw while imagining your mouth on his. And you? You were simply gone.
Then, the click of the latch.
The door creaked open, and the scent of the sea rolled in—fresh, cold, and undeniable. You moved through the threshold, humming a soft, haunting tune that he recognized from the night of your vows. You were carrying a heavy barrel of fish, your sleeves rolled up, your silver hair messy and windblown. You looked radiant, healthy, and entirely unbothered by the absence that had been killing him.
Aemond stepped out of the shadows, the hearth-light catching the sapphire in his eye like a spark in a tinderbox.
"Where have you been?" his voice was a low, terrifying rasp, jagged with the months of suppressed silence.
He didn't wait for an answer. He moved across the floor in three long, predatory strides, his boots thundering against the stone. He kicked the door shut behind you with a deafening bang and shoved you back against it, his hands slamming into the wood on either side of your head.
"I have been rotting in King’s Landing," he hissed, his face inches from yours, his breath hot and smelling of salt. "I have been waking up in the dark reaching for a ghost. I have been spending my nights with my hand on myself, whispering your name like a dying man!"
His gaze dropped to your mouth, to the scar on your lip that he had helped carve. His jealousy was an oily, suffocating thing. Who had seen you today? Who had helped you with the fish? Who had looked at the woman who belonged to him?
"And I come back to find you humming?" he growled, his hand moving from the door to your throat—not to hurt, but to claim, his thumb pressing firmly against your pulse. "You look as though you haven't missed me for a second. You look as though my blood hasn't been screaming for yours every night."
The crash of the barrel was the only sound in the room, fish scattering across the stone floor like silver coins, but neither of you looked down. Your voice—that soft, breathless whisper—sliced through his rage like a hot blade through ice.
“Husband. Husband?”
The word hit him harder than a physical blow. Aemond’s chest heaved, his hand still firm against the column of your throat, but his fingers trembled. Hearing you say it—actually hearing the title he had been obsessing over in the cold silence of the Red Keep—sent a violent jolt of electricity through him.
"Don't call me that unless you mean it," he rasped, though his grip softened, his palm sliding up to cup your jaw with a bruising, desperate tenderness. "Don't use that word to quiet me when I’ve been half-mad with the hunger for you."
His sapphire eye searched yours, looking for the reflection of the same torment he’d endured. He wanted to see that you were haunted, too. He wanted to see that the bed had been too big, the nights too quiet, and the air too thin without him.
"I have spent every hour of every day since I left feeling like my heart was being dragged behind Vhagar on a chain," he confessed, his forehead dropping to thud against yours. He was shaking, the "Prince of Blood" finally crumbling under the weight of his own devotion. "I didn't come here for a greeting. I didn't come here for your humming."
He tilted your head back, his thumb tracing the scar on your lower lip, the one that matched his own. His gaze was dark, predatory, and utterly shattered.
"I came for the woman who bit me on the sand. I came for the only person who knows I’m not a monster, but a man who belongs to her." He let out a low, pained groan, his body crushing yours against the door, his hips pinning you there with a possessiveness that left no room for breath. "Tell me you’re mine. Tell me you’ve been starving for this as I have."
“Gods! If I saw—if I saw Vhagar! I would’ve ran to you—I would have run here! I—”
The frantic explanation died in your throat, drowned out by the roar of your own blood. You didn't finish the sentence; you couldn't. You reached up, your hands tangling into the silver silk of his hair, and pulled his head down with a desperation that matched his own.
You cut yourself off by crashing your mouth against his.
It wasn't a soft greeting. It was a collision of salt, hunger, and months of suppressed agony. You kissed him with the ferocity of the storm he’d just flown through, your teeth grazing his lower lip—right where the scar lived—seeking the metallic tang of the blood-bond you’d shared on the beach. You tasted the cold air of the Narrow Sea on him, but beneath it was the familiar, intoxicating heat of Aemond—the man who belonged to you.
Aemond let out a sound that was half-growl, half-sob against your lips. His hands, which had been pinning you to the door, suddenly shifted, grabbing your waist and lifting you off your feet until your legs instinctively wrapped around his hips. He shoved you harder against the wood, his mouth devouring yours as if he were trying to swallow your very soul to keep it safe inside him.
"Mine," he growled into the kiss, his voice vibrating deep in his chest. "Say it. Say you're mine."
He didn't wait for the words. He began to move, his hips snapping forward to grind against you through the layers of your clothes, his hands roaming over your back with a frantic, bruising possessiveness. The "Prince of Blood" was gone, replaced by a man who was drowning and had finally found his shore.
