𝖘𝖆𝖕𝖕𝖍𝖎𝖗𝖊𝖜𝖗𝖎𝖙𝖊𝖘𝖝

aemond's wife; psychologist; ff writer

[sapphirewritesx]

Kinslayer - Aemond Targaryen x Naerys Velaryon (oc)

summary: Naerys returns to King’s Landing after ten, long years. Arriving to support her younger brother’s claim to the Driftwood Throne, she knows she will stay to fulfill her betrothal to her uncle, Prince Aemond Targaryen.

word count: 4.5k

tags/warnings: strong!oc, older sister!oc, arranged marriage, oc rides Seasmoke but is terrified of fire, flashbacks to Aemond's eye loss, he won't be nice, oc and Aemond have a swordfight, enemies to lovers, slowburn (plot before we get to the smut, and trust me, we'll get there)

(narrated in first person, eventually dual pov)

ao3: Kinslayer by sapphirewritesx

Naerys

Mist cloaks the view ahead in a soft veil. The clouds part for us, their shape breaking as we dance between them. I grip the ropes tighter, my legs adjusting around the saddle. It has not been long since the cries of Arrax and Vermax faded into the wind. They cannot be that far behind.

I need to go faster.

We flew past Duskendale’s Harbor and the Dun Fort right before I parted from Jace and Luke. If my timing is precise, we ought to be above the apple orchards of Rosby, meaning King’s Landing lies a short distance to the north. I have to make it to the Dragonpit before either of them does.

Determining their location is nearly impossible with no other lead than my own perception of time, but it wouldn’t be the first instance I manage to pull off the trick.

They already know how it’s done.

The aim is to gradually ascend as high as reachable while maintaining the right path set forward, unknown to other riders. The weight and size of the dragons are crucial factors at play, that coupled with the relative youth of both, are not in their favor. The fact that neither matches mine is already a shortcoming. Now, the time between reaching the desired height and the free fall to the target destination is nothing but a gamble—one that I always win. It is no fair game to them, most definitely. But then again, nothing truly is.

I could be a good sister and let them taste victory, if only once. And I might.

But not today.

For ten long years, I have avoided returning to the capital of the Realm, despite being born and raised underneath the shadows of its towering spires.

Ever the lonely girl, I drifted through the castle halls with a book in hand, seeking a hidden spot to devour its pages. Inked words on paper became my dearest friend, a hollow replacement for the bond I desperately longed for. My dragon egg never hatched. Void of life, its iridescent scales remained cold on the hearth by the cradle. Instead of spending my time with winged creatures, I soared through history with the ancestors that rode them. From the Doom of Valyria to The Conquest and every reign until Viserys, I had memorized every passage ever written. Nothing seemed to satisfy my need for knowledge, though in truth, all I craved was experience.

The Red Keep’s training yard is where my heart belonged. Between dull blades and rounded arrows, I stood with a wooden stick, fighting off the giant that threatened to push me down with bare hands. The mock sword has now become sharp steel, and the giant was none but my father. The man who taught me to aim for the guts, or preferably, the groin.

His memory still lingers, a cut that never mends.

Every other night, in my sleep, The Stranger takes him away from me. And soon, his ghost will chase me through the walls of the place where I last saw him alive.

It was at Aunt Laena’s funeral that I learned he had left for Harrenhal. A day of loss, in more ways than one, that showed me for what I truly was. Just another card in our deck, pulled to patch the damage I had not caused.

At only four years old, my brother Luke took Aemond’s eye, leaving him half-blinded and scarred. As the second son of King Viserys and his second wife, Queen Alicent Hightower, such a maiming could never go unpunished. An eye for an eye, she demanded. No hesitance, even as his son’s actions were laid bare.

Laena’s remains had only been buried under the waves of the narrow sea when Aemond risked his life in a desperate attempt to claim her dragon, and astoundingly, succeeded. Vhagar chose him, before her late rider’s youngest daughter could be given a chance. Rhaena and her older sister Baela, refused to accept the outcome. They slipped out of bed and into the corridors of Driftmark to confront him—and we followed.

As Aemond entered the castle, he was met with the fury of the twins, consumed by their grief. To them, it was nothing but the theft of their mother’s old mount, if such a thing can truly be said. A dragon cannot be stolen, it chooses its rider. Inheritance in this matter does not rely on blood. Yet they cornered him, four against one, as if that could break the bond that had just been sealed.

Being the eldest of my siblings, I should have known better than to let it come to blows. His greed was not without reason—not to me. I envied his courage, for had I been brave enough, I might have been the one with a dragon that night.

All concern vanished the moment I heard the word escape his lips.

Bastards.

A truth so evident, only a fool would deny it.

Jace shoved him to the ground. He punched and kicked as Rhaena, Baela and Luke joined in. They could have killed him, while I stood there, frozen in place. Still, Aemond rose to his feet, not a single flinch as he grabbed Luke by the neck, a rock clenched tightly in hand. Ready to strike, his voice broke in anger.

You will die screaming in flames just as your father did.

It was only then that my instinct flared. I lunged forward, and we both rolled over one another until I was pinned beneath him, the rock lost and forgotten in the chaos. Fire crackled from a nearby torch, its sparks threatening to lick at my skin.

He smiled, baring his teeth at me before the weight of his words crushed my lungs.

You don’t know, do you? Harwin Strong is dead.

Jace wrenched him off me, but it wouldn’t end there. Not after what he had said. The twins had certainly begun the ambush, but the fight soon became ours.

Aemond staggered, ready to strike back, when Luke surged forward with the small dagger he’d hidden in his belt. The pale steel of the blade glinted in the dim light as it carved an awry cut up his cheek.

The blow landed swift but true. My once unmarred innocence was slit, as was the right eye from his face.

At eight years old, I could only believe what I was told, even if doubt existed. I was a Velaryon, and my father was Laenor, son and heir to Rhaenys Targaryen and The Lord of the Tides. Nothing to be questioned. That was what Mother always said.

As if the truth was not always there to greet me through the mirror. He was my father. Our father. And he never heard us call him that. Because Aemond had been right—he was dead.

The guards arrived only when his screams became deafening, echoed by Vhagar’s excruciating roars. They dragged us all to the throne hall of Driftmark, where we would answer for our outrage.

None of it could be undone, albeit avenged.

The queen would not rest until justice was bestowed upon the inflicter of her son’s pain, even as the king demanded Rhaenyra be awaited. Aemond sat in the center of the room, knuckles white from gripping the arm of the chair as he tried to remain in place. His eyeball lay in a nacreous shell, cold and bloodied. The maesters removed it from the socket after they deemed it completely lost and began sewing it shut forever.

My own eye twitched in response each time the needle went in through his skin. Remorse clawed at me, but I knew he wouldn’t return such sentiment if the tables were turned.

When Mother finally appeared, the man that gave us his name was not who stood behind her. It was Daemon. Laenor, per usual, was nowhere to be seen after dusk.

As she abruptly lowered to her knees to inspect Luke for wounds, Jace pulled from her skirts. He called us bastards, he told her bluntly, in our defense. Fire danced in her violet eyes when she raised to her feet again. To accuse the heir to the throne’s offspring of being illegitimate is treason—and so she stated.

Viserys paled before his daughter’s words. His younger son would be put under sharp questioning for such accusations, the insult suddenly becoming the source of his worry, not that of his maimed child.

His wife would not have it. There was still a price to be paid, and she would see to it herself, if need be. But the King concluded that there would be no such thing as revenge. Aemond had questioned our legitimacy and birthright. The loss of his eye served him well.

Everyone that stood there that night at Driftmark’s throne room bore witness to Viserys' promise. If anyone dared to suggest his daughter’s children were the result of adultery, there would be no gods they could pray to for mercy.

Still and all, the matter was far from settled.

My mother’s claim to the Iron Throne hung by a thread. After centuries of solely male heirs, the Realm was rightfully reluctant to accept the reign of a woman whose charade of a marriage mocked tradition and law. Without a strong match, a lady has no power. Laenor proved to be anything but, and marrying another man while the current husband was alive, could never be an option. He needed to die—or to be thought dead. The strategy orchestrated with the help of her now uncle-husband was hardly liable. My father in name would be slain by one of his male lovers, leaving my mother a widow and free to remarry, but Princess Rhaenys with no children in less than a moon.

Sacrifices need to be made, she assured me. For the sake of us both. It was not only her claim that was at stake, by consequence, so was mine.

I already knew my fate. Before our relocation to Dragonstone, my hand was offered in marriage to Prince Aegon, the king’s firstborn son and my eldest uncle. Mother presented it as a symbol of genuine reconciliation, a gesture to heal the rift between our families. An arranged marriage that would quell the growing unrest over the succession, for Aegon would sit the throne, the way some thought he deserved.

The proposal was swiftly declined. Plans were already in motion to wed Helaena to Aegon before year’s end—a suggestion from the Hand, their own grandfather, as she had already flowered and they were both considered to be of age.

Neither the king nor his wife would reconsider their decision, and the urgency to settle matters without further discord left no room for careful deliberation, leading to irrevocable mistakes.

