You and your partner, Myro Smoak, have secrets you should take to your graves, but you're desperate. However, a war is brewing and you get caught in the middle of it. You discover the truth of Valyrian magic & dragons and try to save both through research and friends in low places.
Pairing : You (AFAB) x Aemond Targaryen, You x Myro (no smut between them)
Word Count : 4,018
WARNINGS : No use of Y/N, smut, violence, alcohol, bonded partners (no smut between them, but it’s implied), slow burn, potential infertility,
Savages Masterlist
Chapter Two - “Supper”
There's a knock at the door. A steward's voice follows: "My lady. The King requests your presence at supper. I am to escort you when you are ready.”
"Tell the steward we'll be ready shortly," you call through the door. You hear an acknowledgment, then footsteps retreating.
Myro swings his legs off the bed, stretching his arms over his head. "Supper with the King. Should we be worried?"
"Always." You cross to the washbasin, splashing cold water on your face. The grime of the hunt and the exploration still clings to your skin. "But we've dealt with worse than dying old men and their scheming families."
"Have we?" He's pulling on a fresh tunic. "The Triarchy was straightforward. They wanted gold and blood. Here, everyone smiles while they sharpen their knives.”
You dry your face and turn to him. "Then we don't trust the smiles."
He grins, "When have I ever?"
You finish preparing in comfortable silence. The familiarity of it, dressing together, checking each other's weapons, sharing a look that says ‘ready when you are’. Whatever comes, you face it together. You open the door.
The steward waits in the hall. "This way, my lady. My lord." He bows slightly and turns, leading you through the corridors of the Red Keep.
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The great hall looms ahead, its doors thrown open. A long table runs the length of the room. People are already seated along it. The steward announces you: "The Lady and Myro Smoak, envoys from the lands beyond the Sunset Sea." Every head turns.
You nod to the steward, then step through the threshold without hesitation.
The hall falls quieter. Conversations stumble and taper off. Eyes track you, some curious, some wary, a few openly hostile.
Myro follows a half-step behind, loose-limbed and watchful.
The dais dominates the far end of the hall. A long table sits elevated above the rest, and at its center, slumped in a throne-like chair, is King Viserys. He's worse than the rumours suggested. Flesh hanging loose from his bones, the right side of his face covered with a gold mask.
To his right sits a woman in green, auburn hair, hands folded in her lap. Queen Alicent. She watches you with the careful neutrality of someone who's learned never to show her hand. Beside her, Aemond stands rather than sits, his single eye fixed on you with unreadable intensity. Further down the table, a young man with silver hair lounges in his seat. Aegon, you assume, from the wine cup in his hand and the bored look on his face. A young woman with silver hair and distant eyes sits beside him. Helaena. Lord Otto Hightower stands near the king's chair. He inclines his head as you approach.
“Prince Aemond tells us you hunt well," Alicent says, breaking the silence. Her voice is measured. "The boar was a fine kill."
"We have good game in our homeland," you reply, stopping at a respectful distance from the dais. "But your Kingswood is generous."
Viserys studies you for a long moment. "You have the look of the First Men about you. Before they mixed with the Andals.”
"The blood of the First Men runs deeper than you know," you say.
Aegon snorts into his wine cup.
The King's eye is fixed on you, hungry for something. “Tell me,” Viserys says. "What do you remember that we've forgotten?"
You meet his gaze. "We remember the those who speak to the deep. The ones chosen by what lives beneath the waves." You let the words settle. "We remember that the sea is not empty. That it was never empty."
Aegon shifts in his seat. "The sea," he repeats. "You worship fish, then?”
"No more than you worship fire, Prince."
The hall holds its breath. Beside Alicent, Aemond's uncovered eye flickers with interest.
Viserys gestures weakly. "Come. Sit. Tell me of these waters you've sailed. I've studied the maps all my life. The ones that stop at the edge of the known world. Tell me what lies beyond."
You step onto the dais without waiting for further invitation. You sink into the chair.
Myro settles on a bench below the dais, within arm's reach if needed.
"Your Grace," you say. "Beyond the maps, the sea opens into something vast. Currents that don't appear on any chart. Islands where the trees are older than your kingdoms and the people still carve runes into stone.”
Viserys leans forward, his clouded eye intent. "And the merfolk?"
The hall goes still. Even Aegon stops fidgeting with his wine cup.
