Blood demands Blood - Gaia_The_Reader (2024)

Chapter 1: Chapter 1

Chapter Text

Aemond had stumbled upon a volume about Valyrian blood magic by chance.

The sun had just set and he had finished his lessons with the boring septa his mother had assigned him.

Thankfully neither she nor the Queen had been with him, otherwise they would have surely demanded to have the tome destroyed, depriving the then seven-nameday-old boy of the opportunity to explore the secrets of his Targaryen blood. He snuck the book in his chambers, storing it far away from prying eyes. Every time he came back from training with Ser Criston, he grabbed the book from its hiding place and immersed himself in the dark knowledge that filled those aged pages.

The book was divided into three parts: the Fourteen Flames and their rituals, the calendar and the significance and omens of celestial bodies, and, in the most damaged part of all the pages, there were written many spells and ways to harness the magic flowing in the dragonlords’ veins.

Aemond had been tempted to drop the book, then—after all, he didn’t have a dragon, not even an egg—but he persisted and learned.

He was quite surprised to discover the number of Gods the Valyrians possessed, and even more that many of the known dragons had been named after them. Meraxes, Balerion, Syrax, Caraxes, Meleys, Vhagar, Vermithor, and even his young nephews’ dragons: Vermax and Arrax. That night, he dreamt of having an egg of his own, as he oft did, of having it hatch into a beautiful dragon and naming it after one of the Old Valyrian Gods.

He got ripped away from his dream by the pained screeches of his eldest sister’s dragon, in tandem with her own screams. After a few careful questions to a servant, he had discovered that his sister was giving birth to her third child. He wanted to go and see, as he had wanted to do for Lucerys’ birth, curious and a bit fearful about the act that brought so much pain to a woman that he had always seen never less than prideful and perfect in her composure. His mother’s ladies, then as before, had promptly stirred him away from the corridors leading to Rhaenyra’s rooms, bringing him to break his fast with them and his mother. Although the Queen left as soon as the Princess’ screams faded and a servant came in the room to inform them of the birth of another prince. At the table, the ladies had started to whisper about the newest child the Princess had brought to the world. He ignored them all and, as he looked around, he was met by Helaena’s stare and her ominous whispered words. “An eye will be closed in exchange for wide wings.”

The ladies had given her bizarre looks and ignored her. Aemond, instead, sought to remember those words. Especially after a maester was done stitching the burning wound that disfigured him, courtesy of his little nephew.

Dragon dreams, he came to know they were called. How terrible that he had reached that part of the book only after him mutilation. From that day, he paid much more attention to Helaena’s words.

As he grew, so did his interest in Old Valyria, accumulating books and absorbing knowledge, and his mother’s angry rants and hatred against Rhaenyra and her new husband, their uncle, Daemon Targaryen.

After the news of their marriage had arrived at the Keep, Queen Alicent had raged almost as much as the King. Although for very different reasons. The queen’s orders to not go near Rhaenyra had always been normalcy for Aemond and his siblings, but after that raven, they had transformed into terrible lectures about all that their eldest sister would do to them if she ever came to feel the power of the crown.

“She is a heathen, adoring those wretched Gods of hers. Who knows what she’s capable of, what she would do to you all, my children. If she were to ever come back, stay away from her. She is a whor*, a liar, a betrayer, a cursed woman. Knowing her vile intentions, she might even cast her dark magic on you all, my darling children. You must promise me to pray for the safety of us all” she had ranted one particular day, fear clouding her brown eyes and causing her to rip her cuticles off. Her bloodied fingers gripped their faces and arms, caressing and bruising alike.

Aemond had been left flabbergasted by such a display of bare fear. His sister had always been perceived by him and his full-blooded siblings as some sort of mythical figure—the youngest dragonrider ever and the first after many years to have her cradle egg hatch. The way she always held herself at court had inspired awe in him, the way she always attracted the attention of every person in her presence, clad into elaborate gowns of Targaryen red and black, unlike the Hightower green his mother had them always wear.

Queen Alicent had been so fearful that the only conclusion Aemond could have drawn was that Rhaenyra had even more knowledge about dark magic than what he had been able to obtain with his reading and, unlike him, was able to use it.

He hadn’t gathered the courage to interact with her at Aegon and Helaena’s wedding, when she had appeared, beautiful as a vision, with a swollen belly and Valyrian braids in her hair.

“How much power do you think she has?” he had asked Aegon, who was surprisingly sober, some days after their sister once again left for Dragonstone, as they lounged in their other sister’s rooms.

“Who?” he had asked in return.

“Rhaenyra.”

“A sh*t lot, if the curses mother and grandsire spit every time her name is mentioned is any indication. Mind you, not that I care. The only thing that interests me is that she sits her very attractive arse on that damned throne when our father finally falls apart and dies.”

His brother had no concept of the sheer power that could be harnessed with their Valyrian blood. Aemond had tried to convince him to study some of his books, but that knowledge hadn’t interested Aegon in the least. The only thing he had wholeheartedly accepted and studied had been the Fourteen Flames, most likely only because it defied their mother’s teachings about the Seven-in-One.

Helaena had understood more, appreciating especially the clarity that the books he had secretly lent her had brought. She, too, had found more affinity with the Valyrian Gods, forsaking the Seven in favor of those who had given her the gift of prophecy.

“Blood demands blood” was her only answer when he had turned his question to her, having lost all hope with Aegon.

Those words had frozen him to the core before an inferno started to burn in his soul. What did that mean? Was Rhaenyra going to demand their blood? Daemon, maybe? Fear and anticipation alike warred within him, but he was determined to be ready for whatever tragedy was to come.

He started to train even more than he already was, pushing himself to the limit, making up for the loss of half his vision with plenty of speed and agility, excelling with sword and daggers both. He had yet to crack the power of Valyrian magic, so he had to contrast Rhaenyra in another way. Steel instead of arcane knowledge. He had half a mind to send a raven to his brother in Oldtown and ask him if he knew of any book about Old Valyria in the Citadel’s library, but thought better of it. It would do no good if his mother was alerted to his preferred subject of reading.

And so, the days passed.

Every night, he dreamt of her. He was afraid of the power she held, but also indescribably attracted to it. He started to mimic what he could remember of her, in an effort to be as even matched as possible to the powerful woman that was his eldest sister, the threat looming above his family’s head. He let his hair grow long, he stared to carry himself with the same pride and grace as she always did, he started wearing solely black garments—much to the disappointment of his mother. He spent time with their father, helping his failing hands to carve and shape the wood after the shapes of Old Valyrian buildings and temples. One time, his father had even mistaken him for Rhaenyra. He had even managed to convince his parents to move him to the Princess’ old rooms in the Keep.

It was in her bed that he slept, in her old bed that he first imagined them together, bringing glory to the name Targaryen. Imagined destroying everything with Fire and Blood and remaking it all anew. It was said that Old Valyria had been built with the help of blood magic, and they would do the same here too.

The first time Aemond dreamt of such things, he had woken up in a wetness of his own making, his seed dripping from his spent co*ck and onto the sheets. He had been ashamed, terrified.

The next night, he dreamt again. The one after that, he used his hand.

Everywhere Aemond went, the shadow of Rhaenyra followed. Rhaenyra beautifully depicted in a painting in his father’s quarters, the small figurine of the God Syrax in their secret altar, all the black-clad nobles occupying the Keep, every book he read reminded him of what Rhaenyra could do to them. Every time he trains with Ser Cole he is reminded of the rumors about him and his sister—he is sure they must have some truth to them, for who could resist being ensnared by such a magnificent creature? Every time he sees Larys Strong he sees the hair and eyes of his sister’s shield, now ash to the wind, and he is once again amazed at her ability to attract and ensnare even the strongest of men.

He dreams of being one of them.

Every day, he desires Rhaenyra’s power, he wants to know every thought that passes through her mind, wants to feel her damning touch over his head. He wants to see her beautiful eyes stare into his very soul, judging his worth and finding him deign of being hers. Because that is his hidden desire. He owes it to her to become as strong as possible, for his only place is by her side and he would not disgrace her by being subpar.

“Those seven-damned bastards of hers should be reason enough for Viserys to disinherit and shame her, but he refuses to see, the bloody fool! And now she has birthed Daemon’s first son” his mother had raged to his grandfather so loud he could hear her from his place, lounging in Aegon’s rooms.

Aemond didn’t begrudge his nephews. He once did, but no longer. Their appearance didn’t bother him anymore: they had Rhaenyra’s blood and it was all that mattered.

As time passed, his sister became one of the constants in Aemond’s life but, while at the beginning he feared her, now he has come to yearn for her.

His c*nt of a brother had teased him endlessly when he had caught him saying her name in his sleep, the night after the feast for his six and tenth nameday. Aemond was simply grateful that his brother’s cackles had woken him up before Aegon could truly witness the extent of his dreams. He would have never heard the end of it, otherwise.

“Her wretched husband will no doubt convince her to slaughter every one of her enemies” Otto Hightower had mused aloud, during one of the dinners when the King was not present, “We must secure our own allies, reassure them of their safety. No doubt the security of being on the same side as the rider of Vhagar will help us in our endeavors.”

Aemond detested being used against his sister, but he could not deny that it gave him a sick sort of pleasure to know that he was worthy of being considered a threat. He had tamed the great Vhagar, named after the Goddess of war, and he would grow to be even more powerful than Daemon Targaryen, if he had any say in it. She would see his value.

Every page read, every spell and myth his mind had memorized had always linked him closer to his Valyrian blood, and who better than the future Queen, blessed by the Gods with a hatchling of her own to guide his hand and rule over him. A dragon only bows to another dragon.

He is sure that her reign will be one of the most magnificent of all history and he hopes his mother is wrong and his sister will grant them mercy, grant them the honor to witness her come to power.

If not, he would gladly spill his blood to allow her one more magic. After all, blood demands blood.

Aemond has always desired power, even more if said power comes into the very alluring flesh cage that is Rhaenyra Targaryen.

Chapter 2: Chapter 2

Chapter Text

He can spy his sister’s dragon from the windows in his—her—rooms.

The golden dragon, almost as beautiful as its rider, shines in the midday sun as his sister guides it to dive through the skies low enough to be admired by the smallfolk, who cheers at the sight of their Princess’ beast.

Following her example, four other dragons show themselves off for the people of the city. It’s been so long he almost doesn’t recognize his nephews’ mounts: Vermax has grown big, nearly matching the older Sunfyre, probably because of the freedom of being in Dragonstone instead of chained in the Pit; Arrax’s scales have a silverly shine to them that contrasts beautifully with the red of its horns, a color inherited from the sire of the clutch, Caraxes, who is dutifully following its mate and its rider’s wife while keeping an eye on the last dragon. This one, Aemond doesn’t recognize.

On Syrax’s back, he can see his sister’s hair flying freely along with what he assumes is a black coat, trailing behind her like a cloud of darkness. Against her black dress, he doesn’t see the young, brown-haired child and would have missed him entirely if not for the happy screeches the child—Joffrey, most likely—emits every time the dragon dips or twirls.

On the back of Caraxes his uncle is carrying one of his cousins. Aemond has never cared enough for them do learn to distinguish, especially considering that in their last meeting he lost an eye.

He does a double take when the unknown dragon, who is avoiding any perilous maneuvers, comes closer to the windows he’s looking from and he sees a silver head. It cannot be one of the youngest children of his sister’s—they all had eggs, last he knew—so that only leaves one of Daemon’s daughters. One of them had an egg hatch, the other has apparently claimed a wild dragon.

In a spur-of-the-moment decision, Aemond instructs one of the servants taking away the remnants of his midday meal to have his horse readied. Given the noise of the five dragons, Aemond assumes that someone must have already sent the necessary carriages to carry his sister’s family to the Keep, but it wouldn’t hurt to greet his sister personally.

If he were to be true, Aemond knows quite well that his mother would freak out if she knew. Still, Aemond goes. He dresses in the black leather overcoat she has sent him for his last nameday, hoping that seeing him wearing the clothes she has gifted him will put Rhaenyra in a good mood. He has worn that coat only on the most solemn of occasions, and what could be more important than welcoming his sister back to her future seat?

The ride is quick and not many stand in his path. All the smallfolk is busy squeezing around the vendors that sell food and the few left under the unforgiving sun scramble out of his way. Seeing as the horse is midway to the path when the last dragon, the unknown one, lands in the Pit, Aemond is confident he’ll make it.