The word "husband" left your lips like a broken prayer, a soft, trembling sound that seemed to shatter the last of his iron resolve. You clung to him, your fingers digging into the leather of his doublet, your face pressed into the heat of his neck as the scent of him—smoke, rain, and old blood—overwhelmed your senses.
“Just stay, husband,” you whimpered against his skin, the vibration of your voice sending a shudder through his massive frame. “Please—husband, just stay. Please.”
Aemond’s breath hitched, a jagged, agonizing sound caught in his throat. He squeezed his eye shut, his forehead thudding against yours as he anchored you to the door. For months, he had been the stone-faced executioner of the Greens, a man of ice and duty, but here, under the weight of your plea, he was nothing but a man starving for a home he wasn't allowed to keep.
"You don't know what you're asking," he rasped, his voice cracking with a vulnerability that would have horrified the Small Council. He pulled back just enough to frame your face in his large, shaking hands, his thumb brushing over your wet cheek. "If I stay, I am a deserter. If I stay, they will come for us with fire. They will try to take you from me to punish my weakness."
His gaze dropped to your mouth, to the scar that bound your souls together. His jealousy, his rage, his pride—it all dissolved into a singular, desperate need.
"But gods," he breathed, his sapphire eye burning with a terrifying, absolute devotion. "To wake up beside you... to never hear my name called by a herald again... I would give up the throne. I would give up Vhagar. I would give up the world just to be the man who cleans those fish for you."
He didn't pull away. Instead, he collapsed into you, his weight heavy and honest, his arms wrapping around your waist as he buried his face in your hair. He was a Prince of Blood, but in this moment, he was just your husband.
The wood of the door groaned behind you as Aemond’s weight crushed you into it, his body a frantic, unyielding machine of muscle and desperation. He was buried deep within you, his cock a thick, throbbing anchor that seemed to reach for your very heart. He moved with a violent, rhythmic friction, his leather doublet scratching against your skin as he drove himself into you again and again, as if he could sew your bodies together and never have to pull apart.
“Aemond, please,” you whimpered, the sound breaking against his ear as your legs locked tighter around his waist, pulling him in until there wasn't a sliver of air left between you. “Don't go back. Let the world burn without you. Let them have their throne... just stay. Stay in me. Stay here.”
Aemond let out a jagged, animalistic sound—a sob that turned into a growl. He reached down, his fingers digging into the sensitive flesh of your ass, spreading you even wider to take the full, punishing length of his thrusts. Each surge was a confession, his hips snapping forward with a primal hunger that made your vision blur.
“I can’t,” he gasped, his teeth grazing your shoulder, biting down until you cried out in a mix of pain and pleasure. “Gods, wife... you’re so tight... you feel like home. I’m starving for you. I’ve been dying for months.”
He pulled back just an inch, only to slam back home with a wet, heavy thud that made the scattered fish on the floor vibrate. He was shaking, his sweat dripping onto your chest, his sapphire eye fixed on yours with a terrifying, religious devotion.
“Stay,” you pleaded, your voice a ragged thread as you felt your climax beginning to coil deep in your belly. “If you love me, if I’m your wife... don’t leave me with just a ghost. Stay and put another babe in me. Stay and be a father. Please, husband... please.”
At the word babe, Aemond’s control shattered. His pace became frantic, a blurring, slippery friction that made your breath catch in a series of high, desperate hitches. He gripped your hair, tilting your head back so he could see the marks he was leaving on you.
“I want to,” he choked out, his voice breaking as he surged one last time, his entire body going rigid. “I want to fill you until you can’t walk... until you’re heavy with my name... until I’m nothing but a memory of a Prince.”
He let out a long, pained cry as he came, his release a hot, staggering flood that seemed to go on forever. He slumped against you, his head falling into the crook of your neck, his chest heaving as he sobbed with the pure, agonizing weight of a man who had found his soul only to realize he had to leave it behind again.
──────── Driftmark ────────
The transition from the heat of the night to the cold clarity of morning was jarring. You stepped into the kitchen, the ache in your thighs a lingering reminder of his desperation, fully expecting to find the bed empty and the skies filled with the sound of departing wings.
Instead, there he was.
The "Prince of Blood" was gone, replaced by a man wearing the very thing he’d sworn was beneath him—a thin, sea-green linen tunic that clung to the broad span of his shoulders. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing the corded muscle of his forearms, now splattered with brine and scales. He looked like a man of the coast, a man who belonged to the salt and the spray, if not for the lethal, rhythmic precision with which he handled the blade.