My mother cared little which of Alicent’s sons I married, I realized then. After bearing the king three sons, it was only expected that she would want one of them on the Iron Throne. All that mattered was securing the chance for one of them to rule the Seven Kingdoms. And so, Princess Rhaenyra bargained to protect her—our—claim to rule, but it is I who will pay the price.

No amount of years could spare me the weight of such a curse.

We come to the capital to defend Luke’s right to Driftmark—to secure his place as the next Lord of the Tides, should our grandfather, Lord Corlys, succumb to the fever he caught on his recent sailings. Once that is resolved, title gained or lost, they will return to Dragonstone.

I am to remain. At last, forced to face what I have dreaded for more than half of my life.

Marriage.

The letter with the three-headed dragon seal and the king’s own handwriting arrived a fortnight ago, summoning me to court. No more delaying.

I have spent enough years prolonging the inevitable.

That ends now.

“Embrōt!” I command Seasmoke to descend. His silver wings spread wide with effortless grace as he dips his head down. We plummet downwards. My stomach clenches, my lungs struggling for air as we plunge lower. I fight to keep my grip steady, fingers digging into the handles, until his body levels and the flight steadies once more.

Even without a dragon of my own, and knowing my egg would never hatch, I held onto the hope that one day I would fly over King’s Landing. I just never imagined it would take so long, or so much.

Leaning towards the left, my leathers scraping against the saddle, I try to commit the image to memory. The sky is a deep shade cerulean, the sun gleams high above the red-tiled rooftops, gold glinting atop every tower, and the soft breeze rolling in from the sea. For a brief moment, I am nothing but words and ink on a page, part of a story written with no quills, that easily slips from the tips of my fingers.

A deep growl rumbles beneath me, urging me to return to my senses.

The bond between dragon and rider has never been wholly explained or learned, even if it is thoroughly established that each is unique and irreplaceable. There are passages that would go as far as saying the strongest of them can transcend the very flesh and mind. I myself cannot comprehend the true depths of ours, nor how it is possible that it came to be at all.

I do know, however, that his warning comes with reason. Not so far above me, the shapes of two smaller dragons take form, already making their way down to land.

Seven Hells.

I shift higher in my seat, just enough to catch sight of the weathered stone of the castle walls. We are flying toward the Red Keep, the Dragonpit already behind us.

“Pālegon, Embrōrbar!” I shout for him to turn around, and though he obeys with no hesitation, it is with complaint. His deafening roar, followed by that familiar wave of heat erupting through his body tells me enough. He wants to unleash, let his irritation soothe with the flames. No, no fire.

His burning scales find the cooling gush of wind, the pace of our flight increased by tenfold.

Seasmoke has grown larger over the years, and though he might not be built for war, his agility remains unmatched. It’s no challenge for him to reach the Dragonpit with a couple bats of his wings, even as Vermax circles Rhaenys’s Hill, ready to land.

Pity. He was actually close to beating me this time.

Sharp claws sink into the earth, the ground quivering beneath us, barely a short difference to Vermax’s landing.

Quick now, Naerys.

I deftly untangle the ropes from my legs, already poised to slide down the left wing. The moment the soles of my boots meet the dry grass of the hill, a soft thud announces Arrax has arrived. Not that it matters, anyway. I am the one who touched ground first.

“That was definitely a tie,” a voice calls out behind me. I turn to find Jacaerys smirking, clearly proud of nearly besting me at my own game. I’m tempted to point out that if were not for my distraction, I would have been right in this same spot, boringly waiting for them both. I bite my tongue, not wanting to give my thoughts and worries away.

“Well done, Jace.” I approach, patting his shoulder. “When Vermax is fully grown I won’t be a challenge for you anymore.”

“You think he could someday reach Seasmoke’s size?” he asks, raising a dark brow.

I glance up at his dragon, then back at mine as we wait for Luke to dismount. “Seasmoke may still grow,” I reply, “but knowing Vermax hatched from Syrax’s clutch, the odds are good. He might even grow larger.”

He studies my dragon—father’s dragon— his gaze lingering on his imposing form, soft brown eyes filled with silent hope.

“Same with Arrax. Don’t get too smug about it, dear brother,” I tease, smirking at the annoyed scrunch of his nose.

“Ah, so encouraging,” he says, raking a hand through his messy dark curls.

“We aim to please,” I return with a slight bow of my head.

“We should meet Mother at the gates,” Lucerys mutters, nearing us.

I exhale sharply, letting out a shaky huff. “Let me say goodbye at least, will you? I hate leaving him here.”

“As if I could command you,” he answers, a flicker of confusion crossing his face.

“I fear one day she will truly command us,” Jace chimes in with a heavy sigh.

“That is uncertain,” I counter, a wry smile tugging at my lips. “I might die before I even get to be queen—leaving that burden for you to bear.”

There is no need to look to know he rolled his eyes at that.

I turn back to Seasmoke, my hands grazing his rough scales as I press my forehead against his side. The heat radiating from him wraps around me in a safe embrace, his wings tucking me in closer. “Not long until we fly again,” I murmur.

Heavy-hearted, I step away from him. Beside my brothers, I watch as our dragons disappear into the darkness of the Dragonpit’s caves.

No one welcomed us into the Red Keep. In part, I am relieved to avoid the usual formalities and the reception from the queen and her children—especially that of one of her sons. Although, it does seem rather impudent not to have anticipated the arrival of the Princess of the Realm and that of her family. Clearly, things have changed around here over the years, with my grandfather’s condition worsening by the day.

Both my brothers ventured inside the castle walls, eager to explore the place like they had never been here at all. I, on the other hand, had to endure a tedious talk about manners and purist expectations. Was told to keep an eye on the other two, of course, save them from trouble before they are in it, were that be possible.

I descend the wooden stairs that lead to the training yard. The thrum of weapons clashing lures me in, like a soft whisper that demands I indulge my curiosity at the sight before me. A large crowd gathers in a tight circle, their shouts and cheers echoing in the open air.

I bet that’s where Jace and Luke are.

Weaving through the agitated public, I search for them. Some of the onlookers part for me, eyes looming in a mixture of wonder and disapproval. If I didn’t know better, I’d think they recognized me. No, their stares are fixed on the sword at my hip and the dagger attached to my thigh. A lady with weapons. Such atrocity.

“Is that all you got, Cole?”

I pause, startled. That voice— oddly familiar yet somehow foreign. I push my way toward the front, determined to discover the reason for everyone's enthrallment. My heart leaps into my throat, pounding as if it might burst out of me entirely.

Swift, precise movements from a lithe man command the yard with effortless mastery. Each strike is deliberate, expertly executed, testament to years of training. The morning sun blushes his pale skin, shining down upon his sharp features as if carved from marble. Long silver hair flows like molten strands of moonlight, a stark contrast to the dark leather eye-patch that covers his right eye, enhancing the bridge of his straight nose.

The boy of my nightmares stands right in front of me, a child no more, but a menacing grown man.

He moves with unnerving ease, sidestepping each of Ser Criston’s blows with his morningstar as if they were mere trifles. Every motion brims with undeniable skill—and searing arrogance.

I stay rooted in place, my feet refusing to let me retreat, even when my instincts urge me to run back to the safety of the castle walls.

Before I can fathom his next move, the sharp tip of his blade is already poised at Ser Criston’s throat, finishing their duel. The crowd erupts into applause, and judging by their fervor, this is far from the first time the one-eyed prince has claimed victory.

“Well done, my prince. You’ll be winning tourneys in no time.” To my surprise, Ser Criston humbly accepts his defeat, his words laced with content. A proud teacher, I see.

“I don’t give a shit about tourneys,” his cold tone cuts through the praise like a honed dagger. The blade remains in position, purposefully pointed in the opposite direction as a dangerous smile curves his lips. “Nephews, have you come to train?”

Fuck.

There they are, just a few steps away, nervously exchanging glances, searching for an escape. Idiots. Luke averts his eyes from the prince to avoid confrontation, but his gaze meets mine. He elbows Jace, whose hand has instantly gone to his own sword, making my presence known not only for him, but for all. Realization dawns on him then. Too late.

“Princess Naerys,” he calls my name with a low rasp, his voice strained from the fight. My skin crawls. “At last we meet again.”

His lavender stare drifts over my riding leathers, tracing my form in scrutiny, before settling back on my face.

“Prince Aemond,” I nod curtly, forcing a tight grin. “It has been far too long.”

Dozens of eyes intently survey our interaction, truly aware now of who I am. He takes a rapid step forward, closing the distance between us. I hold my ground, refusing to let his imposing height diminish me.

Steadily, the prince leans down, and for a fleeting moment, I think he’s reaching for my hand. His fingers close around the hilt of my sword, and in one fluid motion, he draws it from its sheath.

I hold my breath.

“What do we have here?” he muses, twisting the sword lightly in his hand, testing its weight and balance. His eye narrows with disdain. “Such a heavy sword.”

I was wrong. Arrogant falls short to describe his attitude.

My lips part, ready to demand he return what’s mine.

With a swift motion, he throws the sword back at me, hilt-first. I barely manage to catch it, the blade almost slicing through my fingers. The crowd gasps.