Indeed, after hastily handing his horse to the nearest person, he can see that his sister has just begun helping Joffrey dismount. An aged dragonkeeper helps the young child climb off, keeping him steady as Rhaenyra holds his hands and lowers him down slowly. Once safely with his feet on the ground, his sister begins her descent as well. He had correctly recognized the black cloak trailing after her, but now he can see the red three-headed dragon stitched in the fabric. Aemond remains in the relative darkness of the edge of the Pit, unseen but seeing all.

Or, at least, he would see all if his eye wasn’t fixated on his lovely, lovely sister’s body.

Despite being completely covered by the black fabric of both her coat and the riding leathers, Aemond can clearly see all the voluptuous curves she has acquired after each pregnancy. The muscles in her thighs, hardened by many years of dragonriding, are covered in lovely fat, hips curved and ample just like a mother of five is bound to have. He had oft heard his mother gossip to her ladies about the Realm’s Delight lost figure, about breasts spilling from corsets and hips obscenely wide, but considering this is the figure Rhaenyra has now, Aemond is certain it isn’t much of a loss. If the plays he has occasionally seen when Aegon manages to drag him to the Street of Silk are any indication, many men and women think like him.

“I heard from one of the brothel’s matrons that there’s been an influx of men and even women asking to f*ck women with a figure similar to Rhaenyra’s” Aegon had giggled in his cup of wine one evening sometime after his wedding. He and Aemond had been spending their nights together, because Helaena had taken to caring for a peculiar worm which required a particularly humid environment. Aegon had lamented the heat and humidity, so Helaena had promptly told him to “go bother brother Aemond. The worm will leave for his own home in three days, only then return.”

“Once,” he had continued, “I even saw a show where they had a pregnant woman, blonde just like Rhaenyra, breastfeed with her leaking teats seven grown up men.”

Aemond had no desire to tell him that he had oft dreamt of nursing at Rhaenyra’s bosom, too, so instead he said: “She is to be their Queen. It’s normal for the nobility to hold some type of attractiveness in the eyes of the smallfolk, even more a beauty such as a Targaryen Princess, but all things must have their limit.”

Rhaenyra’s breasts, while still generous, now are not leaking like that whor*’s were said to be, and her stomach is flat: only a small, inviting pouch of mouth-watering fat resides where once her children grew. He wonders if she ever drew symbols in blood on her belly to heighten her fertility.

Joffrey latches on her hand, looking around in awe at the Pit. He says something to his mother that causes her to laugh beautifully, a smile gracing the faces of both mother and son. Aemond is tempted to show himself to them , but when two more brown-headed boys join the duo he stops in his tracks. Jacaerys has grown exponentially since the last time they saw each other, at Helaena and Aegon’s wedding. Rhaenyra had insisted on bringing her heir there, and while the boy had been on his best behavior the two of them didn’t interact whatsoever. Jacaerys now boasted the height of his true sire and the poise of his mother. Him standing tall beside the Princess makes for quite a sight, especially considering that each of Rhaenyra’s children are her carbon copy in all except coloring.

The resemblance between mother and son is even more pronounced in Lucerys’ face, similar to his mother down to the arch of the eyebrows and the shape of the chin.

Rhaenyra kisses all three of her boys, fixing their hair and overcoats—all in black with minimal accents of Velaryon blue and Targaryen red. Aemond feels a twinge of envy: his own mother has never loved them so evidently like this, she has never looked at them with such loving eyes that it’s a wonder they don’t shed tears at the obvious pride and adoration that shines in Rhaenyra’s eyes.

The mother-sons quartet turns as one as a small yelp echoes in the Pit. Aemond, too, turns towards the source of the sound, seeing the wild dragon try and shy away from the dragonkeepers, despite the orders of the young woman on its back.

“Be calm, Rhaena” Daemon orders, his voice firm but gentle, “Grey Ghost has never been around so many people before and your own anxiety can only add to his own.”

So it’s Rhaena and Grey Ghost, Aemond muses. The silverly white dragon is truly a beauty.

Daemon and Baela have already dismounted Caraxes, the legendary Blood Wyrm, who is now busy cuddling with Syrax. The dragon is surprisingly affectionate considering many regard him as the most cranky and aggressive of the claimed dragons.

“My sweet, try to send calm to your mount. It will surely help” Rhaenyra’s voice rings in the Pit, echoing against the stone and rising above the sound of the dragons. Her voice is as melodious as he remembers and Aemond closes his eyes momentarily to enjoy the beautiful sound.

“Mayhap” she continues, “It would be best is some of us were to leave. Less people are bound to make Grey Ghost more comfortable, I’m sure. Children, please, go to your uncle and stay there. Your father and I shall help Rhaena.”

Aemond does a double take at that. She apparently has noticed him, despite his attempt at concealing his presence. The confused glances her children throw at her make him a little bit more relieved—Rhaenyra may be able to sense him, but she’s the only one.

He steps forward, showing himself to his nephews and cousins. “Welcome back to King’s Landing.”

The more grown-up children look at him with distrust and displeasure, but Aemond’s gaze is solely focused on his sister’s figure. “Sister, it’s been too long since you last graced us with your presence” he tells her, sketching a little bow for her.

“Yes. Unfortunately my duties at Dragonstone have been keeping me quite busy. Would you please mind my children while we help Rhaena.”

He nods and bows again, too choked up with pride at being trusted by Rhaenyra with the thing she loves the most in this world—her offspring.

She smiles—stunning—at his affirmation and turns back towards where her husband, who has barely graced him with a glance, is still helping Rhaena control Grey Ghost.

“So you are my uncle” a boy’s voice drags his attention back to those now standing in front of him. His eyes skim over Jacaerys, Lucerys and Baela before falling on little Joffrey. He has the same curls Lucerys sported in his childhood, now gone in favor of straight hair, and slightly darker skin than his brothers, most likely due to Ser Harwin’s own golden skin. Dragonstone doesn’t experience enough sun to warrant such a tan.

“I am, little Joffrey. We have met last when you were but a babe. I see you have grown” Aemond says.

All of them have, to be honest, as has he. After all, six years have passed since Lady Laena’s funeral, and three since his brother’s wedding. A long time to change.

Baela has ridden herself of the locks she sported once, instead letting her wild curls fly in the wind, held back by only a thin strip of leather. She is as slim as he has heard Lady Laena was, but her face is all Daemon’s. Jacaerys now towers over all his family, and nearly surpasses Aemond himself in heigh and definitely does in width. Lucerys is still shorter than Aemond, but he is well on the way of becoming as big as his brother and late father.

“I don’t remember you. I must have been very young. My first memory is of muña singing to me. We must have met even before that” the child says, smiling brightly.

Aemond feels the previous envy resurface once more. Oh, how would he enjoy to be able to boast such a connection with Rhaenyra. Maybe she sang traditional Valyrian songs to all her children, while his own mother forsakes his sibling and his company in favor of prayers and septas.

“We met once, you were but a few moons into this life. I am not surprised you don’t remember.”

Joffrey seems ready to add something more when Aemond promptly raises his head, almost on reflex, from where it was bent looking down at the kid. He finds Rhaenyra standing right behind her heir, looking at him with blessedly kind eyes. A stark difference from the closedness of hers and Daemon’s offspring.

“We have successfully dismounted” she announces, pride in her voice as she leads Rhaena to stand beside Lucerys. The girl smiles abashedly at the compliments that rain upon her and Aemond feels inclined to add his own to the bunch.

“Congratulations on the claiming of your dragon, cousin.” He hopes Rhaenyra will be pleased with his kindness.

“Thank you” she answers, not as hostile as her twin and stepsiblings but still closed off.

“Nephew, what a wonderful welcome you provide us” Daemon cuts in, looking him up and down with shrewd eyes.

He fights the urge to fidget: this man is the one his grandsire likens to Maegor the Cruel, but then again his grandsire has not one drop of dragon blood. How could he understand the restlessness of a dragon forced to play the game of lesser beings? He himself hid in the training yard and in his books to escape the trappings of court life. His brother has wine and whor*s and Helaena has her little creatures and now her twins.

That is another reason why he admires Rhaenyra. She plays the game as well as the Heir to the Iron Throne is expected to, and yet she doesn’t renounce her fire, she doesn’t douse the flames the dragon blood in her veins. Her power is so great and her control so wondrous that she has no need for distractions. Aemond himself sometimes shoves that part of himself under for the sake of his mother—Aegon has yet to learn how and frequently sports hand-imprints from their mother, and Helaena is a lost cause in the queen’s eyes.

He is certain Rhaenyra has never once raised a hand against her children, by blood or otherwise.

“Shall we begin the journey to the Keep? I find myself eager to greet the King” she says, nodding to the Dragonpit’s exit.

“At your behest, sister. I have taken the liberty to informally welcome you” at that, his eyes shift for a second to his uncle before returning to Rhaenyra like magnets, “But I am certain that the Queen has thought of something more proper for the return of the heir. Let us not dawdle any longer.”

None of them speak to him throughout the entire trip back to the castle, and he can’t even hear what is being said in the carriage. He has placed himself right beside the one his sister rides, in the place where normally a Kingsguard would stand. He is enraged that his mother has neglected to have some type of protection for his sister, even if that gives him a chance to be closer to her than he ever has memory of being.

Once, his father told him that he had been the one to demand to be in his sister’s arms the most. Aemond was born a scant eleven moons after Helaena’s birth so his mother had been unable to care for him, and once healed she had prioritized caring for her first daughter rather than the second son. “My kind Rhaenyra” his father said, “Swept right in and cared for you like you were one of her own. My darling child was so kind. She spent time with you, comforted you when you cried. She cuddled with you day and night when you were ill and even breastfed you for a couple of moons, claiming her milk would help you grow big and strong. It has obviously worked, my boy, for you are taller than even Daemon!”

The subject of Aemond’s next dreams would have been easily deducted if anyone had known of the conversation.

At their arrival at the Red Keep they’re met with Lord Allun Caswell, castellan of the Keep and faithful Black supporter, as shown by the pitch-black attire of both him and his wife. They both bow as Rhaenyra descends, smiling at her loyal supporters and allowing them to press a kiss on her ringed knuckles.

“My Princess, how glad we are that you have returned.” Lord Caswell barely spares him a glance, while his lady wife, a woman with fire in her blood if not in her heritage, glares at him. He doesn’t have the heart to reprimand her, for she has faithfully been by Rhaenyra’s side and he is hesitant to reprimand any supporters of his sister’s. After all, he is considered to be the most dangerous card the Greens have. He won’t begrudge them their fear.

The rest of Rhaenyra’s family has come off the carriages when she speaks. “Many thanks, my lord, my lady. We are eager to get settled back. I have no doubt that under your care the Keep has remained as lovely as always.”

Aemond, Lord and Lady Caswell all grimace a bit at that.

It is Lord Allun that gives her the news, lowering his voice so much that even Aemond strains to hear him. The words he pronounces are most certainly not for the Prince’s ears. “Your Highness, I am afraid that many changes have occurred in your absence. I have manages to salvage your assigned quarters from the…renovations, but I’m afraid that the Red Keep has now a different façade than it once had.”

Aemond has to refrain from clicking his tongue. The man could have just said it out loud. The Keep has nearly been turned into a f*cking Sept. All the tapestries that have adorned the Keep since it was first built, many arriving directly from Dragonstone and some even remnants of the works of Old Valyrian artisans, have been replaced by order of his mother with paintings and depictions of the Seven. Aegon had thrown a fit like no other when the Queen had tried to put the new tapestries in his rooms. She had even threatened to burn them to ash. Helaena’s rooms, too, had escaped the renovations—she had commissioned tapestries of animals of all kinds to change with those already present. Aemond has been lucky in that his choice of rooms means that the King would never approve of changing anything. “Rhaenyra has personally chosen the furniture and decorations for those quarters” he had said, “They shall remain such.”

He decides to clear some of the confusion present on his sister and says: “My mother has taken it upon herself to exhibit her devotion to the Seven for all to see.”

The anger in his sister’s eyes is a thing of tales. Whether that tale will end with pleasure or pain, only time will tell.

“Worry not” he continues, “Our siblings and I have taken care to salvage all the discarded decorations. Mother naturally doesn’t know, but they are stored in a building on the Street of Steel. We have also managed to keep Balerion’s skull where it has always been.”

“She tried to have it removed” Rhaenyra hisses, and he can swear he sees fire blazing in her violet eyes.

“She failed, my Princess” Lord Caswell reiterates, hoping that his liege would not be too angered.

Daemon looks ready to set fire to the entire Keep, but when Baela puts a hand on his shoulder—as Lucerys and Jacaerys do with their mother—he calms down.

“We appreciate your effort, Lord Caswell” he says, “And even more that of my nephews and niece.”

The look Daemon gives him is more than inquiring, it’s positively scrutinizing. He keeps his head up, his eye meeting those of his uncle with nothing but steel resolve. We are allies, he wants to say, we desire the same thing, the same person.