His back was to you, his posture stiff and unyielding. The domesticity of the scene was undercut by the sheer, freezing frost of his tone.
"If I am to stay, I must say you mustn't keep the home so!" he snapped, not even turning to look at you. His voice was a whip-crack of his usual cold authority, masking the vulnerability of the night before. "The fish were everywhere. A disgrace. One would think a 'Ghost' could at least manage a broom."
He slammed the knife down through a silver spine, the sound echoing in the small room. He was trying to reclaim his mask, trying to pretend that he hadn't whimpered into your neck or begged you to bind him. He was gutting those fish as if they were his enemies in the Gullet, his jaw set in a hard, jagged line.
But his ears were pink, and the way his hand trembled slightly as he reached for the next fish betrayed him. He wasn't truly angry at the mess; he was angry at how easily he had succumbed to the life he wasn't supposed to want.
"Sit," he commanded, finally casting a sharp, sapphire glance over his shoulder. It was a kingly order delivered in a fisherman's rags. "I have made a mess of the floor, and I'll not have you slipping on it while I'm forced to play servant especially while you carry my son.”
Aemond froze, the knife hovering dangerously over a half-gutted sea bass. The moment your arms cinched around his waist, he stiffened, his instinctual armor of ice clashing with the liquid heat of your body pressing against his back.
When your lips found the sensitive cord of his neck, he let out a low, involuntary moan. It was a sound of pure, unadulterated surrender that he immediately followed with a sharp, huffed breath of self-loathing. He squeezed his eye shut, his knuckles whitening around the hilt of the knife, his head tilting back just a fraction to give you better access even as his mind screamed at him to remain the Prince.
“The green suits you, husband,” you whispered against his skin, your breath hitching as you felt the frantic, heavy thud of his heart against your forearms.
"It is a rag," he rasped, though his voice lacked any real bite. He sounded like a man fighting a losing battle against his own skin. "It is a fisherman's shroud. I look like a commoner from the docks of Spicetown."
Despite his words, he didn't pull away. He leaned back into you, his weight settling against your chest, his breathing turning shallow and uneven. The "Cold Prince" was melting, his resolve dissolving into the sea-green linen he had claimed to hate.
"You are doing this on purpose," he muttered, a shudder running through him as you sucked a mark into his throat—a mark that wouldn't be hidden by a high collar. "You are marking me again. How am I to walk through the streets of Pentos looking like he was mauled by a sea-cat?"
He dropped the knife with a dull clatter and turned in your arms, his hands—still damp and smelling of salt—finding your waist to pull you flush against him. His eye was dark, swirling with a mixture of shame and a bottomless, aching love.
"I am a mess of scales and brine," he whispered, his forehead dropping to rest against yours, "and you are a witch who has turned a dragon into a lapdog. If I stay another hour, I fear I shall never be able to hold a sword again without wishing it were a fishing net."
──────── Driftmark ────────
9 moons later — birth of Sea Snake
Aemond moved with a slow, rhythmic grace that still felt like a miracle to behold. He stepped toward the cradle, his large frame casting a shadow over the fussing babe. Little silver-haired fingers clawed at the air, desperate for the solid strength they had come to know as safety.
"Patience, little sea-snake," Aemond murmured, his voice a low, vibrating hum that seemed to settle the child instantly.
He lifted the boy, his calloused hands—hands that had once burned cities—cradling the babe with a terrifyingly gentle precision. He tucked the child into the crook of his neck, the sea-green linen of his tunic bunching under the babe’s tiny, grasping fists. A small, private smile rested on Aemond’s lips, though his brow furrowed as he looked down at his son.
"Husband!" your voice drifted in from the garden, bright and commanding. "Bring Corlys to me! The sun is perfect for him, and I need help with these herbs!"
Aemond stiffened for a fraction of a second at the name, a shadow of his old, princely pride flickering in his sapphire eye. He stepped to the doorway, the babe resting contentedly against his chest.
"Must you call him that?" Aemond called back, his tone a mix of feigned exhaustion and lingering stubbornness. "Corlys. It tastes of Driftmark and old salt. I still say he looks like a Daeron. Or an Aerys. A name with a bit of fire in the marrow, not just... driftwood."
You looked up from the dirt, your hands covered in rich, dark soil, a mischievous glint in your eyes that made his heart skip a beat.