Jace surges forward, ready to intervene, but Aemond moves first. A devilish gleam crosses his face, as he raises his sword and charges directly at me.

I dodge the first strike, instinct driving my body away from the blade, and brace myself for his next assault. His laugh echoes through the yard, low and bursting with satisfaction, a predator delighting in the chase.

“Come now, dear.” He takes a step back, adjusting his stance. “Grant me this duel.”

I cast my brother a warning look, a silent order for him to stay out of this. I am not just some girl who plays at being swordsman. The weapons I carry, I know how to use.

My blade clashes against his with a loud clang. If he wants a fight, I am more than willing to oblige.

He pulls away, spinning his sword behind his back—a flaunting performance of skill. I duck his next strike as well, and a flicker of disappointment tugs at his lips.

“Oh, please. Do not hold back,” he taunts. Our blades collide, the sharp edge hovering mere inches from my face. His tone drops to a whisper, “Show me what you can handle, darling niece.”

My heart pounds faster, the rhythm echoing in my ears like a war drum. He is toying with me. Surely, he would revel in demonstrating this crowd just how easily he could best me. However, I suspect that what he desires most is not proof of his strength over me. No, he wants my shame. To let all those present know I am not his equal, nor I could ever be. Remind them I shall hold no true power.

The pressure between our clashed swords is intense enough that neither of us dares withdraw and risk losing balance. Falling would mean giving him the upper hand, and I am not willing to take that chance. Forced into a stalemate, we pull away in the same instant—then dive right back to our fray.

A frustrated groan escapes him as he tightens his hold on the hilt, knuckles white. The clattering of steel turns frantic, each blow harder and faster than the last. Our labored breaths become an aggressive tune, accompanied by grunts of exertion.

A burning ache spreads down my arms, hindering my responses. Cold sweat slicks my fingers, the grip on my handle faltering despite my efforts to keep it restrained.

His frame, though far from hefty, speaks of unyielding endurance. The muscle etched onto his body does not strain him as it does other men, to my dismay. I catch the fierce glow in his eye, and an unsettling question surfaces—what lies beneath the eye-patch?

The sword slips from my hands, meeting the ground with a resonant noise as the crowd holds a breath.

Aemond lunges, ready to point the tip of his sword to my heart. I fall back, bending down in what might seem a desperate attempt to retrieve my weapon. Instead my hand darts to the silver dagger attached to my thigh. When I rise up to face him, the edge of his blade finds my chest, but my dagger presses flat against the delicate skin of his throat.

The fleeting surprise in his expression vanishes, replaced by solid resolve. He lowers his sword, then his free hand snakes around my waist, pulling me in until our bodies are flush against one another.

“Look at you, betrothed. Such a strong lady, are you not?”

Strong.

The word drips from his tongue like poison. My fingers tighten around my dagger, the urge to drive it right through his flesh overwhelming. I could do it—twist the blade and slit his throat. I would be killed afterwards, of course, but the dead cannot marry, and right now that sounds like the better choice.

His grip on my waist doesn’t waver, anchoring me in place as his gaze roves over my features before settling on the darkness of my hair. He lets his sword clatter to the ground, his now free hand raising to find the few strands of silver among my brown locks, gathering them between his fingers with a gentle tug. My eyes remain on his, searching for any hint of his thoughts. All I see is black taking over the violet.

The crimson gates of the Red Keep swing open, revealing a grand carriage adorned with the Velaryon sigil, its golden engraving glinting in the sunlight. Vaemond, my grandfather’s nephew, has arrived to press his claim to the Driftwood Throne.

As everyone’s focus shifts to the commotion caused by the new arrival, Aemond leans in, his breath hot against my neck. “Jiōrnon arlī, ilībōños,” he whispers before abruptly releasing me.

Welcome home, bastard.

[andrew-garfielld]

[sapphirewritesx]

Kinslayer by sapphirewritesx

[gretaatarg]

Aemond Targaryen moodboard

“Let our enemy see that we will answer outrage with outrage”.

[nondelphic]

being a writer is just switching between “i am a literary god” and “why did i write this sentence like an alien who’s never met language.” there is no in between.

[leftoverp1zza]

Raw. Anytime, anywhere. Everything about this scene was just....nnnnngggg. Ewan Mitchell as Aemond Targaryen - House of the Dragon, S2.

@volklana @thenameswinter99 @suntizme @zaldritzosrose

[sapphirewritesx]

I just realized I haven't updated the fic in here for the past four chapters--

[leftoverp1zza]

This. This hand thing. That's the post. Ewan Mitchell as Aemond Targaryen - Season 1, House of the Dragon.

@volklana @thenameswinter99 @zaldritzosrose

[dedicatednotobsessed]

Ewan doing period pieces is honestly my favorite.

Yes I know house of the dragon isn’t a period piece but it’s medieval fantasy 🤣

[alicents4lawyer]

[valyrianheirs]

Aemond Tearing Up | 2x8

[sapphirewritesx]

Aemond's aesthetic in Kinslayer.

[sapphirewritesx]

Kinslayer - Aemond Targaryen x Naerys Velaryon (oc)

There’s a clear reason she cannot properly wield a long blade: she insists on using it as a man would. And as her body straddles mine, it’s painfully clear—she is no man. “Oh, come now,” I murmur, hands sliding up to her waist. My knuckles graze the eyelets of her dress, dragging lazily across the ribbon that binds her bodice tight. A distraction. “Won’t you indulge your husband?” “You are not my husband.”

summary: Aemond has avoided Naerys' presence for five days, but for all his might, she haunts his every thought. And he hates it. If he knows no peace, neither will she.

word count: 5.6k

warnings: mention of injuries/blood, talk of punishments, he hates her & has the time of his life teasing her

tags: enemies to lovers, slowburn (plot before we get to the smut), mean!Aemond, targcest, bastard!oc, unclexniece, light bdsm

ao3: Kinslayer by sapphirewritesx

*This chapter is written in Aemond's POV*

Aemond

The sound of Vhagar’s wings cleaves the air with deafening force. Her violent shrieks match the wrath searing along my veins, echoing through splintering clouds in the pale dew of dawn. Wind bites at my cheeks, a cutting sting that kisses the corners of my lips as would the edge of a cold blade. My blood thrums with the rush of heat rising beneath me, her fire demanding to be unleashed.

In this moment, the skies belong to me. All else is forgettable. Disposable.

The power I hold over the world is absolute—the fate of the folk below rests on the tip of my tongue.

One word, and it would all burn to cinders.

I lean forward in the saddle, knees braced, gloved fingers tightening over the handles as I urge our descent. Vhagar dips into a slow, restrained spiral. Her massive form stirs the treetops, sending flocks of startled birds scattering in our wake. The ground trembles beneath her shadow, and with a final, thunderous beat of her wings, she lands in a crouch, talons sinking into the clearing beyond the City Walls. The impact reverberates through stone and soil, rippling from her bones into mine.

I slide down from her back, boots striking the scorched earth with a swift thud. Heat clings to my thighs where her scales pressed, the scent of ash sewn into the seams of my leathers.

My pulse slows, but my mind still races. I am not done.

Not yet.

Flying eases the tension in my muscles; the thrill tempers my nerves, sharpens me for the training yard.

It does nothing to quiet my mind. Not when I need to sway my thoughts from her.

My half-sister’s daughter. The first of four children the whore had with her guard, Ser Harwin Strong. My niece. 

A damned bastard who dares break into my chambers like a thief in the night, all false bravery and foolish pride, coming to retrieve her silly little sword. 

Oh, how she trembled in my arms when I caught her just before she could escape. Even so, she pretended not to be afraid as she urged me to let her fall from the balcony. Wanted to end things before they had even begun, the coward. 

Her existence is but a mockery that spits on the laws of tradition—a stain upon the honor of our house.

Grown as she might be now, she remains a whiny girl, who clearly hasn’t learned to keep her pretty mouth shut. 

A spoiled brat.

She was a quiet child once, my betrothed. Withdrawn. Always trailing behind her kin, teeth over her bottom lip. Never louder than a whisper. Until they put a wooden sword in her hand.

She became fierce then, that little thing with brown locks, swinging the dull blade as though she were Visenya the Conqueror herself. An insult to our history. 

It upset me, even as a boy. Not because the girl held a weapon, no. But because when she stepped into that yard, she believed she could be one of us.

Not entirely her fault, that. She had always been given everything she desired. Their little heir, Ser Laenor used to call her. With such love and conviction, one might have doubted if the man truly thought the girl was his. And she certainly was, in my father’s blind eyes.

He only sees what he wishes: a trueborn heir from the blood of the dragon—not bred in disgrace. He believes her worthy of the name Targaryen. Worthy of me.

The loss of my eye only served as an excuse for this charade of a betrothal. I never asked for compensation—I already had it. Half of my sight was a fair price for claiming the largest dragon alive.

But my mother would not be deterred. She sought vengeance, rightfully so.

I would’ve delighted in watching Lucerys’ right eye being ripped from his face. Seven Hells, I wanted to do it myself. To hear him scream like a pig as the tip of my father’s dagger carved across his dark iris. Perhaps one day I might. The bastard feels no remorse for it. He never has.

