MissK @kckt88 - Tumblr Blog

Spoils of the Dance XIV-

Summary: In the aftermath of grief and death, Visella and Aemond try to move forward and a surprise return brings much joy.

Warning(s): Angst, Drama, Swearing, Violence, Allusion to Torture, Talk of Death, Arguements, Uncle/Niece Incest, Kissing, Fingering, Oral Sex, P in V.

AEMOND x O.C. AEGON x O.C. & PAST RELATIONSHIPS

Word Count: 9283

A.N -

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon or Fire & Blood characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used.

Comments, likes, and reblogs are very much appreciated, do not copy/post to other sights without my permission.

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Visella stood frozen in the entrance to Larys Strong’s chambers. For a moment, she could not make sense of what she was seeing.

The bed curtains had been ripped down and trampled and chairs lay overturned.

There was blood everywhere.

It flowed across the floor in every direction, and it had soaked the bedding until the sheets hung dark and sodden over the mattress.

And Larys—What remained of him lay twisted upon the mattress, barely recognizable as a man.

Flesh hung in ragged strips; his skin peeled back in places like ribbons of torn cloth. His face was pale and slack, his eyes wide and empty staring toward the ceiling.

Visella’s stomach lurched. “A-Aemond” she breathed. “What have you done to him?”

Her gaze shifted towards Aemond who was sat slumped against the wall opposite the bed.

He was drenched in blood. It streaked his hands, soaked through his shirt and spattered his face and hair.

His dagger lay discarded a short distance away.

His elbows rested on his knees, his head buried in his hands as his shoulders shook with silent sobs that wracked through him.

Visella’s horror vanished at once.

She moved toward him as quickly as her weakened body allowed, one hand braced to the wall for support.

When she reached him, she lowered herself slowly, carefully, crouching beside him with effort.

“Oh, my love,” she whispered.

Aemond did not look up, he only wept harder.

Visella leaned forward without hesitation and wrapped both arms around him, pulling him against her despite the blood, despite the pain, and despite everything.

“It is all right,” she murmured into his hair. “I have you”

For a long while she simply held him there on the floor. Held him while his grief poured out in silence.

Held him until the shaking eased and the tears stopped.

At last, he went still, yet he did not speak.

He stared ahead at nothing, hollow-eyed and emptied by what he had done and why he had done it.

Visella slowly rose, wincing at the protest of her body. Then she took his hand. “Come”

Aemond obeyed without resistance.

With effort she helped pull him to his feet, though he towered over her. Once upright, he swayed slightly.

Visella slipped an arm around his back, guiding him gently. “It is all right,” she repeated. “We will go back to my chambers.”

They left Larys’ chambers together.

Aemond walked beside her in complete silence. Passing servants stopped and stared in shock, their eyes darting between the Prince’s crimson-soaked clothes and the Queen’s pale yet determined face.

Visella ignored them all.

Her only thought was getting Aemond somewhere safe and quiet.

At last, they reached her chambers and she ushered him inside, quickly guiding him to the armchair by the fire.

Aemond sat heavily, his hands hanging limp between his knees, his singular gaze fixed on the flames.

Visella stood for a moment, breathing hard from the effort. Then she turned and called for a maid to prepare a hot bath.

Steam curled through the chamber, softening the candlelight and blurring the edges of the room.

Aemond sat submerged in the hot bathwater, his arms resting limp along the sides of the tub.

He stared straight ahead, unblinking.

The blood had begun to loosen from his skin, turning the water pink.

Visella knelt beside the bath, a soft cloth in her hands.

Gently, she ran the rag across his shoulders, across the streaks of dried blood at his throat. down his arms, and over the cuts on his knuckles

Her touch was careful and tender.

“I am here, if you wish to talk.”

No answer came. Only silence.

It stretched so long she thought perhaps he had not heard her at all.

Then, at last, his lips parted. “I-” His voice was hoarse. “I could not stop.”

Visella paused only a moment before dipping the cloth back into the water and lifting it to his face.

She cleaned the blood from his scarred cheek with slow, steady strokes.

Aemond swallowed hard. “I have taken lives before,” he said quietly. “By the sword and by dragon fire, during the war, but this was-different”

Visella looked at him softly. “Different?”

A shuddering breath left him. “Yes. Some men die quickly.” His fingers curled against the edge of the tub. “Larys did not.”

The room felt smaller somehow.

“He kept begging,” Aemond continued, voice low and raw. “Pleading and crying, and I could not stop.”

Visella resumed washing the blood from his temple.

“I wanted it to hurt,” he whispered. “I wanted him to suffer.”

Visella set the cloth against the side of the tub and cupped his face. “I understand.”

Fresh tears slipped from Aemond’s eye “I keep thinking of everything I shall never have now.”

Visella said nothing, she just let him speak.

“Aelarr’s first word. His first steps, taking him for his first flight on Vhagar, and because of Larys Strong. I shall know none of it.”

Visella took the cloth once more and rinsed it in the water, as her own eyes had filled with tears. “I know”

“I thought I had come to terms with losing him,” he whispered. “I thought time had done what time is meant to do, and when Aeyla was born, the ache lessened.”

A faint, broken smile touched his lips and vanished.

“She brought light where there had only been grief. But now-everything with Larys has torn it open again and it feels like I lost Aelarr yesterday.”

Visella bowed her head, her hands wringing the cloth.

Aemond dragged a shaking hand over his face. “I swore I would be better than Viserys. I was going to be there for my son. I was going to make sure he knew he was loved”

Visella whispered softly “Oh-Aemond”

Aemond then broke entirely. “And now he is gone, before he even had a chance to truly live”

Visella leaned forward into the bath, uncaring that she got soaked and wrapped her arms around him.

She held him as tightly as she could. “I am here” she whispered against his damp hair.

Aemond bowed into her, his breathing ragged. “I lost control with Larys. My anger, it simply took over me.”

Visella drew back enough to rest her forehead against his. “You did what you had to.”

Aemond flinched slightly at the words. “Do you think me a monster?”

Visella’s answer was immediate. “No. You are a father who sought justice for his son”

Aemond looked at her then, truly looked at her, his single eye full of pain and disbelief. “I don’t know why I feel so-disconnected”

Visella brushed his wet silver hair back from his face. “You were betrayed and lied to. Grief can make the world feel far away.”