"You can name the next one!" you shouted back, laughing as you wiped a smudge of dirt onto your cheek. "But this one is mine, and he is a Corlys! Now bring him here before I name the hound Aegon just to spite you!"
Aemond let out a huff of a laugh—a real, grounded sound that would have been unrecognizable to anyone in King's Landing. He looked down at the boy in his arms, whose eyes were wide and curious.
"You hear that?" Aemond whispered, nuzzling the babe’s silver temple. "Your mother is a tyrant. A beautiful, ruthless tyrant. And apparently, she is already planning to populate this entire coast with little ghosts and princes."
He stepped out into the sunlight, the "Prince of Blood" fully surrendered to you and he is now the “Fisherman's Husband”. He began moving towards you with the only crown he ever truly wanted resting against his shoulder but the moment soon dissolved. Aemond’s smile didn’t just fade; it turned to pure ice.
The babe, sensing the sudden spike of lethal tension in his father’s posture, let out a soft, confused whimper and clutched tighter at the sea-green linen of Aemond's tunic. The peaceful morning in the garden was instantly shattered by the arrival of a messenger bearing a seal of dark wax—a three-headed dragon, but stamped with the distinct, arrogant flourish of Dragonstone.
Aemond’s sapphire eye fixed on the parchment in your hand, burning with a sudden, vicious fire.
Daemon Targaryen. The Rogue Prince. The man whose ghost had haunted Aemond’s entire youth. A dark, ugly jealousy—born from a lifetime of being compared to the man, and a sudden, sharp protectiveness over you—reared its head.
"Op—open it" Aemond instanced, his voice dropping into that low, dangerous rasp that belonged to the Red Keep's executioners. He shifted your son in his arms, the boy squirming against his rigid chest, sensing the dangerous current vibrating through his father.
You sighed softly, brushing your hands against your skirts to rid them of the garden soil, your calm a stark contrast to his rising storm.
With a steady hand, you broke the seal and unrolled the parchment. Aemond loomed over your shoulder, his breath hot and sharp against your ear, his eye scanning the elegant, slashing script of his uncle.
To my clever sister,
The realm sings of a great tragedy. They say the One-Eyed Prince is dead, drowned at the bottom of the God’s Eye. Yet, I find myself doubting the waters. Your father misses you terribly, the girls miss you, and Luke and Jace can’t wait to finally meet you and see the peace you’ve built. Your mother who visits you often has yet to stop speaking about her namesday visit.
But, I have my suspicions, sweet girl. I suspect a certain 'dead' prince may be nesting in your hidden manor, hiding from the fire he started. You always did have a way of doing the unexpected.
Bring him. Consider this an invitation to a family dinner at Driftmark, far away from the toxic reach of the Greens. Let us see if the fisherman's life has softened his edge.
—D.
Aemond let out a sharp, trembling breath, a sound that was half-laugh, half-snarl. The jealousy that had flared at Daemon's name twisted into something far more complex—a mixture of profound shock, lingering paranoia, and a bitter taste of his own past.
"A family dinner," Aemond hissed, his knuckles whitening where he held your squirming son. "He writes to you with the familiarity of a lover, speaks of my death as a joke, and invites the 'Ghost' to sit at a table with Lucerys and Jacaerys. The very boys who took my eye. The boys whose inheritance I swore to burn."
He stepped in front of you, forcing you to look at him. His face was a mask of cold, pale fury, but beneath it, his sapphire eye was frantic.
"He knows," Aemond whispered, his jaw tight. "The Rogue Prince knows I am alive, and he teases you for keeping me like a pet. Tell me, wife... did you look for his shadow in the sky before I came to your bed? Does he think he can simply invite the rider of Vhagar to break bread with the Blacks as if we are common cousins sharing a tavern?"
The cold, defensive armor Aemond had thrown up instantly began to fracture. His sapphire eye darted down, fixed on the place where your swelling belly brushed against him. The sudden reminder of the new life growing between you—another bond, another anchor tying him to this soil—stilled the frantic, violent rhythm of his heart.
“You’re dramatic,” you whispered, clutching the underside of your stomach.
Aemond’s jaw worked, a muscle leaping in his cheek as he tried to maintain his icy, princely glare, but the sheer absurdity of his jealousy was crumbling under the warmth of your touch.
“I’ve never once thought of another man," you continued, your gentle smile disarming him completely. "You were made for me—by the gods.”
A low, defeated breath escaped his lips. He looked down at the letter from Daemon, then back to you, the dark flush of embarrassment creeping up his pale neck. He hated how easily you could unmake him. He hated that with a single smile, you could turn the feared Prince of the Greens into a foolish, paranoid boy.
