You can call me Dubious. I'm just here to post fic, read fic, mess around etc, etc. I am, unfortunately, in quite the intense Aemond Targaryen phase at the moment, but other characters included in my blorbo collection are twin emperors Calla and Geta, Johnny Storm, and uhm, Sauron (?).
Writing is my comfort outlet. I have been writing fic and original works for well over a decade. Only recently I returned to writing in English, which is not my first language. If you notice weird sentences in my writing it's just a case of me translating a bit too literally from my first language. That to say: all mediocrity is by my own hand and I try to take pride in that. Fic posting is my attempt at reaching out to others by offering self baked cookies. I am always open for a little chat about the blorbos, although I may be slow to reply.
If you want to be updated when I post fic, please turn on the notifications on my library blog @dubiousmetamorphosis-library
While I do not insist on smut/dark themes in my fics, most of my fics do include smut and some may have a dark undertone, therefore, just to be sure, I ask all minors to not interact. I do not accept requests, due to the simple reason that I write long multichapter fics.
Below the cut, you can find a masterlist with all writing posted on this blog.
Banners by @/strangergraphics
Unless otherwise stated, all my x reader fics feature fem!reader
Long fics
Worth Remembering - Caracalla x reader x Geta (completed)
Crushing Depths - Johnny Storm x reader (to be rewritten)
Astray and Beyond - Aemond Targaryen x reader (completed)
Dreadful as the Dawn - Aemond Targaryen x OC (dark; regular updates)
Medium size
Listen For The Wind - Aemond Targaryen x reader (dark; completed)
A Rite of Spring - Geta x reader (completed)
One shots
À Quatre Mains - Dmitri Kravinoff x reader
loosely connected one shots
Consolation Prize
Repechage
Dreams Dwell Within - Daeron Targaryen x reader
Egyptian Summer - Emperor Geta x reader
A Taste of Iron - Daella Targaryen character study
asoiaf & got characters // pt. L - Rhaenyra Targaryen (ver. I, ver. II, ver. III, ver. IV, ver. V,ver. VI, ver. VII, ver. VIII)
“Rhaenyra was born in 97 AC, and as a child her father doted upon her, and took her everywhere with him—even to the council chamber, where he encouraged her to watch and listen intently. For these reasons, the court doted on her as well, and many paid homage to her. The singers dubbed her the Realm's Delight, for she was bright and precocious—a beautiful child who was already a dragonrider at the age of seven as she flew on the back of her she-dragon Syrax, named for one of the old gods of Valyria.”.
A Wiki page, made for my OC M'rone Vilendrys. I used this template by twitter user @/moonstrvckwitch
I created this OC for my hotd/fire&blood Aemond Targaryen x OC darkfic, Dreadful as the Dawn. Do mind that the Wiki includes mild spoilers for that fic, but nothing that I consider to be the most exciting parts of the story.
However, below the 'read more' you can find a more detailed version of the Wiki page, that does include major spoilers for the fic. It mentions what I consider to be the main twist for the story.
Sorry, but I can't "subscribe" to that "Aemond is a misfit" narrative.
To start with, social standards and Westerosi typical gender roles seem perfectly fine by him. I heard the last episode, Aegon reveals to Larys that he was always jealous of Aemond, the golden child whose skills with the blade their parents used to boast of (he allegedly fought in tourneys, which season 1 Aemond denied, but whatever). Aemond seemed to take advantage of his privileged position as a noble and a man. For exaple, he studied history and philosophy, what was out of reach od illiterate commoners, women and even minor lords, who couldn't afford hiring teachers for their sons or maybe even purchsing proper "textbooks".
Aemond didn't seem to have any outsanding od innovative ideas of how could he perfom his masculinity. His political views are utterly traditional. Whether we like the Blacks or not, we cannot deny the mere idea of putting a woman on the Iron Throne is extraordinary, if not shocking. Aemond's fraction, in turn, wants to maintain the status quo. Despite having announced he considers himself more fit to rule because unlike this hedonistic slob Aegon, he studies, train and hates brothels and taverns, Aemond never suggests laws of inheritance ought to favour the most competent candidates instead of firstborn sons. The rule of male primogeniture is fine by him. He only wishes he was the eldest.
And I’m sitting here wondering how the “misfit Aemond” narrative ever came into existence strongly enough to require dismantling. 🤣
I agree with you.
He is not some radical outsider struggling against Westerosi society. He benefits from its hierarchy, embraces its values, and only resents the system when it fails to place him personally at the top.
Pairing: Ramsay Snow (later Bolton) x Kyra Smith (original female character)
Warnings: No beta - we die like men. Dead dove; do not eat. Violence. Gore. Death. Imprisonment.
Word count: ~4.4k
Summary: Winterfell gets a new lord.
Author's note: There is a two year jump in time between this chapter and the last. No tag list. Follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications.
“The matriarch and her pup are dealt with. The stronghold is ours for the taking. Win this for us and you shall bear my name and a marriage worthy of it. – R.B.”
Ramsay cast his eye over the missive a second time, the dull grey light of dawn providing just enough light to read by in the gloom of his bedchamber, and he smirked to himself.
So, the plan his father had hatched with the Freys had worked — Robb Stark was dead, and his mother, Catelyn, along with him. It had been two years since the Baratheon host had departed the Dreadfort alongside the Starks for King’s Landing. King Robert had died since then and a war had broken out regarding his succession amid claims that the children he shared with Cersei Lannister were illegitimate. Ramsay cared little for the politics of the south, it didn’t interest him in the least, yet the cryptic promise within Roose’s message was too good to ignore. He would seize the seat of the North — Winterfell — for his father, and alongside it finally be granted the privilege of his house name, to be recognised as the lord he’d always known he was. To gather up the able bodied men that remained here, and rally a host to travel hundreds of miles north was a considerable effort, but for Ramsay it was worth it; not just for the stronghold itself, but rather who resided within its walls — Kyra. He would never be allowed to marry her once her held the title of Lord Bolton, of course, but the paramour of Lord of the North was nothing to be sniffed at, and he’d ensure it was a position she’d be grateful of; every beast will settle for table scraps if you starved it long enough. She would bend to his will, he’d make sure of it.
He had not seen or heard from her since she had betrayed and deserted him two years previous, despite the farewell gift he had sent her; he still remembered how stoic her father had remained right until the end, barely even wincing as Ramsay’s falchion had carved into his chest. It was almost admirable, and in that moment he became aware of where Kyra had inherited her strength of character from. Despite her absence, his sense of ownership over her had never faltered. It had crossed his mind more times than he could count to make the journey to Winterfell and simply seize her back, however, since his father had gone south he had been left in charge of the Dreadfort, and could not simply abandon his post. Now he was being given leave to pursue her, and his blood felt like it burned with the force of the pull he felt towards her. A part of him wanted to wrap his hands around her scrawny neck and make her plead of his forgiveness for her ingratitude and treachery, yet at the same time, buried deep, he knew that if she cast even the softest of glances his way he would call her to his bed without hesitation and make her repent in ways far more primal in their familiarity. He shivered at the thought, curling the parchment in his fist.
Glancing over at the sleeping form of the naked woman next to him, her dark hair spread across the pillows as she slept with her back to him, Ramsay sighed. For a moment he considered simply smothering her so as not to have to deal with the fuss she’d make at being left behind — Myranda’s fits of jealousy and neediness for his attention bored him. Her only saving grace was that she seemed to actively take enjoyment in spectating, and even participating in, his hunts of women through the woods. Her possessiveness of him was often a contributing factor in the choice of women that found themselves fleeing from the hounds. Life would be easier if he was rid of her, but then he was struck by an idea — perhaps Kyra would be easier to coax back to his side if she believed he had easily replaced her, maybe there was some small part of her that cared enough for him still to be stirred by envy. Myranda’s likeness to her had been the reason he had first invited her into his bed; she was slender, pale skinned, with long, dark hair, yet her eyes were hazel where Kyra’s were blue, her features soft and rounded where Kyra’s were chiselled and sharp. That was why he held her face down each time he fucked her — pressed into the pillows, he could imagine she was Kyra as he sank inside of her, though she didn’t really feel the same; she was too eager, too pliant, she didn’t fight back.
“Get up!” he snapped, shoving roughly at her shoulder, “We’ve a journey to prepare for.”
Kyra’s thumb pushed against the flat of the blade, curving the knife carefully, and watching as the skin came away from the potato she peeled. The pile of spuds upon the work bench was smaller than she was accustomed to preparing — there were less people to cook for now; the thought made her throat feel tight. Her gaze lifted as a dark presence filled the doorway to the scullery, and she tutted as she watched Rickon hover hesitantly with his large black direwolf, Shaggydog — almost twice his height — looming at his side.
“You know he’s not allowed in the kitchens,” she sighed, setting both the knife and half peeled potato down, and wiping her hands upon her apron, “not even Dog comes back here.”
“That was a rule that Mother made. She’s gone now,” Rickon said quietly.
Kyra felt a tight squeeze in her chest, and her expression softened instantly at the sad listlessness in the boy’s tone. He looked so much like Catelyn — all wide, blue eyes and fiery curls — his presence made it hard to believe that she had really died, for here was living proof of her. “That doesn’t mean we don’t respect her rules,” she reminded gently.
Rickon looked thoughtful for a moment, and he reached up, absentmindedly ruffling the wolf’s ear, as if the gentle gesture helped him to gather his thoughts. “Bran says Mother was killed,” he finally said, “what will happen to us?”
Kyra pressed her lips into a tight line. She would have to speak to Old Nan, let her know that Bran was to be reminded that there were certain things that Rickon was still too young to understand, and so they shouldn’t be spoken of to him until he was. But that was too late for this particular topic. She rounded the table, stepping towards the little Stark lord and his wolf, and crouched before them both.
“Nothing will happen to you so long as I’m around,” she reassured him, reaching out to take his tiny hand in hers, “and you’ve got Maester Llewyn, Hodor, and Osha, and Theon is keeping us all safe too. Okay?”
Rickon gave a small nod and Kyra found herself smiling at the sweetness of it. “There’s a good lad,” she told him, “it’s mutton stew tonight. Keep that wolf of yours out of the scullery and he can share the bones with Dog. Alright?”
Smiling back at her, Rickon patted his thigh, “come, Shaggydog!” he called as he scurried away, the direwolf at his heels.
“You spoil the lad, you’ll make him soft.”
Kyra peered over her shoulder, standing as she watched Theon enter through the back entrance to the scullery. She sighed, resuming her peeling of the potatoes for supper. “He’s just lost his mother. A firm hand won’t make that loss easier for him.”
Theon’s arms encircled her waist from behind, pulling her back flush against his chest. Kyra stiffened. They had first fallen into bed together three months into her arrival at Winterfell, but it was no more than that; they didn’t love one another — Theon laid with her because he had already had every woman who would welcome him into their bed, and Kyra was convenient. Kyra bedded Theon because he served as a distraction to how lost she felt having moved to Winterfell amidst the grief of losing her father. Over time, they just became a habit to one another. Though Kyra felt sickened to her stomach whenever Ramsay entered her thoughts — she had sobbed in the back of the cart for three days when he had sent her her father’s heart — it was impossible not to compare Theon to him, especially as Ramsay was the only other man she had ever been with. Theon was wiry and cocksure, where Ramsay was solid and intense. Theon bedded her for the pure hedonistic joy of it, showing enthusiasm in a way that was not unlike Dog chasing deer through the Wolfswood; she never felt owned, consumed, utterly possessed in the way she had when Ramsay was between her thighs. There was a part of her that hated herself for looking back at that time in her life with any semblance of fondness, but also a part of her that hated Theon for not fulfilling the raw primal need that roared to life within her whenever she was aroused.
“You know, none of this would ever have happened if Robb had just taken me south with him,” Theon complained, the stubble of his jaw grazed against Kyra’s neck as he spoke. “The Freys would have been long dead before they even thought to lay a finger upon him or Lady Catelyn. Fancies himself king in the north, but then leaves a skilled fighter of the Iron Islands behind to play nursemaid to his baby brothers.”
Kyra rolled her eyes. “And what would you have had him do instead?”
Theon nipped at Kyra’s earlobe, groping her breast through the wool of her dress. “He could have sent me home, let me return with an army of Ironborn to fight for his cause.”
“And leave Winterfell defenceless?” She challenged him.
He scoffed, pulling abruptly away from her. “What would you know? You’re just a scullery maid.”
Kyra’s jaw clenched, not turning to look as she listened to Theon stomp away from her, then returned her attention to the potatoes once more.
Cold air curled around the damp hair at the nape of Ramsay’s neck, freezing it in tendrils that clung to his skin uncomfortably. He had sweated in the thick furs he had cloaked himself in when he had mounted his stallion, Blood, but had been glad of them as he and the fifty men he had gathered from the Dreadfort had journeyed north with all of the horses and hounds that remained — he had driven them hard, only allowing the briefest of rests at the roadside when both men and horses were too tired to continue. They stopped only in daylight, travelling by night, and now the walls of Winterfell were in sight. His breath puffed out in a thick cloud in front of him as his gloved hands tightened on the reins, taking in the fortress before him. Inky blackness blanketed the sky above, a sliver of silver moon visible through wisps of murky clouds. The army he had gathered would not be enough to seize the castle ordinarily, however, that was before the Starks had taken every able bodied fighter south. Robb had foolishly believed the loyalty of Northerners would keep Winterfell safe, but that same naivety was the reason he no longer drew breath. Only feeble men, women and children resided here now, he would simply march his men through the gates and claim it as his own — the entire castle would be abed, it would be effortless. Theon was Ramsay’s only true opposition, and though he knew little of the Stark’s Greyjoy ward, he knew most men were not foolish enough to not yield when half a score of swords were drawn upon them. The lack of a challenge was enough to almost bore Ramsay, but he would find ways to entertain himself, he was sure of that.