Aemond’s hand rose from the water and found hers. “Do you still-love me?”

Visella tightened her fingers around his. “Always”

Visella stood at the foot of her bed, her hands loosely clasped before her as she watched the quiet scene laid out before her.

Aemond lay fast asleep at last, the exhaustion had claimed him completely.

On one side of him, Aeyla had curled into his chest, her small hand fisted in the fabric of his shirt, while Jaehaera lay tucked close beside her, her head resting gently against his shoulder.

On the other side—Rhaegar.

Swaddled and nestled safely against Aemond’s arm.

Even in sleep, Aemond held them close. His arms curved protectively around the children as though he feared—perhaps even now—that if he loosened his grip, they might be taken from him.

Visella’s chest tightened. There was something achingly fragile in the sight.

A man who had lost one child, clinging to the ones he had left.

She exhaled softly, steadying herself. “Martha”

The maid stepped forward at once.

“Remain here and watch over them”

Martha nodded. “Of course, Your Grace.”

Visella’s gaze shifted to the door. “Ser Quinn, stand guard at the door and make sure no one enters without my leave”

The guard straightened. “As you wish, Your Grace”

Only then did Visella turn away. She beckoned to Ser Moore, and together they left the chamber.

The walk through the corridors was slower this time. Her body still ached, each step a reminder of what she had endured—but she did not falter.

Not now. Not when there were still things left unfinished.

As they approached the chambers once belonging to Larys Strong, Visella paused.

Her hand rested briefly against the door.

“I must warn you, Ser,” she said quietly, without looking at him. “It is not a pleasant sight.”

Ser Moore inclined his head. “I will endure it, just as you have, Your Grace.”

Visella pushed the door open and even prepared as she was, her stomach still turned.

Blood still darkened the floorboards, thick and drying in uneven pools. The bed still soaked through, and the linens ruined beyond recognition.

And Larys…

There was little left to call a man.

Visella swallowed hard, forcing the bile back down.

Ser Moore stepped forward, his expression hardening as he took in the scene. “The Prince’s justice was thoroughly dispensed”

Visella gave a tight nod—but did not immediately move on.

Instead, she spoke quietly, almost to herself. “Do you think him brutal?”

Ser Moore glanced at her, then shook his head. “No, Your Grace.”

Visella paused for a moment and sighed deeply “I will admit I was shocked-but I understand it”

Ser Moore looked once more toward the ruined body. “The Prince did what he had to. The loss of a child is hard on the heart.”

Visella looked at him more closely then, hearing something personal beneath the words. “Ser Moore?”

He was silent for a moment before speaking.

“It was many years ago,” he said. “A group of men entered the village where I lived with my wife and daughter. Not content with stealing, they set their sights on murder.”

Visella’s breath caught.

“They killed a number of men, women and children,” he continued. “My wife and daughter among them.”

Visella reached out at once, laying a hand upon his arm. “Oh, Ser Moore, I am so sorry.”

He covered her hand with his own and gave it a brief squeeze.

“I lost myself to grief and anger,” he said plainly. “So, I went searching for the men who had taken them from me and when I found them, I made certain neither of them drew breath again.”

Visella’s throat tightened.

Ser Moore released her hand and straightened. “So, Your Grace. I can sympathize with the Prince and his reason.”

Visella gave a tight nod. “We need to dispose of the body.”

“I will see to it,” Ser Moore replied. He paused, then asked, “Shall he be given to the dragons?”

Visella was silent for a moment. Then, quietly “I am sure Vhagar will suffice.”

Ser Moore gave a single nod and moved to the bed. With practiced efficiency, he began wrapping what remained of Larys in the blood-soaked sheets, concealing the worst of it from sight.

Visella turned away, her gaze sweeping the ruined chamber.

“Everything in here is to be removed,” she said, her voice steady despite the exhaustion pulling at her. “Every piece of furniture and every scrap of cloth, I want it all burned”

Ser Moore looked up. “As you wish”

“I will not have any trace of that murderous lying toad remain in the Red Keep.”

There was no anger in her tone now. Only finality.

Ser Moore secured the bundled body and rose. “The maids will see it done, Your Grace.”

Visella drew in a slow breath, then released it. “Thank you, Ser Moore, for everything.”

He gave her a faint, respectful smile. “Your gratitude is more than enough, Your Grace.”

Then, more gently—

“May I suggest you return to Prince Aemond and the children? I will see Lord Strong properly disposed of.”

Visella nodded. “I would appreciate that.”

She paused at the doorway, casting one last glance over the chamber.

Then she turned away and headed back towards what mattered.

The next morning, Visella could delay it no longer.

Grief, blood, exhaustion, birth, and murder—none of it changed the truth before them.

The realm required a ruler and until one was named, the Seven Kingdoms would drift toward chaos.

So, the council had been summoned.

Visella sat at the head of the long table in the king’s chair, the carved arms cold beneath her hands.

To her right sat Aemond, his fingers tapped idly against the tabletop, though the rest of him was taut with vigilance. His eye kept drifting toward the corner of the chamber where Martha and Ser Moore stood watch over Aeyla, newborn Rhaegar, and Jaehaera.

He had insisted the children come. He would not be parted from them.

To Visella’s left sat Alicent, eyes rimmed red, and her fingers worrying at each other in silent distress.

Seated further down the table were Tyland Lannister, Jasper Wylde, and Grand Maester Orwyle.

At the far end sat Floris Baratheon, nervous and rigid.

Visella cleared her throat. “I have called for this meeting because the realm has found itself without a ruler, and we must name one—for the stability of the crown and the realm.”

Jasper Wylde shifted in his seat. “I beg pardon, Your Grace, but perhaps I might first enquire after Lord Strong. A most unsettling rumour has reached me.”

Visella glanced briefly at Aemond. “And what rumour is that, my lord?”

Jasper straightened. “That the Hand of the King is dead—and his body hastily removed from the Red Keep under cover of night.”

Visella did not flinch. “Tis no rumour my Lord. Lord Strong is dead.”

A murmur moved through the room.