“Let us enter, then. The petition is set for tomorrow, in the afternoon. Princess Rhaenys has arrived just yestereve and she has asked me to let you know she would be delighted to have dinner with you, Your Highness, this eve. I’m sure my Princess and her family would like the chance to settle.”

Lord Caswell and his wife guide Rhaenyra’s family to their rooms. She looks confused when she notices him still following her, but she says nothing.

Her children titter behind, their hands with one another, but Aemond doesn’t pay attention to their words. His entire focus is on the woman in front of him, walking as confidently as a dragon in its lair. And what is this entire city if not hers? She has married Lord Fleabottom, the Rogue Prince who still has the entire City Watch in his pockets despite the Queen making sure her brother raised as high as second-in-command; she has walked these halls since she was born. This is where she has contrasted many of his mother’s plays at power, where she had ousted his grandsire as Hand, where she still has fierce supporters even after six years away from court, where she had managed to sire three children with a man not her husband and get away with it.

Obviously, he knows that she has some opposition. His mother is the Queen, after all, and his grandsire is ruling the Kingdom in all but name. Aemond is not stupid, however. He knows soon things will change. He would be even a little bit worried about the petition regarding Driftmark’s future Lord if not for the calm oozing out of Rhaenyra and the security in her children’s steps.

Lord Caswell directs his nephews and cousins to their respective chambers—two sets of quarters, one with two bedrooms and one with three—and then guides Rhaenyra and Daemon to their chambers.

Aemond is rejoicing when he realizes the rooms are those nearest to his.

He cannot wait to see his sister every day.

“They have arrived, then” Aegon mumbles, downing another cup of wine. Helaena has graciously decided to host the discussion in her rooms so he is not allowed to down unending quantities of wine, and yet his brother looks terrible nonetheless.

“Yes. She has brought all the children except for her younger ones with Daemon.”

“Interesting choice. She leaves home the trueborns and brings the bastards. A peculiar strategy considering what is to happen tomorrow” his brother says, earning a slap on the head from Helaena.

“Sister Rhaenyra controls the flames and seas” she says, before focusing back on the child currently resting in her arms. Little Jaehaerys is off with the wetnurse, who will soon come and fetch this little one too.

“I have told Rhaenyra of the tapestries” he says, “I think it would be best to begin to present ourselves as her supporters.”

Aegon raises his head from his place on the rug, at his wife’s feet. “Are we, though?”

Helaena sighs heavily and Aemond has to echo the sentiment. Their brother is truly stupid sometimes. “Are you not uninterested in the throne? Is not your only desire the opportunity to drink wine and bed as many men and women as possible?”

“Yes? You know this, and I even have the blessing of my darling wife” he caresses Helaena’s knee briefly, mindful of where she doesn’t mind to be touched and how much she accepts of it.

“Who do you think will allow you to live that dream? Mother? Grandsire? No, Rhaenyra is your only chance at having what you desire” Aemond tells him.

“And what about your desires, brother dearest?” Aegon mocks him.

Before Aemond can let loose a series of explicatives that would embarrass even the most sea-hardened sailor, Helaena once again speaks. “Blood demands blood. Aemond has a role that will not change. He must give to then take.”

Before any of the brothers can attempt an answer to that, the doors to Helaena’s quarters burst open, a blur of green flying in.

Their mother is here.

Chapter 3: Chapter 3

Chapter Text

His mother is frantic, almost hysteric as she paces the floor in Helaena’s quarters.

Aegon doesn’t even bother to get up from the floor. It is Aemond who drags him up to sit beside him. He knows their mother would be only more enraged by seeing her firstborn sprawled uncaringly on the rugs.

Aemond is only minimally surprised that Alicent’s glare falls on him, but what surprises him is the level of anger in them. Such potent emotions were usually reserved for Aegon, but not today it seems. “How could you endanger yourself like that? Going right in the maw of the enemy. Do you long for death?”

Aemond thinks it’s fitting that his mother compares Rhaenyra to a dragon, although it’s surely not intentional. Or even meant as a compliment.

Helaena doesn’t acknowledge her presence. Doesn’t even raise her head. “Brother Aemond is well, mother. Safe wings protect him from the familiar poison.” Her voice is breathy yet possesses a certain hardness that has even Aegon curious.

“Vhagar cannot protect him here! She’s nesting only the Seven know where!”

Aemond does, but he thinks it wouldn’t be smart to say such out loud.

“You all must stay away, it’s horrid enough that she’s residing in the same wing of the castle—surely the work of that damned Lord Caswell, I have tried hundreds of times to have him removed as castellan, but apparently Queen Aemma had appreciated his services and so he’s immune to any sin, to Viserys’ eyes” she complains, going completely off-course in her rant. Her cuticles are bloodied and it won’t be long before she stains her green gown.

The Queen shakes her head, as if dispelling her anger. “I am not jesting when I say this: I want you all to stay away from Rhaenyra and Daemon, their damned children too. Their presence is already insult enough to all decent people, and with the foolish errand they are set to embark on tomorrow they might turn desperate. The Gods only know what they might do if they feel threatened.”

“Mother, we cannot avoid them forever” Aegon says, managing rather impressively to conceal the slurring of his words.

“Avoid them until the petition, at the least. They will be humiliated by the disinheritance of the little bastard, we shall emerge victorious and they will retreat back to the hellpit they’ve come from.”

From what his father has told him, Dragonstone is anything but a hellpit—if one ignores the presence of several dormant volcanoes. Once again, Aemond censures his thoughts as he oft does in the presence of his mother.

“We shall do our best to avoid our enemies” he says, selecting his words very carefully, “You go and rest, mother, all this tension is not good for your heart.”

“Indeed it is not. But I fear that with those heathens in our abode I shall never be truly at rest. I am lucky to not have crossed paths with the Princess, for I surely would have seen her in one of her riding sets. She has always enjoyed displaying herself like the whor* she is and riding gear allows her just that, what with the necessity for trousers. At the least, Helaena has the decency of adopting loose fitting materials. That whor* wears leather so tight it might almost be her second skin.”

“Mother…” Aemond half-heartedly admonishes her, angry at his mother’s slander and yet intensely concentrated on not recalling exactly how form-fitting Rhaenyra’s clothes were. He, for one, doesn’t mind in the least her choices of clothing.

Alicent sighs. “Alright. I shall follow your counsel, my child, and retire for the rest of the day. Some prayers might do me good. I hope you shall take your own advice to heart as well, for tomorrow is set to be a glorious day. You will want to be well rested for it” Alicent tells them, holding her seven-pointed necklace in her hand.

Aegon rolls his eyes and he’s lucky their mother is not watching. His brother has been berated for much less.

Once the queen departs—as swiftly as she has arrived—Aegon grunts and slides once more to the ground. It’s his favorite place, says he reminds him of all the times he got mounted by his whor*s, the bloody scoundrel he is. He waves a hand in the air and miraculously manages to grip the cup and not spill all its contents on himself.

He takes a deep swig. “So” he clicks his tongue, “How vividly are you imagining our sweet big sister’s ass right now?” he toes Aemond’s own foot.

His only answer is a solid kick on the shin.

Aemond storms out of the rooms, intent of willing his hard-on away, followed only by Helaena’s soft laugh and Aegon’s curses.

Aemond splashes some cold water on his face.

He divests himself of his leather overcoat and his doublet. He grimaces at the green details in it. He’s glad that the overcoat hid them from Rhaenyra’s eyes or else he wouldn’t have been able to face her possible disappointment. Her anger he can take, but not her disappointment.

His white undershirt is light and the breeze from the open windows helps him calm his lust.

The way his mother spoke of Rhaenyra makes him want to throttle her—how can she speak of her like that? How can she even think herself worthy enough of pronouncing her name?—and yet he’s strangely glad that her complaints are founded.

His eldest sister does indeed wear bold clothes. He remembers some of the dresses she wore before the incident: all red, black or silver, with plunging necklines or cut-outs at the shoulders. He also remembers the dress she wore for their siblings’ wedding: a red so dark it could pass off as black, shoulders and collarbones bared, and rubies at her throat and fingers. Her bust had been swollen due to her pregnancy and the curve of her stomach had made her look even more radiant than normal. Many of the men—wedded or not—present at the wedding had agreed with him. He had seen plenty of hands sneakily adjusting tunics and doublets to cover what needed to be covered.

Helaena herself, clad in a white dress with puffy sleeves and butterflies embroidered on the skirts, had complimented her dress. Alicent had simply stayed silent.

Aemond is thankful that her cloak had hidden her backside from his sight or else he might not have focused on much else for the entirety of the walk in the Keep.

His erection is not going away—how could it when such tantalizing images of his sister swim in his mind—and he’s halfway through unlacing his breeches when a childish laugh, accompanied by a familiar, adult one, grabs his attention.

He stands from where he has fallen on the mattress, going to look out of one of his windows. He can’t see clearly, and nearly falls out in an attempt to do so, but he’s almost certain it’s Rhaenyra and Joffrey walking in the Godswood. The boy has never seen to Keep, too young to remember its red walls, and it’s understandable that his sister wishes to introduce him to one of her favorite places.

Surely, she won’t mind some company.

His mother warnings are all but ash to the winds of his mind once he redresses and tries to make himself presentable. After all, how can Aemond know that his sister is prowling the Godswood specifically? It’s a happy—or not, depending on who you ask—coincidence that he is just on his way there. Coincidentally, that’s one of his favorite places, too.

Indeed, he finds mother and son holding hands and laying comfortably over a blanket and several cushions. Small plates of fruit have been discarder by the pair, now busy intently discussing about something Joffrey’s holding in his hand. As Aemond comes closer, he recognizes it to be some sort of rock. He doesn’t care, he is too focused on the tantalizing form of his sister, clad into a pretty dress of black and red and silver that leaves her shoulders completely bare. Good Gods.

He steels himself when his sister’s violet eyes find his.

“Brother, today we seem to cross paths quite often” Rhaenyra tells him, and the lilt in her voice, along with the teasing smile she gives him, is enough for Aemond to understand she knows. She knows he’s searching her out purposefully, insistently.

Maybe he should be worried, but he really isn’t.

“Uncle” Joffrey greets, not moving an inch from his place over his mother’s skirts. He doesn’t blame him.

“Nephew.”

“My darling boy is just beginning his tale of how he found this rock in one of the Dragonmont’s caves. Would you like to sit with us and listen?” she points to a cushion.

Aemond knows that if he sits that close to her he definitely won’t be able to concentrate on anything else but he is powerless to resist her. With every passing moment, Aemond is ever surer that Rhaenyra truly cast a spell on him, yet he is entirely too happy to be put under her control.

Anything that connects him with her is more than welcome, for he is hers and she will be his. His death, his salvation, his ruler. He cares not. His.

“Gladly” he manages to say.

He goes to sit in the proffered cushion, stealing a few fruits despite not having permission to do so. His sister merely raises a brow at his insolence, but says nothing more. Instead, she turns back to her dark-haired son, smiling with such love Aemond has to close his eyes for a moment.

“It’s a piece of obsidian, mother. I found it in one of Cannibal’s old lairs. Don’t worry” he reassures her when she starts a reprimand, “I had Jace with me, and Father had told me the Cannibal was far away. It was safe!”

A sigh. Oh, how delicious her teats look in that dress. “Next time, please inform me of your adventures, alright? Don’t make me worry, my son. Now tell me all about this obsidian, do you know how it’s also called?”

Joffrey nods with enthusiasm. “Yes! It can be called dragonglass and I have discovered it can be fashioned into daggers” he sound excited, and Rhaenyra smiles in response to her child’s energy.

“That’s right, Joff. Did you ask Maester Gerardys to help you in your research?”

A nod. “He also told me that this material cracks very well. He said it’s amortus.”

“Amorphous, darling.”

“Yeah, and that’s why it cracks with sharp edges! It’s formed by lava, or dragon’s fire, that’s why there’s a lot on Dragonstone.”

Aemond would be perfectly content with staring at Rhaenyra for the rest of the afternoon, but he decides to contribute to the conversation. He’s sure she’ll appreciate his efforts. “Have you explored much of Dragonstone, nephew?”

The child’s curls—so similar to what he remembers of Ser Harwin’s—bounce with the vehemence of his nods. “Yes. Father often brings me and my siblings on excursions all over the island, while mother is busy with ruling. Sometimes she joins us when we swim and play on the beach. Father always tries to dunk her under and me, Jace and Luke pretend to be her knights and we protect her.”

“You’re getting off track, my darling.”