“Tonight you shall fuck me in Lord and Lady Stark’s bed,” came the soft lilt of Myranda’s voice, as she drew her mare alongside him, a smug smile upon her face.
A muscle in Ramsay’s jaw ticked in annoyance as he glanced sideways at her, ignoring her remark as he urged Blood forward, and commanded his men, “break open the gates!’
There was no one manning the watchtowers — they either believed themselves safe enough to leave them empty, or those that were stationed there had spotted Ramsay’s advance and gone to warn those inside. When the gates were broken from their hinges, he rode through, the remainder of his men at his back, and pulled to a stop in the centre of the courtyard. The air was thick with anticipation, his army awaiting their next command, but Ramsay remained silent, surveying the stronghold around him — the high towers and peaked roofs of the sprawling expanse of the castle. Yes, this would suit him just fine — he would gladly be Lord of Winterfell.
“I take Winterfell in the name of House Bolton,” he called out, loud enough — he hoped — to wake those that remained asleep, “bring me the remaining Stark boys and Theon Greyjoy!”
Swinging down from his horse, he ordered twenty of his men to enter the castle and drag out all who were inside. “It is time they met their new lord and master,” he uttered.
Ramsay prowled like a caged beast as he waited, his fingers flexing with impatience around the hilt of the falchion at his hip as men and women, still disheveled from sleep, were marched outside. He paused as a tall, slender figure was hauled between two men before him, and dropped unceremoniously to his knees.
Ramsay drew his blade, placing the tip of it beneath the man’s chin and lifted until his gaze met his own. He was chiseled, handsome by conventional standards, yet the fear in his large, dark eyes was unmistakable. “Theon Greyjoy, I presume?” he drawled.
Theon swallowed thickly, nodding as much as the blade pressed against his flesh would allow. “Y–yes. Winterfell is yours, we offer no resistance.”
Looking around at the varying degrees of horror, disgust and betrayal dawning upon the faces of those who had been hauled from their beds, Ramsay grinned, teeth glinting sharply in the moonlight. He had not expected the Greyjoy whelp to cede so easily to him, and apparently neither had the people left in his charge. It was a pity, he thought, he would have enjoyed breaking him down into submission, and had been robbed of the chance. He would need to find other ways to entertain himself at Theon’s expense. For now, the sense of fear and unease that hung viscous in the air was far more satisfying than any fanfare or half-hearted resistance.
“Very good,” he smiled, sheathing his falchion as he stared down at Theon, watching him visibly sag with relief, “now, I believe you have Starklings in your care.”
“Their beds are empty,” said one of the Bolton men, “and their direwolves are gone.”
Ramsay’s head snapped up, eyes suddenly wide with sudden fury. “What?! Isn’t one of them a cripple? How far could the boy have crawled?”
His gaze swept over the inhabitants of Winterfell, freezing as it settled upon the last person to be dragged outside — Kyra. Her eyes went wide as she looked upon him, and Ramsay held her stare, mouth twitching with the ghost of a smile.
There she was.
His attention was pulled away at the sound of a click beside him, and he turned to watch Myranda shouldering her crossbow and taking aim — straight at Kyra’s head.
“Don’t,” he commanded, grasping the tiler and tugging it from her hands.
Myranda pouted, scowling at him sulkily, but he ignored her. Instead, he took aim at an elderly, grey haired man clad in robes — his chain indicated he was the castle’s maester. He collapsed to the ground with a clipped groan as Ramsay fired a bolt into his back — straight through his heart.
Screams and cries of terror broke out among those gathered, and Ramsay raised his voice to be heard above them. “I shall flay this man and hang him from the castle walls — a warning for those of you who think to flee or disobey,” he then turned his attention back to Theon, who still knelt before him, head bowed, “and the same fate will await you if you do not track those Stark pups down and return them to me.”
Kyra had never seen the tower cells of Winterfell before, she’d never had a reason to. When she had arrived almost two years ago, she had been welcomed into the household staff and put to work in the kitchens — she’d worked hard, and always had a warm bed to sleep in. She had never imagined her first sighting of one of these cramped spaces would be when she was locked into one, but now she was, and she had lost all sense of how much time had passed.
She had been startled awake by shouts of “Bolton men at the gates!” and her heart had lurched, her blood freezing in her veins, before she recovered her senses and scrambled from her bed. She had gathered Hodor and Osha, urging them to take Bran, Rickon and their direwolves, and flee through the tunnels beneath the keep. She knew what — who — would be coming for them, and the safest place for them was as far from Winterfell as they could be taken. She had had half a mind to go with them, but she knew Ramsay’s ire would be twice as vicious if she was absent too, and so she had stayed; her running away had cost one life already, she did not want anyone else to suffer on her account. She allowed herself to be discovered once she had pushed a cabinet in front of the door through which the boys and their guardians had left, and she had been dragged outside, barefoot and shivering.
Kyra had swallowed down bile, hot and acidic, as she had locked eyes with Ramsay across the courtyard. The moonlight glinted off of the blooddrop shaped ruby that hung from his earlobe — the one she had pierced for him all those years ago. His eyes were filled with malice as he stared her down, suppressing a smile. She wanted to hate Theon for how easily he had surrendered, but in her heart she knew he had done the only sensible thing he could have — to resist would have meant certain death. The trouble was that there was no sense when it came to Ramsay Snow, Theon hadn’t saved his or anyone else’s life, he had simply delayed the inevitable, and that had been proven when Ramsay had slain Maester Llewyn without hesitation. Kyra’s knees had felt like they would buckle beneath her as she swallowed down a scream.
Theon had been sent from Winterfell with two of Ramsay’s men to seek out Bran and Rickon. Kyra prayed silently that he wouldn’t return, or if he did that it would be empty handed.
“Will you bow to your new lord?” Ramsay had murmured later, once he had her alone, twisting a lock of her dark hair around his fingers in a sickening mock gesture of affection.
“I’d rather die,” she had spat.
He’d laughed. “That can certainly be arranged.”
The cell was clean — the Starks did not make a habit of locking up prisoners, and those that were incarcerated were not made to live in filth, she was grateful for that much. She had half expected to be forgotten about, that she would be left to starve, and that the high, grey stone walls of this place would become her tomb, but she was wrong. Though it was cold and uncomfortable — she had not been allowed to change out of her nightgown since the Bolton army had invaded, and had only a scratchy wool blanket to protect herself against the icy winds that blew through the barred window, and a hard wooden bench to sleep upon — she was brought a meal each day, that Ramsay delivered personally.
He would unlock the cell door, hand her a plate, and sit with her until she was finished. These daily visits were tense and uncomfortable. Kyra longed to lunge at her captor, to tear his throat out, and she knew he suspected as much — she was never given any cutlery to eat with, having to make do with her fingers. She noticed a pattern as food was brought each day — goose, grouse, rabbit — all things that Ramsay had given her or that she had eaten with him during their time together at the Dreadfort. It was a twisted play upon nostalgia, intended to warm her feelings towards him. She would have thrown it back in his face if her stomach wasn’t growling with hunger by the time he attended to her each day, so instead she tore into the meat with enthusiasm which bordered upon feral, turning away so she did not have to watch the pleased look upon Ramsay’s face as he observed her.
“You know, I will set you free,” Ramsay said softly as she gnawed upon the greasy flesh of a rabbit leg, the meat gamey upon her tongue, barely enough to sate her hunger, “all you have to do is say you’re sorry, that you’re mine.”
Kyra ignored him, hunched over, shoulders pulled up toward her ears, and he sighed, clearly growing impatient.
“I am being very forgiving, considering your betrayal,” he continued, voice tight with restraint, “I will allow you the warmth of my bed, after you have bathed, of course — you stink. Wouldn’t you like a nice, warm bath?”
“You killed my father,” Kyra replied flatly, letting the bone clatter to the plate.
“Are you really still upset about that?” he scoffed, “He was dying anyway, it was a kindness.”
Tears of rage pricked at the corners of Kyra’s eyes and she sniffed, finally turning enough to meet Ramsay’s gaze. “Then kill me too”
Ramsay drew back slightly, brow furrowing. “And where is the fun in that? I’ve been good to you — kept you fed, kept a roof over your head, that’s all I’ve ever done for you, and you repay me with such ingratitude. You ought to consider yourself lucky.”
Lucky.
Kyra hiccuped around a sob. She could almost have laughed at the preposterousness of his words. “Is Dog still alive?” she whispered.
“Of course he is. I gifted him to you, did I not? He is safe in the kennels with the other hounds. I would not snuff out such precious memories between you and I. Surely that alone would tempt you back to my side?”
Kyra sagged back against the wall, hair hanging limp and oily in front of her eyes, feeling a weight of hopelessness settle over her. When she said nothing, Ramsay stood, taking her plate.
“It seems you need more time to consider my generous offer. Don’t take too long, even the depths of my kindness has its limits”
Kyra closed her eyes, inhaling shakily as she listened to the key turn in the lock. She wondered when Ramsay would tire of this game, and for how much longer she would draw breath once he did.
She awoke a few hours later, the sky outside the bars of the window was pitch black. The only light cast into the cell came from the brazier burning on the wall outside. She turned her head, blinking in surprise when she noticed the woman stood on the other side, hands wrapped around the bars as she watched her intently. She recognised her — she was the woman who had stood beside Ramsay, wielding a crossbow, when he had seized Winterfell.
“What’s so special about you?” she asked, her voice soft and quiet, yet laced with bitterness.
“What?” Kyra asked, sitting up and rubbing her eyes.
“You left him, you didn’t want him, and yet still he keeps you alive. Why?!”
Her voice cracked on the last word, and it was then that Kyra realised — she was jealous. This foolish woman was in love with Ramsay, and viewed Kyra as a threat.
“He can’t love you back,” Kyra said as kindly as she could, “but that doesn’t mean he loves me either. You’d be safer if—”
“I should kill you myself!” the woman raged, cutting her off, knuckles whitening as her grip tightened around the bars.
“Then why don’t you?” Kyra challenged, holding her gaze.
She watched her pretty features twist petulantly, jaw clenched in anger. She didn’t have a key to the cell, couldn’t get at Kyra. Ramsay knew exactly what she intended if he allowed her access, and so he kept it from her. Kyra would have pitied her if she had space within her own despair for it — foolish girl, attempting to earn the affection of a wild animal and deflecting blame elsewhere each time she’s bitten. Kyra turned away from her, curling up on her side and closing her eyes once more.
When Ramsay came to her cell the following day, he was empty handed — no plate of food to offer her. He unlocked the cell and extended a hand to her, a silent invitation for her to take it. He was smiling wildly, it opened a pit in the depths of Kyra’s stomach.
“Lord Greyjoy has returned. Come and see.”
Ramsay hauled Kyra by her arm from the cell and down the winding staircase into the courtyard. Theon turned as she was dragged forth, then averted his gaze abruptly as he caught sight of her. The fleshless corpse of Maester Llewyn hung by its feet from the walls, already pecked at by crows. She’d have vomited if she had anything in her stomach to bring up. But it was not that that Ramsay wanted her to look upon.
“Behold what remains of the Stark pups!” Ramsay declared.
The two small figures being hauled up by ropes against the wall were charred and blackened beyond recognition, what little remained that wasn’t burned glistened pinkly in the dull grey afternoon light. Kyra’s breath caught, her chest feeling suddenly tight, the ground unsteady beneath her feet. She wrenched away from Ramsay’s grasp, rounding on Theon, her voice a hoarse shriek.
“What did you do?! What did you do?!”
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Genuinely curious because I started in the fanfic community back in like...2008, and it was a very different place then. I feel like I see an abundance of reader fics and that there isn't as much attention/love for oc fics these days. I'm not sure if this is a shift in the fanfic community, or just in the tags/fandoms I'm in.
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: M’rone is offered futile protection.
Chapter warnings: Mind the general warnings; rape/non-con; (beginning) drug addiction; death.
Word count: 8.8k
divider by @/strangergraphics
Breathing heavily in her ear, he—finally, finally, finally—pulls out. His seed spills between her legs, soiling the sheets, soiling her. One would think that by now she would have grown used to how he indulges in her flesh, but she has not. It still makes her squirm and ache, burn and freeze. It still mangles her. He lays down beside her, hooking his leg around hers. His hand wanders to the softness of her belly.
Into the quiet she whispers, ‘I need more milk of the poppy.’
It is all she thirsts for since reading those dreadful words two days past.
He has died, my beloved Narvo has died and with it he has been released from all pain and agony. But Trystane and Lanna are fatherless and I am like you. Widowed and miserable.
And she screamed when she read it. Narvo’s passing makes four. Four of her kin stolen away by the Shade in less than a year. She could have screamed herself to death. It was all Aemond could think of to make her stop: milk of the poppy. A sweet relief, a numb comfort. It brings silence and it brings sleep. Without dreams, without visions, without Helaena. She had almost forgotten what it was like to sleep before her slumbering world was so usurped. But now she remembers and now all she wants is that void.
He kisses her cheek, and if the gesture is meant to be soothing, then it only half fails in its intent. ‘You must go without it.’
‘Without it I will go mad,’ she mutters, as she gazes up at that awful ceiling painting: Aegon the Conqueror on the Black Dread, flying towards Westeros to conquer it, to reduce it to ash and servitude.
‘Go to sleep, Moondrop.’ He kisses her cheek. It burns.