"They're real," you say. "They choose children, when the time is right. Gift them with the deep's own power." You let your hand rest on the table, palm up. "I was chosen at seven. Myro was seven as well, chosen five years before me. In between us, only one was chosen during those five years. The sea speaks to us, Your Grace. It tells us when storms are coming. When ships will sink. When danger lurks beneath the waves."
Aemond speaks from where he stands, his voice cutting through the murmur.
"And what does it tell you about King's Landing?" Every head turns to him. His single eye is fixed on you.
"It sings of dragons." The words settle over the table.
Viserys's breath catches. Aemond's uncovered eye sharpens, and even Aegon looks up from his wine, something flickering behind his usual vacant expression.
"You came all this way," Otto Hightower says slowly, "Because you heard we have dragons."
"We came because in our homeland, the threat does not come from the sea." You hold Otto's gaze. "The merfolk protect our seas. We protect the lands. But the skies are open. And our enemies have learned this.”
Viserys shifts in his chair, a painful sound escaping him. "You want dragons."
"I want an alliance. Fire for the waters. Your strength for ours."
Alicent breaks the quiet. "And what do you offer in return, my Lady? Surely you don't expect our dragons to fly across the world out of goodwill."
"Our ships. Our warriors. Our knowledge of the seas your fleets dare not cross." You lean back. "And our understanding of what lives in the deep. The Targaryens rule the sky. We rule the waves. Together, no power in this world could stand against us."
Aemond speaks from his place against the wall. "She speaks of alliance. I hear conquest."
"Call it what you will, Prince." You meet his gaze. "Every kingdom is built on someone's ambition. Alliance. Conquest. Survival." You let the words hang, then lean forward, lowering your voice enough that the nearest courtiers have to strain to catch it. "I don't mean to insult your Grace by asking such a high price. But we have heard things, even across the sea. Your eggs grow colder. Your dragons grow smaller."
A ripple of unease moves through the hall. Alicent's composure cracks slightly. Aegon sets down his wine cup with a thud.
"We may be able to change that."
Viserys stares at you. "Explain," he says. The single word carries the weight of a dying man's last hope.
"The merfolk remember things that men have forgotten," you say. "Rituals.
Pacts. The old magic that bound dragon to rider before your House ever came to Westeros. In our lands, the deep places still hold echoes of that power." You hold his gaze. "I can't promise you a clutch of eggs will hatch. But I can promise that what we know might wake the blood in your dragons again."
The hall erupts into whispers. Otto Hightower's face is unreadable, but his eyes move like he's already calculating the cost. Alicent looks to her father, then to Viserys.
Aemond steps forward, boots echoing on the stone, until he stands at the edge of the dais looking at you. "That is a bold claim," he says quietly. "And a dangerous one. If it's false, you've wasted the King's time and insulted his House."
"If it's true," you reply. "You've gained more than you could have hoped for."
His eye holds yours for a long moment. Then, almost imperceptibly, something shifts.
"Let me prove it." You rise from your seat, and the hall's attention sharpens. You look around the room, your gaze landing on a raven perched near a high window. You focus. Reach. The gift unfurls inside you like a muscle you've trained since childhood. The raven's head snaps up. It cocks its beak, fixing you with a bright eye. Then it opens its mouth and caws. It lifts from its perch, circles the hall once, and lands on the table before you. A few guards reach for their swords. Alicent recoils, barely concealing her shock.
The raven tilts its head at you. You hear its thoughts. Not in words, but in images. The fish it ate that morning. The warm spot on the roof where it sleeps. The man who feeds it scraps near the rookery. You extend a finger, and the raven hops onto it without hesitation. “She dreams of flight," you say quietly. "She remembers the taste of fish three days ago. She thinks the man with the red cloak is generous with his bread crusts."
The hall is dead silent.
You look up at Viserys, the raven perched trustingly on your hand. "I speak to the deep, Your Grace. But the deep speaks to all creatures. I merely listen." The raven caws once more, then takes flight, soaring back to its perch near the window.
Viserys stares at you, his breath shallow. When he speaks, his voice cracks. "Seven save us," he whispers. "You're not a diplomat. You're a witch."
"Witch? No. Just a woman who listens." You lower your hand, the warmth of the raven still lingering on your skin. "In our lands, we're taught that the world speaks to those who quiet themselves enough to hear. The sea. The wind. The beasts. They all have voices. Most people simply forget how to listen."
Viserys studies you, his breath shallow. “You speak of the sea as if it's a living thing," he says finally.