Aemond is thankful for her interference. He isn’t sure how well he would fare if he had to imagine one moment longer the sight of a drenched Rhaenyra splashing in the water. Objectively, he knows that in the presence of her sons and daughters she would swim wearing appropriate clothing, but in his mind she is rarely dressed. How curious.

“I also visited a hot spring with Baela and Jace. It’s very nice because the water is warm even in winter, do you know why?” he looks between his mother and uncle.

Aemond is positive they both do know, but they decide to humor the child and shake their heads.

Joff launches into his explanation. “Because there is a crack in the earth that makes it so the water is very close to the volcano’s lava and it heats up.”

“My, my. You know quite a lot about volcanoes and rocks” Aemond compliments, truly impressed. Rhaenyra’s children have inherited her intelligence, no doubt.

The child shrugs. “I like them a lot.”

“And there’s nothing wrong with it” Rhaenyra reassures him when he starts to curl on himself. She plants several kisses on his face, peppering his skin with small pecks and making him giggle.

“My Princess, the Princes Jacaerys and Lucerys have requested their brother join them in their rooms” a maid interrupts them.

Joffrey gasps, jumping up before turning back to his mother. “They have promised to teach me how to play cyvasse. Can I go, mother?”

“Yes, you may” she pointedly says, kissing once again her son’s embarrassed face, “Say goodbye to your uncle and go, my love.”

“Have a good evening, Uncle!” he says, before dashing with surprising speed into the corridoes of the Keep. The poor maid is left with no other choice but to run after the little prince.

Rhaenyra sighs wistfully. “Such a terror, he is.”

“Joffrey has grown much” he tells her. He cannot resist the urge to be closer to her, and so he scoots a little bit closer under the guise of resting his back over a root. Even when sitting, he is significantly taller than her, and he very much enjoys the view this new position offers him.

He nearly combusts when Rhaenyra lays back down on the trunk of the tree, angling her face as to catch all the fading sunlight possible. With her eyes closed, Aemond allows himself to look at his sister’s magnificent figure. Without any cloak covering her, he can now admire every curve of her body without hindrance.

Her muscular thighs, strengthened with many years of dragonriding, thicken into wide hips. He has heard many septas whisper about the perfect birthing hips of his sister and her more than plentiful bosom. Some say that it’s a sign of her depravity, others that it’s manifestation of her worth as a mother and her abilities to nourish the kingdom. He, frankly, is fine with either of these options.

As much as he enjoys the sight of her body, however, Aemond has to admit that it’s her face that draws his eye the most. High cheekbones, straight nose and full lips, along with the traditional white hair and purple eyes, make her look like a goddess of old. The title of Realm’s Delight is truly well deserved, in his sister’s case. Her beauty is admired, he has heard, on both sides of the Narrow Sea, with many seeking to catch a glance of her during one of her flights or the feasts she throws on Dragonstone.

“You have been staring at me for quite some time, brother? Is everything well?” Rhaenyra’s voice brings him out of his reverie. Embarrassingly so, for he has been caught staring at her like a c*ntstruck fool.

“I was just wondering” he begins, attempting to regain a bit of dignity, “How life is on Dragonstone. I have heard that Valyrian blood sings inside those walls, that the magic used to build Valyria has been used to build that castle, too.”

She hums, and the sound goes straight to his co*ck. “The rumors are true, brother. Our ancestral seat” she says, and Aemond preens at her choice of possessive, “was built through blood magic, the power of the dragons and some ancient techniques that have been long forgotten. In these recent years, my dear husband has scoured every bit of the library to find anything that could help us find out more about those techniques, but unfortunately what we have isn’t nearly enough.”

His blood boils when she talks about Daemon. Her voice holds such softness and love—he wants those for himself, he needs them like he needs air.

“Mayhap, sweet brother,” she smiles, and his brain nearly collapses on himself, “You can come with us to Dragonstone after this farce of a petition is done with and help us achieve our goals.”

Aemond has to rely on every bit of his composure and natural aloofness to maintain propriety. He fears that, if he were to fail, he would launch himself on her and kiss her until their bodies fused together. Until he forever became a part of this wonderful, powerful creature that is his sister. Who else could have that much power as to unravel people with simply a couple of words?

“I would be delighted to” he focuses on his clenched fists, unable to maintain eye contact with her, “I would love to learn more about our culture and the magic that flows in our blood.”

“Oh, yes. Our Father has mentioned in plenty of letters your interest in our heritage. I shall be delighted to enrich your knowledge.”

Aemond’s mind is wrapped in a cocoon of admiration and devotion for the woman in front of him. If what she says means what he thinks, she has been keeping track of the happenings of court all along. Her security regarding the petition, her knowledge of his own interests, the loyalty of the people in the castle… yes, Rhaenyra Targaryen is a true Valyrian queen, with the power to match.

When he doesn’t answer, his sister makes to raise up on her feet and he scrambles up to help her. She gratefully accepts his help, placing her calloused hand in his. They almost feel the same as his own: she has been riding her Golden Lady for a quarter of a century, but he rides the larger dragon in existence. One more way in which they fit, one more way in which he is worthy of her.

Her hand minutely flexes over his and all his focus shifts to the point of contact between their bodies. Her other hand soon joins the first, enveloping his own into a warmth that belongs solely to a dragon. There is a current, an energy, flowing in between their bodies and he has to physically stop himself from leaning towards her and press his forehead on her collarbone, letting himself be welcomed in her maternal embrace.

“I shall retire to dine. I wish you a good evening, brother mine.”

“Thank you, sister. I guess I’ll see you in the morrow.”

“Indeed.”

He stares at her retreating form, enjoying the swish of her long hair to the wind and remembering the fond smile that had graced her face before she departed. Her beauty is so great that he isn’t upset that the image is seared into his mind. Permanently.

He, too, quickly scurries back to his own quarters. He instructs one of his servants to inform his siblings that he wouldn’t join them for dinner, instead requesting a light meal to be brought directly in his chambers.

One the plate of broth, meat and vegetables is brought into his rooms he chases every other person from his rooms. Once alone, he quickly wolfs down the food. It’s not particularly flavorful—his mother had decreed long ago that, in accordance with the teachings of the Seven, any food that would be served was to be as simple as possible, to avoid temptation and sin—but it filled his empty stomach.

He readies himself for bed after having the servants bring away the empty plate and the single goblet of wine he allows himself. He has seen with his brother what too many cups can do and he has no desire to follow in his footsteps. Aegon is, surprisingly, as healthy as one can be—mayhap, instead of the blood of the dragon, his brother has wine running in his veins, which would surely explain the lack of hangovers and his miraculous health despite the numerous cups of wine he consumes daily—yet he has no desire to walk the same path as he. He is destined for far greater things than the bottle.

As he changes, donning his nightclothes, his mind wanders off to Rhaenyra. Her beauty and grace are undeniable, even the most loyal of his mother’s supporters can see that, and Aemond is all but powerless against the images that cloud his mind with lust.

His mind is not content with simply imagining her pale skin, her fleshy body and violet eyes. Soon, his own hands materialize in his fantasies. They grope her teats, the soft yet strong globes of her backside; they leave scratches down her back and they hike her body closer to his.

In reality, his hand clenches around his co*ck, beating at his meat furiously, imagining to possess a woman that none could ever hope to chain to themselves.

In his fantasies, it is him who dominates her. He knows that such a thing could happen only in his dreams and so he lets himself indulge, for in reality it will be him who submits to her and do so gladly. His mind conjures images that are positively filthy. One of his hands grips her hair while the other is buried in her c*nt, his mouth busy leaving dark bruises from her neck down to her heavy, round breasts. In his mind, they are dripping with milk, ready to feed a child he can feel comes from his seed. Not Daemon’s, not Harwin’s or any other man Rhaenyra could have shared her bed with. His. He latches onto one of them and the milk that fills his mouth is the most heavenly food he has ever tasted.

Her moans of his name echo in his mind, and his hand fastens its movement just as his mind conjures the image of the Rightful Queen on her knees, naked and sweaty and wet, with his co*ck in her mouth. He groans, and he doesn’t know if he just imagined it or truly made the sound. He starts to thrust in his hand with the same violent speed his mind assigns to his hips. He pounds into her mouth harshly, and yet his beloved sister never complains. Her hands come to rest on his buttock, planting her sharp nails in his flesh and drawing him ever deeper. She is as hungry for him as he is for her.

He drives in her hot, wet mouth with intent, and he has to groan when he notices that, in his mind, not only are her teats leaking, but her belly is round. His child, his mind whispers, his wife. And with that image at the forefront of his thoughts, his hips snap one last time before her mouth ravenously milks his co*ck of all the seed it can.

In reality, his hips stutter as he spills his come onto his own stomach. He paints himself with white and he mourns the lack of nail scratches on his body that come only from copulating with a dragon.

He would sport those soon, if Rhaenyra is as merciful and loving as she is known to be.

He would be hers.

Chapter 4: Chapter 4

Chapter Text

Aemond can count himself lucky that his mother hasn’t found out about his talk with Rhaenyra. He doesn’t enjoy seeing her as anxious and tense as she is, but what else does she expect? She has openly challenged not only Rhaenyra—something she has been doing since her first wedding, or so they say—but also her sons.

That is something he knows will not slide.

Rhaenyra didn’t allow anything to harm her sons that fateful day at Laena’s funeral, how could his mother think that it would work this time?

Entering the throne room, he makes a beeline for his siblings. Helaena gives him a small smile and Aegon doesn’t stink of wine—a testament to how grave the situation is. His brother is dressed entirely in black from head to toe, with only the embroidery at his cuffs in green. His sister is wearing a lovely golden dress with an amber and gold brooch in the shape of a beetle. For himself, he has chosen to stick with his habit of wearing purely black clothes. He wears a finer tunic than normal and avoids his leather doublet, instead opting for one with his Vhagar embroidered in black thread around the collar.

His mother and grandsire are in Hightower Green, with chains of gold and small jewelry in the shape of the Seven-pointed stars. Aemond starts when he sees his grandfather walk past the family and sit on the Iron Throne.

A pit of uneasiness opens in his stomach. With Otto on the throne, making decisions in the place of the King, he doesn’t know how Rhaenyra can hope to maintain her son as heir. And if Lucerys gets disinherited, Jacaerys will soon be questioned, too.

Vaemond Velaryon is the next to enter, clad in Velaryon blue and silver, his eyes are determined. He immediately goes to Aemond’s mother, whispering quietly with her. His stomach drops when he sees the two nod at each other, a nod that it’s then echoed by his grandsire, still comfortable on the Throne.

Doubts start to fill him.

The King has been abed for more than a fortnight, now. He has not participated in any council meeting for even longer. He is weak, on Balerion’s threshold. The Hand has been single-handedly running the kingdom for the entirety of the last moon, and now such an important decision is to be made by a man that despises his sister.

How will Rhaenyra manage to win? Even she cannot twist fate so much as to turn such events to suit her needs. Otto would never rule in her favor, and given the opposition of Vaemond Velaryon, how could she manage to prevail?

The nobles of court start to trickle in and position themselves in a way that leaves no doubt to their allegiance. Many take their place behind his family, dressed in their House colors along with accents of green in their clothes or jewelry. Opposite from them, just as many people stand tall and sure. Their fully black clothes seem to both suck the light from the room and to shine in the sun. despite the lack of their Princess, Rhaenyra’s supporters have no problem with glaring at the Greens.

Finally, the crier announces Rhaenyra’s arrival. She is accompanied by all her family except for Joffrey. Understandable, considering his young age. The Blacks seem to stand taller with their mistress’ approach, looking at her with all the pride and devotion she deserves.

Rhaenyra is a vision. Wearing a dress of deepest black, she looks like the embodiment of power: the sleeves of her gown are long enough to trail on the floor, while the neckline plunges low enough between her breasts to make space for a ruby medallion with a rendering of the Targaryen symbol. That seems to be the only accent of a color that isn’t black, for her earrings and tiara alike are entirely made with black, glimmering stones. Her silver tresses shine, long and unbound, under the sun and he can see plenty of ladies looking at her with longing eyes. They, too, have been ensnared by her beauty just as he has.

Behind her follows their uncle Daemon, flanked by Jacaerys. Behind them follow Lucerys, Baela and Rhaena. Surprisingly, for him and the entire court, Princess Rhaenys closes the small procession.

Vaemond is fuming as he sees the colors she has dressed herself in. Velaryon blue and black make up the majority of her clothing, although a few rubies adorn her throat and wrists. Her black and silver hair is bound in the typical Valyrian braids, more specifically Targaryen braids, not Velaryon. As if her allegiance isn’t clear enough, Rhaenys positions herself on Rhaenyra’s side of the hall, right beside Baela and Rhaena.

