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. Your lifelong bond with Myro is tested when you fall in love with Aemond. 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
Word Count : 3,225
WARNINGS : No use of Y/N, smut , violence, ethical non-monogamy, slow burn, all the types of smut I can write,
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A knock at the door rouses you before you're ready to wake. ‘M'lady.’ A servant's voice. ‘Queen Alicent requests your presence at breakfast. In the solar.’
You step fully into the room and take the offered seat, settling into the cushioned chair across from the Queen.
"Thank you for coming so promptly," she says, reaching for the teapot. "I know you've only just arrived. The city must feel overwhelming. I wanted to speak with you privately," she continues. "Before the council descends on you with its questions. My husband is taken with you. Your gifts, the promise of what you might offer.” She pauses, her brown eyes meeting yours. "I am more pragmatic. I want to know what you truly seek here. Not the pretty speeches for the hall, but the truth." She tilts her head. "What do you want from Westeros, My Lady?”
"I want what any envoy wants," you say, setting the cup down untasted. "A pact that benefits both our peoples. Your dragons are powerful, but they're dwindling. My people command the seas, but we're vulnerable from the sky." You lean forward slightly. "I want an exchange. Knowledge for knowledge. Strength for strength.”
"And if the crown is...divided on what strength looks like?"
"Then I'll speak to whichever head of the dragon will hear me.”
She studies you a long moment, then nods, as if confirming something to herself. "Very well. You'll address the small council this afternoon. My father will want to interrogate your proposals. Prepare yourself.” She rises, signaling the audience is over.
Later, you find Myro in your chambers, boots propped on the windowsill, staring out at the bay. "So? What did the Queen want?”
"To size me up." You close the door behind you. "Small council meets this afternoon. We need to decide what we're actually offering them." You buy yourself a moment to arrange your thoughts. You pace to the window. "All of it," you say, swallowing. “Military alliance. The rest of our ships can blockade any port in the Seven Kingdoms. Our warriors are trained from childhood for sea and land combat. There are fewer of us, but they won't find better in Essos or here.”
Myro raises an eyebrow. "And what do we ask in return?”
"Dragon knowledge," you say, turning from the window. “If we must fight, we ask for dragons. Or at least some eggs, if we’re successful.” Sit sit down at a desk and start writing. “We need to know the old bloodlines, the bonding rituals, the commands, the language, the songs that call them. Our people have forgotten what the merlings taught the Valyrians about dragons. The Targaryens have the living beasts, but they've also forgotten how to begin and strengthen the bond, how the dragons choose, how to hatch more eggs. I don’t think it has to do with the blood. I think it’s whoever holds the knowledge.”
"And trade routes." Myro leans forward, changing the direction slightly. "You want to offer them a path to our shores.”
Your gaze meets his skeptical one. "And a path to theirs. Open waters between our lands. No tariffs, no restrictions. Ships free to sail both directions. If our people need protection from the sky, we give them as many reasons as possible to want us alive.”
Myro studies you for a long breath. Then he smiles. "You've been thinking about this since we left the Stepstones.”
"Since before that. Since we first heard of the Targaryens in Yi Ti two years ago.” A beat. "The council meets this afternoon. I need to know what you want people to say when they remember your name."
"That they remember I stood beside you.”
When you stand and turn back, Myro's expression has softened. He holds your gaze for a long moment, then rises from the window ledge, crossing to stand before you. His hands land on your hips, and your arms settle around his neck. "You're asking what I want," he says quietly. "Not what our people need. Not what the council wants to hear. What I want.”
You nod, “I don’t want to go in there and tell them everything, only to later find out that you disagree. I don’t want to make this decision alone.”
He reaches out, fingers brushing a strand of hair from your cheek. The gesture is familiar. A habit of years spent reading each other's silences. "I want to go home," he says. "When this is done. When we've mapped their politics and their dragons and their petty feuds. I want to sail west with you beside me and never look back at these foreign lands and its giant snakes. I want to retire and live by the sea with you and try to have children again.”