"The gods have a twisted sense of humor, then," Aemond rasped, though his voice had lost its lethal edge, returning to that quiet, gravelly friction. He carefully shifted the squirming Corlys to one arm, using his free hand to reach out. His long, elegant fingers—still stained with the dark soil of the garden—pressed flat against your swelling stomach, feeling the faint, miraculous warmth through the fabric of your skirts.
"Daemon plays his games," he murmured, his eye narrowing slightly as he stared at the parchment in your hand, though the fury was gone, replaced by a deep, calculating wariness. "He dangles the heads of my enemies before me and calls it a family dinner. He knows what Luke took from me."
He leaned down, his nose brushing against yours, his breath hot and redolent of the morning air. The frost was still there in his posture, but his touch against your belly was fiercely gentle, possessive, and protective.
"I am a monster to them," Aemond whispered, his sapphire eye locked onto yours. "But if the gods made me for you, then I will be whatever creature keeps this house safe. Let Daemon whisper his jests across the sea. You are mine. This boy is mine. And the babe beneath your hand is mine."
He pulled back slightly, his chin tilting up with a trace of that stubborn Targaryen pride. "We are not going to Driftmark. If the Sea Snake wishes to see his namesake, he may sail here. But I will not sit at a table with the boy who stole my eye and pretend we are brothers."
"You don’t decide that husband—we go and you will be good," you countered, your voice a soft but unyielding tide. "No one is asking for peace just for a moment of—solitude."
Aemond let out a sharp, incredulous breath, a low sound that was half-scoff and half-groan. He looked at you as if you had truly lost your mind.
"Solitude?" he repeated, his voice dropping into a dangerous, frost-nipped whisper. "You want me to find solitude at a table with the Rogue Prince? You expect me to sit across from Lucerys Strong and politely ask him to pass the salt with the very hand that dug my eye from my skull?"
He stared at you, waiting for you to see the madness of your request. But your gentle smile didn't waver. It was the same smile that had tamed his fury in the gardens, the same smile that reminded him he was no longer a weapon to be pointed at a battlefield.
Slowly, the rigid tension in his shoulders began to bleed out, though he maintained his cold, brooding scowl. He looked down at your squirming son in his arms, then back to the unmistakable curve of your belly. You were entirely defenseless against the monsters of the world, yet you stood before him completely unafraid of the wolves across the sea—because you knew you brought the fiercest wolf with you.
"You are a tyrant," Aemond rasped, leaning down until his lips almost brushed yours, his breath hot and defensive. "A beautiful, merciless tyrant. My mother raised me to burn my enemies, and my wife commands me to sit at their table and 'be good.'"
“But you’ll be good, won’t you.” You smiled
His hand remained pressed firmly against your swelling stomach, his long fingers splayed protectively over the life growing inside you. He let out a defeated, resentful sigh, the last of his fiery protest dying in his throat.
"If a single one of them looks at you with malice—if Daemon so much as breathes a jest about our son's name—I am not answering for the consequences," he warned, his sapphire eye flashing with a cold, protective promise. "But I will go. For you. And for a moment of this... wretched solitude. I will sit at the table with Lucerys Strong.”
"Lucerys Velaryon," you corrected, your voice cool and steady as you held his gaze.
Aemond’s jaw clenched so hard a muscle jumped in his cheek. He let out a low, mocking hiss through his teeth. "He can call himself a Velaryon until the sea swallows the world, wife, but the mirror does not lie. Nor does the blood he spilled."
"The blood is in the past, Aemond," you said softly, taking a step closer so the curve of your belly pressed firmly against his hip. "The war has taken enough from everyone. Look at our son. Look at the life we are building here. Do you want him raised on stories of old debts and stolen eyes, or do you want him to know he has a family?"
Aemond looked down at the boy squirming in his grip, his sapphire eye softening for a fraction of a second before the frost hardened over it again. "A family? Daemon is a viper. My cousins are the brood of a usurper. If I walk into High Tide, I am walking into a cage."
"It is not a cage if my father holds the key," you countered, reaching up to lay your hand over his on your stomach. "Corlys would never allow harm to come to us. Not to his namesake, and not to the father of his grandchildren. Daemon knows this. This invitation... it is a test, yes, but it is also a concession. They are acknowledging you are alive, and they are offering a truce. For me. For the children."