His sister brings Lucerys to her side, taking his hand in hers and gently caressing his arm. Her son looks at her with unabashed adoration, before bowing his head and slinking closer to her. He doesn’t blame him. he would attempt to do the same if he were in his position.

It’s at that moment that his grandsire decides to interrupt the silence. “We are gathered here because Ser Vaemond, brother of Lord Corlys Velaryon, has raised the question of the succession of Driftmark. The Realm in its entirety is praying for the current Lord’s survival, but we must still face this grim task. The crown will now hear the petition of Ser Vaemond of House Velaryon.”

The man steps forward and starts to speak words that Aemond doesn’t care to hear. He’s too focused on Rhaenyra to concentrate on much else. She holds her head high, sporting the same dignity that he has tried so hard to emulate and make his during his adolescence. Seeing the original now… it makes him feel small, insignificant. He could never be as firm and sure of himself in the face of such strong opposition. She has survived court when few were by her side and now that she has her entire family she is unstoppable.

Looking at her face now, he doesn’t understand how anyone could ever wish for anyone else to rule, to command, to bow to.

The spite in the Velaryon man’s words brings him back to reality. “What do you know of Velaryon blood, Princess Rhaenyra?” he spits her name like venom, and Aemond wants to punch him in the face. The mirror flashes of aggression he sees in Jacaerys and Daemon’s eyes make his fire burn even hotter.

Aegon discreetly elbows him, “Stop glowering.”

“I could cut my veins and show it to you” that stupid c*nt of a Velaryon continues.

“Please, do.”

All sounds cease at the Princess’ stern words, even the shuffling of dresses and the scratching of beards stop.

Vaemond himself looks flabbergasted. “Excuse me?”

“You are excused. I understand that in your advanced age” Rhaenyra smiles, “You might have trouble hearing, but apparently those issues impair also your eyes, otherwise you would clearly see my sons have the blood of their father, of their grandparents, running through their veins.”

“Princess Rhaenyra, you’ll have your chance to—” his mother cannot even finish her reprimand before Vaemond explodes.

“How dare you attempt to pass those… those brats of yours as trueborn Velaryons!?” he shouts, spittle flying from his mouth.

Rhaenyra’s eyes narrow dangerously, “Remember you are referring to the Princes of the Realm, ser” she grinds out his inferior title with unending venom, “And you speak of recognizing Velaryon blood and yet you don’t recognize your brother’s eye color, your late nephew’s, reflected in the eyes of my secondborn. You don’t recognize your good-sister’s hair color, the same combination of silver and black that’s starting to come out in my two eldest sons.”

Her voice echoes clearly in the throne room, and her words render everyone utterly speechless. But not for long.

“To lie so preposterously is an offence to decency and to this whole court” Vaemond shouts, as whispers run between the people of Greens and Blacks alike. Aegon himself is still gaping from the news.

“And yet her words are not lies, good-brother” the cool voice of Rhaenys Targaryen interrupts.

All eyes turn to her, and just when Otto tries to return the court to order Rhaenys speaks again. “I have seen myself the Velaryon eyes, their violet blue as familiar to me as mine own amethyst, slowly overtake the brown of my dear mother’s eyes that ruled in these boys before. Jacaerys seems to take after his mother the Princess, while Lucerys shares the same eye color of my dear late son” she smiles, caressing with one hand the boy’s cheek, “The Baratheon appearance has skipped my children, and yet it has made itself known in my grandsons, most likely aided by their other grandmother’s Arryn blood. Just a few moons ago, during one of my visits to Dragonstone, I have begun to notice that their hair is turning silver, just as mine did after my pregnancy.”

Aemond is flabbergasted. He cannot believe what he is hearing. “Is she jesting?” he murmurs low enough to be heard by just his siblings. Neither of them has an answer.

Truth be told, he hasn’t paid much attention to his nephews when he saw them last, and from such distance he cannot be sure that Rhaenys speaks the truth. He doesn’t think it appropriate to check now, so he waits. Vaemond has no such qualms, however, because he stalks to the two boys, intent of verifying the veracity of the claim, only to be bodily stopped by Rhaenyra herself.

Aemond tenses. Vaemond is angry and evidently stupid, considering his actions, and the Prince doesn’t like the hatred he can see in his posture. He doesn’t think Vaemond would be so stupid as to attempt to harm Rhaenyra in such a public venue, but angry men oft lose any inhibitions.

“I would stay away from my sons if I were you” she hisses to the man, her face barely three inches from his. Her chest must brush his with how close they are.

His fists clench even more tightly and it’s only the gentle touch of Helaena that calms him. Aegon’s eyes bounce between the spectacle in front of him and their grandsire, still sitting on the Throne and fuming with anger and disbelief.

In the silence, Vaemond’s choked whisper echoes just as much as a shout. “No…”

Rhaenyra’s smile is positively feral, “Oh, yes. Now you see, ser? Velaryon blood runs strong in their veins” she says, and the mocking smile on her face is what makes the pieces fall together in Aemond’s mind.

Blood magic.

He nearly bursts out laughing. How could he have doubted her? This clever, powerful, cunning woman will allow no one to challenge what is hers, and Vaemond Velaryon is not one of hers. He shall face the fury of the dragon.

He can see the man taking breath to spew a pitiful retort, when the sound of the doors opening startle everyone.

As all heads whip to the entrance to the Throne room, Rhaenyra still standing in front of the throne. Vaemond has quickly backed off to return near the Queen, who is looking both flabbergasted and desperate.

The Princess of Dragonstone stands tall and proud, her countenance impeccable, but her breath winds out of her at the sight that greets them.

Of course, the magnificent woman that she is, she has inspired their father to raise from his deathbed one last time.

One of the Kingsguard announces their Father, who comes wobbling on his cane and hunched over, nearly no strength left in his bones, and slowly ascends to the throne.

Aemond has seen his father’s slow decline towards death. He knows that his bones have begun to fail him a long time ago, and that his mind is oft addled with milk of the poppy to reduce the burning pain his body suffers constantly.

Yet, his heart is still strong, for it’s only the purest kind of love that could force a dying man from his deathbed to help their loved ones one last time. How fitting that it’s Rhaenyra that inspires such sentiments.

Their father looks like a supplicant, come to leave a sacrifice to his deity for one last blessing before finally closing his eyes, content in the knowledge that he has done his duty. What better deity to pray to than Rhaenyra?

Despite her poise, Aemond can see the naked affection in his sister’s eyes as she gazes at her father, who only has eyes for her in turn.

It seems like he’s walking towards her, not the throne.

Everyone his silent and even his siblings are left flabbergasted at this show of devotion. Aegon shifts closer to Helaena, and they both decide to slowly slide behind Aemond, away from their mother and the still shocked Vaemond.

He doesn’t blame them, their plans are most certainly going up in flames.

His father loses the crown halfway through, and Daemon gets it from him—Otto nearly lurches forward to rip the gold out of his hands—and helps him sit on the damned chair. Aemond thinks that he could come to love that throne only by seeing Rhaenyra sit on it.

“I admit” the King breathes out, his strength nearly failing him even in his speech, “I do not understand why petitions are being heard over a settled succession.”

His father’s half-masked face turns to stare at his cousin. “If anything, the only voice we should hear, the only one who might offer keener insight into Lord Corlys’ wishes is the Princess Rhaenys.”

All heads turn to the woman. Vaemond’s shoulders fall, and even Aemond’s mother wilts. The King might have not witnessed the spectacle that unraveled before, but all here know that the fate of the petition—and consequentially the succession of Driftmark—is as good as guaranteed.

“Indeed, Your Grace” Rhaenys bows minutely, coming to stand in the middle of the room, where Rhaenyra was before she returned to the front of her faction.

“It was ever my husband’s wish that Driftmark pass through our son, Ser Laenor, and now through his own trueborn son, Prince Lucerys Velaryon. His mind never changed. The recent… developments, have guaranteed mine own support even more.”

“What recent developments?” the King rasps.

“It seems, Your Grace” the Princess smiles bitterly, “That all our eyes have been deceived by mine own Baratheon blood, and the drops of Arryn heritage in my good-daughter. In these past moons, I have visited Dragonstone many times, and I have witnessed small, yet significant changes in my grandsons. Prince Joffrey is yet too young for such, but Prince Lucerys and Prince Jacaerys have begun to shed the appearance of the First men in favor of their Valyrian heritage.”

Aemond doesn’t miss how both princes straighten in their places. Jacaerys shifts closer to his mother, coming to stand beside her. Rhaenyra places a hand on his shoulder, then a kiss. Lucerys simply grabs more firmly his mother’s arm, earning a peck on the cheek for himself.

“The color of Velaryon eyes” Rhaenys continues, “Is unique and irreplicable. I see the same eyes of my husband and late children in my second grandson, just beginning to overtake the deep brown typical of the First Men. In both the Princes’ hair I see glimmers of silver that remind me of mine own hair. Your heir’s heir” she adds, gesturing to the eldest of Aemond’s nephews, “takes his eye color after his mother, and her mother before her in turn.”

The mention of the King’s first wife grabs his attention, as Rhaenys surely counted on. He straightens in his seat. Strength seems to flow back into his bones for a moment. “Come closer, boys. Let me see.”

With an encouraging nod from their mother, Aemond’s nephews step closer to the throne, ascending its steps to come stand before the King. They both kneel, but they don’t bow. Their backs are straight, and they meet Viserys’ gaze with their heads high.

After a few seconds, a sob fights to come out the King’s chest. “Oh, my dear boys. So long you have been subject to rumors so vile not even I could combat their diffusion. Now, the truth I’ve always known comes out in the light.”

“Husband mine…” Aemond’s mother tries to interject.

“Come closer, Alicent. See the truth of their heritage. Show her” the last part is directed to the two kneeling young men.

As they come closer to where Aemond and his siblings stand, he can clearly see that what Rhaenys and his beloved sister have said is true. The silver in their hair is sparse enough not to be immediately noticeable, but it’s undoubtedly there. They look speckled. The most baffling thing, however, is their eyes. The brown is now only present in the outer ring of their iris, while the inner one is becoming lighter. He immediately recognizes the amethyst of his sister’s eyes in Jacaerys, while the color of Lucerys’ is not as recognizable. He'll have to believe the others when they say they resemble Laenor’s.

“I’ll be damned” Aegon laughs, “You had us all fooled, nephews.”

“The power of the dragon knows no bounds” Helaena says.

Aemond doesn’t miss the true meaning of her words.

“Indeed, daughter” the King breathes out, once more exhausted. “Given recent developments, I dare say the matter is settled. Once again.”

Vaemond explodes.

His face reddens with the strength of his words. “How could this court believe this foolish attempt at usurpation.”

“It seems to me that the King has been more than clear in his verdict” Daemon intervenes, placing his hands on his stepsons’ shoulders. The two have returned to their parents’ sides, closing ranks with them and their cousins and grandmother.

“Ser Vaemond…” his mother begins. Most likely an attempt to save face—she is the one, after all, who has arranged for the petition to happen, and quite publicly at that. It would do no good to her image if the man who she has supported were to make a fool of himself.

Judging by the violent fire in Rhaenyra’s eyes, something much worse might happen. Aemond can’t wait.

The man is not dissuaded. He sounds desperate. “She has clearly used some sort of dye. All these years, not a single Velaryon trait has emerged, and now all of a sudden they show Valyrian blood.”

“Are you putting into question my own heritage, Ser Velaryon?” Rhaenyra retorts scathingly, taking a few steps toward the man, “Or are you so deep in your treachery and usurpation that you have forgotten that they have Valyrian blood through both me and Ser Laenor?”

“They are f*cking bastards!”

Even the wind seems to still at his shout.

The King’s breaths are heavy, but so is the threat in his voice when he leans forward and unsheathes his dagger. “How dare you.”

Aemond feels much the same. For a second, whistling is the only thing he hears, images of detaching the man’s head from his shoulders the only thing on his mind, and then he tunes back into reality just when Vaemond seals his fate.

“My House has survived a thousand tribulations. This witchcraft does not fool me, and I will not see what is owed to me passed down to a bastard, born of a whor* of a mother.”

Aegon seems to choke on his spit, while Helaena’s hands clench where they are rested on her elbows. Aemond, on the other hand, is even more furious than before.

How dare he, indeed.

How dare he insult the future Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. The Realm’s Delight, the most powerful and most wondrous woman to ever walk this world.

Fire burns in his veins. His hand hitches for the dagger hidden under his doublet. He aches to vindicate her name, to deal the punishment she will no doubt request for such an offence. To spill blood for her. He takes a couple of steps forward, only held back from going after the man by the physical hold his siblings have over him.