Jasper frowned. “First the King, now his hand. I think an explanation is owed.”

Visella rose slowly, bracing both palms upon the table. “It was recently brought to light that Larys Strong was responsible for the King’s death. Not Prince Aemond.”

Jasper blinked in shock. “Why would Lord Strong—”

“Because-” Visella cut in sharply, “he desired the Iron Throne.”

Tyland scoffed. “Lord Strong had no legitimate claim.”

“Through Rhaegar, he would have.”

Every gaze turned to the sleeping newborn in Martha’s arms.

Visella continued. “He knew he could not seize the throne by force. So he sought a Targaryen babe he might rule through. He poisoned Aegon, framed Aemond, and intended to accuse me of treason so I would be executed beside him.”

Tyland nodded grimly. “That would leave an heir too young to rule. A regent would be required.”

Visella’s eyes hardened. “And that was Lord Strong’s grand design.”

Jasper scoffed. “Ridiculous. Once the boy came of age—”

“Assuming,” Tyland interrupted coolly, “that Lord Strong intended to let the boy live so long.”

Silence fell.

Then Jasper leaned forward. “And are we expected to believe all this? Were we not present when Prince Aemond condemned the King publicly and claimed he would make a better ruler? How do we know this is not some plot to crown a second son?”

Visella’s temper snapped. “Because I speak the truth. Larys Strong murdered the King. He also murdered Aemond’s firstborn son, Aelarr. The man was a traitor, and he got what he deserved, and if I hear you speak of Prince Aemond in that manner again, I shall have your fucking tongue—and other parts besides. Do you understand, Iron rod?”

Jasper paled instantly. “Yes, Your Grace.”

Visella sat once more. “Good. Then let us proceed.”

Tyland shifted. “As the King’s heir is but a newborn babe, perhaps—”

Visella raised a hand. “Apologise my lord, but I must now speak the plain truth.”

Tyland frowned “The truth, your grace?”

“The truth, my lord. Is that due to the injuries Aegon sustained at Battle of Rook's Rest, he was unable to sire children.”

The room went still.

Tyland’s eyes moved slowly to Aeyla and Rhaegar. “But then-”

Visella exhaled. “The children were fathered by Prince Aemond.”

Jasper nearly choked and Tyland stared.

But it was Floris who leapt to her feet. “What?”

Visella looked bored. “I am certain that you are not deaf my lady, but I shall repeat myself. My children were fathered by Aemond.”

Floris flushed crimson. “All this time—you and him, behind my back?”

Visella waved dismissively. “Oh, come now. It is not as though you and Aemond were wed, despite your many desperate attempts to make it so.”

Floris bristled. “But we are betrothed—”

“Sit down” Visella said coldly.

Floris sank back into her chair, trembling with fury.

Visella continued. “Due to Aegon’s inability to produce an heir, it was decided that Prince Aemond would perform the duty in his stead and if any here doubt my word, the Dowager Queen and Grand Maester may confirm they were party to the arrangement from the beginning.”

All eyes turned to Alicent.

She gave a slow, weary nod. “’Tis true. Aegon required a son and could not sire one. Aemond was the only choice.”

Tyland leaned back. “Then if the King has no legitimate issue, the next in line is Prince Aemond.”

Aemond shook his head. “No.”

Tyland blinked. “But my prince, you have a claim.”

Aemond rose. “The only rightful claim belongs to Visella. She is the eldest child of Rhaenyra Targaryen—the chosen heir of King Viserys Targaryen”

Jasper gasped. “My Prince, you cannot mean to validate Rhaenyra’s claim now. The realm bled for this dispute; and many men were lost!”

Visella snarled. “And it shall lose one more man if you do not close your mouth.”

Aemond sighed. “Visella and I spoke long into the night about succession, legitimacy, and peace. My father chose Rhaenyra. Therefore, Visella is the rightful Queen”

Visella’s voice softened slightly. “What matters now is unity, peace and order. The only path forward is for what remains of House Targaryen to stand together.”

Tyland nodded slowly. “A wise course, Your Grace.”

Visella inclined her head. “Which means I hereby dissolve the betrothal between Prince Aemond and Lady Floris Baratheon.”

Floris stared at her in disbelief.

Visella did not spare her another glance. “Prince Aemond and I shall marry in the Grand Sept. Let ravens be sent to the great lords and ladies of the Seven Kingdoms. In two moon’s time they are to attend King’s Landing for the ceremony and our joint coronation.”

Grand Maester Orwyle bowed his head. “As you command, Your Grace.”

Visella continued. “I also intend to strengthen this council. Lady Jeyne Arryn and Lord Cregan Stark shall be offered seats and ravens will also be sent to Dalton Greyjoy to learn where his loyalties lie”

Tyland cleared his throat. “Might I also suggest reaching out to Corlys Velaryon, the sea snake should also hold a seat at this council-”

Visella’s jaw tightened at the mention of her grandsire. “I see the merit of the suggestion and I shall consider it. Now are there any further matters to discuss?”

No one spoke.

Visella rose. “Then this council meeting is adjourned”

Visella stood a short distance from the pyre, gently patting Rhaegar’s back where he was fastened close to her chest in a sling.

The babe stirred sleepily, then settled again against her warmth.

Ahead of them, Aemond stood before Vhagar, one hand raised as the great she-dragon lowered her scarred head.

Aegon’s body had been laid upon the pyre at dawn.

No bells had rung. No golden litter had borne him through the streets. No crowds of smallfolk had gathered to cast flower petals and cry out for their king.

Aemond had refused it all. He had insisted the funeral remain private.

No spectacle. No lies. Only fire.

At his command, Vhagar opened her jaws.

Dragon flame roared forth in a torrent of orange and gold, swallowing wood, cloth, and flesh alike.

Beside Visella, Alicent stood rigid and silent, staring into the blaze. Another child gone.

Behind them, Ser Moore held Aeyla against his shoulder. The little girl had long since fallen asleep, her cheek pillowed against his cloak.

At Visella’s side stood Jaehaera. The child’s hand was clasped tightly in hers.

Visella felt the tiny fingers trembling.

She looked down. Tears were sliding silently down Jaehaera’s cheeks.

Visella’s heart ached.

