BORN TO BURN SERIES
series Summary: Eight years into his reign, Zuko has finally brought peace to the world—but peace is fragile, and the Fire Nation whispers louder with every passing day. Questions about succession plague the throne, while across the sea, the scandal-ridden Princess Saera Targaryen faces a far crueler fate: being forced into life as a septa to atone for her sins. The solution is as political as it is dangerous—a marriage between the Fire Lord and the infamous dragon princess. Saera is sharp-tongued, manipulative, and impossible to control; Zuko is exhausted from years of trying to rule honorably in a world that rewards ruthlessness. Their union is meant to silence dissent, restore the fractured alliance between the Fire Nation and the Seven Kingdoms, and secure both their futures. Nothing more. But court politics are deadlier than war. In a world where alliances are forged with blood and crowns are never secure, their marriage may either save two dynasties… or destroy them both. Pairing: Fire Lord! Zuko x fem! OC OC: Saera Targaryen Fandom: Avatar: The Last Airbender(ATLA) and House of the Dragon(HotD) WARNING!!! THIS CHAPTER MAY INCLUDE SPOILERS FOR THE HOTD TV SHOW AND FIRE AND BLOOD BY GRRM AS WELL AS SEXUAL INNUENDOS. THIS SPECIFIC CHAPTER INCLUDES ISSUES WITH CHILD BRIDES AND PREGNANCY AT AN EARLY AGE. IF YOU DON’T LIKE SUCH TOPICS, SCROLL AWAY. I’M NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR YOUR MEDIA CONSUMPTION, THIS ALSO INVOLVES WITH SOME TRAUMA(slight mention) word count: 2.8k words
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CHAPTER 4: TO THE GIRLHOOD WE LOST
Princess Saera did not attend court the following morning.
Nor the afternoon after.
Nor supper.
Entire sections of the Red Keep breathed easier because of it.
Unfortunately for everyone involved, Saera’s silence rarely meant peace. It meant she was angry enough to become quiet first, and those who knew her best understood that was infinitely more dangerous.
Rain hammered against the castle windows in relentless silver sheets while thunder rolled over Blackwater Bay like distant dragonfire. Summer storms wrapped King’s Landing in heavy darkness despite the early hour, leaving corridors dim beneath torchlight and servants whispering nervously as they passed the princess’s chambers.
Nobody wished to disturb her.
Especially after the dagger incident.
Inside her rooms, Saera sat curled within the alcove of a narrow window overlooking the sea. She still wore yesterday’s silver gown, though the jewels had long since been discarded carelessly across carpets and tables alike.
One ruby necklace now hung from a candlestick.
Another had somehow ended up inside the fireplace.
Lady Jeyne wisely decided not to ask.
“You should eat something,” Jeyne tried cautiously from across the room.
Saera stared blankly at the rain.
“I hate when people say that.”
“You have not eaten since yesterday.”
“How tragic.”
“Saera.”
The princess finally glanced sideways, lilac eyes sharp despite exhaustion beneath them. “If Aegon sent you to lecture me, tell him I intend to become worse.”
“He did not send me.”
“Then you are volunteering for suffering. Strange choice.”
Jeyne sighed heavily before abandoning the argument altogether.
Truthfully, nobody knew what to do with Princess Saera anymore.
As a girl, she had been wild but laughing, sharp-tongued yet strangely soft beneath it all, forever sneaking through castle corridors with dragon eggs hidden beneath cloaks or stealing sweetcakes directly from kitchens while Septas shouted after her.
Then came marriage.
Then came the Dance.
Afterward, something inside her hardened crookedly.
The realm saw scandal and recklessness now because it proved easier than noticing grief festering beneath every joke she made.
A knock sounded suddenly at the chamber doors.
Saera groaned immediately. “Tell whoever that is I died.”
The doors opened anyway.
Not Aegon.
Not Ser Raynard.
Only old Grand Maester Munkun was standing carefully in grey robes while rainlight flickered pale across the chain around his neck.
Saera looked profoundly disappointed.
“I hoped for assassins.”
“I fear you would insult them into surrender, princess.”
“That is fair.”
Munkun stepped carefully inside while Jeyne dipped into a respectful curtsey before quietly excusing herself. The old maester watched Saera silently for a moment afterward with the particular patience of someone long accustomed to wounded royalty.
“You avoid court.”
“I improve it.”
“You concern your brother.”
Saera laughed without humor.
“My brother wishes to ship me across the world.”
“He wishes to save you.”
“I do not require saving.”
Munkun said nothing.
That irritated her more than contradiction would have.
Rain continued striking the windows harshly while silence stretched between them. Finally, the old maester moved closer, setting several scrolls carefully atop a nearby table.
“I came regarding Prince Maegor.”