But it is not sleep anymore. Every minute she spends breathing, be it awake, be it asleep, she is writhing in the hold of a terrible nightmare.
‘Aemond,’ she says and as she speaks, she knows she must not tell him, but who else to tell but him? ‘I am frightened.’
Her heart pounds once, twice, thrice, and he shifts to sit upright. It ought not to be a comfort to see him like this, naked as the day he was born, feint moonlight making the sapphire in his eye socket shimmer, but it is comforting in a way it should not. Even more so not after what he did to her just now. And yesterday. And the day before.
He is all she has left.
He looks down on her solemnly and caresses her cheek. His signet ring is cold against her flesh, but his touch is warm. He always is warm.
‘You need not be.’
‘I lie in bed with the man who killed my father.’
He does not say a word. As he rakes his fingers through her hair, she adds, ‘But I am not scared of you.’
‘Of what then, M’rone?’
It is difficult to say. Perhaps of her dreams, perhaps of her waking hours. Perhaps of the night’s shadows, perhaps of the daylight. Perhaps of herself, perhaps of everyone else.
She takes hold of his wrist, her touch almost gentle. ‘I fear… The Black Dread.’
It makes no sense, and yet it does. Aemond looks down on her with strange compassion. He kisses her brow. He lies down once more, pulling her close, keeping her even closer. She, against all better judgement, finds herself growing mellow and comfortable in his embrace. A few slow moments pass and then, without cause, he begins to sing. Softly, gently, in High Valyrian. A lullaby or a spell, who is to say?
Fidgeting with her mother’s swan pendant, M’rone looks down at the scene unfolding in the courtyard. Aemond Targaryen stands, hands folded, as before him a lord of the Realm lowers himself onto one knee. From here, on the castle walls, she can hardly hear what the Westerosi king is telling his leal servant. One would hope a blessing, a word of encouragement. Most likely, however, he is weaving threats of solid ice.
‘Unwin Peake, you said?’ M’rone asks.
She is addressing no one in particular. As of late she often is, for she is shadowed by her two ladies-in-waiting whenever the sun is high in the sky. Like usual it is Ivelenn Serrett, the most eager of her two ladies, who hurries to reply, ‘Yes, my lady. The lord of Starpike.’
‘In what does he differ from the last one who they sent on this quest? Does he dabble in witchcraft himself perhaps?’ she asks.
‘O-of course not, my lady!’ Ivelenn exclaims.
‘How then is he to put a witch to death? It is like sending a mouse to slay a lion.’
Ivelenn sets a step closer, as if that were to make her reply any more convincing. ‘Lord Peake is an experienced commander and a brave knight, my lady. He fought bravely at both battles at Tumbleton, he—’
Adain snorts and Ivelenn, softhearted girl she is, falters in her attempt at steadfastness immediately. Bemused, M’rone turns to the younger girl. The young lady Corbray is in better spirits than when she met her a month and a half ago. Ivelenn confided in her that the girl’s father has arrived at court, and with it, her ability to smile has returned if only partly. A hostage is how Adain described herself, and so M’rone can imagine that her father arriving at court must have joyed her just as a prisoner rejoices over the visit of a dear family member.
‘You are amused, Adain.’
The girl just shrugs, almost shyly.
‘Go on, my lady,’ M’rone insists, her gaze drifting back to the scene below.
Aemond gives a final nod, having completed whatever grim speech he tortured Peake with, and turns his back on this second host bound for Harrenhall. As he sets to leave the courtyard, he raises his head ever so slightly. Once he catches sight of her on the walls, a ghost of a smile passes over his lips. She does not meet it in kind. She did not come to see him, but only to see what sort of man one would send away to deal with his witch queen. These measures seem to her inadequate. If Alys Rivers is truly as unfathomable as Aemond makes her out to be, this will be the first and last time she ever sets eye on this lord Unwin Peake.
Behind her, Adain explains, ‘Ivelenn is too kind in her portrayal of the lord of Starpike, my lady. He all but allowed his men to ravage Tumbelton after the first battle, and only survived the second one through cowardice. Not to mention, he sent dozens of men to their death by encouraging them to try to claim the dragon Silverwing.’
A shiver runs through her spine. Horrid, to persuade men who could never stand a chance at claiming a dragon to still try it. It must have been a futile effort, and a bloody one. Aemond has told her of Silverwing’s fate: she has made a lair for herself on an island in a lake, growing wilder each moon. M’rone frowns. ‘I suppose if he were to die, this Realm would not mourn the loss too much then.’
Of course, Ivelenn, ever the obedient young lady, insists, ‘But, my lady, we must pray that he does not.’
Yes, pray, that is what Ivelenn would have her do. That golden haired girl has tried on multiple occasions now to convince M’rone to join her and Adain for prayer in the Royal Sept. She has declined each time. She has no need for new gods. Nor for her old one. It has been weeks since she last whispered a prayer to the moon. Why bother when so clearly no one is listening?
‘Too much is at stake for him to suffer defeat,’ Ivelenn continues. ‘May the Gods guide him. The witch at Harrenhall has been a blight on the Riverlands for too long now. If she is not subdued soon, Seven protect us. She must be defeated, for all our sakes.’
She speaks as if Alys Rivers were to come down to King’s Landing to curse her personally. Sweet, silly girl. If any of them should be afraid, it is likely M’rone. By all she knows Alys Rivers loved Aemond once, but he has discarded her and now takes to bed not only his queen but also a foreign widow. Would that witch of Harrenhall even care, that she indulges his desires only out of necessity, only by force? Likely not. If she truly is a witch and a queen of demons, then she would cast her dark spells regardless. Or maybe she already has—and M’rone has been none the wiser, for no dark magic can make her life more miserable than it already is.
Below Unwin Peake, weighed down by chain mail and plate armor, is helped onto a step in order to mount his mare. At this M’rone says, ‘It never crossed my mind, ser Morrigen, that you Westerosi knights would need a step and the help of two squires only to mount a horse.’
Her sworn sword only grunts. That is how he replies to most of her observations, with groans and hums and other ambiguous sounds.
‘These horses must be really strong,’ she adds, turning to look at the stern man with a toothy grin.
He all but rolls his eyes.
‘Do not mind me, ser,’ she says only half apologetically.
‘Minding you is the only thing I am here for, lady,’ he grumbles.
‘I suppose you are, ser,’ she sighs as she slips past him.
Her ladies hurry to follow in her trail. No sooner have they entered Maegor’s Holdfast or someone bars her way. Blinking in surprise she comes to a startled halt. As of late nobles have been stopping her in the hallways of the Keep or, worse, trying to be granted an audience in her rooms. She tries her best to avoid such meetings. She has no inclination or, indeed, need to become part of this court beyond the role Aemond has pushed her in. Being expected to attend when the king hears petitions of importance is shame enough already. She does not mean to further deepen that by mingling in the politics of a foreign country. It has been quite the hassle to avoid the likes of Qyle Martell, Jasper Wylde and Priscilla Celtigar, all whom have tried to approach her with smiles that unnerve her and words that are far too kind to utter on first meetings. There is dishonesty aplenty in these courtiers’ manners and she has no taste for it. To some degree she even prefers Adain Corbray’s tangible distaste for her.
But this intervener she minds not. Halys Reed is always pleasant company, if only because he looks at her with a kindness that echoes one she enjoyed in her husband’s eyes for so long. As of late, she has seen little and less of him, for which she was rather sorry. But the joy in seeing him now is only the greater for it. His hair has grown a bit, the curls becoming more unruly than one would imagine a member of the Small Council would allow. He is dressed finely, but not so dashingly as other men of the court. There is a simplicity to him which she can appreciate.
A simplicity which she herself lacks. All of a sudden highly aware of how she is dressed, she averts her gaze. Her wardrobe has become a labyrinth of dresses befitting a Braavosi highborn lady. All marvelous dresses, in the most recent styles, and of the most refined tastes. While Braavosi in design and coloring, they are in luxury suited for this Westerosi court. But it matters little. They suit her as they would a courtesan—the likes whose company can only be bought by the richest of men. She is ashamed for Halys Reed to see her like this. It is a farce, she is a farce.
But yet he bows his head and speaks so politely, ‘Lady Vilendrys, as always it is a joy to see you.’
She cannot help it: tilting her head, she taunts, ‘And yet you have not come to see me in quite some time, lord Reed.’
Behind her, to her left side, Ivelenn Serrett inhales sharply. She is easily scandalized. Will she report this exchange of words to the king? Let her, she does not mind. Aemond, as far as she understands, relies too much on Halys Reed to discard him over this.
‘Apologies, my lady,’ he says, his gaze flickering to her entourage, but only for a moment. ‘I was wondering if we could have a word. On the matter of your sister’s stay on Driftmark.’
And there goes all tentative joy. Drenace, still resides on that forsaken island, now too struck by grief to find it in herself to sail homebound. After weeks of suffering, spent swaying between the world of the living and the dead, Narvo Florel has passed on to the other side of the veil. Her dear sister wrote of his passing in terms of relief, for she could not stand to see him ache so, but M’rone well knows that the relief is far outweighed by sorrow.
Her sister’s words reach her in crooked handwriting, parchment marked by spilled ink, and sealed with a clumsy press of wax. While she writes of all sorts of practical reasons for her delay, M’rone has an inkling something else is at play. No, not that Daemion Velaryon of whom the courtiers whisper. But that which she has bid her sister to do. She fears returning home, she fears taking on burden of their inheritance. Never was she groomed for it as M’rone was. But she must go back to Braavos, she simply must—too much time has passed already. If only Aemond would allow her to go visit Drenace, she could comfort her enough for her to find just a bit of courage. She could see to it that Lanna weeps in her mother’s arms, instead of hers.
‘It is no ill news, my lady, I assure you.’ M’rone nods, unable for a moment to speak, but Reed does so in her place, ‘It would be best we discuss this in private. Come.’
He bids her to follow him, and he does. How she wishes that he would offer her his arm. But no man at this court dares to touch her, and she will not force him into such danger. Only when he guides her not up the stairs, but down them, does she realize he is not accompanying her to her quarters or even the gardens. Yet, she poses no questions. Not even when, in the deep innards of the Red Keep’s basements, he bids her ladies and guard to remain behind.
Perhaps now she should raise her voice in alarm, but she finds no wish to do so. Instead she gives a nod as a gesture of permission to her entourage. The Master of Whisperers is putting in explicit effort to speak to her in private. This behavior speaks of urgency, not so much of deceit. And so she follows Halys Reed—into a room of worship.
The sight of the massive dragon skull makes her falter in her step. It is hoisted over a large altar, which is laden with lit candles. Their orange glow is what keeps the room somewhat illuminated, for the meager light which falls through the small window high on the wall barely lets any daylight in. Reed, having taken notice of her faltering, turns around to face her, but all she has eyes for is that monstrous skull. It is grotesque in size, even more freakish than Vhagar’s own head. Having seen Aemond’s prized dragon up close, the skull is a strange thing to see. Even a beast so ferocious, so large, so ancient may die.
‘You have not seen it before, my lady?’
‘Should I?’ she scoffs, drawing closer.
Reed does not reply, but she understands well enough. He expected the king would have shown her this, but he has not. He knows better. She knows better. She should not be here.
‘Is this…’
‘The skull of Balerion,’ Reed finishes.
‘The Black Dread,’ she mutters as she comes to a stop mere paces away from the altar. Eyes raised to the beast’s massive teeth, she tells the Master of Whisperers, ‘Is this then your king’s religion, lord Reed? Is the place where he goes when he wishes to pray?’
‘His Grace the king does not pray, my lady.’
In that, at least they have become alike, she and that blight of a man.
‘No, he does not,’ she agrees.
‘My lady, if I may—’ Reed begins, but he quickly wavers.
Hands folded over her belly she turns to him. ‘At least now call me, M’rone, my lord. This play pretend at ladyship tires me.’
‘It is that about which I meant to inquire… M’rone.’ How carefully he says her name, as if it were the most fragile, the most precious of sounds. And then he dares to observe, ‘You look unwell.’
‘That is a statement, not a question, my lord.’
‘Halys,’ he says. ‘If you please.’
‘Halys,’ she echoes, trying her best not to smile.
She should not become endeared to this man. No good will come of it. But she cannot help it. How could she? He has that rare sort of gentleness in him, the sort which she only ever found in Mirtane. Which Aemond utterly and completely lacks.
‘It is a statement,’ he then agrees.
‘Because you do not have to ask what is amiss. You know all what happens in this castle, do you not, Master of Whisperers?’
‘I would not presume to know the depths of the abuse done to you.’
She gulps, taken aback by the sudden urge to burst out crying. She had not expected such sincerity. And such understanding. He is, after all, but a man. Men rarely pause to think of women’s suffering, rarely even consider it could exist if a women is housed and fed. No, most men think the fair sex needs nothing more than bare necessities and compliments on their beauty.
‘Careful now, Halys, or you will soon speak against His Grace the king.’
He does not make haste to voice his loyalty to him. No assurance of his dedication to His Grace follows, instead he merely folds his hands behind his back, and says, ‘I am sorry that you were refused the opportunity to attend the funeral of your brother-in-law.’
‘I am too, if more for Lanna’s sake than mine own.’
Reed nods slowly. ‘How does your niece fare?’
‘Badly this last week.’ He fingers drift to the bracelet around her wrist. Toying with the wooden beats, she says, ‘His Majesty the king complains… that her sudden crying fits upset Jaehaera.’
‘I am certain that the princess only feels for your niece,’ Halys assures. ‘They are dear friends.’