"It is. Older than your gods. Deeper than your histories." You hold his gaze.
"And it remembers everything."
Alicent clears her throat, the sound cutting through the reverent hush. “The hour grows late, husband. Our guests have traveled far and supped little. Perhaps we should continue this conversation when you've rested."
Viserys looks as if he might argue, but a coughing fit takes him. The maester steps forward. “Tomorrow," Viserys rasps. The dismissal is clear. Courtiers begin to rise, conversations resuming in hushed tones.
Aemond lingers near the dais, his eye on you. “My Lady." His voice stops you as you turn to leave. "If you can truly listen to beasts... I'd like to see what my dragon has to say.”
You’re shocked by the invitation. ”I’d like nothing more, Prince Aemond." You turn fully to face him, a hint of a smile. "Lead the way."
Myro rises from his bench. "I'll come." He flashes a grin at a nearby servant. "Don't let the boar go to waste while we're gone."
Aemond's eye flicks between you and Myro, assessing. Then he turns without another word, striding toward the side door of the great hall. You follow.
He takes you to a patch of land. The air changes. The unmistakable scent of dragon. Ahead, the ground dips into a shallow valley, dark and vast. He stops at the edge of the slope. "She's there." He nods into the darkness below. "Resting. She’s too bigg for the Dragonpit."
You strain your eyes, and then you see her. A shadow within shadows. A hill that breathes. Vhagar lies curled at the valley's base, her scales dark as moss, her sides rising. Even at rest, she's enormous. A living mountain.
"She's old," Aemond says, and there's something in his voice you haven't heard yet, Reverence. “The largest living dragon in the world. She's seen kings rise and fall. She's burned cities." He pauses. "And she chose me.” He turns to you. “Can you hear her?"
"Let me try." You step past Aemond, moving to the edge of the slope. Below, Vhagar's bulk shifts, a slow movement as she senses your approach. One eye cracks open. You stop at the top of the incline. Close enough to feel the heat radiating off her scales. Close enough to smell the char and ash that clings to her. You reach out. Not with your hands-with the gift.
At first, there's nothing. A wall of stillness, the weight pressing back against your consciousness. Vhagar is old. Older than any creature you've touched. Her mind moves at a different pace, slow as something adrift, vast as the sea floor. You push gently. A greeting. A question. The response is not words. It's a sensation. A rumble that passes through you like thunder through stone. She knows you're there. She's deciding whether to care. An image flickers through the connection: a beach at sunset. A woman's laughter, high and wild. The taste of blood and salt. Laena. She's remembering her last rider as Vhagar hunts down her supper.
Then the connection closes, soft as a door swinging shut. Vhagar blinks her great eye and lowers her head back to the ground, dismissing you. You exhale.
"Well?" Aemond asks from behind you. His voice is careful, controlled, but there's an edge to it.
"She let me in. Briefly." You turn from the edge of the slope. “I think if I want to be let in further, she needs to trust me more. Or you do." You hold his gaze, searching that single blue eye for something. "To be honest, I'm surprised you invited me near her at all. Is it trust? A test? Or..." You tilt your head. "Curiosity?"
Aemond is still for a long moment. When he speaks, his voice is stripped of the courtly edge. "All three."
He steps closer, close enough that you catch his scent. "My mother trusts nothing that isn't sworn to her. My father trusts anything that offers him hope." His eye holds yours. "I trust what I can see. What I can verify." A pause. "You walked up to the largest living dragon and reached out like you'd done it a thousand times. That's not a trick or a performance." He looks past you, to where Vhagar's bulk shifts in the darkness. "I wanted to see if you'd flinch. If you'd lie. If you'd claim more than you could deliver." His gaze returns to you. "You didn't."
The admission hangs between you, unexpected. Below, Vhagar exhales a slow breath. Aemond watches her, then looks back at you. “Walk with me," he says. "There's something else I'd ask you.”
You glance back at Myro, arms crossed, watching the exchange with idle interest. You catch his eye and jerk your chin. A signal he knows from a thousand nights in foreign cities. He falls into step behind you at a respectful distance. Close enough to hear a shout. Far enough to give the illusion of privacy.
Aemond's eye flickers to Myro, then back to you.
“He is my shadow, and I am his. It’s how we were trained to survive in foreign places.”