And I wouldn’t either, if given the chance. I’d present my mother with what was stolen from me; his eye in that same pearlescent shell I keep, tinted rose from the remnants of my blood.

No. She wouldn’t settle for an eye. She wanted far more than retribution. And when the opportunity was laid before her, she seized it with a fist of iron.

Rhaenyra offered the girl’s hand to Aegon. A gesture of reconciliation, or a clever ploy to sew alliance within the family. A smart move from my half-sister, giving her daughter to the King’s firstborn son. No one would question a second queen if the rightful male heir stood beside her.

By that time, Mother had already struck an accord with the Lord of Storm’s End. I was to marry one of his daughters. A Baratheon. Trueborn. With a reputable name, impeccable manners and a proper understanding of her place. A woman who would’ve borne my heirs.

But no.

The Queen has never been blind; not like Father. She sees the truth for what it is: Aegon is unfit to rule. And so she did what my grandsire counseled. She chose me. Not just to sit the Iron Throne, but to be forever bound to an insufferable pretender.

It was no favor—it was a curse, happily approved by my father and sealed in the throes of my mutilation.

Now, she is mine to wed. A necessary burden I long only to obliterate, but that I must bear if I am meant to carry the weight of the realm. 

She is a means to an end—one I will command, and silence if I must. 

I will not care for her; I am not meant to. That was never part of the betrothal, anyways. It never is. 

However, she must learn to obey. To submit, until the day she is no longer of use to me. Only then will I truly dispose of her. 

In the meantime, a man is allowed his pleasures. And oh, won’t it be fun to watch that stubborn pride crack.

“My prince,” Ser Arryk cuts through my thoughts. He maintains his distance, wary of Vhagar’s low grumble at his approaching steps. “The Gates are open for your return.”

I nod, turning to my dragon for a final stroke along her green-scaled neck. She doesn’t take well to solitude. Her size forces her to be isolated, since she cannot fit into the Dragonpit with the rest of her kind.

“What news?”

“Same place,” he answers, already knowing what I’m asking about.

A wry smile curves my lips as I let out a satisfied breath. 

“Good,” I mutter, more to myself than to the Kingsguard.

I turn from Vhagar and begin the slow stride toward the Red Keep, the thrill of the skies still coursing through me.

I know exactly how I’ll spend it. This morning, it won’t be in the training yard.

Five days have passed since her weapons came into my possession, and not once has she come to demand their return—to beg, as she should have, instead of sneaking in to steal them.

She’s not one to wail. For now.

Let us see, then, if she is truly strong enough to reclaim her sword. Properly, this time.

The early sun spills through amber clouds, casting gold across the stone as we pass through the Gates. Knights at their posts swap out for the fresh shift, clinking steel greeting the silence of sunrise. Servants rush from the kitchens, arms laden with baskets of ripe fruit and freshly baked bread. The scent of honeyed pastries fills the air.

My stomach twists with hunger.

Later.

“Ser Arryk,” I call, one boot already on the first stair leading to my chambers. “Tell Ser Criston I won’t be joining him today.”

“As you command, my prince.” He bows and rounds the corner, leaving me to my own deeds.

I push my doors open, entering the main room with a deep sigh. I should bathe. Change my leathers for a fair vest, now that I’ve made it known that I won’t be training. Not exactly.

Crossing to the bed, I press my left hand to the mattress, and dropping to one knee, I reach beneath. My fingers close around the cold hilt of her sword, the round pommel nudging into my palm as I draw it out of its hiding place. As if she hadn’t already found it in this very same spot. Rising fully, I shift the blade to my right hand, studying it once more. 

The weapon is finely crafted, there’s no denying that. Proportioned to suit her height, the blade is nothing like mine. The handle is slimmer, length shorter. Weightless as a feathered quill in my grip. Though for her… this is undoubtedly heavier that she can wield.

That was her main flaw when we sparred—unpredictably for the bastard—upon her arrival. The blade slowed her movements, the strength of her arms not enough to carry out a decent duel for longer than a while. Her movements were clean, yes, but the blows were jagged. 

When her sword slipped out of her fingers, though, that changed. She was damn quick and smooth when she held her dagger to my throat. And later that day, to my heart.

The same one I now wear strapped to my waist. A pretty thing. Sharp enough to kill.

Suitable, one might say.

Hm.

How must she miss her little weapons.

I slide her sword between my leathers and one of my belts; my sheathe is already well occupied by mine.

The incessant clink of metal against wooden shields heightens the thrill that thrums throughout my body. I stride to the balcony, shoving the curtains aside in my haste.

Below, Ser Criston commands two young lords, his barked orders resounding around the yard he’s made his own home. Mine, as well. The two lads, simple squires, have never been trained for better than this. 

In my absence, they are prey to Criston’s strict discipline. And even so, he’s going easy on them. I doubt either would last a breath in true combat. But a squire is just that, a squire. Half of them never earn the honor of knighthood.

“Again! Show me you can be of use!” Ser Criston demands impatiently.

The boys scramble back to position, then lunge at one another again

Tedious.

My eye shifts to the left, sweeping over the lonely balcony beside mine.

I let my fingers trail across the stone rail, right over the spot where I caught her—knees on the edge, her upper body dangling forward.

Her tremors delighted me.

I can still hear them, echoing in the back of my mind, the little whimpers of fear she wanted to swallow down.

She fought to keep the facade of strength, I’ll give her that. Even as her skin crawled beneath my grasp, and her eyes couldn’t fathom to hold my stare.

Perhaps that I cannot blame her for. She must find me repulsive. But the sentiment is much returned. 

And I believe a reminder is due.

Without so much as another glance to the yard, I turn on my heel and leave my chambers.

Time to play.

The Godswood greets me in shadows and silence. A few threads of sunlight slip through the heavy canopy of red leaves, rustling softly in the wind.

I linger beneath the stone archway that leads into the sacred grove, admiring the sight before me, but not yet crossing into it. The weirwood’s massive branches stretch across the garden, each crimson leaf like a nerve tethered to those bleeding eyes. Watchful. Vigilant.

I’ve never believed in the Old Gods. Mother raised us in the Faith of the Seven. What else I know beyond that, I’ve learned from books.

In twenty years, I’ve never stepped foot in this place.

It feels like trespass. Profane.

And yet, there she is.

The bold Naerys, seeking solace by the weeping heart tree, as if the Old Gods might grant her a glimpse of the absolution she does not deserve.

According to Ser Arryk, she has been coming here at first light for the past five days. The stupid girl seems to believe she can hide here—that she goes easily unnoticed. But I would argue she is merely playing the fool.

This is an act of defiance. Rather than attending to her duties in the days leading up to our dreaded union, she lingers here, poisoning the very roots of the weirwood with her sinful presence.

She ought to be making the acquaintance of noble ladies, laying the groundwork for alliances in exchange for the position of her lady-in-waiting. Instead, she very much appears to take comfort in behaving like the commoner she should have been raised as.

I take the liberty of observing her now, while she remains unaware.

She sits on the ground, legs crossed, spine straight against the trunk of the tree. A book lies between her hands, halfway opened. Her eyes move swiftly from left to right, absorbing each line with ease.

Today, her hair is not braided; those dark tresses singularly streaked with a lock of silver cascade down her shoulders in waves of silk.

Infuriating.

None of her features reflect her Valyrian ancestry, save for those pale strands. Still, somehow, she manages to look regal.

My hand drifts down to her dagger. I draw it out, twirling the blade between my fingers in a vain attempt to ease my growing irritation.

She could have been the kind of lady men would start wars over—just to get a taste of her. Rather tragic, that her beauty will never be worth anything.

Spoiled goods, nothing more.

Curiosity spikes as I watch her lips slowly parting at the page before her, then press a finger down against them with surprising force. For a moment, perhaps in my own twisted imagination, she seems to be emulating the cut of a blade.

She doesn’t stop there. 

Her hand moves lower, drawing a line from her mouth down to the center of her chest. My fist ceases the twirling of the dagger. 

Her own gesture makes her shudder, and I wonder… would she dare to trail her finger further? Would she condemn this holy place with such action? Would she reach for her—

She turns the page, eager for more.

What in the Seven Kingdoms could have made her want to do that?

My eye narrows, inspecting the book’s binding from a distance—and recognize it almost at once.

The Ice Dragon. A children’s tale.

There isn’t a single line in that book that could have made her react that way.

Unless… the cover has nothing to do with whatever lies inside.

I catch the slight shift of her hand, the imperfect tilt of the spine—just enough to reveal a glimpse of black behind the dark blue leather. Subtle, but there.

She’s holding another book beneath.

Now, now.

My little bastard has a few tricks up her sleeve.

She has gone utterly still, transfixed by the passage before her. So devoted to inked words on paper, one might even mistake her for a good princess.

It almost makes me not want to disturb her reading.

Almost.

A smirk tugs at my lips at the mere thought of robbing her of her quiet peace.

I step out from my hiding place, walking steadily toward where she sits. My heart pounds, strength pulsing through my limbs with every beat, a restless energy coiled tight beneath my skin. 

I tread lightly, careful to keep my steps out of earshot as I close the distance between us. She remains unaware—enthralled by whatever story plays behind her eyes.