‘And the princess Jaehaera is a sweet child. But still… I worry. Lanna has lost both her grandfather and father so quickly. It is, for a child of that age, too much to bear.’
‘I think it would be too much to bear for anyone.’
She gives a slow nod. In her head and heart a storm of thoughts and feelings rages, but she cannot let them overtake her. If she were to speak more on this matter now she will soon be brought at a loss of words. As of late, she cannot cry anymore even when she feels the tears in her eyes. When pushed into the eye of the storm, all she can manage is silence. Stillness. She is nothing after all.
‘What news do you bring from Driftmark, my lord?’
He inhales deeply. ‘M’rone, I did not seek you out to discuss that matter.’
Shocked by that confession she takes a step back. Stupid, silly girl she is. Here she was, moments ago, thinking him incapable of duplicity, as if she were not a mere pawn in the king’s hands, and this man—an enigma.
There is nothing about Halys Reed that makes sense. And so neither does the pained frown on his face as he says the next incomprehensible thing, ‘You must be aware that you are being followed.’
She breathes out slowly, deeply. As if exhaling something she kept hidden deep inside of her. These words are nonsensical, or at least they should be. But here, in front of the monstrous white teeth of the Black Dread, they make perfect sense.
They came back.
For a moment she is there again, touching her father’s corpse, calling back his spirit, forcing him to speak.
A creature has outgrown herself.
For a moment she is there again, being choked by that Forgotten Face.
She lets the silence sit, lets it rot and looks into Halys’s spring green eyes. There she only finds concern. Fear. He fears for her.
‘A Forgotten Face,’ she whispers.
Halys sets a step closer, raising his hands as if meaning to touch her—but he decides not to. ‘So you know of this warlock?’
‘Warlock?’ she repeats.
Perhaps her heartbeat should be quickening now. He speaks of magic, he speaks of dark arts. She should be afraid, she should call on the eight moons to protect her. But she does not find it in herself to panic, nor to look for guidance in the Moon. It would be, after all, as if fearing herself. But she is no girl anymore. Eight and twenty, widowed, the mother of stillborn babe, a woman tainted and owned by dragonspawn. A cursed creature. What use would being scared give her? She has lost everything she had twice over. If demons and witches and warlocks now come for her, so be it.
‘For certain, that is what they must be. Their face changes, but not their eyes. Their costume changes, but not their intent,’ as he speaks he seems to come to a realization, and then he says, ‘You would know, as a Braavosi, is it a Faceless Man?’
At this she giggles. Not laughs, giggles, almost childishly. ‘No, Halys Reed, no. The devotees of the Many-Faced Gods would never act so.’
‘A warlock then,’ Halys nods. ‘As my brother said…’
‘Your brother?’
She was not aware he has a brother. He never mentioned him before. But he declines to elaborate, instead he inquires, ‘If you know, then… Did you tell the king?’
‘Aemond?’ She cannot help the eerie high pitch mangling her voice. ‘Why would I do that?’
‘For your life is being threatened and he has the power to protect you from that threat.’
She could reply, she could say something horrible now. But she does not seek to hurt him, and so she keeps her mouth. But he has not become Master of Whisperers on a whim. There was a reason Aemond bestowed the title on to him, and as he inspects her quietude she realizes immediately that in a way he was made for precisely this role.
‘You do not care,’ he observes.
And from all she hears, she knows: it pains him to realize this. She raises her head, forcing herself to keep her gaze level with his.
‘A creature does not run,’ she repeats the Forgotten Face’s words.
‘M’rone—’
‘What do you wish for, Halys? To warn me?’
‘To protect you,’ he says.
She laughs, but is immediately ashamed by her bitterness. She tries, but she cannot—the next words come out with cold malice, ‘Your efforts are futile. For this evening, or perhaps already this afternoon I will be called to the king’s chambers and I will suffer for it, and there is no way you could protect me. Or anyone, for that matter.’
Halys bows his head in admission. He does not try to correct her. What a sweet man, to admit defeat when he faces it. And yet, he only speaks with sincere sympathy when he says next, ‘So you will wait until this beast lashes out and then let it rip your throat out?’
Of who are they speaking now?
‘Is that what lizard-lions do to you crannogmen when the hunt goes awry?’ she asks.
It is avoidance, she will admit, and he knows it. For he presses, ‘What of your niece, my lady?’
She will be off even worse. But maybe better. But likely far, far worse.
‘What of your sister and nephew?’
She takes a shallow breath. The desolate void inside of herself is being flooded, those wastes are being grown over. As if ivy has started to settle over it, an ivy of regret and hope, of pity and desire. That Forgotten Face may bring her relief, but it may also steal her away from… Death is so final, is it not?
‘Tell me, what do you mean by this conversation, Halys, tell me what it is you mean to do.’
‘I will protect you,’ he then says. ‘I may not be able to shield you from Aemond Targaryen, but I may yet safeguard you from this otherworldly blight.’
Her heart should not be swelling so. Her pulse should not be quickening so.
‘So you, my lord of marshes and swamps, will kill a warlock for me?’
‘Do not underestimate the crannogmen, M’rone.’
‘I would not dare, Halys.’
And maybe, she would say more, maybe she would even say things she should not, but in come running her ladies-in-waiting.
‘My lady,’ Ivelenn Serrett calls, ‘Her grace the queen calls on you.’
She has to take hold of the edge of the altar to keep herself from falling through her legs.
Feeling as if she is about to throw up, she watches as Rhaena Targaryen plays the final move. With it, the queen of the Seven Kingdoms has bested her for the third time. It is not as if M’rone has been letting Her Grace win out of politeness. No, it is mere lack of talent and skill. This is her first time playing this Volantene board game. The queen was kind enough to explain her the basics of it, but M’rone already has an inclination she will never quite master it.
‘Your grace bests me again,’ M’rone whispers, doing her very best to only look at her opponent.
If only because she would rather forget they are in full company. Behind Rhaena, the ladies Ravella Swann and Cassandra Baratheon are embroidering—M’rone has come to understand that this is the preferred method of noble born women to make evident that they are very much eavesdropping—while behind herself Adain Corbray and Ivelenn Serrett are pretending to be enthralled by a book on Aegon’s Conquest.
‘I fear the odds are not in your favor, my lady. I have learned Cyvasse from likely the best player in the Seven Kingdoms.’
She deserves none of Her Grace’s pleasantries, let alone kindness. When she was called to the queen’s company, she almost fainted. She may not be doing it willingly, but she knows all too well that she is wronging the young queen: by being gifted luxuries above her station, by being bestowed rooms close to the king’s, by walking before her at the king’s side. Rhaena Targaryen has all right to scorn her. She is the reason that her marriage is not only loveless—as it was bound to be with Aemond as a husband—but also a wound of shame on her whole person. And yet, the young queen looks in some ways even more nervous than she.
She is dressed in splendor, in a gown of black embroidered with the darkest of red to make a pattern of seven-pointed stars. She wears jewels befit her station as the Realm’s most prized woman, and yet she looks lost. Her eyes are puffy in such a way even cosmetics cannot fully hide and she has a strange tick of scratching at her neck, as if fearing her head may fall off if she does not do it every other minute. She looks every bit the part of a queen, but also a frightened girl.
‘Who is that, if I may ask, your grace?’
She smiles and for a moment she seems happy. ‘Corwyn Corbray.’
M’rone blinks and, although she should not, she throws a look over her shoulder at her young lady-in-waiting. Adain has heard, it is evident by the way she has suddenly straightened her back, but she does not turn her gaze, nor say anything.
‘Indeed, dear Adain’s father. They used to frequent the lady Jeyne Arryn’s household at the Eyrie, where I, as you may know, have lived for a long while.’
‘For such a long while that it must have become a dear place to you, no?’ M’rone asks.
How different Rhaena looks when she speaks on this bit of times past. Not like a pained and scared woman, but like lighthearted and carefree girl.
‘The Vale of Arryn is the most wonderful of places in the whole of the Realm, I am certain of it,’ she says. ‘To look upon the Eyrie is to marvel at the feats of men, for it looks as if only the gods themselves could have constructed it.’
‘I would love to see it one day.’
‘Perhaps one day I could take you.’ The delicate timber in her voice betrays the truth of it: such is unlikely to ever occur. ‘I miss it dearly. As you, my lady, must miss Braavos.’
‘My niece and I both, your grace,’ M’rone mutters.
Rhaena Targaryen gives a slow nod, and then rises. Startled, M’rone follows her example, as do all of their companions.
‘It is almost noon,’ she says. ‘At this hour I usually visit Morning. Come, my lady, I shall introduce you to her.’
Walking the halls side by side with Her Grace is in a way even more uncomfortable than walking with the king. To his presence she is slowly, if not begrudgingly, growing accustomed, but this is something else entirely. In truth, the queen is taking a risk. Calling on her, was daring to begin with: it is not certain Aemond Targaryen will look with pleasure onto his wife meeting up with his mistress after all. This, however, for the queen to show herself in the company of the king’s favorite for the whole court to see is another matter. It is a statement, certainly, but admittedly, M’rone is confused as to its meaning.
The dragon Morning, so it turns out, is kept in a large enclosure hidden away in the depths of the royal gardens. As soon as the pink dragon catches sight of her rider, she sits up, spreading her wings slightly. She has outgrown the size at which she is able to curl herself around Rhaena Targaryen’s neck, now being as big as a small calf. Morning lets out a low grumble and M’rone wavers. The queen turns back to her with an almost amused smile and says, ‘She will not hurt you.’
M’rone bows her heard apologetically and comes closer. Their ladies-in-waiting, however, keep a large distance, giving them some privacy. Her Grace exchanges a few words with the guards stationed at the enclosure. They are not usual guards, clad only in simple garments, carrying no swords, rather silver-bladed spears. Even more, they converse with the queen in flawless High Valyrian, so supple, so fluent that M’rone cannot make out what they are saying. So far her control over the language does not stretch. The guards open the cage and the queen steps in, immediately sinking on her knees by her dragon’s side to embrace her as if it indeed were a mere calf, not a beast that may as well grow up to become the most dangerous predator on this world. It is heartwarming in the strangest way: to see Her Grace press a kiss on the dragon’s snout. Morning is truly brilliant, her pink scales seem to glow when catching the sunlight, turning an almost purple red at her wings. A bleeding dawn.
‘Come closer, my lady.’
M’rone does as bid, trying to not let her anxiety show. But then the queen takes hold of her hand and brings it closer to the dragon. M’rone tenses. She should not touch it. This is a beast of blood magic, a beast of primordial fire. What happened when she touched Dark Sister—she never wants to experience it again. Morning seems to understand as much, for the dragon lets out a low grumbling sound. And so, even though she should not, M’rone slips her hand from Her Grace’s and shakes her head.
‘Forgive me my fright,’ she whispers as she takes a step back.
Rhaena Targaryen, embracing her dragonling’s long neck as one would do a dear friend, says somewhat confused, ‘I heard you have met Vhagar, my lady. Surely she is more of a frightening beast than my dear Ñāqes.’
‘Of course, but…’ What is she to say now? She has no excuse which sounds believable.
The queen sighs and rises to her feet. One of the guards approaches, handing over to Her Grace a large bucket filled with something rosy. Meat. Morning perks up, clearly she has been waiting for this. Rhaena Targaryen takes out a big piece of meat and almost absentmindedly throws it in the air. Morning is awfully quick in her reaction. Shooting forward, she breathes a burst of fire and by the time she plucks the meat out of the air, it is roasted. M’rone sets a step back. As the queen throws yet another piece to her dragon, she tells M’rone, ‘I thought she would be mine, did you know?’
‘Your grace?’
‘Vhagar,’ Her Grace says. ‘She was my lady mother’s dragon, before she was Aemond’s. And when my mother died, I thought it only natural that she would pass to me. Like one would inherit a fortune. Or a throne.’
As she speaks, she is slowly losing her queenliness, like flakes of herself falling to the wind. All that remains however, is a girl of mere ten and seven, still mourning a loss she can likely never accept.
‘It was a childish notion, but well… My father and mother had not really explained it to me, what it meant to claim a dragon. You see, the egg they laid in my cradle never hatched. It went cold and turned into stone. And with it, my father forgot about me, and so no one really explained that if I wanted Vhagar, I had to go to her and claim her.’
‘And then Aemond claimed her.’
‘On the night after my mother’s funeral.’
That is cruel, M’rone thinks, but then, against her better judgment, she considers that maybe that boy did not mean it like that. This clearly happened when both of them were but children, both of them not entirely certain of the ways of the worlds, of what causes joy, what causes pain. But then again, Aemond is six years older than Rhaena. Should he not at least have thought of her, his younger cousin?
‘We had not met before until that day. Now that I look back on it, we must have been more alike than we would ever dare to admit now. His egg, too, turned to stone in his cradle. He, like I, was shunned for his lack of a dragon. That much Luke confessed to me.’
Lucerys Velaryon. Of course, that boy used to be Rhaena’s betrothed. She never really paid it any mind. She never paused to consider whether, a life time ago, this girl had loved the very boy who cut out Aemond’s eye.
‘But Luke… He did not know me then either. And he and his brothers did not attack Aemond for my sake, only for his little brother’s. Joffrey’s own egg had not yet turned to stone, but it had not hatched either. Not until later that month.’ She throws a third and final piece of meat in the air, and Morning sets onto it eagerly. ‘When I heard, when I saw that they had cut out his eye, I will admit, for a moment I agreed with him. Do you know what he said? That it was a fair exchange, he lost an eye, but gained a dragon. And I agreed, but now I feel so silly. We were all but children back then. Little did we know that quarreling among us could ever result in such…’
‘Fire and blood,’ M’rone whispers.