Aemond replies with one of his characteristic sounds, “Mm.” He leads you along the ridge. "Your gifts are real," Aemond says. "I've seen enough tricks and lies at court to know the difference." He pauses. "But I’m not sure if I can trust you, yet. What I want to know is whether you understand what you've walked into." He steps closer. "The King is dying. My mother and her father hold the realm together with whispers and threats. My brother drinks himself blind to forget he's the heir no one wants. And Rhaenyra sits on Dragonstone with her bastards, waiting for my father to die so she can press her claim."
“Claim? I thought she was chosen by the King?”
His voice drops. "You offer alliance. But you don't know which side to stand on. And in this city, choosing wrong means death."
You sigh, the sound carrying more weight than you intended. "I know this place does not want a woman to rule. I’ve heard the whispers and rumours." You meet his eye, letting the words settle. You had hoped the rumours were false or exaggerated. You have reservations about being involved in usurping the throne. But you are desperate. "But I've learned to adapt to such circumstances.” You glance at Myro then back to Aemond. “Where I'm from, women are leaders, warriors, council members, ambassadors. But I understand that I am not in Casameris."
Aemond’s expression doesn't shift, but something in his posture loosens the barest fraction.
"Here, a woman who wants power is called a schemer," you continue. "A woman who has power is called a threat. And a woman who takes power..." You let the sentence hang. "Well. Your history has names for them too." You tilt your head. "I've seen that game before. Played by different rules, but the board is the same."
Aemond studies you for a long moment. "You see clearly," he says. "That's rare in this city."
"I've had practice.”
He holds your gaze. Then, slowly, he nods.
"The King has given you chambers. Rest tonight. Tomorrow, the court will want to test you. My mother. My grandfather. The lords who circle like vultures." He pauses. "I'll make sure you're not blindsided."
It's the closest thing to an offer of alliance you've received since docking. "You said you wanted to ask me something. Ask.”
Aemond holds your gaze for a long moment. When he speaks, his voice is low and deliberate. "Rhaenyra believes the throne is hers by right. My mother believes it belongs to Aegon. The lords of the realm are split down the middle, and my father drifts closer to death with every passing moon." He pauses. "I'm not asking which side you'd choose. I'm asking what you'd do, if you had the power to decide the outcome.”
The question lands heavier than you expected. It's not a test of loyalty. It’s a test of character. "You're asking if I'd rather back a rightful queen, or a king who doesn't want the crown.”
Aemond's jaw tightens. "I'm asking if you'd stand for order, or for blood."
Silence settles between you. Myro shifts, a quiet reminder that you're not alone. Aemond doesn't look away from you.
"There's no peaceful answer to that question," you say slowly. "Not in a city like this.”
"No," Aemond agrees. "There isn't."
"I'd stand with whoever offers the best future for my people.”
Aemond weighs the answer. "And if their best future means standing against your hosts? Against the King who offered you shelter?”
"Then I'd hope my hosts understood that loyalty to one's people isn't a betrayal." You hold his gaze. "But I'm not here to make enemies, Prince. I'm here to find allies. If your family's wars don't touch my shores, I have no reason to bleed for either side.”
"You speak like a diplomat," Aemond says finally. "But you move like a soldier.
Which are you?"
"Both. Neither. Whatever I need to be." You let a pause stretch. "The answer changes with the tide.”
"Then I'll ask you this instead, when the tide turns, will you at least hear what I have to say before you choose your shore?”
It's not an offer of alliance. It's a request for a moment's audience, when the time comes.
You meet his eye, "I will.”
Aemond holds your gaze a beat longer, then turns, ”Rest well, my lady.” He pauses. "The council will want to pick you apart tomorrow. Let them try."
"Goodnight, Prince Aemond," you say without looking back.
Myro walks beside you, his voice pitched low. "Interesting choice of conversation partners.”
"He wanted to know where I stand.”
”And where do you stand?"
You don't answer immediately. "I stand wherever keeps us alive and our people safe," you say. "The rest is just words.”
Myro hums, noncommittal. He stops at the door to his adjoining room, hand on the handle. "Get some sleep. Tomorrow, the real game begins.” He disappears inside.
You push open your own door. You cross to the window, push it open wider, and let the night air wash over you. The bay glitters below, your ships dark silhouettes against the water. The merfolk are probably patrolling.
You strip off your boots and lie down, breeches next. You get into bed wearing your tunic. Your mind turns over the days. The hunt, the boar, the King's questions. Aemond's single eye searching yours. ‘When the tide turns... Will you at least hear what I have to say?’ You close your eyes and listen to the waves, familiar.