Every trace of mockery vanished from Saera immediately.
“What about him?”
Munkun noticed the change too.
Of course he did.
Everyone in the castle understood there existed only one creature alive capable of softening Princess Saera completely: her son.
The old maester smiled faintly. “Nothing troubling. Quite the opposite.”
Saera slowly straightened within the window alcove.
“He has been assisting Maester Hollis during lessons this week,” Munkun continued. “Apparently, the prince corrected three older boys regarding historical inaccuracies without insulting them once.”
A reluctant flicker of pride crossed her face.
“Remarkable restraint.”
“He is exceptionally intelligent.”
Saera looked away quickly then because sometimes hearing praise regarding Maegor hurt strangely. Not because she disliked it, but because part of her still feared the gods would someday realize they accidentally allowed something precious to survive near her.
“And kind,” Munkun added softly.
That struck deeper.
“He helped a stableboy yesterday whose arm had been injured,” the maester continued. “The prince remained nearly an hour, ensuring splints were tied correctly.”
Saera swallowed once.
“He has your cleverness,” Munkun said gently.
“No,” she replied quietly. “That comes from his father.”
The words tasted bitter.
Memories rose unwelcome afterward anyway.
Aemond Targaryen.
One-eyed prince. Kinslayer. Monster.
Husband.
Saera closed her eyes briefly.
Fourteen.
She had only been fourteen when they forced the marriage upon her.
The realm called it a brilliant alliance then. Two branches of House Targaryen joined together to prevent division within the family as tensions between blacks and greens worsened around Viserys’s court.
A lie, naturally.
Everything before the Dance eventually became lies wrapped in silk and ceremony.
Aemond had been eighteen already when they wed beneath dragon banners inside the Red Keep’s sept. Handsome in the cruel way Valyrians often were, with long silver hair and cold violet eyes sharp enough to cut flesh when angered.
He terrified most people.
Saera hated him immediately.
Not because he frightened her.
Because he enjoyed frightening others.
“You should smile more, wife,” he told her once during their first month married.
Saera remembered staring at him across supper candles afterward before replying sweetly, “You should lose the other eye for symmetry.”
He laughed for nearly five minutes.
Gods, she hated that laugh.
Munkun carefully interrupted the memories before they swallowed her entirely. “Prince Maegor has grown stronger every year.”
Saera’s expression softened faintly.
At birth, Maegor had looked heartbreakingly fragile.
Too small.
Too quiet.
Yellowish beneath candlelight like wax left too near flame, while midwives exchanged grim looks, they tried desperately hiding from the fifteen-year-old girl bleeding through bedsheets beneath them.
“He may not survive the night,” one whispered.
Saera heard anyway.
Three months later, Lucerys Velaryon died above Shipbreaker Bay.
And the world ended shortly afterward.
“I remember when he was born,” Munkun said softly.
Saera laughed bitterly. “Unfortunately, so do I.”
The birthing pains had lasted nearly two days.
She remembered screaming until her throat bled while Septas prayed uselessly around her and maesters ordered her not to push too soon as though her body obeyed logic instead of agony. Aemond remained absent most of it, attending councils with Alicent and Otto while war brewed around them all.
He arrived only after.
The baby looked so tiny in his arms.
Saera remembered staring weakly from blood-soaked sheets while Aemond studied their son with unreadable silence. The infant’s small chest rose unevenly beneath swaddling cloth while one wrinkled fist curled weakly near his face.
“He is sickly,” Alicent murmured nearby.
Saera nearly clawed her eyes out for saying it.
Yet Aemond surprised everyone then.
“He lives,” he said coldly. “That is enough.”
Strange.
For all his cruelty, Aemond had not despised the child.
Obsessed over him, perhaps. Possessive certainly. But never cruel.
That almost made things worse somehow.
“The prince asks many questions about history,” Munkun continued carefully. “Especially regarding dragons.”
Saera stiffened slightly.
Maegor adored stories about dragons despite never seeing one himself. He collected carved wooden figures obsessively and memorized names faster than maesters could teach them.
Dreamfyre.
Caraxes.
Meleys.
Sunfyre.
Vhagar.
Especially Vhagar.
Saera hated that most.
“He resembles Prince Aemond increasingly,” Munkun said gently.
Instant coldness returned to her face.
“No.”
The maester sighed quietly.
“Princess—”
“He does not.”
Unfortunately, he did.
Maegor possessed Saera’s eyes and softer mouth, but the rest belonged unmistakably to his father. Pale silver hair. Sharp cheekbones. The same unnervingly intense stare that made adults forget children weren’t supposed to look at people like that.
Only Maegor’s gaze held warmth Aemond’s never had.
That difference mattered.
“He is not his father,” Saera said firmly.