Rhaena sets aside the bucket. Petting Morning on the head absentmindedly, she confesses, ‘I never truly hated him. Not until he killed my father, not until he took my little brothers. He hates me now, too, although I do not understand why. But I understand very well why he took me to wife and then took me to bed.
M’rone meets Rhaena’s gaze emptily. Perhaps, she thinks, Rhaena called on her looking for solace. But no matter that their grief stems from the same man, it is not alike in any way. So whatever comfort she may be able to show this girl, it would never suffice.
‘Three dragon eggs, three sons,’ Rhaena whispers, but then, her voice slips into a higher, sharper pitch and she comes closer to M’rone. ‘But does he wish to sire them all on me, my lady? For one son he has already, so everyone whispers, even if no one dares tell me. And here you are, as well, suffering him as I suffer him.’
Something is amiss. She can see it clearly: right before her eyes this Westerosi queen is unraveling. It is beyond a sad sight. Perhaps, that is why she feels inclination to bite through her own sorrow and be honest.
‘I will bear him no sons, nor daughters,’ M’rone says truthfully.
‘So he allows you to drink moontea?’ On this matter she whispers, as if it were a foul subject.
M’rone, ignoring the pain in her chest, shakes her head. ‘I am barren, and that serves him well.’
‘And the witch’s son is a bastard, or so he claims,’ Rhaena mutters.
She blinks as if confused. As if falling apart. M’rone draws closer, but only a little, and asks softly, ‘Your grace, what is the matter?’
‘I am with child.’
Shame on her. Disgrace on her. For her first feeling is one of mangled and malformed jealousy. It lasts but only for the fraction of a moment, fleeting quickly and swiftly to make way instead for a nausea of pity. But that too is hardly the appropriate reaction, is it? Then again, she simply does not know what to say.
Finally she asks, ‘Have you told him?’
Rhaena scoffs, shaking her head. ‘I will do so, quickly, if only for it will keep him from by bed.’
In that at least she is lucky. For M’rone no such way out exists. If any.
‘It is why I wished to talk with you, my lady.’ Morning is coming closer once more, rubbing her snout against Rhaena’s elbow. Scratching her dragonling over the head, she says, ‘I am grateful for your presence at this court. For it has kept my husband away from me. But I feel guilty for feeling this gratitude, for I know you neither wish his company.’
‘You owe me no guilt, nor gratitude, your grace,’ she hurries to reply. She is surpised that she speaks so steadily, because this conversation: it is making her feel as if her bones are trying to jump out of her own skin. ‘For these months I have felt deep regret, over the shame I bring on you with my mere presence.’
‘Do not speak so,’ Rhaena insists. ‘You are not to blame for his choices.’
M’rone cannot find it in herself to reply. She has no right to this sympathy, and yet she is bestowed it.
‘But if you feel inclined to guilt nonetheless… There may be a way to repent.’
‘Your grace?’
‘You hold sway with the king, far more than I do.’
M’rone shakes her head. ‘I—I do not think so.’
‘Yes, you do. You must admit it. And you must use that influence, now, I beg of you… Please, he keeps me from my brothers and means to do so until I have given him a son. Until I—My lady, speak to him, convince him to let me see my brothers.’
She owes the queen this much. She owes her own conscience this much. For this is the sort of cruelty she especially despises in him; that he would keep a sister from her brothers, that he would create discord there where needs to be none, that he would separate those who care for each other. But yet, the notion that she would exploit whatever little influence she has over him. Then she would truly become a licentious courtesan in a mummer’s farce, no? Then she would truly become intertwined with him, indebted to him.
‘I cannot,’ she says.
‘B-but you must.’
And maybe Rhaena is right, maybe she simply must do this. But she cannot. Shaking her head again, she takes a step back.
‘And you dared to speak of regret over your treatment of me?’
M’rone scoffs. She is a true Targaryen yet. Two-faced, two-hearted. Or perhaps even three-faced, three-hearted. Who is she to know how many faces and hearts this Targaryen girl has hidden underneath her sorrow and pain? She is not of the blood of the dragon, but of the moon’s silver light. Cold. Barren.
Keeping her head high, she says, ‘I do regret it. And I do regret refusing you this now.’
Morning lets out a sort of hiss.
‘If you feel so, then why do you refuse? I understand that you fear him, that he has a violence to him, I know—’
‘With all due respect, your grace,’ M’rone sneers, ‘but you do not know what it is like for me, as I do not know what it is like for you.’
‘We suffer under the same man.’
‘And that makes us the same?’ she retorts.
Rhaena’s lips part, but all that comes out is her breath. And then, a laugh. Bitter and full of bile, the sort of laugh a girl of ten and seven should be incapable of.
‘I suppose it does not. For I have shown you kindness, my lady, whereas you—Well, maybe this is why you suit him.’
M’rone smiles thinly. They are done here, she understands that much. She courtesies deeply, for despite all, her respect for this girl queen at least is sincere. ‘Your grace.’
‘Just go.’
M’rone does as she bids, knowing that as she walks to meet her ladies, behind her back, Rhaena Targaryen is weeping into her dragon’s embrace.
She does her best not to mind his staring, but he has a talent for it: to make it known, even to those who do not meet his gaze, that he is inspecting them. With great scrutiny, with great dismay. He has said nothing since arriving in her rooms. He did not even come to her to kiss her on the brow as he usually does. Instead he sat down on the sofa, legs crossed, and began his watch.
She has met his behavior in kind. She has not dismissed her ladies, who sit attaching some bejeweled beads to pretty cauls, nor did she send away Lanna, who has been leafing through a book on the Faith of the Seven for the better part of an hour now. Instead she kept focused on her painting, further detailing the flooded city of Volon Therys. But focused is, admittedly, an exaggeration, for she has grown uncomfortable under Aemond’s silent leering.
She likes to imagine herself stronger, more disciplined. But she has had the most terrible of mornings, and she is tired. So tired. Perhaps that is why she relents and turns to him to say, ‘Your grace, you said you would send me books from the library to help me on my endeavors, and yet, I wait on them still.’
Finally he moves, if only to get more comfortable on the couch. He hums, but does not say a word.
‘I tried going to the library myself, but apparently I am not allowed entry.’
He tilts his head. She follows the direction of his gaze, to Lanna, who sits crossed-legged on the carpet, reading her book. Or, more likely, looking at the pictures. An outsider would almost think this a sort of family scene. But Aemond’s quiet command is clear enough. Placing her painting brush aside, she calls, ‘Adain, Ivelenn, perhaps you could return Lanna to Sara Snow for her lesson?’
The governess has graciously taken it on herself to teach Lanna about Westerosi customs and the manners of a lady. Not that M’rone asked for it, let alone likes it, but the queen dowager thought it would suit her niece well and on these matters of such domestic nature Aemond lets his mother rule freely. Lanna looks up at M’rone with a frown, then her gaze strays to Aemond. At the sight of his dead stare, she gulps, but the sweet girl does not say anything. M’rone, doing her best to not let it show just how sad she is to see Lanna be taken away, unties her work apron and gets onto her feet. As soon as they are alone she says, ‘Speak your mind, Aemond Targaryen.’
‘You spoke with the queen.’
She places the apron over the three-legged stool she sits on when painting, and shakes her head. ‘Yes.’
‘Did you seek her out?’ he presses.
She raises an eyebrow. ‘Is that of importance?’
But he is learning to read her moods. For her reply is enough for him to deduce what happened.
‘She should not have called on you.’
And he pats his leg. She looks down at his hand, irked that he so calls her to do his bidding. As if she were some domesticated pet, not a woman grown with a mind and will of her own. But he is in a foul mood already, and while she would not overly placate him, she has no inclination to escalate the matter. And so she sits down on his lap. Like clockwork, his hand drifts to the nape of her neck, to toy with the lock of the bronze necklace. She bites down on her tongue, trying to keep an air of disinterest and indifference.
‘Did she tell you then?’
She looks up to the ceiling, already frustrated by this whole conversation.
‘She is with child,’ he continues.
How eager her must be to hurt her, for his free hand wanders to her belly. He rests his touch there where she is utterly and completely wretched.
‘Are you not pleased, your grace?’ she presses.
‘It pleases me that I will have an heir, that I will not have to leave our bed anymore to lie with her,’ he replies. ‘That I may be now devoted to you.’
Our bed, he says, devotion, he says, as if those are at all an appropriate words for their disposition. Uncomfortable under his touch and voice, she fumbles with the beaded bracelet around her wrist.
‘I do not need your devotion, Aemond.’ Why she says it so mildly she does not know.
His fingertips at her neck drift up higher and higher, pushing into her braided hair, until he is cupping the back of her head.
‘Do you rather desire Halys Reed’s?’
So he knows of that too. She should hardly be surprised. And yet, the question unsettles her enough to make her blush. Oh, and he sees that, for he tsks.
‘What use would I have for that, when your Master of Whisperers is evidently so dedicated only to you?’ she dismisses.
‘I will not have you speak with him another time,’ he says.
She should silently agree. She knows she should, and yet, she hears herself say, ‘He only showed me Balerion’s skull.’
Aemond’s nostrils flare as he takes in a deep breath. This is the line she must tread, that much is clear. And in order to not transgress now she should say something sweet. She should divert the conversation to, perhaps, the royal hunt she heard whispers about, or maybe she should ask him to take her to the library now. He may even yet oblige her, if only she would call him her king. She well understands the script that comes with this position of hers—as his courtesan, as the pet he keeps on his lap, as the little bird he means to keep caged away from his queen and Master of Whisperers—but understanding aside, she also has a will of her own. And it is that which dictates her to say, ‘Do you also have Meraxes’s skull still? I would like to study it, for the—’
‘Get on your knees,’ he interrupts.
The command is soft-spoken but not softly meant. This expression on his face she knows. He will not ask twice. And so she obediently does as asked. As he parts his legs, she slips down to kneel between them. He moves his jaw in that way he does when trying to keep his patience. She well knows that he likes seeing her so, below him, beneath him, obedient, but never meek. It is clear what he means for her to do—or do to her, if she forces him so—but she only lays her cheek to rest on his knee and, looking up at him, she says, ‘The Black Dread’s skull, is that the deity you worship, Aemond?’
He takes hold of her chin, forcing her to sit straight. ‘Worship your king, Moondrop.’
Taking note of the swell in his trousers, she clenches her jaw. He must see it her eyes, the storm raging inside her. But he only chuckles and leans back. There is no use in delaying it, and so she does not. She unbuckles his belt and frees his cock. How come it is already so hard and swollen with need she can only imagine, but yes, it is hot and firm in her grip.
Strange, how detached she can become from herself when doing this. It is half as if someone else is doing it through her body, not she herself. Yes, it is someone else, not she, who takes the tip between her lips, who takes that shaft into her mouth, into her throat. But it is definitely Aemond who grips her hair and forces her down until she is choking, until tears blur her vision and smear her cheeks. It is he who is moaning in pleasure and delight. While all she can do not to retch at disgust is pretending she is not here. She is not doing this. Someone else is.
Balerion’s head hangs over the altar. His terrible red eyes watch her attentively as she approaches. It is strange to move in this waterlike substance, slow and sluggish, but not so strange as the blue glow that dies on Balerion’s black scales, as the way his maw hangs open, and black flames die in the back of his throat. Here the Black Dread still lives, but not really. Decapitated and lost, the last dragon to have seen Old Valyria is reduced to nothing more than a scary sight. A head that can only watch the world end.
But the gentle queen, she has become almost like a friend. To see her here, touching the candles’ cold blue flames, is a relief.
‘I do not remember if I made this choice myself,’ Helaena Targaryen says, ‘Or if Fate made it for me.’
M’rone stops at the altar, listening to Balerion’s heavy, ragged breaths.
‘You still have not told her,’ Helaena says.
‘How to tell her?’
‘With words, my words.’ Helaena looks at her with pleading eyes. ‘But maybe you are right. Maybe I would only scare her. Maybe she would rather forget me altogether.’
M’rone is quick to insist, ‘No, it is not so.’
The dead queen of dreams looks up at Balerion’s monstruous head, and frowns. A slow moment passes, in which M’rone is certain the dragon’s head is somehow sneering at her, and Helaena decides, ‘I think it is better you leave.’
But no sooner has she utterred those words, or deep in Balerion’s throat something catches black fire. And she is burning.
She wakes screaming and crying and coughing. Barely does she register Aemond taking hold of her shoulders, first hushing her, then commanding her to shut up. But she cannot. She has caught black, cold fire and she is burning, she is flaking away into ash and sooth. She
‘Make it stop!’ she begs. ‘Make it stop!’
And finally, he does make it stop. He calls for the Grand Maester, he calls for milk of the poppy. And with its bittersweet taste in her mouth, she drifts into a barren and void sleep.
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: M’rone is offered futile protection.
Chapter warnings: Mind the general warnings; rape/non-con; (beginning) drug addiction; death.
Word count: 8.8k
divider by @/strangergraphics
Breathing heavily in her ear, he—finally, finally, finally—pulls out. His seed spills between her legs, soiling the sheets, soiling her. One would think that by now she would have grown used to how he indulges in her flesh, but she has not. It still makes her squirm and ache, burn and freeze. It still mangles her. He lays down beside her, hooking his leg around hers. His hand wanders to the softness of her belly.
Into the quiet she whispers, ‘I need more milk of the poppy.’
It is all she thirsts for since reading those dreadful words two days past.
He has died, my beloved Narvo has died and with it he has been released from all pain and agony. But Trystane and Lanna are fatherless and I am like you. Widowed and miserable.