Carefully, she knelt despite the soreness still lingering in her body. She shifted Rhaegar with one hand and used the other to wipe the tears from Jaehaera’s face.

“Oh, sweet girl,” she whispered.

Jaehaera sniffled, her mouth trembling. “I-I’ve lost them.”

Visella gently tucked a loose strand of silver hair behind the child’s ear. “I know.”

The words were soft, but heavy with truth.

Jaehaera’s face crumpled. “I want my mother.”

Visella placed a hand lightly over the girl’s small chest. “You know,” she murmured, “the ones who love us never truly leave.”

Jaehaera stared up at her through wet lashes.

“You can always find them-in here.”

Jaehaera’s breath hitched. “But it’s not the same as my mother being here to hold me. Or to sing to me.”

Visella cupped her cheek tenderly. “No,” she said honestly. “It is not the same.”

She brushed away another tear with her thumb.

“And I would never dream of taking your mother’s place in your heart.”

Jaehaera’s lip quivered.

“But,” Visella continued, voice shaking slightly now, “I can be your mother too, if you would like.”

For a heartbeat the child simply stared.

Then Jaehaera nodded and threw herself forward, arms wrapping tightly around Visella’s neck.

Visella caught her carefully, drawing her close despite the babe at her chest.

“I’m here,” she whispered, holding her tight.

Behind them, the pyre crackled and burned, Aemond stood unmoving in the firelight.

And in the midst of ash and grief. Something new quietly began.

Two months later, King's Landing was alive with celebration.

The bells were ringing and the red and black Targaryen banners fluttered in the wind.

The streets overflowed with smallfolk packed shoulder to shoulder, clapping, cheering, and calling blessings as their new rulers passed by.

At the head of the grand procession rode Queen Visella and King Aemond upon horseback.

Visella sat tall and radiant in red and black, her crown catching the sunlight. Beside her, Aemond rode in dark leathers trimmed with silver, the weight of the crown upon his brow sitting strangely natural there.

She turned to look at him. He was already looking at her.

For a moment the roar of the city seemed to fade.

Then Aemond reached across the space between their horses and took her hand.

Their fingers entwined and the crowd erupted louder at the sight.

Behind them rode Jaehaera and Aegon, riding proudly beneath the royal banners.

Behind them came Ser Moore and Ser Quinn, mounted on either side of a gilded carriage carrying Aeyla, Rhaegar, and Alicent.

Following in stately ranks were the gathered great lords and ladies of the realm:

Cregan Stark, Jeyne Arryn, Tyland Lannister, Jasper Wylde, Dalton Greyjoy, and Corlys Velaryon.

Then above them—Two thunderous roars split the sky.

The crowd gasped and looked upward as Vhagar and Vermithor swept overhead, their vast wings shadowing the city streets.

The people screamed with delight.

But then—A third roar.

Visella and Aemond both looked skyward in astonishment.

There, glinting in the sunlight, flew Silverwing.

The beloved dragon once ridden by Good Queen Alysanne Targaryen had left her self-imposed isolation on Dragonstone.

Thousands of hands lifted to the heavens as voices cried blessings, prayers, and praise.

Many wept openly, taking the dragon’s appearance on this day as a sign of favour from the gods and a blessing upon the union of Visella and Aemond.

At last, the grand procession reached Red Keep.

Aemond dismounted first, he turned and reached up both hands to help Visella down from her horse, guiding her carefully to the ground.

Before the gathered court, he bowed his head to her.

“My Queen,” he said softly, though all nearby heard it, “I am truly blessed to call you, my wife.”

Visella reached up and touched the scarred line of his cheek with reverent tenderness.

“And my King,” she replied, eyes shining, “I am truly blessed to finally call you mine.”

The throne room blazed with light and sound.

Musicians played fiddles, pipes, and harps weaving bright melodies through the air. Long trestle tables groaned beneath platters of roasted meats, river trout glazed in honey, trenchers of steaming vegetables, sugared fruits, and wheels of cheese.

The wine flowed freely and laughter rose in waves.

Lords and ladies danced in the open space before the dais, silks swirling, and boots striking the floor in lively rhythm.

At the high table, beneath the looming shadow of the Iron Throne, Visella and Aemond sat side by side.

Their hands were entwined atop the table.

Aeyla and Rhaegar had already been taken to the nursery quarters in Maegor’s Holdfast.

Since learning the truth of Larys Strong’s hand in Aelarr’s death, Aemond had found it nearly impossible to let the children from his sight. Only recently had he begun to allow distance between them.

Even then, only under watch.

He had personally tested every sworn brother of the Kings guard in the training yard, driving them through hours of punishing drills until sweat soaked the sand and tempers frayed.

Ser Moore had emerged bloodied, exhausted, and victorious.

Aemond had named him protector of the royal children that same day.

Visella’s gaze drifted across the hall.

Near one of the side tables, Cregan stood speaking with Alysanne Blackwood. His cheeks pink as he held out a goblet of wine.

Alysanne accepted it with a sly smile and Cregan smiled back.

Aemond noticed where she looked and leaned close, his lips brushing the shell of her ear.

“It appears Lord Stark is quite taken with her.”

Visella smiled. “He deserves some happiness.”

Aemond hummed, though his mouth curved with mischief. “Mayhaps now he can stop making eyes at my wife.”

Visella turned to him sharply. “Aemond.”

Aemond lifted her hand and kissed her knuckles. “Stark has been in King’s Landing for nearly a moon.”

“He brought my brother back to me,” she said softly. “And he has been a welcome addition to our council. His intervention with the Baratheons was of great help. You cannot deny that.”

Aemond inclined his head. “No. I cannot. Lowered taxes, and favourable marriages for all of Lord Baratheon’s daughters, and still, he did not attend our celebration.”

Visella laughed quietly. “Perhaps it is for the best, ñuha dārys” (My King).

Aemond stilled. His violet eye darkened with pleasure. “Say that again.”

Visella arched a brow. “Ñuha dārys”

He leaned in at once, capturing her mouth in a slow, heated kiss that drew whistles and laughter from the lower tables.

When they parted, he murmured against her lips. “Ēva tolī ñuha dāria” (Until later, my Queen).

Visella’s cheeks warmed.