It seems many share his same sentiment, for when he lets his eye skim over the people standing behind Rhaenyra he sees naught but hatred. Jacaerys looks ready to punch the man, as does Baela. Rhaenys and Lucerys are more reserved in their fury, yet not less dangerous. Rhaena steps forward to hold her stepmother’s hand, glaring at her great-uncle with contempt.

Despite the great anger of them all, the one who’s truly furious is Daemon. He steps forward with predatory intent, never taking his eyes off Vaemond for an instant.

Not even when Rhaenyra seals the man’s fate. “Proceed” she simply tells her husband, a coldness in her tone that Aemond hopes to never be subjected to.

His uncle doesn’t hesitate. Every man that Rhaenyra loves, ready to protect her. Aemond hopes in the future to be counted in that number.

Ser Vaemond Velaryon dies in a matter of moments, head cut clean in half and slanderous tongue ripped from his head. Daemon presents it to his wife as the grandest of gifts.

“My Princess” he utters, kneeling in the pool of blood.

Aemond is torn between arousal and pure, unadulterated fear.

His father’s pained moans make everyone focus back on him. Rhaenyra immediately runs up to him, followed by Daemon and Ser Harrold, and she hugs him to herself. She yells for a maester and for everyone to leave the room.

The nobles obey instantly—Otto and Alicent leaving as well to be able to lick their deep wounds in peace—while Rhaenyra’s family and his siblings remain.

“Oh, my daughter. How glad I am that you have been vindicated. Even my children are with you” the King rasps, laying his head on her shoulder.

Ah. So he has noticed. He might be decrepit, but it seems he’s not stupid.

For a second Aemond is pissed. How come the King never noticed their pain, their struggles, and yet when it comes to Rhaenyra he is so eager to please? Such thoughts quickly leave his mind at the grunts that leave his sister’s mouth as she helps Viserys down the throne, where a carrier is waiting for him.

He can imagine her releasing such noises on a much different occasion.

“Don’t worry about that, father. Now you need to get better.”

The king mumbles some more words as the servant, guards and maesters accompany him to his rooms, and all it’s left in the room are them. Rhaenyra, Daemon, their family, Rhaenys, Aemond, his siblings and Vaemond’s cooling body.

“Well, this is quite embarrassing.” Trust Aegon to say something so unproper that it breaks tension.

Helaena slaps the back of his head, while Aemond glares. Rhaenyra just laughs.

“Indeed, brother. I think it would be best if we all retired to our respective quarters. This evening, after all, our father has requested a family dinner. It wouldn’t do for us to be unkempt for it.”

She smiles at each of them, before regally exiting the throne room, her family beside her and her triumph at her back. He can’t wait to see what other secrets she will unleash.

Chapter 5

Chapter Text

Aemond is still reeling from the day’s happenings as he walks into the dining room where his father, mother and siblings are already waiting. Otto has elected to skip the dinner claiming a sore belly—most likely he is trying to regain as much power as he can while his sister’s loyal dogs are momentarily at rest.

He is surprised when the King weakly holds out his remaining hand towards him.

“Aemond, my boy, come here.”

As he nears the throne-like carrier his father sits on, the smell of decay and illness assaults his senses, and yet it’s not nearly as strong as it is every time he goes to visit His Grace in his rooms. The maesters claim that the windows should be opened once or twice a moon to keep the healing fumes inside, and the air is quite literally suffocating.

His father takes his hand and weakly attempts to squeeze it. Aemond assumes that all the energy his father had left has been used to come to Rhaenyra’s rescue, and now he is running on smoke. Yet, his words hold power when he speaks, showing a small fraction of the fire he sees every time he looks into his eldest sister’s eyes.

“Rhaenyra’s told me that you spoke to her.”

Aemond does his best to ignore the betrayed look from his mother. “Indeed. I wished to reacquaint myself with my sister. ‘Tis been a long time since we last spoke and I wanted to discover more about the woman you so highly speak of, Your Grace.”

“My Rhaenyra is the best of all of us” his father coughs out, a pleased smile on his half-decayed face and Aemond cannot help but nod and smile as well.

“I have long wished to see all of my children united as a family. I understand that previous… frictions with your nephews have caused strife, but I am certain that your sister’s heart will always be open to you, my children” his eye skims over Aegon and Helaena as well, his golden mask glinting under the light of the chandeliers.

“I am sure she does, husband” Alicent tries to intervene, “But I’m sure she has her hands full with her children and her babes.”

His father sighs wistfully, wholly missing the pointed glares his wife throws their children. Both monarchs, however, miss the glances the three siblings share. They know they would get some lovely bruises for their stunt today. “I agree. I am saddened that she didn’t bring them with her. My Rhaenyra is capable of handling many things, but I understand the difficulties of raising so many children, especially considering the last two have the mischievousness of both Rhaenyra and my brother in their veins” he chuckles, absentmindedly patting Aemond’s hand, which he still holds.

“Even as weak as you are” a voice interrupts, “You still manage to make japes about me, brother.”

Daemon, followed by the whole family except Rhaenyra, Joffrey and Rhaenys, strolls in with the same air of arrogance and self-righteousness he has always seen his uncle wear.

“Brother, I will always have energy for that, just as you never stop being the annoying little bother you have always been” his father jests.

“You wound me” Uncle Daemon laughs, taking his seat at the table. Unsurprisingly he ignores both the Queen and her children.

Jacaerys and Baela take adjacent seats, as do Lucerys and Rhaena, as the King speaks once more. His voice starts to lose energy with every word, but he persists. “Where is my daughter?”

“Rhaenyra is finalizing something with Rhaenys at the moment, they both should be here soon. Rhaenys, however, has elected not to eat with us.”

“Does she find my presence so repulsing?” the King chuckles self-deprecatingly.

Dismay and concern flash in equal measure on his uncle’s face. “Not at all, brother. You’ll see why she has better things to do. And once you do, you yourself will agree that it is the best course of action.”

“If you say so.”

He is momentarily distracted by the smiles on his nephews and cousins’ faces and he almost misses the moment the doors open once again. As he turns his head to look, Aemond is blessed with a sight that will forever be burned into his memory.

‘Tis not Rhaenys his eye are drawn to, as she strolls into the room dressed in black fabric and dripping in pearls, but rather Rhaenyra.

His sister has, probably for the first time in years, renounced wearing her customary black dresses in favor of a marvelous white gown in the same shade as her hair. The dress is obviously of the finest quality, embroidered with few details but being embellished by a single diamond jewel in the middle of the neckline, bringing the attention to her full breasts. Her collarbones are exposed to Aemond’s hungry eyes and the Valyrian braids in her hair allow every lucky onlooker to marvel at the perfect slope of her shoulders, the lovely slenderness of her neck and the candid unblemished pallor of her skin. The sleeves of her gown are so long they brush the ground, and he almost pities the poor seamstress that put so much work into the gown only for it to be dirtied. Although he suspects that having the Realm’s Delight wear one of her dresses is enough of an honor. She doesn’t wear any additional jewelry except for a silver ring, glinting with a big triangular amethyst the same color of her irises. A color, it seems, her children share with her.

In her arms, safely nestled and wearing matching red attire, are two boys. Both silver-haired and violet-eyed, they look the spitting image of their mother, if not for the roguish grin they undoubtedly inherited from their father.

“Oh, my daughter! How radiant you look and what a lovely surprise you have. I didn’t know you had brought these two rascals with you” the King laughs.

“I had them arrive with a few trusted maids and guards by ship. They arrived during the petition, and as such I thought it best to wait for this dinner to formally introduce them to you” she smiles, handing the eldest of the two boys to Daemon, who has also risen.

The couple strides closer to the King, and Aemond can feel sweat dripping down his back. The ethereal sight of Rhaenyra standing so close to him is making his heart beat as fast as a horse gallops. His father has yet to release his hand, most likely having forgotten it altogether, and so he is not only sitting in Rhaenyra’s assigned seat, but is also trapped between his father and sister. He does his best to avoid letting his eye fall on the generous cleavage her gown exposes, but if the cackles Aegon is suppressing are any indication, he is failing miserably.

“Father, this” she turns to look at the babe in Daemon’s arms, “is our Aegon.”

Aemond’s mother starts at that. They had known that Rhaenyra had given birth to a boy, yet the name was never mentioned before. Before she can start her complains, as she’s sure to do, his sister continues, presenting the babe in her arms to his father. “And this is Viserys.”

He can see his father melt at that. “Viserys…” he breaths out, finally releasing Aemond’s hand in favor of caressing the child’s chubby cheek. Young Viserys wiggles in his mother’s arms, and hides his face in her neck.

Undoubtedly, it’s quite jarring for a child to be presented with the sight the King makes, yet he doesn’t take offence, instead turning to Young Aegon. This child seems more willing to interact with the King, grabbing at the bony hand he’s presented with and shaking it eagerly.

Aemond sees the flash of pain in his father’s eyes as the boy disrupts the King’s sore joints, but before he can point out anything Rhaenyra herself intervenes, gently separating the two.

The atmosphere is lovely and familiar.

Of course Aegon would see that it is disrupted.

“Well, sister, if I’d know you loved me that much as to name a child after me I would have visited.”

Their mother is outraged. “Aegon! How could you say that.”

His sister only laughs, “I hate to ruin your fantasy, little brother, but my Aegon is named after the uncle I never knew, the last babe of my grandmother, not you.”

His brother takes no offence to that, instead smirking like the scoundrel he is.

“Still,” his mother’s quietly angry voice interrupts the staredown between the two siblings, “I find it untasteful to have named your child after mine. That name belongs to my child, to even attempt to usurp it…”

“Alicent” his father interrupts, firmer than he has been in many years. Aemond is momentarily brought back to the aftermath of his claiming of Vhagar, when his mother had tried to harm his sister. “You mistake homage for insult, my wife. Aegon is a common Targaryen name, it doesn’t belong to anyone. Rhaenyra has named her son such to keep the memory of my littlest brother alive, just as you have elected to name our son Aegon to honor the legacy of the Conqueror. She has named her son after me, do you suggest I take offence to that, also?”

The question is rhetoric and his mother knows it. She closes her mouth and avoids any stare directed at her, but his father is not done.

“Our family is united for the first time in years, let us not sully this dinner with pettiness and futile quarrels.”

The children’s fussing is the only thing to be heard for a few seconds until it’s Helaena, surprisingly, that breaks the silence. “We can still visit you, sister, right?”

Oh, how innocently naïve his youngest is.

Rhaenyra turns to her with a soft smile. “Naturally. The doors to my abode shall always be open to any of you, my siblings.”

Young Viserys squeals and wiggles in his mother’s hold, so she relinquishes him to Rhaenys, who until now has remained in the shadows. A maid also comes forward to get little Aegon from his father’s arms. They both complain for a few moments before settling down once again.

As the two women depart after bowing to the King and Queen, Rhaenyra turns her eyes to Aemond. He has to physically stop himself from trembling.

“Brother, I believe you are in my seat.” Her smile is mocking, most likely amused at the pitiful state he knows he’s in. He must look like a lost puppy, but thankfully he has enough presence of mind to stand from the seat and offer it to his sister. He draws back the chair and help her sit with all the grace he possesses. As she sits, he gets a whiff of her perfume and his mind blacks out for a moment.

“Sit, my son. You look awfully pale” the King says, gesturing towards the only chair left.

All three of his siblings have to hide their smiles. Aegon, the little f*cker, winks at him, and even Daemon looks amused. He’s thankful that he has not incurred in the Rogue Prince’s wrath.

“Before we begin” Rhaenyra begins to say, placing the napkin on her legs, “I would like to make an announcement.”

All heads turn to her—he can see his mother tense, fearful of whatever the Princess may say—but the news she shares are not at all preoccupying. At least, not to Aemond, which probably means his mother should worry.

“I have just finished drawing up the contract that officially betroths Jace and Baela, and Luke and Rhaena.”

“What wonderful news!” his father grins and lightly bangs his cup on the table, the only way left for him to mimic the act of clapping hands.

“It gladdens me to no end to see all of my family here and united” he continues, “So I propose a toast. To my children, my brother, and their children in turn. I wish all of you many years of happiness still. To Lucerys, a future Lord of the Tides, I am certain you shall do your heritage justice. To my dear nieces, I am sure that you future will be bright and full of love. And, last but not least, to my heir’s heir. To Jacaerys. I wish you many years under your mother’s wing, so that you may grow to be as spectacular as she is.”

Aemond is not surprised in the least that his father ignores one entire side of his family, but raises his glass nonetheless. A chorus of ‘hear, hear’s accompanies the sound of drinking.