And she screamed when she read it. Narvo’s passing makes four. Four of her kin stolen away by the Shade in less than a year. She could have screamed herself to death. It was all Aemond could think of to make her stop: milk of the poppy. A sweet relief, a numb comfort. It brings silence and it brings sleep. Without dreams, without visions, without Helaena. She had almost forgotten what it was like to sleep before her slumbering world was so usurped. But now she remembers and now all she wants is that void.
He kisses her cheek, and if the gesture is meant to be soothing, then it only half fails in its intent. ‘You must go without it.’
‘Without it I will go mad,’ she mutters, as she gazes up at that awful ceiling painting: Aegon the Conqueror on the Black Dread, flying towards Westeros to conquer it, to reduce it to ash and servitude.
‘Go to sleep, Moondrop.’ He kisses her cheek. It burns.
But it is not sleep anymore. Every minute she spends breathing, be it awake, be it asleep, she is writhing in the hold of a terrible nightmare.
‘Aemond,’ she says and as she speaks, she knows she must not tell him, but who else to tell but him? ‘I am frightened.’
Her heart pounds once, twice, thrice, and he shifts to sit upright. It ought not to be a comfort to see him like this, naked as the day he was born, feint moonlight making the sapphire in his eye socket shimmer, but it is comforting in a way it should not. Even more so not after what he did to her just now. And yesterday. And the day before.
He is all she has left.
He looks down on her solemnly and caresses her cheek. His signet ring is cold against her flesh, but his touch is warm. He always is warm.
‘You need not be.’
‘I lie in bed with the man who killed my father.’
He does not say a word. As he rakes his fingers through her hair, she adds, ‘But I am not scared of you.’
‘Of what then, M’rone?’
It is difficult to say. Perhaps of her dreams, perhaps of her waking hours. Perhaps of the night’s shadows, perhaps of the daylight. Perhaps of herself, perhaps of everyone else.
She takes hold of his wrist, her touch almost gentle. ‘I fear… The Black Dread.’
It makes no sense, and yet it does. Aemond looks down on her with strange compassion. He kisses her brow. He lies down once more, pulling her close, keeping her even closer. She, against all better judgement, finds herself growing mellow and comfortable in his embrace. A few slow moments pass and then, without cause, he begins to sing. Softly, gently, in High Valyrian. A lullaby or a spell, who is to say?
Fidgeting with her mother’s swan pendant, M’rone looks down at the scene unfolding in the courtyard. Aemond Targaryen stands, hands folded, as before him a lord of the Realm lowers himself onto one knee. From here, on the castle walls, she can hardly hear what the Westerosi king is telling his leal servant. One would hope a blessing, a word of encouragement. Most likely, however, he is weaving threats of solid ice.
‘Unwin Peake, you said?’ M’rone asks.
She is addressing no one in particular. As of late she often is, for she is shadowed by her two ladies-in-waiting whenever the sun is high in the sky. Like usual it is Ivelenn Serrett, the most eager of her two ladies, who hurries to reply, ‘Yes, my lady. The lord of Starpike.’
‘In what does he differ from the last one who they sent on this quest? Does he dabble in witchcraft himself perhaps?’ she asks.
‘O-of course not, my lady!’ Ivelenn exclaims.
‘How then is he to put a witch to death? It is like sending a mouse to slay a lion.’
Ivelenn sets a step closer, as if that were to make her reply any more convincing. ‘Lord Peake is an experienced commander and a brave knight, my lady. He fought bravely at both battles at Tumbleton, he—’
Adain snorts and Ivelenn, softhearted girl she is, falters in her attempt at steadfastness immediately. Bemused, M’rone turns to the younger girl. The young lady Corbray is in better spirits than when she met her a month and a half ago. Ivelenn confided in her that the girl’s father has arrived at court, and with it, her ability to smile has returned if only partly. A hostage is how Adain described herself, and so M’rone can imagine that her father arriving at court must have joyed her just as a prisoner rejoices over the visit of a dear family member.
‘You are amused, Adain.’
The girl just shrugs, almost shyly.
‘Go on, my lady,’ M’rone insists, her gaze drifting back to the scene below.
Aemond gives a final nod, having completed whatever grim speech he tortured Peake with, and turns his back on this second host bound for Harrenhall. As he sets to leave the courtyard, he raises his head ever so slightly. Once he catches sight of her on the walls, a ghost of a smile passes over his lips. She does not meet it in kind. She did not come to see him, but only to see what sort of man one would send away to deal with his witch queen. These measures seem to her inadequate. If Alys Rivers is truly as unfathomable as Aemond makes her out to be, this will be the first and last time she ever sets eye on this lord Unwin Peake.
Behind her, Adain explains, ‘Ivelenn is too kind in her portrayal of the lord of Starpike, my lady. He all but allowed his men to ravage Tumbelton after the first battle, and only survived the second one through cowardice. Not to mention, he sent dozens of men to their death by encouraging them to try to claim the dragon Silverwing.’
A shiver runs through her spine. Horrid, to persuade men who could never stand a chance at claiming a dragon to still try it. It must have been a futile effort, and a bloody one. Aemond has told her of Silverwing’s fate: she has made a lair for herself on an island in a lake, growing wilder each moon. M’rone frowns. ‘I suppose if he were to die, this Realm would not mourn the loss too much then.’
Of course, Ivelenn, ever the obedient young lady, insists, ‘But, my lady, we must pray that he does not.’
Yes, pray, that is what Ivelenn would have her do. That golden haired girl has tried on multiple occasions now to convince M’rone to join her and Adain for prayer in the Royal Sept. She has declined each time. She has no need for new gods. Nor for her old one. It has been weeks since she last whispered a prayer to the moon. Why bother when so clearly no one is listening?
‘Too much is at stake for him to suffer defeat,’ Ivelenn continues. ‘May the Gods guide him. The witch at Harrenhall has been a blight on the Riverlands for too long now. If she is not subdued soon, Seven protect us. She must be defeated, for all our sakes.’
She speaks as if Alys Rivers were to come down to King’s Landing to curse her personally. Sweet, silly girl. If any of them should be afraid, it is likely M’rone. By all she knows Alys Rivers loved Aemond once, but he has discarded her and now takes to bed not only his queen but also a foreign widow. Would that witch of Harrenhall even care, that she indulges his desires only out of necessity, only by force? Likely not. If she truly is a witch and a queen of demons, then she would cast her dark spells regardless. Or maybe she already has—and M’rone has been none the wiser, for no dark magic can make her life more miserable than it already is.
Below Unwin Peake, weighed down by chain mail and plate armor, is helped onto a step in order to mount his mare. At this M’rone says, ‘It never crossed my mind, ser Morrigen, that you Westerosi knights would need a step and the help of two squires only to mount a horse.’
Her sworn sword only grunts. That is how he replies to most of her observations, with groans and hums and other ambiguous sounds.
‘These horses must be really strong,’ she adds, turning to look at the stern man with a toothy grin.
He all but rolls his eyes.
‘Do not mind me, ser,’ she says only half apologetically.
‘Minding you is the only thing I am here for, lady,’ he grumbles.
‘I suppose you are, ser,’ she sighs as she slips past him.
Her ladies hurry to follow in her trail. No sooner have they entered Maegor’s Holdfast or someone bars her way. Blinking in surprise she comes to a startled halt. As of late nobles have been stopping her in the hallways of the Keep or, worse, trying to be granted an audience in her rooms. She tries her best to avoid such meetings. She has no inclination or, indeed, need to become part of this court beyond the role Aemond has pushed her in. Being expected to attend when the king hears petitions of importance is shame enough already. She does not mean to further deepen that by mingling in the politics of a foreign country. It has been quite the hassle to avoid the likes of Qyle Martell, Jasper Wylde and Priscilla Celtigar, all whom have tried to approach her with smiles that unnerve her and words that are far too kind to utter on first meetings. There is dishonesty aplenty in these courtiers’ manners and she has no taste for it. To some degree she even prefers Adain Corbray’s tangible distaste for her.
But this intervener she minds not. Halys Reed is always pleasant company, if only because he looks at her with a kindness that echoes one she enjoyed in her husband’s eyes for so long. As of late, she has seen little and less of him, for which she was rather sorry. But the joy in seeing him now is only the greater for it. His hair has grown a bit, the curls becoming more unruly than one would imagine a member of the Small Council would allow. He is dressed finely, but not so dashingly as other men of the court. There is a simplicity to him which she can appreciate.
A simplicity which she herself lacks. All of a sudden highly aware of how she is dressed, she averts her gaze. Her wardrobe has become a labyrinth of dresses befitting a Braavosi highborn lady. All marvelous dresses, in the most recent styles, and of the most refined tastes. While Braavosi in design and coloring, they are in luxury suited for this Westerosi court. But it matters little. They suit her as they would a courtesan—the likes whose company can only be bought by the richest of men. She is ashamed for Halys Reed to see her like this. It is a farce, she is a farce.
But yet he bows his head and speaks so politely, ‘Lady Vilendrys, as always it is a joy to see you.’
She cannot help it: tilting her head, she taunts, ‘And yet you have not come to see me in quite some time, lord Reed.’
Behind her, to her left side, Ivelenn Serrett inhales sharply. She is easily scandalized. Will she report this exchange of words to the king? Let her, she does not mind. Aemond, as far as she understands, relies too much on Halys Reed to discard him over this.
‘Apologies, my lady,’ he says, his gaze flickering to her entourage, but only for a moment. ‘I was wondering if we could have a word. On the matter of your sister’s stay on Driftmark.’
And there goes all tentative joy. Drenace, still resides on that forsaken island, now too struck by grief to find it in herself to sail homebound. After weeks of suffering, spent swaying between the world of the living and the dead, Narvo Florel has passed on to the other side of the veil. Her dear sister wrote of his passing in terms of relief, for she could not stand to see him ache so, but M’rone well knows that the relief is far outweighed by sorrow.
Her sister’s words reach her in crooked handwriting, parchment marked by spilled ink, and sealed with a clumsy press of wax. While she writes of all sorts of practical reasons for her delay, M’rone has an inkling something else is at play. No, not that Daemion Velaryon of whom the courtiers whisper. But that which she has bid her sister to do. She fears returning home, she fears taking on burden of their inheritance. Never was she groomed for it as M’rone was. But she must go back to Braavos, she simply must—too much time has passed already. If only Aemond would allow her to go visit Drenace, she could comfort her enough for her to find just a bit of courage. She could see to it that Lanna weeps in her mother’s arms, instead of hers.
‘It is no ill news, my lady, I assure you.’ M’rone nods, unable for a moment to speak, but Reed does so in her place, ‘It would be best we discuss this in private. Come.’
He bids her to follow him, and he does. How she wishes that he would offer her his arm. But no man at this court dares to touch her, and she will not force him into such danger. Only when he guides her not up the stairs, but down them, does she realize he is not accompanying her to her quarters or even the gardens. Yet, she poses no questions. Not even when, in the deep innards of the Red Keep’s basements, he bids her ladies and guard to remain behind.
Perhaps now she should raise her voice in alarm, but she finds no wish to do so. Instead she gives a nod as a gesture of permission to her entourage. The Master of Whisperers is putting in explicit effort to speak to her in private. This behavior speaks of urgency, not so much of deceit. And so she follows Halys Reed—into a room of worship.
The sight of the massive dragon skull makes her falter in her step. It is hoisted over a large altar, which is laden with lit candles. Their orange glow is what keeps the room somewhat illuminated, for the meager light which falls through the small window high on the wall barely lets any daylight in. Reed, having taken notice of her faltering, turns around to face her, but all she has eyes for is that monstrous skull. It is grotesque in size, even more freakish than Vhagar’s own head. Having seen Aemond’s prized dragon up close, the skull is a strange thing to see. Even a beast so ferocious, so large, so ancient may die.
‘You have not seen it before, my lady?’
‘Should I?’ she scoffs, drawing closer.
Reed does not reply, but she understands well enough. He expected the king would have shown her this, but he has not. He knows better. She knows better. She should not be here.
‘Is this…’
‘The skull of Balerion,’ Reed finishes.
‘The Black Dread,’ she mutters as she comes to a stop mere paces away from the altar. Eyes raised to the beast’s massive teeth, she tells the Master of Whisperers, ‘Is this then your king’s religion, lord Reed? Is the place where he goes when he wishes to pray?’
‘His Grace the king does not pray, my lady.’
In that, at least they have become alike, she and that blight of a man.
‘No, he does not,’ she agrees.
‘My lady, if I may—’ Reed begins, but he quickly wavers.
Hands folded over her belly she turns to him. ‘At least now call me, M’rone, my lord. This play pretend at ladyship tires me.’
‘It is that about which I meant to inquire… M’rone.’ How carefully he says her name, as if it were the most fragile, the most precious of sounds. And then he dares to observe, ‘You look unwell.’
‘That is a statement, not a question, my lord.’
‘Halys,’ he says. ‘If you please.’
‘Halys,’ she echoes, trying her best not to smile.
She should not become endeared to this man. No good will come of it. But she cannot help it. How could she? He has that rare sort of gentleness in him, the sort which she only ever found in Mirtane. Which Aemond utterly and completely lacks.
‘It is a statement,’ he then agrees.
‘Because you do not have to ask what is amiss. You know all what happens in this castle, do you not, Master of Whisperers?’
‘I would not presume to know the depths of the abuse done to you.’
She gulps, taken aback by the sudden urge to burst out crying. She had not expected such sincerity. And such understanding. He is, after all, but a man. Men rarely pause to think of women’s suffering, rarely even consider it could exist if a women is housed and fed. No, most men think the fair sex needs nothing more than bare necessities and compliments on their beauty.