She looked away before he could see how deeply he still affected her.

At the far end of the table sat Aegon and Jaehaera, their heads bent close together in quiet conversation.

It had taken time for little Aegon to settle after returning to the Red Keep.

When Cregan had first brought him home, the boy had scarcely spoken. He had clung to Visella’s skirts, wide-eyed and wary of every noise, every stranger, and every door that closed too loudly.

Then Jaehaera had sat beside him one afternoon with a carved wooden dragon and asked if he wished to play.

From there, something inside him had slowly begun to mend.

Now he smiled and laughed more often. He even argued with Jaehaera over game pieces like any child should.

Aemond had even knelt before the boy days earlier and offered apology for Daemon’s death.

And more than that—He had offered to take Aegon to Dragonstone whenever he was ready, so he might look through Daemon’s belongings and keep whatever he wished.

The boy had accepted the gesture. But not the man.

There was still anger in him. Perhaps there always would be.

Visella’s eyes moved again. Across the hall, to watch Sara bounce little Jacaerys upon her knee.

The child’s dark curls were already forming against his head. He looked more like Jace every day.

And that thought struck her like a blade.

Jace. Luke. Viserys, her mother and Daemon.

Gone. All of them gone.

The music blurred and the laughter became distant.

Her mother would never know that Visella had endured.

Would never know that her daughter now sat the Iron Throne as the rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

Would never know that the claim she had bled for, fought for, and died for—had finally been spoken aloud and honoured before the realm.

Daemon would never know she had kept her promise. That she had protected Aegon.

That she had bartered herself, body and soul, to see her brother safe.

Luke would never soar above the sea with Arrax again. Little Viserys would never ask for one more bedtime story and Jace would never hold his son.

Visella’s breath caught. The room felt too tight. Too loud and too full.

She was on her feet before she fully realized it.

“Visella?” Aemond called sharply, rising half from his chair.

But she was already moving. Past startled nobles and dancers.

Visella fled the throne room, silk skirts gathered in her trembling hands she and did not stop until the cold night air struck her face.

The godswood was quiet.

At its heart stood the ancient weirwood tree, pale bark gleaming like bone.

Visella stumbled forward and placed her palm against the trunk.

Then she broke, as a sob tore from her chest.

She bent against the tree, her shoulders shaking, the tears falling freely at last for all she had endured, and all the names she still carried in her heart.

Visella stilled at the sound of footsteps approaching over the stone.

For one sharp moment, she thought it might be Aemond.

But when she turned, it was Lord Corlys stepping through the archway of the godswood, his silver hair stirred by the night wind, his face lined deeper than she remembered.

Visella furiously swiped the tears from her cheeks. “What do you want?”

Corlys stopped several paces away. “I came to check on you.”

Visella gave a bitter laugh. “Bit late for that, isn’t it?”

Corlys lowered his eyes. “I know what you must think of me, my queen, but—”

“Oh, I do not think, Lord Corlys,” she cut in sharply. “I know that you are a coward and a traitor.”

He visibly flinched.

Even now, old and weathered and sea-worn, the words struck true.

“Your Grace,” he said quietly, “I merely did what I thought was for the best.”

“The best for who?” she snapped. “Because it certainly was not for me. Your supposed grandchild. But then again, I am not truly your blood, am I?”

Corlys lifted his gaze to her. “History remembers names, not blood. My son Laenor claimed you as his.”

Visella shook her head, anger burning hot again. “Clearly blood does matter. Because when the time came, you chose to save Baela and Rhaena”

Corlys opened his mouth. “Your Grace, I—”

“When I was captured and dragged back to King’s Landing,” she hissed, stepping toward him, “you never once spoke for me. Aegon’s life was under threat. I had no choice but to sell myself to protect him—and you sat on that council and let it happen.”

Corlys shook his head. “I wanted to, Your Grace. Believe me, I did.”

“Then why didn’t you?”

The words rang through the quiet godswood.

Corlys’s shoulders bowed. “Because it would not have made a difference.”

Visella stared at him. Then laughed once—small and broken. “So you just left me.”

“I’m sorry.”

Visella pointed toward the archway. “Stuff your apology where the sun does not shine.”

Corlys closed his eyes briefly. “Please, my Queen. I want to make things right.”

“The only way you make this right,” she said coldly, “is by returning to Driftmark and staying there. I never wish to see your face again, Grandsire-”

Corlys took one hesitant step forward. “Please, Your Grace—”

“I watched her die, you know.”

Corlys froze. “Your Grace?”

Visella’s voice dropped to a whisper. “My mother. Aegon made me watch as he commanded Sunfyre to burn her alive.”

Corlys went pale.

Visella’s gaze drifted past him, almost as if she was seeing something far away. “When I close my eyes, I still see her face and the look on my little brother’s face. No child should ever be forced to witness such a thing.”

Corlys’ own voice broke. “No, they should not.”

“Yet it still happened,” she whispered. “And you turned your back on me. I needed you. When I was at my lowest and you were not there.”

Corlys’ eyes glistened with unshed tears. “I’m sorry”

Visella turned away from him. “Just go.”

For a long moment he did not move.

Then slowly, stiffly, Corlys bowed his head. “I hope one day you can forgive me, Your Grace.”

She gave no answer.

After a moment, she heard his footsteps retreating through the stone archway until they faded into silence.

Visella stood facing the weirwood tree, her hand pressed to its pale bark, tears slipping soundlessly down her cheeks.

Several minutes passed. Then she felt a hand settle gently on her shoulder.

She turned to see Aemond standing there, his face shadowed with concern and understanding.

He said nothing. He simply opened his arms and Visella stepped into them at once, her face buried in his chest.

Aemond wrapped himself around her and held her close while she wept.

Aemond guided Visella through the quiet corridors of Maegor’s Holdfast while the celebration still sounded through the walls.

Faint music drifted through stone passageways and laughter echoed somewhere distant below.

Bells still rang across King’s Landing, and now and then the roar of dragons rolled through the night air like thunder.

As they entered their chambers the door closed behind them with a muted thud.

Visella moved first, crossing to the vanity. She reached up with tired hands, lifting the silver crown from her brow and setting it carefully upon a cushion.