Aemond remained silent for a long moment, his chest rising and falling in sharp, jagged breaths. He hated how logical you sounded. He hated that your words made sense even when every instinct in his Targaryen blood screamed at him to fly Vhagar to Driftmark and turn the castle to ash.
"A truce," he repeated, the word tasting like poison on his tongue. "And what happens when I look across the table and see the boy who maimed me? Am I to smile? Am I to toast to his health?"
"No," you said, a small, knowing smile touching your lips. "I expect you to be exactly who you are—proud, terrifying, and utterly untouchable. But you will be civil. You will show them that the Prince of Blood found something more valuable than a throne."
He stared at you, his pale face illuminated by the morning sun, his expression a complex battlefield of lingering resentment and profound, helpless devotion.
"You demand too much of me," he whispered, though his hand turned beneath yours, his fingers interlocking with your own over your swelling belly. "You ask a dragon to forget how to bite."
"I am asking my husband to protect his family," you murmured, tilting your chin up. "Can you do that?"
Aemond leaned down, his forehead resting against yours with a heavy, resigned sigh. "I would kill the world for you," he rasped against your skin, his voice thick with a dark, protective warmth. "Sitting at a table with bastards is a lesser torture, I suppose. But if Daemon pushes me, wife... I make no promises."
“Yeah?” You whispered with a giggled “No promises huh?”
It wouldn't have made sense logistically but I am dying to get a glimpse of the timeline where Aemond, pre-getting humbled at Harrenhal so he's at the height of his arrogance and rage, had to go toe to toe with Ormund "Targaryens are a savage race" Hightower.
They're kind of similar, with the self-righteousness and thinking themselves scholars, but I feel like that'd just make them hate each other even more. It'd be the most rancid vibes, constant dick measuring contest, and even Vhagar looming over the city would probably not make Ormund concede. They'd kill each other before Rhaenyra even has to lift a finger.
Revisted: The Heart is an Ocean
REVISITING: The Heart is an Ocean (Announcement)
Rediscover the great story that got abadonded years ago, embark on a journey unlike no other and discover the final new chapters, the rewritten first chapters and the hopefully not cringe romance i cooked up in this ultimate loveletter to my favourite romantic movie, with a hint of darkaemond (but no, no gore, i promise)
Aemond x reader
after your father died, you are invited to the Balerion (or rather, your mother sold half your house to afford a ticket) once your family led society, and now all that awaits is doom, begging and starvation. Until you run into the arms of the gentleman, Aemond Targaryen. Mr Targaryen is new money, dedicated, and...has definitely his own motives for helping you.
You are Casterella Waters. The daughter of Lady Waters and Lord Gerold Waters. Born first out of three daughters, you are now the main hope for the family fortune. You are incredibly privileged, spoiled, rude, and perfectly morally grey for the time period we are in. Quotes said by reader that made me laugh: ''Smoking is for the gentleman. And the homeless.'' ''Men that were so old that they could have been there to witness the grace and beauty of the dinosaurs themselves.''
Aemond Targaryen is the love interest. Disinherited by his father at a young age, Aemond served your family many years ago. You wouldn't recall, but he definitely remembers. And not for the good reasons. Aemond has build his fortune with both legal and not so legal means, doesn't shy away from violence and has his own plans to make a fortune in Valyria where the Balerion is heading....if it will arrive, of course that is.
Snippet below, outline done today. it won't be a very gore or dark fic, so if you do like a tragic story, a morally grey reader and her morally grey husband to me, feel free to sign up for the reader list, or just like the post. I plan to publish part 1 again when i have finished the other parts, and i finished outlining today with my lovely friend.
BUT WE DO HAVE SNIPPETS. snippets belowww.
‘’Another boat,’’ You commented, putting your gigantic elegant hat straight on your head. ‘’I hope Mother tires of these useless vacations soon.’’ The boat looked like a monster that had just risen from the bottom of the sea. A steel death trap, filled with dozens of already cheering workers and middle-class citizens who had been dreaming of even touching the dirty decks of The Balerion.
‘’Don’t be negative, Clestrella’’ You rolled your eyes at your sister’s constantly annoying optimism. ‘’And besides, it’s a ship. The Balerion is known to be the ship of dreams.’’ You thought you would not survive being with your sister Maelyn that long. You would not see the Port of Valyria before you had thrown her overboard, into the cold icy waters. Or so you thought.
Your brain had no trouble seeing the negative, dark reality that all fools around you ignored. ‘’Why does it look like a nightmare, then?’’ You commented. ‘’It’s like a death trap. Once we are at sea, nothing will save us.’’