‘Careful now, Halys, or you will soon speak against His Grace the king.’
He does not make haste to voice his loyalty to him. No assurance of his dedication to His Grace follows, instead he merely folds his hands behind his back, and says, ‘I am sorry that you were refused the opportunity to attend the funeral of your brother-in-law.’
‘I am too, if more for Lanna’s sake than mine own.’
Reed nods slowly. ‘How does your niece fare?’
‘Badly this last week.’ He fingers drift to the bracelet around her wrist. Toying with the wooden beats, she says, ‘His Majesty the king complains… that her sudden crying fits upset Jaehaera.’
‘I am certain that the princess only feels for your niece,’ Halys assures. ‘They are dear friends.’
‘And the princess Jaehaera is a sweet child. But still… I worry. Lanna has lost both her grandfather and father so quickly. It is, for a child of that age, too much to bear.’
‘I think it would be too much to bear for anyone.’
She gives a slow nod. In her head and heart a storm of thoughts and feelings rages, but she cannot let them overtake her. If she were to speak more on this matter now she will soon be brought at a loss of words. As of late, she cannot cry anymore even when she feels the tears in her eyes. When pushed into the eye of the storm, all she can manage is silence. Stillness. She is nothing after all.
‘What news do you bring from Driftmark, my lord?’
He inhales deeply. ‘M’rone, I did not seek you out to discuss that matter.’
Shocked by that confession she takes a step back. Stupid, silly girl she is. Here she was, moments ago, thinking him incapable of duplicity, as if she were not a mere pawn in the king’s hands, and this man—an enigma.
There is nothing about Halys Reed that makes sense. And so neither does the pained frown on his face as he says the next incomprehensible thing, ‘You must be aware that you are being followed.’
She breathes out slowly, deeply. As if exhaling something she kept hidden deep inside of her. These words are nonsensical, or at least they should be. But here, in front of the monstrous white teeth of the Black Dread, they make perfect sense.
They came back.
For a moment she is there again, touching her father’s corpse, calling back his spirit, forcing him to speak.
A creature has outgrown herself.
For a moment she is there again, being choked by that Forgotten Face.
She lets the silence sit, lets it rot and looks into Halys’s spring green eyes. There she only finds concern. Fear. He fears for her.
‘A Forgotten Face,’ she whispers.
Halys sets a step closer, raising his hands as if meaning to touch her—but he decides not to. ‘So you know of this warlock?’
‘Warlock?’ she repeats.
Perhaps her heartbeat should be quickening now. He speaks of magic, he speaks of dark arts. She should be afraid, she should call on the eight moons to protect her. But she does not find it in herself to panic, nor to look for guidance in the Moon. It would be, after all, as if fearing herself. But she is no girl anymore. Eight and twenty, widowed, the mother of stillborn babe, a woman tainted and owned by dragonspawn. A cursed creature. What use would being scared give her? She has lost everything she had twice over. If demons and witches and warlocks now come for her, so be it.
‘For certain, that is what they must be. Their face changes, but not their eyes. Their costume changes, but not their intent,’ as he speaks he seems to come to a realization, and then he says, ‘You would know, as a Braavosi, is it a Faceless Man?’
At this she giggles. Not laughs, giggles, almost childishly. ‘No, Halys Reed, no. The devotees of the Many-Faced Gods would never act so.’
‘A warlock then,’ Halys nods. ‘As my brother said…’
‘Your brother?’
She was not aware he has a brother. He never mentioned him before. But he declines to elaborate, instead he inquires, ‘If you know, then… Did you tell the king?’
‘Aemond?’ She cannot help the eerie high pitch mangling her voice. ‘Why would I do that?’
‘For your life is being threatened and he has the power to protect you from that threat.’
She could reply, she could say something horrible now. But she does not seek to hurt him, and so she keeps her mouth. But he has not become Master of Whisperers on a whim. There was a reason Aemond bestowed the title on to him, and as he inspects her quietude she realizes immediately that in a way he was made for precisely this role.
‘You do not care,’ he observes.
And from all she hears, she knows: it pains him to realize this. She raises her head, forcing herself to keep her gaze level with his.
‘A creature does not run,’ she repeats the Forgotten Face’s words.
‘M’rone—’
‘What do you wish for, Halys? To warn me?’
‘To protect you,’ he says.
She laughs, but is immediately ashamed by her bitterness. She tries, but she cannot—the next words come out with cold malice, ‘Your efforts are futile. For this evening, or perhaps already this afternoon I will be called to the king’s chambers and I will suffer for it, and there is no way you could protect me. Or anyone, for that matter.’
Halys bows his head in admission. He does not try to correct her. What a sweet man, to admit defeat when he faces it. And yet, he only speaks with sincere sympathy when he says next, ‘So you will wait until this beast lashes out and then let it rip your throat out?’
Of who are they speaking now?
‘Is that what lizard-lions do to you crannogmen when the hunt goes awry?’ she asks.
It is avoidance, she will admit, and he knows it. For he presses, ‘What of your niece, my lady?’
She will be off even worse. But maybe better. But likely far, far worse.
‘What of your sister and nephew?’
She takes a shallow breath. The desolate void inside of herself is being flooded, those wastes are being grown over. As if ivy has started to settle over it, an ivy of regret and hope, of pity and desire. That Forgotten Face may bring her relief, but it may also steal her away from… Death is so final, is it not?
‘Tell me, what do you mean by this conversation, Halys, tell me what it is you mean to do.’
‘I will protect you,’ he then says. ‘I may not be able to shield you from Aemond Targaryen, but I may yet safeguard you from this otherworldly blight.’
Her heart should not be swelling so. Her pulse should not be quickening so.
‘So you, my lord of marshes and swamps, will kill a warlock for me?’
‘Do not underestimate the crannogmen, M’rone.’
‘I would not dare, Halys.’
And maybe, she would say more, maybe she would even say things she should not, but in come running her ladies-in-waiting.
‘My lady,’ Ivelenn Serrett calls, ‘Her grace the queen calls on you.’
She has to take hold of the edge of the altar to keep herself from falling through her legs.
Feeling as if she is about to throw up, she watches as Rhaena Targaryen plays the final move. With it, the queen of the Seven Kingdoms has bested her for the third time. It is not as if M’rone has been letting Her Grace win out of politeness. No, it is mere lack of talent and skill. This is her first time playing this Volantene board game. The queen was kind enough to explain her the basics of it, but M’rone already has an inclination she will never quite master it.
‘Your grace bests me again,’ M’rone whispers, doing her very best to only look at her opponent.
If only because she would rather forget they are in full company. Behind Rhaena, the ladies Ravella Swann and Cassandra Baratheon are embroidering—M’rone has come to understand that this is the preferred method of noble born women to make evident that they are very much eavesdropping—while behind herself Adain Corbray and Ivelenn Serrett are pretending to be enthralled by a book on Aegon’s Conquest.
‘I fear the odds are not in your favor, my lady. I have learned Cyvasse from likely the best player in the Seven Kingdoms.’
She deserves none of Her Grace’s pleasantries, let alone kindness. When she was called to the queen’s company, she almost fainted. She may not be doing it willingly, but she knows all too well that she is wronging the young queen: by being gifted luxuries above her station, by being bestowed rooms close to the king’s, by walking before her at the king’s side. Rhaena Targaryen has all right to scorn her. She is the reason that her marriage is not only loveless—as it was bound to be with Aemond as a husband—but also a wound of shame on her whole person. And yet, the young queen looks in some ways even more nervous than she.
She is dressed in splendor, in a gown of black embroidered with the darkest of red to make a pattern of seven-pointed stars. She wears jewels befit her station as the Realm’s most prized woman, and yet she looks lost. Her eyes are puffy in such a way even cosmetics cannot fully hide and she has a strange tick of scratching at her neck, as if fearing her head may fall off if she does not do it every other minute. She looks every bit the part of a queen, but also a frightened girl.
‘Who is that, if I may ask, your grace?’
She smiles and for a moment she seems happy. ‘Corwyn Corbray.’
M’rone blinks and, although she should not, she throws a look over her shoulder at her young lady-in-waiting. Adain has heard, it is evident by the way she has suddenly straightened her back, but she does not turn her gaze, nor say anything.
‘Indeed, dear Adain’s father. They used to frequent the lady Jeyne Arryn’s household at the Eyrie, where I, as you may know, have lived for a long while.’
‘For such a long while that it must have become a dear place to you, no?’ M’rone asks.
How different Rhaena looks when she speaks on this bit of times past. Not like a pained and scared woman, but like lighthearted and carefree girl.
‘The Vale of Arryn is the most wonderful of places in the whole of the Realm, I am certain of it,’ she says. ‘To look upon the Eyrie is to marvel at the feats of men, for it looks as if only the gods themselves could have constructed it.’
‘I would love to see it one day.’
‘Perhaps one day I could take you.’ The delicate timber in her voice betrays the truth of it: such is unlikely to ever occur. ‘I miss it dearly. As you, my lady, must miss Braavos.’
‘My niece and I both, your grace,’ M’rone mutters.
Rhaena Targaryen gives a slow nod, and then rises. Startled, M’rone follows her example, as do all of their companions.
‘It is almost noon,’ she says. ‘At this hour I usually visit Morning. Come, my lady, I shall introduce you to her.’
Walking the halls side by side with Her Grace is in a way even more uncomfortable than walking with the king. To his presence she is slowly, if not begrudgingly, growing accustomed, but this is something else entirely. In truth, the queen is taking a risk. Calling on her, was daring to begin with: it is not certain Aemond Targaryen will look with pleasure onto his wife meeting up with his mistress after all. This, however, for the queen to show herself in the company of the king’s favorite for the whole court to see is another matter. It is a statement, certainly, but admittedly, M’rone is confused as to its meaning.
The dragon Morning, so it turns out, is kept in a large enclosure hidden away in the depths of the royal gardens. As soon as the pink dragon catches sight of her rider, she sits up, spreading her wings slightly. She has outgrown the size at which she is able to curl herself around Rhaena Targaryen’s neck, now being as big as a small calf. Morning lets out a low grumble and M’rone wavers. The queen turns back to her with an almost amused smile and says, ‘She will not hurt you.’
M’rone bows her heard apologetically and comes closer. Their ladies-in-waiting, however, keep a large distance, giving them some privacy. Her Grace exchanges a few words with the guards stationed at the enclosure. They are not usual guards, clad only in simple garments, carrying no swords, rather silver-bladed spears. Even more, they converse with the queen in flawless High Valyrian, so supple, so fluent that M’rone cannot make out what they are saying. So far her control over the language does not stretch. The guards open the cage and the queen steps in, immediately sinking on her knees by her dragon’s side to embrace her as if it indeed were a mere calf, not a beast that may as well grow up to become the most dangerous predator on this world. It is heartwarming in the strangest way: to see Her Grace press a kiss on the dragon’s snout. Morning is truly brilliant, her pink scales seem to glow when catching the sunlight, turning an almost purple red at her wings. A bleeding dawn.
‘Come closer, my lady.’
M’rone does as bid, trying to not let her anxiety show. But then the queen takes hold of her hand and brings it closer to the dragon. M’rone tenses. She should not touch it. This is a beast of blood magic, a beast of primordial fire. What happened when she touched Dark Sister—she never wants to experience it again. Morning seems to understand as much, for the dragon lets out a low grumbling sound. And so, even though she should not, M’rone slips her hand from Her Grace’s and shakes her head.
‘Forgive me my fright,’ she whispers as she takes a step back.
Rhaena Targaryen, embracing her dragonling’s long neck as one would do a dear friend, says somewhat confused, ‘I heard you have met Vhagar, my lady. Surely she is more of a frightening beast than my dear Ñāqes.’
‘Of course, but…’ What is she to say now? She has no excuse which sounds believable.
The queen sighs and rises to her feet. One of the guards approaches, handing over to Her Grace a large bucket filled with something rosy. Meat. Morning perks up, clearly she has been waiting for this. Rhaena Targaryen takes out a big piece of meat and almost absentmindedly throws it in the air. Morning is awfully quick in her reaction. Shooting forward, she breathes a burst of fire and by the time she plucks the meat out of the air, it is roasted. M’rone sets a step back. As the queen throws yet another piece to her dragon, she tells M’rone, ‘I thought she would be mine, did you know?’
‘Your grace?’
‘Vhagar,’ Her Grace says. ‘She was my lady mother’s dragon, before she was Aemond’s. And when my mother died, I thought it only natural that she would pass to me. Like one would inherit a fortune. Or a throne.’
As she speaks, she is slowly losing her queenliness, like flakes of herself falling to the wind. All that remains however, is a girl of mere ten and seven, still mourning a loss she can likely never accept.
‘It was a childish notion, but well… My father and mother had not really explained it to me, what it meant to claim a dragon. You see, the egg they laid in my cradle never hatched. It went cold and turned into stone. And with it, my father forgot about me, and so no one really explained that if I wanted Vhagar, I had to go to her and claim her.’
‘And then Aemond claimed her.’
‘On the night after my mother’s funeral.’
That is cruel, M’rone thinks, but then, against her better judgment, she considers that maybe that boy did not mean it like that. This clearly happened when both of them were but children, both of them not entirely certain of the ways of the worlds, of what causes joy, what causes pain. But then again, Aemond is six years older than Rhaena. Should he not at least have thought of her, his younger cousin?
‘We had not met before until that day. Now that I look back on it, we must have been more alike than we would ever dare to admit now. His egg, too, turned to stone in his cradle. He, like I, was shunned for his lack of a dragon. That much Luke confessed to me.’