“You do not have to stay,” she said quietly, avoiding his eye in the mirror. “You can return to the celebration.”

Aemond gave a low scoff. “No. I’m not leaving you.”

Visella lowered her gaze. “I am sorry. I just got a little overwhelmed.”

Aemond stopped before her and gently cupped her face in both hands, “Tell me.”

“I looked around that throne room,” Visella whispered, “-and all I could see were the people who were missing.”

Aemond wiped away a tear with his thumb “Ābrazȳrys”

“My mother should have been there. She fought for this crown and never got to wear it in peace.” Jace should have stood beside me. Luke should have laughed as he attempted to dance, Viserys should have tugged at my skirts asking where the sweets were, and Daemon should have been hovering at my mother’s side”

Aemond pulled her against his chest hushing her gently.

“They are all gone, Aemond”

Aemond whispered softly “I know”

Visella laughed weakly through her tears “And I sit that throne where my mother should have sat. I wear a crown she died for and all I could think is why them and not me?”

Aemond inhaled sharply at her admission.

Visella shook her head. “I keep wondering if any of it was necessary. If there was some path, we missed. Some kinder road. I am happy with you and our children, and it makes me feel cruel. How can I stand in joy when so many I loved lie in ash?”

Aemond swallowed hard. “We told ourselves it was necessary. That war demanded it. That duty demanded it. But knowing why something happened does not make the loss easier to bear.”

Visella nodded through tears. “No, it doesn’t”

Aemond wiped the tears from her cheeks one by one. “Don’t cry, ñuha dāria. You don’t need to carry all of it alone”

Visella sniffled “Sometimes I feel ok and then the grief hits me all over again”

Aemond muttered softly “Your grief is not weakness. It is love with nowhere left to go”

Visella clutched at him “I wanted tonight to be joyful.”

“It still can be,” Aemond whispered. “Joy and sorrow often share the same room.”

Visella let out a watery laugh. “You sound wiser than you usually are”

Aemond nodded “I am full of hidden talents”

That coaxed a real smile from her.

Aemond brushed his thumb over her lower lip. “It is our wedding night. We are officially man and wife before gods and men.”

Visella let out a small breath of laughter. “Technically, we were already man and wife in the tradition of our house.”

Aemond nodded. “That was ours alone, but tonight the whole realm knows what I’ve always known-that you are my heart”

Visella’s smile deepened. “I quite like the sound of that”

A low hum of satisfaction left him. Then he kissed her.

Slowly at first, reverently, as though savouring the truth of this moment after all the blood and ruin it had taken to reach it.

Her hands rose to his chest, clutching the dark fabric there.

When they parted, Aemond rested his forehead against hers. “Now, ābrazȳrys. Let us consummate this marriage”

Aemond smiled, his lips brushing against hers as he walked her backward, their hands impatiently pulling at one another’s clothes, until they were both bare.

Visella shuddered as Aemond began gently nipping and sucking her skin as he descended her body, he stopped at her breasts, and pressed his face between them, his large hands kneading the soft flesh.

Aemond then gently sucked a rosy nipple into his mouth, growling in satisfaction as the taste of her mother’s milk flowed into his mouth, warm and sweet, he released the stiffened peak with a soft pop before he moved to the other and lavished it with the same attention.

“Sīr gevie-” moaned Aemond as he moved further down (So beautiful).

“A-Aemond” breathed Visella as his hands slid around her thighs and held them open, his hot breath tickling her as he ran his tongue over her wet folds.

“Ñuha nūmio-” rasped Aemond as he ran his fingers through her dripping folds as he expertly devoured her with his mouth, his nose bumping against her as fucked her with his tongue (My pearl).

“Fuck,” squeaked Visella as she grasps at the back of Aemond’s head, her fingers digging into his hair, holding him in place.

“You’re so sensitive. Are you going to come already?” asked Aemond smugly.

“Y-Yes. Oh gods right there” whimpers Visella rolling her hips against Aemond’s face.

Aemond alternates between using his fingers and tongue to rapidly bring Visella to her peak.

She arched her back as she comes over Aemond’s face as he gently licks her pearl.

“More?” asked Aemond playfully, his chin shining with her slick.

“M-More, please I need you” gasps Visella as Aemond reaches forward and presses a kiss to her pearl before he quickly wipes his chin with his hand and putting his fingers in his mouth .

“A-Aemond” gasps Visella her cheeks tinged pink.

Aemond smirks as he moves in between Visella open legs, taking his cock in hand and rubbing the pink head over her slick entrance, watching as it glides through her folds.

“P-Please. Don’t t-tease m-me” gasps Visella.

Aemond pushes in slowly and pausing to give her a moment to adapt.

“Are you-ok?”

Visella nods “Please-keep going”

After pressing a gentle kiss to her lips, Aemond pulls out slowly and slides back in, his pace gentle and steady.

“Oh, please-please fuck me harder” mutters Visella.

“You want it?”

“Y-Yes. I want it. I want all of you-I need you” whined Visella.

Aemond lets out a pleased grunt and slams into Visella harder.

Visella moaned desperately, as she moves her hips to meet his, attempting to allow his cock to reach deeper within her.

“Tell me how it feels” demands Aemond.

“It’s good, so good-yes-yes, don’t stop-oh god. Please-please-”

Visella praises sets something off inside Aemond as he continues to thrust into her.

“Aemond, please, I’m close” whimpers Visella.

Aemond moves a hand down to where the two of them are joined, and rubs her pearl in slow circles, dragging her closer the edge of the precipice.

“I never want to leave this sweet cunt–fuck,” groans Aemond as he marks each of his words in tandem with a rough snap of his hips.

Visella arched her back as she reached her peak “Ohh Aemond. Yes. Yes”

“FUCK- I’m going to-” groans Aemond as he slams into Visella and reaches his own peak, spilling rope after rope of seed inside her.

Aemond collapsed on top of Visella, his breathing ragged and his heart pounding in his chest.

A few minutes later Aemond rolled them to the side, his silver hair damp against his temple, his hand tracing slow, idle patterns across her back. His expression, however, was not entirely at ease.

Visella noticed. “What troubles you?” she murmured, her voice languid, her fingers brushing his cheek.