Rhaenyra is the next to raise to her feet and lead another toast. “To my Father, a wonderful monarch and an even more wonderful father. I thank you for the love you have always bestowed upon me. I will endeavor to lead the Realm as expertly as you have and make your legacy of peace justice. To the Queen, who has cared for my father to the best of her abilities. To my sons and daughters, blood or not I love you all so terribly I feel my heart burst with affection every time I lay eyes on you.”

The naked affection in her gaze as she skims her eyes over her progeny confirms her statement, and the love he sees reflected in their eyes makes his own heart ache for a similar affection to be bestowed upon him as well.

“To my husband” Rhaenyra cups Daemon’s cheek, and he kisses her palm, “Thank you for these many years of love, thank you for being the great uncle, father and spouse you have been since I was first laid into your arms as a babe. My twin flame, I know not what I would do without you.”

Aemond is caught unaware when his sister turns to him and his siblings, seated one beside the other and dressed in all black clothes—even Helaena. He’s sure his sister has noticed the detail. “To my dear brothers and sister, despite my grievous mistake of not naming any child after you” she winks at them, “I hope that you’ll do me the great honor of being by my side during my reign. Circ*mstances have made it so we weren’t as close as I would have wished whilst you were babes and children, but now I find myself ravenous for your company.”

Well, sh*t. Aemond doesn’t know what to say. Aegon is no better. Helaena is the one to deliver their response.

“’Tis you who honors us, sister. You shall have us if you desire so” she smiles sweetly.

Oh yes, Rhaenyra can definitely have him, Aemond thinks.

“Poison is powerless in the face of fire” she adds, staring their eldest sister right in the eyes.

Where any other would have been offput by her peculiar words, Rhaenyra’s gaze simply sharpened. Her graceful smile turned into the closest thing to a grin he has ever seen on her lips.

“Indeed it is, sister.” Her words reassure Helaena, it seems, for she relaxes in her seat, slouching and focusing onto the golden leaves painted on the porcelain plates.

“I wish to add one last toast before we all satisfy our hunger” Jacaerys surprisingly says, standing up.

Aemond does a double take when he turns to him. Under the light of the candles, the white creeping into his hair is even more resplendent. Either that, or Rhaenyra’s magic is working at startling speed—both equally possible. If it goes on like that, the young man will be completely Targaryen-looking by the time he reaches his eight and tenth nameday. Similarly, Lucerys as well.

“I wish to thank my mother, late father and stepfather” he raises his glass, “They have kept their heads high in the face of the many difficulties they’ve been faced with and have raised us all with grace, love and strong morals.”

Aemond has to stop a snicker from escaping his mouth when he sees the small smirk on his nephew’s face. Wordplay is a truly wonderful art that his entire family has mastered, it seems.

Rhaenyra is teary eyed, placing a hand over her heart and extending the other to her firstborn.

“Mother, you shall be a wonderful queen and I promise I will endeavor to learn as much as I can at your knee. Your love and gracefulness have allowed all of us” he gestures with his free hand to his brother and stepsisters, “To flourish and pursue our own interests without fear or repression. The love we see every day in your eyes is one I hope to soon bestow upon mine own betrothed, as I’m certain is Lucerys.”

At that, the two twins smile and preen. They slightly shift closer to their respective promised, holding their hand and smiling at each other. Helaena claps enthusiastically as Jacaerys finishes his toast, while Rhaenyra and Daemon are positively beaming with pride and affection.

“Your words warm my old heart” the King wheezes a laugh, “I only regret that I shan’t be able to witness the weddings. I fear I don’t have much time left.”

Aemond is nigh certain of it, but says nothing when he sees the sadness and pain in his uncle and sister’s eyes. She grabs their father’s hand firmly, kissing his uncovered cheek and he has to admire the strength of her stomach. The stench of decay is strongest on his father’s skin, as he has discovered once when he tried to help him into a sitting position some moons ago, and he has to commend her for not being disgusted by it. He understand the love she hold for him, and him her, and so it doesn’t entirely surprise him to see the lengths she would go to make sure their father is loved until his last days.

“Each more day you are with us is a day we are blessed, Father” she kisses his hand this time.

“Hear, hear.” Daemon is the first to raise his glass once again, throwing his brother a fond glance and then ruffling Jacaerys hair affectionately.

All the children laugh at what seems to be a common gesture and Aemond feels jealous. Since Rhaenyra left the Red Keep six long years ago, such laughter and joy has been absent in their dinners. He never experienced the selfless touch of a parent. His mother is not the most tactile of people, always reserved and proper, and every time she happens to touch them is because something has happened: the incident at Driftmark, her anxiety regarding Rhaenyra and the succession, Aegon’s behavior… Not once him or his siblings have felt a caress given simply for excess of affection. As a way of manifesting some of the world-shaking love he can see in Rhaenyra’s eyes as she gets up from her chair.

As the servants start piling food on the table— plates filled with decidedly more luxurious dishes than they’re used to—the Princess elegantly walks around the table, going behind each of her children’s chairs and kissing their cheeks. Lucerys and Rhaena blush, while the other two simply preen under her affections.

Aemond is straight up bewildered when Rhaenyra doesn’t stop with her children, but instead continues her round by slipping behind a stunned Aegon’s chair. She places her hands on his shoulders and bends down to kiss his cheek a couple of times.

“Just how you liked me to do when you were but a toddler” she winks at his flabbergasted face.

When she reaches Helaena, Aemond is as tense as a harp’s string. After her, it’s his turn and he isn’t positive he’ll manage to restrain himself from enveloping her in his arms and never letting go. Not even when he convinces her to spill all her knowledge of their ancestry, not when she comes to regard him with the same love as she does her close family.

He would never let her go.

Surprisingly, Helaena doesn’t shy from their sister’s love, instead offering her cheek to her and kissing her in turn. He is almost certain she also whispered something in her ear, for Rhaenyra suddenly starts smiling like she was just given the most beautiful of gifts.

All thoughts grind to a screeching halt as she squeezes Helaena’s shoulder one last time and proceeds. To him.

Within the edge of his vision he can see his mother’s pale face—her hands are bloody and her cuticles destroyed—but he doesn’t have the heart to care. Not when Rhaenyra’s enticing scent envelops him, not when she bends down—Gods he can almost imagine turning his head and biting at the supple flesh of her exposed chest—and presses her soft so very soft lips to his cheek.

He is glad she has chosen his unscarred side. Not because he fear she would recoil from his mangled flesh like many men and women at court do, he knows she’s too superior to be bothered by such things, but because this way he can see every second of it.

He is positive he looks like a demented green boy, starstruck and amazed by the beautiful woman beside him—beside him, she’s right here, near him—and he gulps down the saliva that has accumulated in his mouth.

“I would love to host all of you at Dragonstone when the weddings will happen” she says, once more returning to her seat. The lovely scent of her hair and skin lingers in his nostrils, making his head swim and his pants tighten.

He shuffles in his seat, attempting to conceal his erection. Aegon, of course, notices and grins like a f*cking idiot. c*nt.

“I am afraid that with the King’s conditions worsening we shan’t be able to leave, despite the joyous occasion” the Queen says, serving herself some peas and roasted duck. The fact that she hasn’t said her prayers speaks well of her mental state, even if the mangled cuticles make it easy for everyone to see.

“Nonsense, Alicent. As I have said, I doubt I will be alive for long and, if by chance the wedding will be celebrated before my demise, I hope that you’ll allow the children to go. You see how they preen under their eldest sister’s attentions, and I have no doubt they shall enjoy Dragonstone. Every Targaryen should visit it at least once. I would beg you to go as well, to enjoy the festivities, but I doubt you’d want to leave me. Your dutifulness is well documented, my wife” he laughs, taking a shaky sip from his cup. Water only, the maesters have decreed that no wine shall cross the King’s lips for fear of the effect it could have on his failing heart.

Alicent doesn’t look happy in the least, but she simply nods with a sour smile. “As you say, my King. Your wisdom is ever present.”

Everyone serves themselves some food—Aemond and his siblings indulging in the fancy food far more than they normally would do—and he notices, delighted, that Rhaenyra and himself seem to have similar tastes. Spiced mushroom pasties, lamb stew, and haddock in tasty sauce. As for desserts, which his mother refuses to consume, Aemond is partial to cherry pie whilst both his sisters heavily favor lemon cakes.

During the dinner, conversation is quiet but pleasant. A few jests from the children coax Aegon into being even more of a court jester than he normally is, but Helaena seems to enjoy the laughter, so Aemond keeps his disapproval of the crass jokes to himself. His mother nearly faints when Daemon makes a not-so-subtle nod to their marital bed, and even Viserys threatens him with gelding if he doesn’t stop which in turn makes Rhaenyra laugh.

When dessert is nearly finished, the King groans and rubs a hand over his masked face. “My family, I fear that my strength is leaving me. I am forced to depart this wondrous dinner sooner than I’d like, in hopes of seeing all of you in the morrow.”

“We are thankful that you’ve stayed with us this long, Your Grace” Rhaena says, smiling at the man.

“Oh please, you can call me uncle. That is what I am, am I not. Just as the boys call me grandsire, I shan’t deprive you of the familiarity.”

“Very well, uncle” Baela says, bowing her head slightly.

A few curls have escaped her updo and Jacaerys tucks them behind her ear with a fond grin.

Rhaenyra stands up herself, “I believe ‘tis time for us to retire, as well. today has been a tiring day and in the morrow we are set to return to Dragonstone and begin the preparations for the wedding. My children” she winks at the eldest couple, “are quite eager to be officially bonded.”

His father laughs, even as Aemond’s heart constricts at the thought of her leaving him so soon. “Reminds me of someone.”

His sister gently swats his hand. “You claim to be weak and yet you still have the energy to make jests at my expenses. How terrible of you.”

“Then I shall retire before I anger you any further, my heart.”

“I shall accompany you, husband” Alicent says, getting up.

The entire table is not standing and ready to leave, each person set to go to their own chambers, and all bow as the King’s carrier is brought out by the servants and guards. His mother doesn’t even bother with polite dismissals or half-hearted well wishes and simply leaves after her husband, green skirts swishing in her wake.

For a split second, Aemond feels pity for her. A lone flame of green against the Fire and Blood of House Targaryen. A speck of green fighting for dominance amidst a sea of black. Even her children and the King himself, normally so concerned with neutrality, donning black clothes.

In the next moment, his pity is gone, swept away by the touch of Rhaenyra’s hand on his shoulder.

“Are you well, brother?”

“Aye, my apologies. I was simply lost in my head” he replies, forcing himself to keep on his aloof mask.

She hums, then looks at her siblings, “Very well. I wish you all a good night, my darlings.”

Aemond melts when Rhaenyra smiles at him—what would he give to have her smile in his neck, as he whispers sweet nothings in her ear, pounding into her with wild abandon.

his thoughts are brutally interrupted by a hand slapping his back. The strength of the blow nearly makes him topple over. If not for the strenuous training he has subjected himself to since he knew what pain and fear were, Aemond wouldn’t have been able to regain his footing before planting face first on the floor.

“My wife” Daemon smirks, his hand still firmly planted on his shoulder, “tells me of your interest in Valyrian culture and magic.”

He gulps down his anxiety. “Indeed, uncle.”

“Very well, then. If you are not too tired,” he says mockingly, “I suppose you shan’t be opposed to visiting our chambers to trade stories. I find myself eager to know what exactly you have learned. Your mother doesn’t seem the type to favor knowledge of such things.”

“My siblings and I all follow the Fourteen Flames” he retorts, proud of the surprised glint that shines in Daemon’s eyes, “We know more than you’d imagine. I am the most knowledgeable of the three, however. Our mother does not know, and she won’t manage to stop us.”

“Then my wife and I will await you eagerly, nephew.”

As he watches his uncle saunter out of the room, interlacing his arm with Rhaenyra’s, her eyes meet his own and Aemond can feel goosebumps on his body as she winks at him.

He knows that she knows of his desires, that he’s fallen into a trap.

He has no desire to ever escape.

Chapter 6: Chapter 6

Chapter Text

Aegon slaps his shoulder. “Seems like you’ll be getting what you always wanted, brother.”

“Or they might just kill me” he mumbles back.

“Nonsense. Sister Rhaenyra would never do something so stupid. Speaking of stupid things” he whistles, “Vaemond really got what he deserved, didn’t he. Who would have thought the little bastards actually have Velaryon blood in their veins. At least, Lucerys does.”

Aemond doesn’t know why he’s still surprised that Aegon cannot see what’s right in front of their eyes.