You give him a cheeky smile. “In fairness, we never stopped.”
He kisses you, then his hand drops to his side. "But I also want you to have this.”
You look at him, confused.
“You’ve been here days and even I can feel something there. With him. It’s like lighting.” He pauses, thinking. “Whatever this is… The prince's attention, the Queen's wariness, the game you've already started playing." He tilts his head. "You're better at it than you admit. I've seen you charm warlords and assassins in the same breath. You'll do fine at their council." He steps toward you again. "So tell them everything. Military alliance, trade routes, dragon secrets. Lay it all out and see which pieces they bite." A sharp grin. "And if they try to cage us, the merfolk won’t be happy. We’ll sink their ships and burn their harbor on the way out."
"And if they don't bite?”
The question cuts through the bravado. Myro's grin fades slowly. "Then we've learned something valuable." He picks up his sheathed belt knife from the table, straps it on with practiced ease. "We know they're not interested in peace. We know they'd rather hoard their dragons than share their knowledge. And we know exactly how far their hospitality extends.” He meets your eyes. "Either way, we leave this city with information. Maps. Alliances we've already made with the Stepstones." He pauses. "And a prince who's shown more interest in you than is strictly political. That's a card we can play, if we need to. I hear his interest in you is unusual for him. He is temperamental and unforgiving. He doesn’t have any friends. Most people are scared of him.”
"Aemond."
"Aemond." Myro shrugs. "You look past the bravado and see a man. He's not the heir.” He reminds you. You were originally supposed to approach Rhaenyra, but doing so without seeing the king would be disrespectful. Then Myro suggested one of you seduce Aegon. The idea of you seducing Prince Aegon was laughable now. “But Aemond rides the largest dragon in the world, and he's got more ambition than his brother ever will. If the Greens make a play for the throne, he'll be their sword.”
You consider that. The image of Aemond standing alone against Vhagar. His voice low and serious. "He asked me to hear him out," you say. "When the tide turns.”
"And will you?”
The question is simple. It deserves an honest answer. "I said I would.”
Myro nods slowly. "Then we've got our contingency. Make your offer to the council. If they take it, we negotiate. If they don't..." He heads for the door. "We've got other options."
He pauses and looks back. "Either way, I'll be there. Watching.”
“I’d expect nothing less.”
The council chamber won't fill for another hour. The small council door is unguarded. You push it open. The room is empty. Long table, high-backed chairs, a map of Westeros. Windows look out over the city. You cross to the window.
They arrive piecemeal. First, Grand Maester Orwyle. He nods at you, curious but guarded, then busies himself with papers.
Then Lord Tyland Lannister, the Master of Ships. Golden-haired. He glances at you, offers a smile, and says nothing.
Ser Criston Cole enters next. His eyes find you immediately, scan you head to toe, and dismiss you just as fast. He takes his place beside the empty Hand's seat.
Jasper Wylde is next, then Queen Alicent.
Otto Hightower comes last, the door closing behind him with a soft thud. He pauses at the head of the table, studying you with the patient assessment of a man who has spent decades reading people. “My Lady. Early.”
"Lord Hand." You incline your head. "I wanted to see the room before it filled
with voices.”
A flicker of something crosses his face before he settles into his chair. "Wise. Many don't. They enter blind, and the chamber eats them alive." He folds his hands on the table. "Shall we begin?” He gestures to the seat across from him.
"Alive is better than blind. Thank you for the advice.” You take the seat, your hands visible on the table's surface.
Otto watches you with the patience of a man who has spent a long time waiting for others to reveal themselves. “You've had a few days to rest and observe. What impressions have you formed of King's Landing?”
The question is bait. He’s testing your diplomacy, your discretion, and your willingness to speak truth or flattery. "It's a city of whispers and sharp edges.
I feel at home.”