He hesitated, his thumb pausing against her skin. “You’ve not long given birth,” he said quietly. “The Grand Maester said you must rest for some weeks yet, I fear I may have been—” He swallowed hard, his eye flicking away, uncharacteristically unsure. “—too rough with you.”

Visella smiled softly and caught his wandering hand, pressing it to her heart. “You weren’t,” she whispered. “If I wasn’t ready, I would’ve told you.”

Aemond smiled faintly as Visella curled into him, resting her head on his chest, his arm coming to wrap around her.

For a long while, neither of them spoke. There was no need, the silence between them was warm and full.

At last, Visella whispered “Do you think we can truly do it?” she asked. “Rule well and build something better than what came before us?”

Aemond reached beneath her chin and lifted her gaze to his. “I’m certain that together, we can do anything”

A few weeks after the wedding, Visella noticed that Aemond was keeping secrets.

At first, it was small things. A quiet conversation cut short the moment she entered a room or a piece of folded parchment swiftly tucked away in his hand.

The way he and Tyland Lannister would stand near the windows of the council chamber speaking in low voices, their expressions carefully blank when she approached.

Then came the ravens.

Several arrived each week bearing seals from across the Narrow Sea—cities of Pentos, Myr, Lys, and one from Volantis.

Whenever one came, Aemond would read it alone and whenever Visella entered, he would fold it shut at once.

“What is that?” she had asked one morning as he stood beside the hearth with a letter half-burned in the fire.

“Nothing.”

Another day she caught Tyland handing him a sealed scroll.

“What business requires such secrecy?”

“Trade routes,” Aemond replied smoothly. “I am seeking stronger alliances across the Narrow Sea.”

It was an obvious lie.

Every excuse from his mouth was polished, effortless, and utterly unconvincing.

Visella’s frustration grew sharper with each passing day.

She had a kingdom to rule and each morning brought petitions.

Taxes to settle. Crime in Flea Bottom to address.

Merchants demanding compensation after dragon shadows frightened caravans from the roads.

Farmers furious that Vhagar, Vermithor, and Silverwing roamed too freely and had taken sheep, goats, and once an unfortunate cow.

Then there were the Blackwoods and Brackens.

Every slight became a grievance, and every grievance became a blood feud.

Which was made worse when Cregan Stark formally requested permission to wed Alysanne Blackwood.

The Brackens had nearly exploded with outrage.

And beyond all that—she was a mother.

Not only to Aeyla and Rhaegar, but to Jaehaera and Aegon as well.

She refused to become the sort of Queen who passed her children from hand to hand through nursemaids and governesses while she merely nodded at them in passing.

She wanted to know their tears. Their laughter. Their fears and their favourite stories.

Her own mother, for all the chaos of her life, had made room for her children and Visella meant to do the same.

But Aemond’s strange behaviour gnawed at her peace.

He was distracted and often absent even when present.

Sometimes she would wake in the night and find his side of the bed cold, only to discover him in on the balcony staring over the dark city with a letter in hand.

Enough was enough. She decided she would confront him properly.

No soft questions. No room for evasion. She would have the truth from her husband.

But before she got the chance—

Aemond vanished.

At dawn, word came that Aemond had departed King’s Landing on the back of Vhagar.

No escort, no council announcement, and no message for his Queen.

Visella stood frozen in the middle of her solar as the report was given.

Then fury hit like wildfire.

Tyland Lannister was dragged before her moments later, she was pacing like a caged animal.

“Where has my husband gone?”

Tyland bowed stiffly. “I do not know, Your Grace.”

“You lie.”

“I assure you—”

Visella slammed both hands on the table. “Do not insult me, Lord Lannister. You have been whispering with him for weeks. You know something.”

Tyland’s face remained carefully composed. “I know only that His Grace wished discretion.”

Visella’s eyes narrowed. “And I wish answers.”

But none came. Only silence.

Weeks passed, and still no word from Aemond.

No raven. No messenger and no shadow of Vhagar in the skies above King’s Landing.

Tyland remained maddeningly silent. He insisted he knew nothing of the King’s destination, nothing of his purpose, and nothing of when he might return.

Visella did not believe a word of it.

After the third council meeting in which he offered only shrugs and careful half-answers, she stripped him of his place at court and ordered him back to Casterly Rock until he rediscovered the meaning of honesty.

She did not care.

What she cared for was that her husband had vanished and half the realm had begun feeding upon it like carrion birds.

Rumours spread through taverns, markets, and noble halls alike.

That Aemond had abandoned Visella and his children for a mistress in Lys.

That he had grown resentful of being King consort and gone east to hire sell-swords.

That he had quarrelled with the Queen and flown into exile.

That he was dead.

Each whisper more absurd than the last and each one reaching her ears eventually.

Visella learned to keep her face smooth when they did.

She ruled and that was the answer she gave them all.

Taxes were raised only where necessary, and always with promises of visible return—repaved streets, repaired wells, stronger granaries, and better roads.

She doubled patrols of the Gold Cloaks in the worst quarters of the city, and crime in Flea Bottom began, for once, to lessen.

Merchants who had once considered leaving the capital now remained, the markets swelled and ships returned.

King’s Landing, so long fed on war and fear, began to breathe again.

But on one matter she would not bend.

The Dragon pit.

Several lords and councillors urged its immediate reconstruction, arguing that dragons must be contained and controlled.

Visella rejected them every time.

“It is a tomb already,” she said coldly during one council session. “I will not build another.”

Vhagar was too vast for it, should she ever return. Vermithor was growing too large to be chained and Silverwing had only just emerged from her years of solitude.

Visella would not reward these creatures for surviving men’s greed by caging them.

Dragons thrived best when free. So, a new decree was made.

The shattered remains of the Dragon pit would be remade not as a prison—but as a memorial.

Its surviving stone would be repurposed to cut costs.

Laborers from the city would be hired, giving honest work to those who needed it most.

The monument would honour every dragon lost during the Dance.

Not only royal beasts, but living histories, broken by human ambition.

Visella herself drew the first sketches.

Jaehaera sat beside her each evening with charcoal-black fingers, solemnly helping shape the wings, tails and names carved into stone.

It became their quiet ritual.