By the time she senses me, I am already there; a shadow cast over her shoulder, stealing the light from the pages.

Her spine stiffens. That dark stare of hers meets mine.

A flicker of distress crosses her features, quickly buried beneath her usual spite.

“Did I frighten you, dear?”

I reach down to my belts, hands ghosting over the weapons attached to them. Anticipating the next move.

“What do you want?” she asks bluntly, not bothering to hide her initial startlement. Her upper lip twists in clear disgust at my presence. 

Good.

Very good.

“First,” I murmur, “I’d like to know what book hides beneath that children’s tale. Smart move, I’ll admit, concealing the original cover with another.”

She blinks. Once, twice. As though confused by how I uncovered her stunt—or searching for a snarky retort.

“What keen sight you possess, my prince, for having only one eye.”

Ah, the latter it is.

“How clever,” I mock, fighting to get a hold on my senses. But the pull of anger wins.

I take a swift step forward, snapping the books from her grasp and sending them scattering among the roots of the weirwood.

“Shall I take your eye, then, since you seem so intrigued by such limitations?”

I draw her dagger, the slim silver blade glinting between my fingers as I crouch before her, aligning its sharp tip with the center of her eye.

She freezes.

“Because I would gladly carve it out for you, princess.”

Not a flinch.

Instead, her eyes lock on the dagger between us, as if weighing the odds of prying it from my grasp.

Then—chin lifted, throat exposed—she meets my eye.

“Will that earn me my weapons back?”

A short, derisive laugh escapes me. I tilt the blade closer, the tip hovering just above her pupil. 

Oh, of course. That’s what she wants—her precious weapons. How convenient for her, that they’re exactly what I came to offer. 

“You want your blades, little bastard?”

I withdraw her dagger, sheathing it back at my hip.

Her shoulders slacken, a sliver of relief slipping through the slits of her bold composure.

Rising, I rest a hand on the pommel of her sword, drawing it just enough for her to see. “Get on your knees, then. Beg for them to be returned.”

She scoffs, a strangled sound catching in her throat—part laughter, part disbelief.

“No.” The word is sharp. Final.

“No?” I arch a brow, bemused.

“You will never see me kneel,” she bites back. Her palms press against fallen leaves as she helps herself up, rising to meet me.

“Oh, we’ll see about that.” My voice is edged when I whisper, “Trust me.”

“Trust me,” she says, head tilted with sarcasm. “I’d rather die.”

“Blessed be the Gods—I’d rather have you die, too. And preferably by my own hand,” I concede. 

Her eyes darken, brown irises turning black as onyx.  

How I wish to strike that insolence off her face with a clean slap to the cheek.

“But I must confess…” I pause, choosing my next words with care. “It takes a rare breed of fool—or perhaps a brave one, to barge into a prince’s chambers the way you did.”

“If such is your attachment to these,” I murmur, running my fingers along the pommel of her sword and the hilt of her dagger, “then accept my challenge.”

Confusion traces her face briefly, but then she steps forward, hands behind her back.  “Speak your terms.” 

There. Right where I want her.

Short-tempered, just as her father was.

“Very well,” I say, unsheathing the sword in full. I twist it in my hand, showing it off. Making her desperate for it. “Let us have another duel. If the Gods deem you worthy of carrying your sword again, you’ll win. And it’s yours.”

Her head tilts, her brows furrow.  “And if I don’t?” 

She’s wary of me. Not without reason.

My grin spreads slowly, almost unintendedly. 

Such a good thing to ask.

 “If you don’t… I get to discipline you. However I see fit.”

She remains silent. Weighing her options, I reckon, for no other questions come.

Even better.

I do hope she’s picturing all manner of wicked torture I might inflict upon her. All the ways I can make her beg. Truly beg.

“Were I to win, I’ll get both my weapons back,” she states. “And were I to lose…you get your sickening wish to punish me.”

So she accepts, then. 

May the Gods be merciful—because I won’t be. She doesn’t stand a chance. And oh, I already know what I’ll do first. A woman who behaves like a child deserves to be treated as one.

“Good—” I nod, but she cuts me off without hesitation.

“—only if I get another try.”

Perseverant. Like a mouse drawn into a trap for a crumb of bread. Aware of the danger entailed, but powerless against the hunger. 

I pause for a moment, considering the offering lain so willingly before me. Counting how many times she might endure punishment, how many humiliations she’d stomach, before she realizes it’s no use—and finally begs.

“Fine,” I agree. “For each defeat, a fitting punishment. Deal?”

She gives a cold nod. Now, that won’t do.

“Say it,” I command. “I want to hear it.”

With a rough breath, she spits the word like it scorches her tongue. “Deal.”

Deal.

A hungry fool, indeed.

I don’t need her blessing to put her in her place. But giving her the illusion she holds even a single thread of power over what happens next… That makes it all the more amusing.

“No further questions, pet?”

Her shoulders tense, full lips pressing into a thin line.

“When?”

Poor thing.

“When?” I echo, drawing my sword with my left hand. “Whenever I please.”

“And that is…?” She presses, her fingers bunching the skirts of her black dress as though bracing herself for the answer.

“Now,” I say, just as she retreats a step.

“No.” She shakes her head, then gestures down to her gown—cinched at the waist, the fabric pooling around her boots. “This leaves me at a disadvantage.”

“Hmm. Does it?” I circle her, gaze dragging over the attire she wears in place of armor. “But if a woman is truly meant to carry a weapon,” I murmur, “then surely she should be able to wield it regardless of the occasion… shouldn’t she?”

Her nose flares; cheeks flush with the heat of restrained fury. 

“Have it your way,” she snaps, fisting the hem of her dress.

The bastard drags the fabric up to her knees, revealing sheer black stockings clinging to soft, full thighs. Framed in dark lace, ribbons biting into yielding flesh.

I halt, momentarily taken aback.

Strength, honed by training and dragonriding, lies beneath the softness. Barely veiled.

My jaw tightens.

This must be a jest. Some sort of ill attempt at distraction.

But then—she hooks the hem of her dress into the tops of her stockings, tucking it firmly to clear her stride. To keep from tripping over her own skirts.

A practical gesture. No more.

“Endearing,” I drawl. “But useless.”

No immediate response.

Her knuckles whiten around the velvety fabric. One last tug, a final adjustment—then she lets go and strides toward me, hand outstretched, reaching for her sword.

“Ah, ah, ah.” I dodge, twirling the blade behind my back, well out of her reach. “I never said you’d be wielding your own.”

“What am I supposed to wield then, a wooden stick?” she asks, arms crossing beneath her chest.

“Perhaps you should. Start anew, like a child.” I let the words linger—can almost feel her shrinking size before me as I rove over her. “But we’re well past that, aren’t we?”

I step closer. “No—you’ll be wielding mine.”

Her teeth catch the corner of her bottom lip—just as they used to when she was younger.

Perhaps she doesn’t yet grasp the full weight of what she’s stepped into.

“And I yours,” I finish, tossing my sword toward her, hilt first.

She startles—just slightly—but catches it right before hitting the ground. Expected. My sword is longer. Heavier. Built for larger hands, stronger arms. Not meant for a woman.

With a slow twist, she seizes the black and silver hilt, lifting the blade with both hands.

No one else has ever wielded my sword. I sharpened, cleaned, and carried it at my hip from dusk to dawn. For years, only my hands have touched its dark steel.

Yet here she stands—my weapon raised, fingers clenched from pommel to guard. Hair unbound, spilling past her waist. Legs dimly bared.

Quite the sight.

As I effortlessly raise her sword, her eyes land on my face. My eyepatch. As if merely by boring into it, she could unveil the old wound beneath.

Interesting, this fixation on my sight.

Does she remember? 

The knife against my flesh, slicing through my orb in a jagged cut. The warm, thick blood that trickled down my cheeks. The haunting echo of my pain. The empty socket her brother left behind.

She must.

That night is the true reason she is mine to own and torment.

“You remember, don’t you?” I sneer, my left foot scraping the dirt as I shift into position. “The moment your own brother sealed your fate with my blood.”

Her silence confesses the truth.

A gleam sparks in her eyes, as if the memory has just been breathed back to life. She remembers—how she stood there and defended her kin. How she dared to shoulder the blame herself, lest they punished her dear little brother for what he did. But she escaped unharmed—all of them did.

I lunge.

The clash of steel defiles the sanctity of the Godswood as our blades collide.

The first strike is measured. Controlled. But I can feel it building beneath my ribs, that heat. The crave for violence.

Her movements are stiff, the grip on my sword flimsy in spite of her stubborn determination to match each of my blows. It’s true—she’s outmatched. Same as I was, when they had me cornered. Five against one. 

No mercy was given to me then, and none shall I give to her now.

“Is that what he taught you?” I breathe, teeth bared as she attempts to kick the back of my legs. “Your father, did he not have the time to instruct you properly before the fire took him?”

I watch her ignite. Her soft jawline clenches, her teeth jarring as she swallows every one of my taunts. Those dark eyes, they burn brighter—wilder. The rise and fall of her chest is erratic, the weight of my blade already tiring her.

“Answer me,” I demand, swords stuck just a breath from our lips.