"Then you'll find the Red Keep familiar territory. We specialize in both. The Stepstones," Otto continues. "Our Master of Ships tells me you made port there before arriving here. You dealt with the Triarchy.”
"I dealt with Sharako Lohar, yes." You keep your voice even. "We came to an understanding. The Stepstones are useful for ships that need to pass without interference.”
Tyland Lannister leans forward. "And what understanding was that, exactly?"
"That my ships pass freely. That their ships leave mine alone. That we share information." You meet his gaze. "I didn't promise them the throne, Lord Lannister. Just safe passage.”
The table absorbs that. Otto's fingers drum once against the table. ”You speak of trade routes and safe passage as if you've already mapped them." Otto's eyes are sharp. "Tell me, My Lady, what does the west have that Westeros lacks?”
He's not asking for a list of goods. He’s asking you to reveal your hand.
"Resources you've never seen. Metals, spices, creatures and other lands beyond your maps.”
"And you've come to trade these wonders?"
"I've come to offer first access. My people have dealt with Essosi merchants for years. They take our goods east, mark them up threefold, and sell them back to Westerosi lords who never know the origin. I'm offering to cut out the middlemen.”
Tyland speaks before Otto can. "And what do you want in return?”
The question lands exactly where you wanted it. "Three things.” You say. “One, open ports for my ships in every major harbour of the Seven Kingdoms. Two, a formal military alliance. Your dragons guard our skies, our larger fleet can guard your shores.” You interlace your fingers over the table. “Third, access to your dragonlore. The old texts, the breeding records, the songs, the language.” You pause. "We have knowledge too. Knowledge your maesters have never found, about the bond between dragon and rider. About the deep magic that first bound them to dragonrider bloodlines."
The library in the Red Keep is larger than you expected. You run your fingers along the spines of books as you walk. Histories. Lineages. Scrolls. Maps. A whole section devoted to the Conquest, the reigns that followed, the dragons that shaped them. You pull a heavy volume titled The Dragons of House Targaryen: A Breeding Record and carry it to a reading table. Diagrams of eggs, descriptions of hatchlings, notes on temperament and colouring. The entries are clinical, written by maesters who observed but never bonded. They describe Vhagar as “ill-tempered” Meraxes is noted for her “unusual attachment to Rhaenys.” Nothing about how the bond forms. Nothing about what makes a dragon choose.
You turn another page and find a marginal note in a different hand. Valyrian. You only know enough to get by in Astapor. Astaporian Valyrian is a little different. ‘The bond is not in the blood. It is in the willingness to burn together.’ You read it a few more times before you close the breeding record. The hand that wrote it knew something the maesters didn't. You want to find more of that hand.
You rise and move deeper into the stacks, scanning shelves for anything written in High Valyrian. Most of the library's contents are in the Common Tongue. Near the back you find a section of older texts. The titles in faded script you can barely read. You pull a volume titled Perzys se Embar Hen (‘Flame of the Sea’). The pages are brittle, the ink barely legible. You open it carefully.
It's a collection of dragon songs. Verses meant to be sung during bonding rituals, descriptions of the old ways from before the Doom. The handwriting in the margins matches the marginal note from the breeding record. You're so absorbed in the first verse that you don't hear the footsteps until they're nearly on top of you.
"Found something?”
You look up. Prince Aemond is at the end of the aisle. You hold the thin volume out toward him, the cracked leather spine catching the dim light. "You speak High Valyrian. Would you read this for me?”
Aemond's eye drops to the book, then back to your face. He steps closer. He takes the volume carefully, handling it as if it might crumble in his hands. "Perzys se Embar Hen," he reads aloud. The syllables rolling off his tongue with an ease that comes from childhood fluency and many hours of practice. "Flame of the Sea." He flips a few pages, scanning. "This is a collection of bonding songs. Before the Doom. I've seen references to it, but never the text itself.” His finger traces a line of faded script. "This one is meant to be sung while the egg warms. It calls the dragon forth. Asks it to rise and remember the fire that birthed it.” He looks up at you. "Where did you find this?”