The city loved it.

King’s Landing was alive with progress.

The scaffolds rose and markets bustled.

And then, the gods gave them a reason to hope once more.

Silverwing took to nesting in one of the high alcoves beyond the walls of the Red Keep and she laid a clutch of eggs.

When the news spread, people called it a blessing.

A sign of renewal and a promise that House Targaryen would thrive once more.

It did feel like a new beginning.

The city was healing. Her children were thriving.

And yet there remained one blight upon all of it. Where in the seven hells was Aemond?

The council chamber was thick with heat and tension; the long table crowded with the usual lords, all offering their opinions on matters concerning the realm.

Dalton Greyjoy lounged far too comfortably for a man speaking to a Queen. “Your Grace,” he drawled, his dark eyes gleaming as they lingered entirely too long on Visella, “-the Iron Islands would gladly offer ships, men and my personal counsel, should you require it.”

Visella did not look up from the parchment she was reviewing. “I require fewer interruptions and more silence, Lord Greyjoy, especially when I’m considering financial matters-”

Dalton only smiled wider. “Are you sure about that Your Grace. Mayhaps a more private setting would suit?”

Across the table, a few councillors shifted uncomfortably.

Then—

A booming roar sounded through the air.

Vhagar.

Visella was already on her feet.

The doors of the council chamber slammed open as she strode through them, ignoring the startled protests of her council. She stood on the balcony and looked up over King’s Landing.

There—moving through the clouds over Blackwater Bay—was Vhagar.

When she made her final approach, she began circling the Red Keep, shaking the air with every beat of her wings.

Then Visella saw Aemond sitting in the saddle.

For a moment, everything inside her went utterly still.

Vhagar then banked and descended, choosing the grassy meadow beyond the Red Keep for her landing.

Visella stood at the balcony railing, unmoving.

No greeting. No horse and no herald announcing his arrival.

If he thought he could vanish for weeks and return on dragon back as if nothing had happened, he would learn otherwise.

Let him walk and let him explain himself before every lord in the realm.

Behind her, the council chamber erupted into confusion, voices rising in questions and alarm—but Visella did not turn.

“This council is dismissed. Proceed to the throne room. Now.”

The Red Keep was alive with curious whispers.

Word had spread too quickly—for any attempt at control. Courtiers crowded the galleries above the throne room, servants lingered at doorways they had no business standing near, some of the Queen’s guard were unsettled, their hands resting close to their sword hilts.

Visella’s crown was placed upon her head with ceremonial haste. The Iron Throne loomed beneath her as she seated herself, its jagged spires pressing like a reminder into her back.

She waited.

And as she waited, her anger sharpened.

Weeks of silence. Weeks of rumours spreading like rot through King’s Landing and weeks of her standing alone before a council that looked to her for answers she did not have.

And now he had returned as if the world had simply paused in his absence.

Aemond Targaryen would explain himself and if he could not—She would have the cur flogged.

Her grip tightened on the arms of the throne as the doors opened.

The gold cloaks escorted Aemond into the hall.

Whispers erupted instantly.

“King Consort”

“He’s returned”

“Where has he been”

Aemond walked forward without resistance, his silver hair loose, and his expression unreadable.

Yet when his gaze found Visella, something shifted—something steadied.

Aemond lowered himself to one knee. “My Queen”

The hall quieted at once.

Visella did not rise immediately. She simply stared down at him, her eyes narrowed.

“Where have you been?”

Aemond rose smoothly to his feet. “I apologise for leaving the way I did, but it was a matter of great importance.”

That was not enough.

Visella stood quickly.

The Iron Throne seemed to shrink behind her as she descended its steps, her fury contained just beneath the surface.

“And what matter of great importance would that be, a mistress? or hiring sell-swords to steal my crown?”

Aemond’s brow furrowed immediately. “What? No. How could you think that?”

Visella stopped a few paces from him. “Many rumours have reached my ears, each one more ridiculous than the last. But the truth remains the same—you left without word, and you will tell me right now. Where were you?”

Aemond took a deep breath. “Lys”

The word landed like a stone.

Visella let out a sharp, humourless scoff. “And what were you doing there? Seeding Lyseni whores?”

Aemond’s expression hardened at once. “Absolutely not and I resent the implication. I could never lie with another woman; I would not dishonour you or our marriage like that.”

Silence tightened between them.

Visella’s jaw clenched. “Then why.”

Aemond’s sternness softened a faint, almost reluctant smile touched his mouth. “I could show you, better than I could tell you.”

Confusion flickered across her face before she could stop it.

Aemond turned slightly and lifted his hand, gesturing to the side of the throne room at the small, hooded figure being guided forward.

The whispers in the throne room swelled instantly, rising into confused murmurs and shocked speculation.

The figure stopped beside Aemond who reached up—and pulled back the hood.

Visella’s hand rose to her mouth as though to keep herself from breaking apart entirely.

“No-” she whispered, her tears spilling freely. “No this cannot-”

The boy looked at her uncertainly, as if he too feared this might vanish like some cruel dream.

Then, softly “Visella?”

The sound of her name in his voice shattered whatever restraint remained.

A sob tore from her throat.

Visella stumbled the last few steps forward, her crown slipping crooked upon her head, and dropped to her knees. Her hands hovered at first, trembling, afraid to touch him lest he disappear.

Then she seized him gently by the shoulders, searching his face with frantic eyes.

“Viserys” she gasped. “It’s you”

Her fingers traced his cheeks, his brow and the line of his jaw as if memorising him anew.

“You’re alive.”

Viserys gave a small, shaky nod, his own eyes wet now. “Mandia” (Sister).

Visella let out another broken cry and pulled him into her arms.

The throne room had gone silent.

Even the ladies who loved gossip more than prayer stood motionless at the sight.

Visella buried her face in his hair, breathing him in like air after drowning. “I thought you were dead,” she choked out. “I thought I’d lost you too.”

Viserys clung to her just as tightly. “Selly”

At last, she drew back enough to cup his face again, tears streaming unchecked.

“You came back”

Then her tear-filled gaze lifted over Viserys’ shoulder to Aemond.

For once, Visella had no words.

Only stunned gratitude and a love so fierce it hurt.

TBC

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