She doesn’t.

A single bead of sweat leaves her brow, slowly trailing down her cheek. Strands of hair stick to her face, partially obscuring her vision. Now. Now she is truly overpowered in every sense.

One step back. A clumsy shift of her fingers around the guard. A grunt of effort.

And she strikes back. 

My blade halts hers at the base, forcing her to retreat and readjust her grip around the hilt, the sword nearly slipping from her fingers.

“Yield,” I mouth. “You know it’s the wiser choice.”

I don’t give her a moment to catch her breath—I attack again, anticipating the twist of her blade, raising mine to meet hers.

But this time, she’s too slow.

The sharp edge of my sword slices through the fine fabric of her dress. It barely grazes the skin of her right arm, but it’s enough to sting. Naerys lets out a hiss of pain, biting her tongue to mask the wince.

“Ah, not mute after all, are you?” I grate, eyeing the way she brushes the hair from her face.

A faint line of blood gathers at the thin cut. 

Rather than recoil at the sight, her expression hardens. A low, raw sound rises from her throat before she lunges—throwing her full weight against my chest, a leg twisting between mine.

I lose balance.

We fall, toppling over one another, uselessly scrabbling for our weapons.

It’s no use.

She lands atop me, both swords discarded out of reach.

Strong thighs lock around my waist, squeezing tight as the back of my head knocks against the ground. My hands dart to her legs, firmly pinning her in place—fingers brushing over the soft lace beneath my palms, flesh sinking under my hold. The hem of her dress has ridden past the tops of her stockings, baring the curve of her upper thighs as her skirts billow around us. 

“This,” she breathes, “is what he taught me.”

Intriguing.

“The benefit of surprise?” I scoff, loosening my grip on her thighs just slightly. “Is that what you rely on?”

“It seems to have worked, hasn’t it?” she shoots back, her arms braced beside my shoulders. 

Her hair ripples forward, and that silver lock slips free from behind her left ear. I resist the urge to tug at it—to rip it from her scalp. I much prefer her warm, tainted blood trickling down my fingertips to insignificant dead strands.

“And for how long?” I press. “Tell me—do you believe you could fight me bare-handed?”

Her gaze flicks down my chest, settling on the daggers at my waist—mine, and hers.

“Go on,” I spur, voice low. “Try.”

At that, she hesitates. Predictable. Of course she’d try to reach for one of the daggers—especially hers. Same pattern she followed in the training yard five days ago. She clings to the sword until it fails her, then turns to the dagger. Smaller. Easier on her hands. Convenient.

There’s a clear reason she cannot properly wield a long blade: she insists on using it as a man would. And as her body straddles mine, it’s painfully clear—she is no man.

“Oh, come now,” I murmur, hands sliding up to her waist. My knuckles graze the eyelets of her dress, dragging lazily across the ribbon that binds her bodice tight. A distraction. “Won’t you indulge your husband?”

“You are not my husband.”

Her hands fly toward my belts—just as I expected. Too easy to bait, my betrothed.

I catch her wrists mid-air, fists clamping around them before she reaches either dagger.

“Ah, but not long until I regrettably become it,” I murmur, deliberately drawing her closer. Her chest brushes mine. “The sooner you start behaving as a proper wife should—”

“When?” she cuts in, voice tight, brows knitting together.

The question halts me. But right away, a delightfully pleasing realization dawns on me.

“You don’t know, do you?” I ask, bringing her wrists downwards. “Your dear Mother has not informed you of—”

“When?” A desperate, pained cry.

She regards me like a sentenced sinner, waiting for the executioner to deliver the blow that will cut off their head.

Well, then.

Let me be the bearer of the news. 

My hips buckle beneath her, lifting her weight off me as I spin us around. A simple move. That’s all it takes to flip her onto her stomach and pin her down against the earth. One hand slithers toward her neck, palming the pulsing vein as I yank her head back. She writhes beneath me, taut body bucking in resistance.

I glance up—thousands of crimson leaves stir in the wind, the only witnesses to the compromising position we’re in. The branches sway with a sudden breeze, framing the ancient carved face on the white trunk… and I could’ve sworn a tear of fresh blood slid down the weirwood’s right eye—if I held any faith in trees.

She tries to rise to her knees, pushing back against me. I press my hips into her, holding her in place. My fingers tighten, thumb grinding into the ridge beneath her jaw with a pointed grunt.

With my free hand, I pull out my dagger, then bring it down to her throat. I gently drag the tip along the curve of it, savoring the sharp gasp she tries to repress.

My lips dip to her ear, teeth grazing her lobe. “A moon,” I whisper. “Counting from the day of your arrival.”

Her exhale is exquisite—a perfect blend of relief and fright.

I wait. One, two, three beats of her drumming heart before I loosen my hold.

My hands fall from her neck as I rise off her back, hastily sheathing the small blade before reaching for both swords discarded at our feet. She springs up, practically crawling in a desperate lunge to reclaim her dear sword.

Pity.

There’s nothing for her to do but glare up at me with those indomitable eyes while I wrench the weapons from the earth and rise to my full height.

I take her in.

Not entirely on her knees yet. But it’s a start. 

Breathing strained, she stands, proudly smoothing her skirts as she stares into my eye. Steadily, she trails towards her scattered books, picking both of them from the hard roots of the tree, red leaves stuck to the pages. 

The curled ends of her hair graze past the small of her waist as she snaps her head upwards—searching for the source of the catching wind. I follow her gaze, curious about the abrupt change of her posture. 

The shape of her silver dragon blurs between white-grey branches, soaring low in a tight circle above the weeping tree before surging higher, batting his wings west. 

With a low sigh, she turns her attention to the fresh wound her own blade left behind. Tugging at her sleeve with one finger, she examines the bleeding cut before casting another admonishing glance towards me—as if wordlessly screaming: See what you have done.

She doesn’t yet understand—I want to do much worse. 

I will break her. No matter the cost.

“Run along.” 

[satlun]

AEMOND TARGARYEN IN FIRE & BLOOD.

[alicents4lawyer]

[sapphirewritesx]

Kinslayer - Aemond Targaryen x OC (Naerys Velaryon)

“Sweet dreams, ilībōños,” he had said, as though somehow aware of the nightmares that plague me. Then he set me down at the threshold of my chambers and walked away—without so much as a glance back.

summary: After Aemond's toast and the fight it unleashed, Rhaenyra decides to sail home. Naerys is expected to stay. Her mother demands that she return. But she must make the decision herself.

word count: 4.1k

warnings: nightmares of burning/death, Larys Strong (yes, he should be a warning), not much of Aemond in this chapter, Jace & Rhaenyra interactions

tags: enemies to lovers, slow burn, strong!oc, niece!oc, arranged marriage, pyrophobia, lots of banter, eventual smut

ao3: Kinslayer by sapphirewritesx

I run through ruins of black stone and haunting shadows. My legs barely carry me, still trembling with the weight of the slumber that swallowed me in the dead of night.

Raging flames follow close behind, howling through broken archways and shattered windows, chasing me like a ghost bent on vengeance. 

“Help!” The man cries out. “Help! Please—please!”

Everything burns. I’m caught in a ring of fire—the blaze kissing the hem of my nightgown, thick smoke clawing its way down my throat.

“Here! Please!” His screams are raw with pain. The air is poisoned with ash and the sickening scent of burnt flesh—I can’t breathe—yet I don’t relent. I run, run, run—until a blistered iron door looms before me.

I seize the handle, searing hot against my palm, and glance back as the fire surges closer.

“Father!” I shout, desperation splitting through me like a blade to my chest. “Just a little longer, hang on—”

“Run!” His voice is no more than a choked rasp, raw and fading, as he hears my frantic attempts to break in. He knows—and so do I—that there is no way out. 

Still, I try. I always try.

“Leave me,” he pleads. “Run, Naerys. Run!”

“I won’t leave you!” I hurl my shoulder against the door, pain flaring sharp down my arm.

“You must,” he says, resigned to the fate he can never escape. “It’s time.”

It is time.

The crackling heat crawls up my legs like a starving beast, voraciously scorching up my calves with an insatiable hunger for bone and marrow—

You’ll die in flames, just like your father did.

I jolt awake, hastily tearing the bedcovers off me, and scanning the length of my legs. The soft flesh is—much like every morning—untouched.

My fingers tighten around the toy I sleep with every night—a stuffed dragon, barely the size of a hatchling. I trace its tiny wings with my fingertips, feeling the velvet-stitched scales. Silver in color, it was made to match the egg in my cradle. The same was done for my brothers: green for Jace, pearl for Luke, violet for Joffrey. Their eggs hatched with their births, and before long, they cast aside their toys for the real thing. 

I, on the other hand, clung to mine.

I named it Meraxes when I was four. It made sense to me then, to name it after the mount of Queen Rhaenys the Conqueror, the largest silver dragon that ever lived. At least its color would match its namesake.

For a time, I forgot it existed, leaving it tucked away in some dusty chest. But shortly after that night at Driftmark, when the nightmares began, my mother brought it back to me. She claimed it would soothe me, help me find sleep.

It didn’t. 

So she turned to herbs and concoctions Maester Gerardys recommended, almost forcing them down my throat in exasperation, only to prove them useless too.