/////
The lights briefly flickered, sent chills down your spine, and made you briefly clutch your locket. When the lights were turned on again, a man in an elegant black and white suit greeted you with a small elegant bow and a boyish smirk on his lips. ‘’Fancy a smoke?’’ He wondered, his voice betraying he was from the Crown lands.
You huffed, still insulted that your fish did not take your bait. ‘’Do I look like I smoke?’’ You are a lady, a woman of noble class. Smoking is for the gentleman and the homeless.
The man stepped into the light, and for the first time, you could take in his good remaining eye and his sapphire that covered where the other once used to be. ‘’You look bored and stressed. Any man would tell you to smoke.’’ You would enjoy a good cigarette, just blowing off some steam and forgetting the ugly world for a moment. You loved smoking, that was a truth, but your mother always disencourage you to do it in front of other men or anyone important.
He must think your worries could be solved by a simple smoke, he must think you were some lonely depressed rich girl in need of her daddy. The worst part is, you were just that. You needed and missed your daddy’s fortune, but most of all, you missed him. Your mother had barely made time to mourn him and soon you would be married into a loveless marriage, making you completely alone. ‘’You would be too if they sent hoards of bored old men your way.’’ You replied, and usually, your icy cold exterior sends men running from you. Men don’t like women they can’t outsmart or control. Men don’t like well-read women. Men don’t like unknown or mysterious women. Men want to know what they purchase when they try to find a wife.
This one started to smile, however taking you completely by surprise. ‘’You’re the Waters girl.’’ He knew of you. You exhaled deeply. You could not take another peasant storming in and demanding you to leave the room again. You could not face the reality that this could be the final chapter of your family’s legacy and that you would be their downfall.
You had hoped to shut him up before he would even start. ‘’Yes. What of it?’’ You snapped, crossing your arms over your chest when readjusting your dress.
He briefly scratched behind his left ear, before he stepped closer, his hips swaying to the rhythm of your every unsteadier growing heartbeat. ‘’Quite hostile, aren’t we?’’ He tsked, grinning from ear to ear and revealing his beautiful white teeth.
He grabbed your left hand and went to his breast pocket before handing you a cigarette. ‘’Smoke with me, Princess. It might do you some good.’’ You looked at his cigarettes, likely all the good stuff from the Riverlands. The good stuff.
You wanted to smoke when he grabbed his lighter and made a flame for you, carefully shielding it with his hands. But you pretended, as always, that you were not interested right away. ‘’Alright, let’s see if you have anything worthy of my company.’’
You brought the cigarette to your lips after he had lit it for you, and for a brief moment the tabaqua cleansed your soul of all its troubles and misery.
He stood there, watching as you peacefully smoked his cigarettes, both of you not giving a damn about the bypassing passengers who glared daggers. ‘’What is your name?’’ You asked him after you finished your cigarette.
He spoke again, his voice rough as a diamond with a befitting sharp edge that could slit throats. ‘’Aemond.’’ He said. Your chin lifted and you nodded, as you recalled that your mother had given you and your sisters a warning about absolutely not engaging with this ‘’new-money’’ called ‘’Aemond Targaryen’’. You wondered how a Targaryen could be New money, as most of them relied on their ancestors for wealth.
Yet you were in the mood for teasing, perhaps in the mood for upsetting your mother. ‘’Oh, mother warned me for you.’’
The moment you mentioned that, something changed and shifted the mood from teasing and fun to serious and worry. ‘’Did she?’’ He asked, his fingers slightly fumbling with his ring. You eyed it, curiously. It did not look like a wedding ring, however.
You nodded, eager to make him sweat. ‘’Yes. She says you are a bit of a bad boy.’’ You recalled what your mother told you, as well as many ladies in her gossip circle.
He smirked, quite liking your description as you moved closer to him, staring at his pink luscious lips that seemed quite comfortable to touch, perhaps to lick.
‘’Hm.’’ Was all that left his lips, and you would not know if it was an answer or a moan.
You continued filling his head with info you overheard, reminding yourself in the process why he would be a horrible match. ‘’You have a reputation of a horrible temper, flirtations that don’t end well respectively, unbefitting of a follower of the Seven.’’ You were a good religious woman. Your faith mattered to you.
Aemond seemed insulted by your catlike smirk, before grinning. ‘’Life is too short to keep yourself chained down. Unless you like your chains.’’ He added, sizing you up and down as if he was picturing you in chains.
You huffed. ‘’You see, Mr Aemond: I am a woman. Our reputations matter and we can’t just flirt with anyone.’’ You were insulted that he would think you would let him tie you up as some weak meak thing.