Lucerys Velaryon. Of course, that boy used to be Rhaena’s betrothed. She never really paid it any mind. She never paused to consider whether, a life time ago, this girl had loved the very boy who cut out Aemond’s eye.
‘But Luke… He did not know me then either. And he and his brothers did not attack Aemond for my sake, only for his little brother’s. Joffrey’s own egg had not yet turned to stone, but it had not hatched either. Not until later that month.’ She throws a third and final piece of meat in the air, and Morning sets onto it eagerly. ‘When I heard, when I saw that they had cut out his eye, I will admit, for a moment I agreed with him. Do you know what he said? That it was a fair exchange, he lost an eye, but gained a dragon. And I agreed, but now I feel so silly. We were all but children back then. Little did we know that quarreling among us could ever result in such…’
‘Fire and blood,’ M’rone whispers.
Rhaena sets aside the bucket. Petting Morning on the head absentmindedly, she confesses, ‘I never truly hated him. Not until he killed my father, not until he took my little brothers. He hates me now, too, although I do not understand why. But I understand very well why he took me to wife and then took me to bed.
M’rone meets Rhaena’s gaze emptily. Perhaps, she thinks, Rhaena called on her looking for solace. But no matter that their grief stems from the same man, it is not alike in any way. So whatever comfort she may be able to show this girl, it would never suffice.
‘Three dragon eggs, three sons,’ Rhaena whispers, but then, her voice slips into a higher, sharper pitch and she comes closer to M’rone. ‘But does he wish to sire them all on me, my lady? For one son he has already, so everyone whispers, even if no one dares tell me. And here you are, as well, suffering him as I suffer him.’
Something is amiss. She can see it clearly: right before her eyes this Westerosi queen is unraveling. It is beyond a sad sight. Perhaps, that is why she feels inclination to bite through her own sorrow and be honest.
‘I will bear him no sons, nor daughters,’ M’rone says truthfully.
‘So he allows you to drink moontea?’ On this matter she whispers, as if it were a foul subject.
M’rone, ignoring the pain in her chest, shakes her head. ‘I am barren, and that serves him well.’
‘And the witch’s son is a bastard, or so he claims,’ Rhaena mutters.
She blinks as if confused. As if falling apart. M’rone draws closer, but only a little, and asks softly, ‘Your grace, what is the matter?’
‘I am with child.’
Shame on her. Disgrace on her. For her first feeling is one of mangled and malformed jealousy. It lasts but only for the fraction of a moment, fleeting quickly and swiftly to make way instead for a nausea of pity. But that too is hardly the appropriate reaction, is it? Then again, she simply does not know what to say.
Finally she asks, ‘Have you told him?’
Rhaena scoffs, shaking her head. ‘I will do so, quickly, if only for it will keep him from by bed.’
In that at least she is lucky. For M’rone no such way out exists. If any.
‘It is why I wished to talk with you, my lady.’ Morning is coming closer once more, rubbing her snout against Rhaena’s elbow. Scratching her dragonling over the head, she says, ‘I am grateful for your presence at this court. For it has kept my husband away from me. But I feel guilty for feeling this gratitude, for I know you neither wish his company.’
‘You owe me no guilt, nor gratitude, your grace,’ she hurries to reply. She is surpised that she speaks so steadily, because this conversation: it is making her feel as if her bones are trying to jump out of her own skin. ‘For these months I have felt deep regret, over the shame I bring on you with my mere presence.’
‘Do not speak so,’ Rhaena insists. ‘You are not to blame for his choices.’
M’rone cannot find it in herself to reply. She has no right to this sympathy, and yet she is bestowed it.
‘But if you feel inclined to guilt nonetheless… There may be a way to repent.’
‘Your grace?’
‘You hold sway with the king, far more than I do.’
M’rone shakes her head. ‘I—I do not think so.’
‘Yes, you do. You must admit it. And you must use that influence, now, I beg of you… Please, he keeps me from my brothers and means to do so until I have given him a son. Until I—My lady, speak to him, convince him to let me see my brothers.’
She owes the queen this much. She owes her own conscience this much. For this is the sort of cruelty she especially despises in him; that he would keep a sister from her brothers, that he would create discord there where needs to be none, that he would separate those who care for each other. But yet, the notion that she would exploit whatever little influence she has over him. Then she would truly become a licentious courtesan in a mummer’s farce, no? Then she would truly become intertwined with him, indebted to him.
‘I cannot,’ she says.
‘B-but you must.’
And maybe Rhaena is right, maybe she simply must do this. But she cannot. Shaking her head again, she takes a step back.
‘And you dared to speak of regret over your treatment of me?’
M’rone scoffs. She is a true Targaryen yet. Two-faced, two-hearted. Or perhaps even three-faced, three-hearted. Who is she to know how many faces and hearts this Targaryen girl has hidden underneath her sorrow and pain? She is not of the blood of the dragon, but of the moon’s silver light. Cold. Barren.
Keeping her head high, she says, ‘I do regret it. And I do regret refusing you this now.’
Morning lets out a sort of hiss.
‘If you feel so, then why do you refuse? I understand that you fear him, that he has a violence to him, I know—’
‘With all due respect, your grace,’ M’rone sneers, ‘but you do not know what it is like for me, as I do not know what it is like for you.’
‘We suffer under the same man.’
‘And that makes us the same?’ she retorts.
Rhaena’s lips part, but all that comes out is her breath. And then, a laugh. Bitter and full of bile, the sort of laugh a girl of ten and seven should be incapable of.
‘I suppose it does not. For I have shown you kindness, my lady, whereas you—Well, maybe this is why you suit him.’
M’rone smiles thinly. They are done here, she understands that much. She courtesies deeply, for despite all, her respect for this girl queen at least is sincere. ‘Your grace.’
‘Just go.’
M’rone does as she bids, knowing that as she walks to meet her ladies, behind her back, Rhaena Targaryen is weeping into her dragon’s embrace.
She does her best not to mind his staring, but he has a talent for it: to make it known, even to those who do not meet his gaze, that he is inspecting them. With great scrutiny, with great dismay. He has said nothing since arriving in her rooms. He did not even come to her to kiss her on the brow as he usually does. Instead he sat down on the sofa, legs crossed, and began his watch.
She has met his behavior in kind. She has not dismissed her ladies, who sit attaching some bejeweled beads to pretty cauls, nor did she send away Lanna, who has been leafing through a book on the Faith of the Seven for the better part of an hour now. Instead she kept focused on her painting, further detailing the flooded city of Volon Therys. But focused is, admittedly, an exaggeration, for she has grown uncomfortable under Aemond’s silent leering.
She likes to imagine herself stronger, more disciplined. But she has had the most terrible of mornings, and she is tired. So tired. Perhaps that is why she relents and turns to him to say, ‘Your grace, you said you would send me books from the library to help me on my endeavors, and yet, I wait on them still.’
Finally he moves, if only to get more comfortable on the couch. He hums, but does not say a word.
‘I tried going to the library myself, but apparently I am not allowed entry.’
He tilts his head. She follows the direction of his gaze, to Lanna, who sits crossed-legged on the carpet, reading her book. Or, more likely, looking at the pictures. An outsider would almost think this a sort of family scene. But Aemond’s quiet command is clear enough. Placing her painting brush aside, she calls, ‘Adain, Ivelenn, perhaps you could return Lanna to Sara Snow for her lesson?’
The governess has graciously taken it on herself to teach Lanna about Westerosi customs and the manners of a lady. Not that M’rone asked for it, let alone likes it, but the queen dowager thought it would suit her niece well and on these matters of such domestic nature Aemond lets his mother rule freely. Lanna looks up at M’rone with a frown, then her gaze strays to Aemond. At the sight of his dead stare, she gulps, but the sweet girl does not say anything. M’rone, doing her best to not let it show just how sad she is to see Lanna be taken away, unties her work apron and gets onto her feet. As soon as they are alone she says, ‘Speak your mind, Aemond Targaryen.’
‘You spoke with the queen.’
She places the apron over the three-legged stool she sits on when painting, and shakes her head. ‘Yes.’
‘Did you seek her out?’ he presses.
She raises an eyebrow. ‘Is that of importance?’
But he is learning to read her moods. For her reply is enough for him to deduce what happened.
‘She should not have called on you.’
And he pats his leg. She looks down at his hand, irked that he so calls her to do his bidding. As if she were some domesticated pet, not a woman grown with a mind and will of her own. But he is in a foul mood already, and while she would not overly placate him, she has no inclination to escalate the matter. And so she sits down on his lap. Like clockwork, his hand drifts to the nape of her neck, to toy with the lock of the bronze necklace. She bites down on her tongue, trying to keep an air of disinterest and indifference.
‘Did she tell you then?’
She looks up to the ceiling, already frustrated by this whole conversation.
‘She is with child,’ he continues.
How eager her must be to hurt her, for his free hand wanders to her belly. He rests his touch there where she is utterly and completely wretched.
‘Are you not pleased, your grace?’ she presses.
‘It pleases me that I will have an heir, that I will not have to leave our bed anymore to lie with her,’ he replies. ‘That I may be now devoted to you.’
Our bed, he says, devotion, he says, as if those are at all an appropriate words for their disposition. Uncomfortable under his touch and voice, she fumbles with the beaded bracelet around her wrist.
‘I do not need your devotion, Aemond.’ Why she says it so mildly she does not know.
His fingertips at her neck drift up higher and higher, pushing into her braided hair, until he is cupping the back of her head.
‘Do you rather desire Halys Reed’s?’
So he knows of that too. She should hardly be surprised. And yet, the question unsettles her enough to make her blush. Oh, and he sees that, for he tsks.
‘What use would I have for that, when your Master of Whisperers is evidently so dedicated only to you?’ she dismisses.
‘I will not have you speak with him another time,’ he says.
She should silently agree. She knows she should, and yet, she hears herself say, ‘He only showed me Balerion’s skull.’
Aemond’s nostrils flare as he takes in a deep breath. This is the line she must tread, that much is clear. And in order to not transgress now she should say something sweet. She should divert the conversation to, perhaps, the royal hunt she heard whispers about, or maybe she should ask him to take her to the library now. He may even yet oblige her, if only she would call him her king. She well understands the script that comes with this position of hers—as his courtesan, as the pet he keeps on his lap, as the little bird he means to keep caged away from his queen and Master of Whisperers—but understanding aside, she also has a will of her own. And it is that which dictates her to say, ‘Do you also have Meraxes’s skull still? I would like to study it, for the—’
‘Get on your knees,’ he interrupts.
The command is soft-spoken but not softly meant. This expression on his face she knows. He will not ask twice. And so she obediently does as asked. As he parts his legs, she slips down to kneel between them. He moves his jaw in that way he does when trying to keep his patience. She well knows that he likes seeing her so, below him, beneath him, obedient, but never meek. It is clear what he means for her to do—or do to her, if she forces him so—but she only lays her cheek to rest on his knee and, looking up at him, she says, ‘The Black Dread’s skull, is that the deity you worship, Aemond?’
He takes hold of her chin, forcing her to sit straight. ‘Worship your king, Moondrop.’
Taking note of the swell in his trousers, she clenches her jaw. He must see it her eyes, the storm raging inside her. But he only chuckles and leans back. There is no use in delaying it, and so she does not. She unbuckles his belt and frees his cock. How come it is already so hard and swollen with need she can only imagine, but yes, it is hot and firm in her grip.
Strange, how detached she can become from herself when doing this. It is half as if someone else is doing it through her body, not she herself. Yes, it is someone else, not she, who takes the tip between her lips, who takes that shaft into her mouth, into her throat. But it is definitely Aemond who grips her hair and forces her down until she is choking, until tears blur her vision and smear her cheeks. It is he who is moaning in pleasure and delight. While all she can do not to retch at disgust is pretending she is not here. She is not doing this. Someone else is.
Balerion’s head hangs over the altar. His terrible red eyes watch her attentively as she approaches. It is strange to move in this waterlike substance, slow and sluggish, but not so strange as the blue glow that dies on Balerion’s black scales, as the way his maw hangs open, and black flames die in the back of his throat. Here the Black Dread still lives, but not really. Decapitated and lost, the last dragon to have seen Old Valyria is reduced to nothing more than a scary sight. A head that can only watch the world end.
But the gentle queen, she has become almost like a friend. To see her here, touching the candles’ cold blue flames, is a relief.
‘I do not remember if I made this choice myself,’ Helaena Targaryen says, ‘Or if Fate made it for me.’
M’rone stops at the altar, listening to Balerion’s heavy, ragged breaths.
‘You still have not told her,’ Helaena says.
‘How to tell her?’
‘With words, my words.’ Helaena looks at her with pleading eyes. ‘But maybe you are right. Maybe I would only scare her. Maybe she would rather forget me altogether.’
M’rone is quick to insist, ‘No, it is not so.’
The dead queen of dreams looks up at Balerion’s monstruous head, and frowns. A slow moment passes, in which M’rone is certain the dragon’s head is somehow sneering at her, and Helaena decides, ‘I think it is better you leave.’
But no sooner has she utterred those words, or deep in Balerion’s throat something catches black fire. And she is burning.
She wakes screaming and crying and coughing. Barely does she register Aemond taking hold of her shoulders, first hushing her, then commanding her to shut up. But she cannot. She has caught black, cold fire and she is burning, she is flaking away into ash and sooth.
‘Make it stop!’ she begs. ‘Make it stop!’
And finally, he does make it stop. He calls for the Grand Maester, he calls for milk of the poppy. And with its bittersweet taste in her mouth, she drifts into a barren and void sleep.