Eventually, I began falling asleep by exhaustion alone, clinging to consciousness in dread of the same horrid dream coming back around. And each night, heedless of any remedies, the flames rise again. 

Every morning, I wake with those final words echoing in my ears. As if that little boy of ten had somehow written my fate in fire, cursing me to meet the same end my father did.

I place Meraxes on the bed, tucking it beneath the sheets the way a child might shelter her favorite doll. Though it does little to ease this affliction of mine, it brings some sort of comfort after the edges of the night. A tether to reality—something to ground me for the day ahead.

Rising from the bed, I cast one last glance at the stuffed dragon before turning to the window. White clouds drift through a vivid blue sky, sunbeams spilling across the city with the bliss of morning warmth.

Unlike Dragonstone at first light, King’s Landing is alive. Even from the heights of this tower, I can hear the distant murmur of a waking crowd, the sharp clank of metal striking against wooden shields.

I step closer, craning my neck to peer down at the training yard below. Just like yesterday, a group of courtesans gathers around the pair of fighters, shouting warnings and cheering for the prince. 

It shouldn’t surprise me that, once again, the duel is between Ser Criston Cole and Prince Aemond.

A knot tightens in my stomach as the memory of his body pressing mine against the railing  floods my mind. 

“Sweet dreams, ilībōños,” he had said, as though somehow aware of the nightmares that plague me. Then he set me down at the threshold of my chambers and walked away—without so much as a glance back.

I follow his movements. Every swing of his sword, every block of his shield, painted black and red with the Targaryen emblem. 

He retreats a step, readjusting his stance, then readies another lunge at his opponent. His grip on the blade is firm, unyielding. I study the precise placement of his fingers around the hilt, noting how his thumb presses his middle finger into the handle. Just before he strikes, his eye twitches; his left foot shifts back an inch in preparation.

My attention sets on his waist as he moves forward. Two black leather belts attached—one to carry his dagger, and another resting just above his hip, where lies the empty sheathe of his sword. 

The round hilt of his dagger glints in the direct sunlight, its square-shaped diamond like a star in plain day. But that—that is not the only dagger he carries. No, just there, strapped to his right side, is an oddly familiar thin blade. Forged in silver, honed with intricate patterns, and a distinctive seahorse carving. Nightshade. 

The wretch dares wear my dagger in public like a trophy won at a tournament.

His assault comes swift and violent, his blade cutting clean through the chain of Ser Criston’s morningstar, and whipping it away from his grasp. The crowd applauds, noblemen goading their prince with praise, while young ladies draped in fine silks batting their lashes at him with feverish delight. 

Fathers stand beside their daughters, assessing like hawks in the peak of morning sun, measuring the odds of settling at court for the rest of their lives, if one of them is lucky enough to become a mistress.

Aemond tilts his head back, chest heaving as he draws in a slow breath. He brushes stray strands of silver hair from his face, clearing his vision—and then, his eye finds mine.

His expression hardens as he catches my stare. Silent promises of retribution pass between our cold glances, until his gaze descends down the line of my neck, and I realize with a start that he’s noticed I’m still in last night’s nightgown. I stiffen, my chest folding inward, tight against my ribs.

A smug smile spreads across his face—but not for long.

Ser Criston has reclaimed his morningstar and charges with renewed force. Caught off guard for once, Aemond falters, tripping over his own feet until he hits the ground with a heavy thud. The crowd stirs, stifling its reaction with exchanged looks of surprise and concern. 

The sight pulls a laugh from my chest.

 Serves him right for being a vain cunt.

He hauls himself to his feet with surprising ease, clearly determined to land the last strike. Ser Criston casts a quick glance toward the tower I watch from, as if trying to pinpoint the exact spot from which the prince’s slip had come, and readies his weapon with an anticipatory smile.

A knock at my doors steals my attention from the yard below. Two quick taps. A brief pause, then three more.

“Come in,” I call confidently. That particular rhythm—it can only be one of my brothers.

“I see you’re finally awake,” Jace says behind me as I turn. He stands half a head taller, one hand resting on the pommel of his sword, his curly hair unbound and draped over his shoulders. He’s wearing that half-black, half-blood-red doublet Mother adores on him. Granted, he looks every bit the prince he is.

“It’s not that late,” I reply, though I know it probably is.

He rolls his eyes, but doesn’t argue.

“Were you waiting for me?” I ask, brow furrowing.

“No, but Mother is.” His lips press into a thin line, his stance shifting. “She said she needed a word with you, so I offered to come drag you out of bed.”

I stifle a nervous chuckle.

My thoughts flare back to last night. The guards must have talked—as expected, really, after witnessing Queen Alicent’s son carry his betrothed out of his chambers over his shoulder, dressed in nothing but breeches.

“Do you… know why?” I tilt my head, sucking my bottom lip between my teeth.

“No, she didn’t say.” He shrugs, though I notice how his warm eyes narrow slightly at my reaction. “I’ve had my own already—for punching Aemond in his pretty, marred face.”

“As if he didn’t deserve that,” I scoff.

“What he doesn’t deserve,” he begins, running a hand through his hair in exasperation, “is to marry you.”

“Jace—”

“No,” he cuts me off. “I can’t stand the thought of it—I never could. But now—now, after seeing how much worse he’s become—”

“Jace.” I reach for him, trailing my hand down his arm, pleading for his silence. “The realm has awaited this union for ten years. There’s nothing to be done.”

“There is,” he bites back. “But you all choose to bow your heads.”

I let out an irritated sigh. “Is that so?”

“He insulted us—he insulted you, for the Seven’s sake!” He steps back, arms thrown wide. “Betrothals have been broken for far less.”

“Perhaps,” I concede, “but this is not one of those, and you know it, Jace.”

He turns away, nodding with quiet indignation. “I spent the past hour suggesting other, proper suitors.”

His eyes gleam with a stubbornness I recognize as my own. “You did what?”

A humorless grin curves his lips. “For once, she was willing to listen. She even seemed to consider it the moment I mentioned Cregan Stark. He’s only a few years older than Aemond, recently widowed, with just a son. House Targaryen may already have his loyalty, but we must never forget the cost it took to bring the North to heel.”

I stare at him, half in disbelief, half in awe. “You’ve truly told her all this?”

“I have,” he says firmly. “And she might’ve given in to the thought. But Daemon—he had to open that smart mouth of his—said Lord Stark seeks a wife to keep hidden in the snow, to raise the child of the woman he lost and sire others who’ll inherit little to nothing. Not a future ruler of the Seven Kingdoms.”

I shake my head, a bitter chuckle escaping me. For all Jace’s protective efforts, there’s no denying Daemon is right. The North is no place for dragons.

“Don’t,” he says, holding his palms up. “Don’t even say it. I know he is right—I simply can’t sit idly and accept that this is your fate.”

I sigh, arms folding across my chest. “I cannot blame you for that.”

“No,” he says, expression softening. “But you’re too proud to say you don’t want this either. Too proud to let us fight for you.”

His words strike deeper than I expect. The thought of him and Luke, or even our younger brothers, ever fighting for me is less endearing than it is terrifying.

“What good would it do, Jace?” I ask, quieter than intended. “It wouldn’t free me—it would only be taken as rebellion.”

He doesn’t answer right away. His jaw tightens, his gaze dropping to the marbled floor between us. “And I would ride to war for it, if need be. For you.”

The conviction in his voice sends a chill through me.

“Can’t you see?” I dip my head. “That is what scares me.”

His shoulders sink, his wounded gaze now filled with understanding.

“I can see that,” he admits at last, barely above a whisper. “I just…I don’t want to lose you. Not to him.”

My heart leaps.

I reach for his hand, threading my fingers through his. “You haven’t lost me, Jace. And you won’t.”

He gives a faint nod, squeezing my hand in return. “Just promise me you’ll never let him belittle you.”

I offer a small smile—one that doesn’t quite reach my eyes. Because I know I’m lying when I say, “I swear.”

Aemond has already done as much. And I loathe our encounter secret, as if I’m somehow covering for his faults. But I must, if only to prevent further conflict.

His lean arms wrap around my shoulders, pulling me close to his chest. His scent envelops me—musk and leather—so much like the man we regrettably take after.

“I should get dressed,” I murmur, drawing away with reluctance.

“Right,” he says, clearing his throat as he steps back. “I’ll leave you to prepare. She’s waiting in her rooms.”

I tighten the front laces of my dress, fingers trembling with uncertainty. The maids have already left, having only helped with my hair—anything more, and I would have sent them away. Their fussing maddens me; their touch feels like needles dragging across my skin.

I pull the laces even tighter, trying to calm my rattling nerves. Whatever my mother wishes to speak about, it can’t possibly be unrelated to last night. I can only pray to the Gods that she hasn’t learned about me trespassing to his chambers, and means only to scold me for a harmless slap on the cheek. Because if it isn’t the latter—and word has spread about the state of indecency both Aemond and I were in when he left me at my doors—it would cause an absolute scandal. If my virtue is being questioned, Queen Alicent might just have us wed in three days’ time.

But until I know whether that is truly the case, I shall act as though they remain none the wiser.