“No,” Munkun agreed. “He is not.”
Silence settled once more.
Outside, thunder growled over Blackwater Bay while rain continued flooding the city below. Saera stared through blurred glass toward distant rooftops barely visible beneath storm clouds.
“I did not want that marriage,” she admitted suddenly.
Munkun remained quiet.
“I told my mother I would rather cut my own throat.”
The old maester’s expression saddened.
Queen Rhaenyra had tried resisting the match initially. Saera remembered whispered arguments behind closed doors and Daemon’s furious shouting echoing through corridors late at night while Viserys weakly pleaded for peace between his fractured family.
But Alicent wanted blood ties binding blacks and greens together.
Otto wanted leverage.
Viserys wanted everyone to stop fighting long enough for him to pretend his family remained whole.
So, fourteen-year-old Saera married Aemond beneath candles and prayers while dragons slept restlessly beneath Dragonpit stone.
“Did he hurt you?” Munkun asked quietly.
Saera went still.
Not physically.
At least not often.
Aemond preferred sharper methods.
“He liked control,” she answered carefully. “Everything needed control with him.”
The old maester listened silently.
“He corrected how I walked. Spoke. Sat.” Her mouth twisted bitterly. “God forbid I embarrass the greens by existing improperly.”
Yet there were contradictions, too.
Aemond brought her books because she mentioned liking history once. He listened when she spoke about politics despite mocking most women openly. Some nights, he sat beside windows reading silently while she braided silver ribbons through her hair, and the quiet between them almost resembled peace.
Then he would say something monstrous again and ruin everything.
“I hated him,” Saera whispered.
Munkun studied her sadly. “And yet Prince Maegor was loved.”
That nearly broke something inside her.
Because yes.
Gods help her, yes.
The moment they placed that tiny, sickly child against her chest, Saera loved him so fiercely it terrified her. Even exhausted and bleeding and furious at the world, she remembered staring at his small face, thinking mine mine mine with desperate animal certainty. She is uncertain about how long her babe will survive. Will she be like most mothers losing their babes one after the another?
Then Luke died.
Then came war.
Saera remembered Dragonstone beneath storm clouds when news arrived. Rhaenyra screaming. Jace paled with fury. Daemon smiled that terrible, dangerous smile, meaning blood would follow shortly afterward.
And Aemond—
Aemond looked pleased.
Not openly.
But enough.
That night, Saera stood inside their chambers watching him remove armor piece by piece beside the firelight while hatred finally settled permanently into her bones.
“You started a war,” she said.
Aemond glanced sideways calmly. “The war began long before Lucerys died.”
“You killed him.”
“He was weak enough to fall.”
She slapped him hard enough to turn his face.
The silence afterward felt catastrophic.
Aemond looked back slowly, one violet eye glittering beneath firelight while the sapphire filling his missing socket gleamed cold blue like frozen flame.
Saera waited for violence.
Instead, he laughed softly.
“I wondered when you would finally stop pretending.”
Gods.
She hated him.
Three weeks later, she annulled the marriage.
Not legally at first, of course. The Faith balked. Alicent raged. Otto threatened consequences while Aemond merely stared at her with that terrifying stillness he possessed whenever emotions sharpened too deeply.
“You are my wife,” he said quietly after cornering her near the godswood.
“No longer.”
“You think Rhaenyra protects you?”
“I know she loves me.”
That wounded him.
Saera saw it instantly.
Not because he loved her. She doubted Aemond truly understood love beyond possession. But because she chose the Blacks openly, publicly, irrevocably.
Against him.
Against their son’s father.
Against the Greens.
“Take care, Saera,” he warned softly. “Wars burn unpredictably.”
She fled the Red Keep two nights later, carrying baby Maegor bundled tightly against her chest while storm rain soaked both of them through black cloaks. Ser Erryk Cargyll escorted them secretly toward Dragonstone, where Rhaenyra waited, surrounded by dragons and grief and coming bloodshed.
Maegor nearly stopped breathing during the crossing. What if she rode on dragonback? Would her son have died if they had taken Moonfyre as their mode of transportation? If the infant only struggles on the boat, what more on the dragonback?
Saera remembered screaming for maesters while tiny infant lungs struggled weakly against the fever. She sat awake three nights afterward, refusing sleep entirely because every time she closed her eyes, she feared he would die.
But he survived.
Tiny. Sickly. Stubborn.
Her son.
Munkun’s voice gently pulled her back toward the present. “The prince adores you.”
Saera swallowed hard.
“He should not.”
“Why?”
Because everyone she loved died eventually.
Because dragons devoured families whole.
Because she looked at Maegor sometimes and saw all the ruin House Targaryen left buried beneath him like poison in blood.
Instead, she only said, “I am not particularly maternal.”