Aemond grabbed your gloved hands, making contact with your skin before staring into your eyes, making contact with your very soul. ‘’Are you really that bored with the old fucks she sents your way?’’ You heard of the word fuck before, but never in that way, and certainly not o describe your future husband. It is disgusting, but the silver lining is, whoever you would marry would perhaps not live very long.
‘’Mr Aemond-’’ You started, your sentence unsure as he pushed his fingers against your reddened lips, silencing you before grabbing you gently by your hips.
He breathed against your throat. ‘’Yes or no, love?’’ He asked as you felt more like a woman than any of those old fucks ever could.
You nodded, hesitant at first. ‘’Yes.’’
He grinned, happy that he was handed what he was ever. ‘’Good girl.’’ He whispered against your lips as you breathlessly watched. ‘’I will make you a deal. My father will name me heir soon, and I’ll become a very wealthy man. We can pretend you are my fiancee.’’ His breath briefly raged over your throat, as his eye danced with mischief and promises he would not dare to keep. ‘’No man would dare to bother you during this voyage, after that, I help you find a proper match.’’ You had never been very romantic or desperate. Not the way your little sisters are.
You knew what men wanted. You knew it back then, you know it now and you would know it until the Stranger dragged you into the seventh hell, screaming and dragging your nails into the carpet. Yet you asked, coyly as if this was a great sacrifice. ‘’What shall you wish in return, Mr Targaryen?’’ Aemond grinned, brushing his fingers against your cheeks before slightly bending his face so he could whisper in your ear, sending shivers down your spine.
His price was simple. ‘’One night alone with you, love.’’ He had hoped for one night alone with you. You can imagine what you will be doing that night. ‘’I want you to surrender fully to me, for one night. Just one.’’ He must mistake you for a harlot.
You knew his intentions and you knew his plans. Yet you kept coy as a lady and pretended to not understand where he was hinting at. ‘’And what shall we do on that night?’’ Aemond glanced subtly at your breasts.
He grinned devilishly. ‘’I can think of many things.’’
You liked the attention of someone your age for once. And there was something else about him too. He was like fire and you loved to get burned. You knew he would hurt you, but that didn’t stop you. But no businesswoman would accept her first offer.
‘’What if I talk to your father, hm? How you dare to propose this ridiculous offer to me?’’ You knew Viserys Targaryen was on this ship as well.
His smile vanished and he became quite catty and serious. You liked how he glared at you, clearly affected by your threat. ‘’Talk to him all you want love, I did so for 20 years and he’s not very good at listening.’’ You and Aemond decided to take to the quiet coffee lounge.
‘’But your father has four other children. How are you so certain that you will become the heir?’’ You asked him.
He grinned as if he found it very funny before answering. ‘’I just am, Love.’’
You nodded, lowering your eyes as his lips got closer to yours. ‘’Confidence is the most attractive trait a man can have.’ He simply nodded and bent his head to kiss you. You turned at the last moment, letting your locks touch his lips before you took another cigar from his breast pocket, your red-stained lips curling into a smile. ‘’But cockiness is not.’’ He tried to trap you under his arms, with a grin before you outsmarted him once more, stepping aside, taking off with the cigarette. ‘’I enjoyed your company, Mr Targaryen. Let me know if you ever become anything more than your father’s second-born son, and we shall converse again, perhaps under the delight of a glass of champagne.’’ He grinned, his breath still heavy of your almost kiss before he ran a hand through his silver-blonde hair, nodding as you walked away.
‘’Miss.’’ He muttered, more to himself than to you.
a/n
She stealing his cigarettes might be my favourite scene ive ever written. Its just so chaotic.
''How serious are you about finishing this belly?''
That serious, that I'm planning on rewatching the movie for more inspiration, of course always a good idea. And that serious, that i've got it outlined until chapter 7 which will be our epilogue. So. If you want to support this story, comments and likes and reblogs are appriciated. Anons with animal gifs are also always welcome and cheer me up a lot.
''Is this just gonna be jack and rose belly?''
No. It's def poor boy x rich girl but its def different as well as Aemond now is rich too, and they are both just interesting characters. I think shes more a oc than a reader insert. But what we have with ''paint me your french girls'' thing no, we wont see it. It'll be its own story, hopefully.
We'll see about the movie itself but THIS is the type of acting I want to see from Ewan. HOTD severely underutilizes its cast. I can't wait for all his upcoming projects 👌