Drawing in a quick breath, I gather strength to step outside.

The corridor is unusually quiet for this hour—eerily so. I tread lightly past the alcoves, the sound of my boots faint against the stone. As I round the corner toward the main stairwell, I nearly collide with a Kingsguard, who bows hastily while avoiding my gaze.

Just behind him, two handmaidens rush past in the opposite direction. “…she asked for discretion,” one of them murmurs before they notice me. The younger maid drops into a curtsy. The older, likely close to her fifties, turns her face away.

A few other lords and ladies pass me by. Not even half of them acknowledge me.

I don’t relent my pace, instead reaching for the banister as I hastily climb the stairs. Just when I take the last step, I catch sight of Lord Larys Strong, leaning against a carved pillar, his cane tapping once against the floor.

“Princess,” he inclines his head, lips twitching in a half-smile. “Oh, don’t you look radiant this morrow. I pray you had a good night’s rest. You must have been… exhausted, after yesterday’s events.”

I instinctively clutch the folds of my skirts tighter as I stop right before him. I take in his appearance: the crooked foot, the innocent spark in his hazel-brown eyes, the subtle arch of his spine. The color of his hair—dark, rich brown threaded with gray.

He is aging. Thriving in this court like his older brother never could.

“You are kind, my lord.” I force the response out, bothering to return his smile. “But do not concern yourself, I did have my rest.”

“Ah, one cannot help but cling to his blood.” He hops just a little closer, his gaze flickering over my face, searching for some spark of recognition. “House Strong has always sought to serve the rulers of this realm. My late father, as Hand. My brother, as Commander of the City Watch… and I, as Master of Whispers and Lord Confessor to our King. It would be an honor to live long enough to see you ascend the Iron Throne.”

I retreat, clasping my hands behind my back, shoulders squared. The righteous glint in his eyes suggests only loyalty—an offer of alliance where others dare not even bow their heads. And yet, the way he speaks, I know better. As he’s astutely hinted before, he’s aware we share blood.

“That day is far off, my lord,” I say, lifting my chin. “Let us hope the Gods guard you until then.”

With a swift nod, I resume my walk to my mother’s chambers, leaving Lord Larys behind.

The doors are already ajar when I arrive, which is unusual of her. She prefers her rooms locked and well guarded. I peer inside, expecting to find her seated at the main table, cross-legged, quietly fuming over my tardiness.

Instead, a blonde-haired maid sits on the floor, bouncing Viserys in her arms while Aegon crawls nearby, dragging the wooden horse in his hand.

Odd. Mother never leaves the little ones with someone she doesn’t trust—and this girl is far too young to be one of her favored maids. It’s been too long since she last lived here, and her favored one, Arria, she took with us when we moved to Dragonstone.

I step into the rooms, a flicker of unease passing through me. Had something urgent pulled her away in a rush?

The girl, perhaps my own age, rises the moment she notices me. She offers a small smile, and as I return it, my eyes catch the gentle curve of her belly. She’s with child.

It strikes me then, how she is not the unusual one—I am. History would have had me in her place already, if not once, a couple times over.

A slow, creeping dread anchors deep in my core. It’s not the prospect of childbirth I fear, but the stinging truth that it might be his children I bear.

I swallow hard, tearing my eyes from her in an attempt to wave the unsettling thought away, and scan the rest of the room. Joffrey is lazily perched on a nearby chair, a book cracked open in his lap. He looks absorbed, but I know better. The maid wouldn’t realize he still struggles with the letters. He’s pretending—eyes glued to the pages only to avoid speaking.

“Nae!” Viserys wriggles in the maid’s arms, reaching for me.

“Easy now,” I murmur, scooping him up and adjusting his weight at my waist. “Tired of playing already, Vis?”

He shakes his head, silver curls bouncing, and points toward Aegon, who is bringing the knight that mounts his horse to a dragon that dwarfs him. Viserys clutches one of his own, yet his is barely half the size.

“Ah. You want that dragon.”

He nods eagerly, violet eyes shining—bright, like a field of spring flowers in bloom. Mother’s eyes. I’ve cursed the Gods plenty over the years for not blessing me with them,  and still, I cannot help but smile.

I settle Viserys on the floor next to Aegon, who shoots me a look, lips pulled tight in annoyance.

“So go claim it.”

Viserys immediately snatches the dragon from his older brother, shouting “Vhagar!” in an excited cry.

“Not fair!” Aegon protests, throwing his hands up in defeat.

“Come on, Aegon, lend him your dragon, if just for a little while,” I tell him, gently patting his crown of white-blond hair. “He’ll tire of it soon enough.”

He is not entirely convinced, though he complies.

Joffrey, who had snapped out of his feigned trance the moment he heard my voice, rises from his seat, tossing the book aside without a second thought.

“Speaking of dragons,” he grins, “I want another ride.”

Oh, I should have known this would happen.

At the start of the year, when Joffrey turned eight, I’d taken him to the skies with me. Mother had been abed, sick with early pregnancy, and Joffrey was insistent—relentless—in asking each time we had a dragon race. His dragon, Tyraxes, is growing rapidly, but Mother had forbidden him from riding until she felt he was large enough. Of course, that only made Joffrey more impatient, and I knew the itch that consumed him all too well. So, defying our mother’s orders for the first time in seventeen years, I brought him before Seasmoke—and, as I’d hoped, my dragon accepted him without hesitation.

“We’ve gone over this, Joff,” I sigh, eyeing him as he stands there, hands clasped behind his back like he hasn’t already heard this a hundred times. “Mother doesn’t approve.”

Around us, the room is in disarray. Trunks lie open, spilling out half-folded clothing. A pair of servants glide between shelves and drawers, packing with swift, practiced hands. The air around us hums with quiet urgency.

Are they switching chambers?

“Yes, yes, I know. But what if she doesn’t know of it? We have already done it once, when—”

“—when, exactly?” Her cutting voice behind me freezes us both in the spot.

At our silence, she lets out a sharp exhale, declaring her lack of patience. “We’ll discuss this another time,” she promises, her tone final. “There are more important matters at hand.”

With a single gesture of hers, the maids stop their tasks and hurry out of the chambers, dragging the three boys along with them.

She takes a seat at the edge of the bed, motioning for me to follow. “Come, sit with me.”

My lungs deflate as I recall that dark corridor, my hips brushing against a bare chest.

This is it, then. She knows. Everyone knows.

I brace myself for the blow, but she says nothing of Aemond. Nothing of my stupidity. Nothing of whispers.

Instead, she places a hand over her belly, fingers absently toying with the fabric of her skirt.

“We are returning home,” she says at last. Her voice is not harsh, but there is no gentleness in it either—only resolve. “To Dragonstone. We’ll remain there until the wedding.”

I blink, swallowing the weight of her words. “Which is when?”

She considers her answer. “It hasn’t yet been decided. But your grandsire…” She pauses, tasting the bitterness of what she must say next. “…insists it happen soon. There is no delaying it now.”

Soon. Always soon. Never an exact day to  brace for.

My throat tightens. “Why leave, then?”

Her mouth flattens into a thin line, the same way Jace’s did earlier. “Last night made things clear to me. For all my might, it seems my children and Queen Alicent’s are fated to remain enemies beneath the same roof. I won’t tolerate another insult.”

She takes my hand in hers, brushing her thumb gently over the scrape on my knuckles.

“I went to your grandsire at first light,” she says, her voice softening. “Foolishly hoping he might speak some sense into his sons. But he was already far gone on milk of the poppy. He spoke in riddles, adrift in dreams. And even in those rare moments of clarity… he only reiterated that the two of you must wed.”

A heavy, suffocating wave of disappointment rises within me.

What were you thinking? I chide myself, for clutching at that last, pathetic sliver of faith—as if it hadn’t already turned to flame in my hands. Why cling to it, when you already know how it ends?

I straighten, squaring my shoulders as I turn to face her fully. “Then I must remain here.”

Her eyes widen, head drawing back in disbelief. “No,” she dictates firmly. “No, you mustn’t.”

But I must.

This is what I wanted from the moment we arrived—to go home, to delay the wedding, if only for another year. And yet now, with the gates wide open for me to flee, I know I cannot.

What impression would I leave, vanishing from court on the eve of my own wedding? A bastard princess, whose claim already hangs by a thread, mocking the Gods by refusing tradition. Is that what I want? To wait it out on Dragonstone, hiding until the day arrives?

No. They may fault me for my stained blood—but I refuse to let them call me a coward too.

I rise from the bed.

“This is what’s expected of me,” I tell her. “It’s tradition. The whole realm is watching—and it’s my duty to be present.”

“You’ll be alone—”

“Yes,” I cut in. “I will be. Both until the wedding, and after. Because I’ll be bound to wherever my husband is, and that’s here. In King’s Landing. The sooner I accept it, the better.”

Her lips part, as though she means to talk me out of it, but no words come. She stands, reaching for my hand again, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “What happened to my little girl?” she breathes.

My voice is a broken whisper when I answer, “She grew up.”

And she will no longer hide under her mother’s skirts.

[sapphirewritesx]

was about to publish chapter 8 but ao3 decided it was time to go down????