The old maester actually smiled then.
“Princess, last week Prince Maegor informed another child that anyone insulting his mother deserved exile.”
Saera blinked.
“He what?”
“He was quite passionate.”
A startled laugh escaped her unexpectedly.
Munkun looked pleased by the sound.
“He watches you constantly,” the maester continued gently. “Children do that with people they trust most.”
Saera stared toward the rain again.
Maegor trusted her.
Gods.
What a terrible decision on his part.
“Does he ask about Aemond?” she asked quietly.
“Sometimes.”
Her chest tightened instantly.
“And what do you tell him?”
“The truth, where possible.” Munkun hesitated carefully. “That his father was complicated.”
Saera barked a humorless laugh. “That is one word for it.”
Truthfully, she dreaded the day Maegor grew old enough to understand history properly. Other children inherited bedtime stories and noble legacies.
Maegor inherited the Dance of the Dragons.
Kinslayers.
Madness.
Fire.
What happened when a boy discovered his father murdered his own kin atop the world’s largest dragon? What happened when he realized his mother fled a war, carrying him like something worth saving, while kingdoms burned behind them? Would he admire him or would he hate him the way his mother did?
What if he became like Aemond anyway?
That fear haunted her most.
“Princess,” Munkun said softly, “Prince Maegor possesses kindness naturally. That does not come from monsters.”
Saera looked away sharply because the words hurt.
A knock interrupted them, then, before the chamber doors opened carefully. A small silver-haired boy stepped inside, holding three books nearly too large for his arms.
“Mother?”
Everything within Saera softened immediately.
Maegor Targaryen stood small for eight, yet graceful already in dark grey velvet trimmed with red stitching. His silver hair fell neatly braided behind his head while serious lilac eyes blinked curiously toward the room.
Gods.
He looked so much like Aemond.
But where Aemond carried sharpness like drawn steel, Maegor looked cautious instead. Thoughtful. Gentle in movements despite the intensity burning beneath them.
“Maegor,” Saera breathed.
The boy brightened slightly before approaching carefully. “Maester Hollis said you were unwell.”
“I survive bravely.”
“That usually means you are angry.”
Munkun coughed suspiciously hard to hide amusement.
Maegor set the books down precisely upon the table before frowning toward the untouched breakfast trays nearby. “You have not eaten.”
Traitorous child.
“I was distracted.”
“You become meaner when hungry.”
Saera stared at him in betrayal. “Who taught you insolence?”
“You.”
Fair.
The boy climbed carefully beside her window alcove afterward while rain battered the glass around them. He smelled faintly of parchment and cedarwood from lessons earlier, and without thinking, Saera brushed silver strands gently from his forehead.
Maegor immediately leaned subtly into the touch.
God damn him. He is the only good that has come to her.
“What books are those?” she asked quietly.
“Histories.” He hesitated. “About the Freehold.”
Saera’s chest tightened.
He always reached toward dragons eventually.
“Did you know dragonlords once married siblings to keep blood magic strong?” Maegor asked seriously.
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“It sounds unhealthy.”
Munkun outright laughed.
Saera smiled faintly despite herself before pressing a kiss against the top of Maegor’s head. The boy blinked, startled, because public affection still embarrassed him terribly, though he never pulled away entirely.
“Will you attend supper tonight?” he asked carefully.
“Perhaps.”
“Aegon will worry otherwise.”
Interesting.
Not uncle.
Never, Your Grace.
Just Aegon.
Maegor adored the king quietly despite Aegon’s awkwardness around children. Sometimes Saera caught them reading silently together beside fireplaces, both equally content, avoiding conversation while existing companionably nearby.
Broken people recognizing each other, perhaps.
“I heard people discussing the Fire Nation,” Maegor said suddenly.
Saera stiffened.
Of course, court gossip reached him already.
“What about it?”
The boy hesitated carefully before asking, “Are you leaving?”
The question sliced deeper than expected.
“No,” she answered instantly.
Maegor visibly relaxed afterward.
And in that moment, Saera realized something ugly and certain within herself:
She would burn kingdoms before willingly abandoning her son.
Marriage proposals. Political alliances. Foreign kings across distant oceans.
None of it mattered compared to him.
Outside, thunder rolled across King’s Landing while storm clouds swallowed the city whole. Yet within the window alcove, Maegor leaned quietly against her side, reading Valyrian histories aloud in serious concentration while Saera listened silently.
For the first time in days, she no longer felt angry.
Only afraid.
Because if Fire Lord Zuko truly entered her life, he would not merely inherit scandalous Princess Saera Targaryen.
He would inherit her ghosts, too.
tags: @reivelmin @maee67 @clairealeehelsing @caitm1 @xoxoangellll@thegreatfandomcollector