"Tucked between histories.” You pause. “There are a notes in the breeding record. Same handwriting as the notes in this. Someone wrote…” You try to remember. “A bond isn't in the blood, but a… Willingness to burn together.” You walk to the table and hand him the breeding record.
Aemond opens the book. “Hmm. This is Rhaenys Targaryen’s. She annotated it. Added her own observations in the margins." A pause. "She understands dragons better than any maester.” He holds the book out to you. "Keep it. She'd rather it be read by someone who asks questions than gather dust on a shelf."
You close your fingers around the worn leather, the weight of Rhaenys Targaryen's knowledge settling into your palms. "Thank you," you say.
Aemond inclines his head. "Read it tonight. Tomorrow, the council will want more than promises.” He turns and disappears into the stacks, leaving you alone with the book.
The small council chamber is fuller than before. Myro stands at your side as you unroll your maps across the table. Coastlines Westerosi eyes have never seen, mountain passes, river routes, the proud spires of Urthval sketched in ink.
Otto leans forward, studying them.
You tap the map. "We control the straits. Any fleet that tries to approach uninvited meets our merfolk before they reach the harbor.”
Aegon mutters from his end of the table. "Still talking about merlings."
You let Aegon's words evaporate, unanswered, and slide your finger along the map's western edge. "Urthval commands access to three separate sea routes. The north is treacherous, but passable in summer. The southern route cuts past the burning islands." You trace both paths. "We control the central passage. Any fleet that wants to reach the interior of Casameris must answer to our harbormasters.”
Otto is cataloging every detail for later use. "And these burning islands?”
"Volcanic activity. The islands are uninhabited. But the sea around them is rich with strange life that glow in the dark, shells that can be ground into powder for medicines." You glance up. "Our merfolk gather them."
Aegon mutters something under his breath that sounds like "merlings again.”
Tyland Lannister leans forward, tapping a cluster of islands near the southern passage. "What's this? There's no label.”
“Those aren’t mapped. They shift with seasons, tides, and currents.”
“Shift?"
"They move. Or appear to. One year, the islands on the map will be visble, Then the same time the next year they're submerged. Only the merfolk can predict where they will be next. We find precious gems there. Ammolite, black opal, and red beryl.” You meet his gaze. "Only our navigators know how to track them. It's one of the things I'm offering to share.”
Silence settles around the table.
Otto breaks the quiet. "You've given us much to consider, My Lady. Your maps are... enlightening.” The words are diplomatic. The undercurrent is not. He's learned nothing he didn't expect, and he's weighing how much of what you've shown is truth versus theater.
You glance at Myro, lifting your chin. "Anything to add?”
He steps forward. His hand lands on the map, fingers spanning the distance between the eastern coast Casameris and the western coast of Westeros. "Just one thing." He looks up, scanning the faces around the table. Tyland’s sharp interest, Aegon's bored sneer. "You're looking at our homeland like it's a prize to be won. Like we're peddling secrets for coin and favor." His thumb traces the coastline. "We're offering alliance. That means we fight beside you, not for you. Our fleet answers to us. Our warriors answer to us. And if the day comes when blades are drawn, we won't be standing behind your lines. We’ll be in the thick of it.” He offers a grin that doesn't reach his eyes. "Thought you should know before you decide if we're worth the trouble."
Tyland Lannister laughs. "At least you're honest about it.”
Otto's expression remains unreadable. "Noted, Lord Smoak." The title is deliberate. "We'll take your honesty into consideration.”
Aegon pushes back from the table, cup in hand. "If we're done with the show, I have matters to attend to.”
Otto clears his throat. “My Lady. We'll reconvene this evening with our response. In the meantime, the Keep is yours. Rest. Explore. We'll find you when we’re ready."
Aegon is first out, cup still in hand.
Otto lingers a moment, exchanging a low word with Alicent before following.
Tyland offers you a nod and takes his leave.
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