Even Helaena, strolling beside them as they all slowly traipse to their rooms, sighs tiredly. “She used magic” she says, the Valyrian flowing down her tongue. It’s not nearly as pleasing or smooth as his other sister’s, but the sound soothes his nerves regardless.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“I truly hope our children don’t take after you, Aegon” she grumbles, “She used blood magic to change their appearance. They don’t have Velaryon blood by birth. I suspect she used the blood of her stepdaughters to achieve that, or Rhaenys is a much better actress than we thought.”

Aemond hums, “I don’t think Rhaenys is involved. She has never once shown care for our nephews before, so I suppose her change of heart is to attribute to the discovery of their… supposed true parentage.”

“How sad” Helaena laments.

“What do you mean sad, that’s awesome. Do you think if I ask Rhaenyra to give me a bigger co*ck she’ll manage to do it?” Aegon laughs boisterously, before groaning once he gets an elbow to the ribs.

“Ow, what was that for?”

“Your stupidity and crassness” she giggles.

“I am being abused. I feel unloved.”

Aemond rolls his eye. “How dramatic, brother.”

“I can be as dramatic as I want. You are most likely going to get laid while I am all alone. I cannot risk bringing one of my darling whor*s in my chambers or mother will have a fit, and I can’t go to the Street of Silk for much the same reasons. Poor me, I shall languish in my cold bed all alone.”

Aemond huffs, although his mind is already halfway down a very realistic dream involving Rhaenyra’s teats. He’s so focused that he almost misses when Helaena leans down and whispers something in Aegon’s ear. He immediately lights up, smirking like a fiend, and hoists her up on his shoulder. She barks a laugh as he runs in the direction of his rooms, shouting about hatchlings and warm walls.

How can Aemond be related to such a crass individual is beyond him.

Now that he’s alone with his thoughts, anxiety starts to creep in.

While his siblings are right and Rhaenyra would bever be so reckless as to kill him, she could still do things to him. Unpleasant things.

His steps echo in the empty corridors. All the nobles are subdued after the gruesome petition and even the servants seem hesitant to make too much noise. Without realizing, Aemond has walked all the way to his own rooms. He debates for a moment entering and ignoring his sister’s summons, fearful of what she may fight were she to truly strip him bare of all his defenses. Would she find him worthy? Satisfactory?

The thought lasts but for a fleeting second. His desire for her is stronger than any other emotion. He will not ignore her, and she will see his true worth. Rhaenyra is wise, she will see the truth of the strength of his blood—their blood. She will accept him, and he will be hers.

He steels his bones, taking a deep breath, before turning away from the doors to his rooms. He’s glad that his father never bothered with giving them an assigned guard, for all of this would have been quite embarrassing otherwise.

As he approaches his sister’s rooms he encounters only a few maids, who inform him that the Princess is awaiting. He thanks them with a nod, trying to curb the shaking of his hands, before taking the last steps that place him right in front of the double doors leading to Rhaenyra’s quarters.

He takes a few seconds to clear his face of any lingering tension, wanting to appear as nonchalant as possible. Just as he raises his hand to knock, the doors open by themselves. Or rather, not by themselves, but because his sister is standing on the other side, tugging him inside with a small smirk.

And she’s in a nightgown.

Aemond cannot help but let his eyes skim over her figure. The dark material of the gown is cinched at the waist by a string of pearls and several laces decorate the sleeves and neck. A small golden dragon is stitched right over her heart. Most likely a depiction of Syrax.

But what attracts his attention the most is the appealing slope of her breasts, just barely visible under the dark material but very much there. He hips are wide, and he’s so concentrated on them that he doesn’t see her hand coming closer to his face.

He starts when he feels her fingers touch his chin. Barely a brush of her skin and he feels on fire.

That fire quickly turns to ice as he sees Daemon standing behind her, one arm circling possessively over her waist and his chin on her shoulder. He feels a stab of envy so strong he almost physically recoils, but the gentle hold Rhaenyra has on his chin prevents him from moving away.

“I was wondering why you were taking so much to come” she says, a coy smile on her beautiful face, “Come, let us sit.”

Sha grabs his hand, and he almost combusts. He bites his lip, trying with all his might not to let a silly smile bloom on his face or, worse, his mouth hang open like an idiot. He feels a grim sort of pleasure and vindication when she moves away from Daemon, letting his arm fall limply to his side as she guides Aemond right in front of the fire. They sit on two stuffed chairs, and he looks around.

Where Targaryen heraldry has all but disappeared from the majority of the Keep, Lord Caswell indeed managed to keep this room mostly the same. Tapestries depicting sexual acts with people and dragons alike hang on the walls, dark red curtains block the pale light of the moon, golden chandeliers and candle holders sparkle in the warm light of the fire. His own rooms are lighter, in comparison, but he assumes that after having spent so much time in the grim and magnificent castle of Dragonstone, they’d appreciate the cavernous atmosphere. A dragon’s lair, truly.

“I shall leave you two alone, my love” Daemon murmurs, leaning down to kiss Rhaenyra full on the lips. She doesn’t reject his affection, despite being in the presence of another, but instead leans up and threads her fingers in his hair. She pulls him down, moving her mouth over his with ravenous intent. Aemond is torn between jealousy and arousal, but both things are fitting for the glare he’s sending them—or, more precisely, Daemon.

The man in question hisses and for a second Aemond wonders if he accidentally sent him some sort of curse, but then the two spouses separate. Rhaenyra has blood on her lips, whilst Daemon is nursing a bite mark on his lower lip with his tongue. His eyes are pure amethyst fire as he looks down on Rhaenyra, groaning lowly as he sees her licking his blood off her lips.

Aemond is definitely aroused now.

“My little dragon, you have your claws out tonight” his uncle laughs, caressing her cheek.

She nuzzles in his hand, “You spilled blood today, kepus. It’s only fitting I do the same.”

The man laughs, before kissing her cheek—smearing a bit of blood there too—before nodding at Aemond with a self-satisfied smirk that he’s tempted to wipe off with a fist.

“Have fun, my love.”

“My men will surely keep me well occupied all night, whether that’s going to be fun it’s another matter altogether.”

“Any time there’s bloodshed you have fun, Daemon.”

“Hush you. Concentrate on your guest.”

With those parting words the man, who he just now notices is wearing much less fine clothes than before, slips out from the Princess’ quarters, whistling to himself.

Rhaenyra turns to him. “Apologizes for him. He’s not always this rude. Now tell me, what would you like to know about our culture?”

The two of them settle into pleasant conversation. She, surprisingly, admits to knowing blood magic but he doesn’t have the strength to ask her about her children’s sudden change of appearance. He learns of many bonds, some solely between two people and others to be done in groups; ceremonies to summon the Gods, to receive their blessings, other that ensure pregnancies and others that, in exchange for a sacrifice, guarantee the death of the accursed. He learns of the many intricacies of Dragonstone, of the secrets hidden in its halls and the nods to the ancient glory that was once Old Valyria. He learns more from her in a few hours’ talk than from years spent hunched over books.

“Have I satisfied your curiosity, brother?”

“Yes, sister. I thank you. You are very knowledgeable and generous with what you know.”

She waves a hand in the air, dismissing his praise. “Nonsense. It’s your right to know these things. Your parents have failed to educate you on your culture, but I shall not make the same mistake.”

“Thank you.”

“Although,” she clicks her tongue, leaning forward. “I cannot help but think you still have something to say to me.”

As she scoots the chair closer to Aemond’s, her nightgown falls open slightly, allowing him a glimpse of her creamy bosom. He swallows.

This woman is going to be the death of him.

“I know not what you mean, sister” he murmurs, unable to keep his eye on hers. He fears that if he were to stare in her eyes he’d spill his devotion for all the world to see.

She hums, coming even closer. “I think you do. I think,” she trails a finger down his face, from temple to chin, and he shivers. “I think your mind is going to the same place as when you saw me in the Dragonpit.”

His eye snap to hers, fear and anticipation in his heart alike. She knows. That is undisputable, but what will she do with that knowledge?

“The same place it went when we were under the weirdwood tree, or during the petition, or at dinner.”

She comes so close to him that he can feel her breath on his ear, the r rolling seductively and causing his heart to fasten.

He turns. His face is a mere hair’s breadth away from hers. Their breaths are mingling, even if he is at risk of losing his. She is stunning, so stunning that he cannot help but say the words.

“I want to be yours, and you mine.”

For a second nothing moves, nothing changes. His heart is at danger of beating out of his chest, but even the thumping of it cannot drown out the sound of his panting breathing.

Then.

Her face morphs into a smile of pure conquest. A smile that is all teeth. The smile of a dragon.

He doesn’t have the time to feel anything.

Her lips are on his.

He doesn’t feel their softness, he doesn’t marvel at the slide of her skin of his, he doesn’t nuzzle in her hand as it comes to cradle the injured part of his face.

He launches in the kiss, avidly taking every scrap she gives him and more. He slides his tongue in her mouth, twisting it with hers into a dance he wishes would never stop. She tastes like fire and lemon cakes. His own hand comes to grip her silver mane, keeping her face close to his.

He relinquishes his dominion over her lips once the need of air becomes necessary. He kisses her neck, behind her ear, her exposed collarbone.

Just as he makes to rip the offending material covering her—how dare it come between him and what’s his—her hands on his stop him in his tracks.

He growls, trying once again to remove her clothing, but her hold doesn’t waver. The fire that burns into his veins demands to possess her, to scorch her just as she does him, to burn her until both their ashes fly in the wind together.

“Brother, if we continue, I will have you. I have already seen what one-time adventures do and I have no desire to reap such fruits ever again. If we continue” she breaks off with a moan, as he leans forward to bite and lick at her creamy neck, “If we continue, you will be mine.”

He scoffs, trying to appear unaffected by her offering. It’s everything he has ever desired. “And what about your husband?”

She kisses his nose, huffing a laugh. “When you add kindling, the fire grows. It doesn’t dim.”

He almost growls. So that’s what he is, only kindling. “What will happen when we’ll burn out?”

“I will never let you, darling. I’ll take care of you” she whispers.

Her voice is husky and addictive, and he doesn’t stop her when she begins to slowly take off all his clothes. First the tunic, then the undershirt. Once he’s bare chested, she takes his hand and drags him to the floor. She positions his on his back, laying on the rug in front of the fire. The flames cast deep shadows over her face, and he suspects his as well. They make her look ethereal in a way that he would have never imagined: she looks dangerous, like a goddess of old. Like Syrax or maybe Meleys, for her curves look even more enticing from his position on the floor.

She slides down, kneeling near his hips, and gently tugs off his boots. His breath is coming out in quick, loud pants, and he would almost be ashamed if it weren’t for the lovely smile she bestows him, caressing his cheek and leaning down to kiss the hollow of his throat.

How bizarre, Aemond manages to think, one moment she looks like a seductress, a demoness come to make me sin, and the next she is sweet like a mother. Dragons are complicated creatures.

The feel of fabric on his heated skin is wholly offensive, but his sister thankfully makes quick work of both his trews and smallclothes, leaving him completely bare to her ravenous gaze.

How comforting it feels to be desired so evidently. His previous fears all but disappear once he sees the fire in her eyes. He almost feels the lick of the flames on his skin, enveloping in their burning embrace. He feels complete, here under Rhaenyra’s control, under her appreciative gaze. He hopes he makes her happy, makes her proud to have him as her brother. There is certainly no doubt about how much he desires her, for his hard co*ck—hard, throbbing and leaking on his belly—bares his passion to her amethyst eyes, now dark enough to look almost black.

“What a beautiful boy. Such a wonderful specimen.”

He preens at that, daring to place his hand on her strong thigh. She’s still covered by the nightgown, and he cannot keep the excitement out of his words. “Will you show yourself to me, sister?”

She bares her teeth at him in a predatory smile, leaning down so that he can see her cleavage, but not yet everything. She nibbles at his lip. “Won’t you say please?”

He groans, his co*ck twitching and a glob of precum falling on his belly. It doesn’t escape Rhaenyra’s notice, of course, and she giggles like a little girl before proceeding to collect his fluids with her finger and popping it into her mouth.

Oh, f*ck.

The two siblings moan in unison. Aemond gasps, bucking his hips in the air in search of friction that never comes. “Please, sister. Please, please” he groans out.

“Well, since you asked nicely” she pecks his temple.

She leans away from him, and he has to resist the urge to tug her close once again. Aemond needs her close, he needs to be inside her, around her, he wants her running in his blood.

Rhaenyra smiles coyly at him before beginning to slide the nightgown off her shoulders. With every bit of skin revealed, Aemond’s mind grows more foggy, more entrenched in the magical aura that surrounds his beloved sister.

First, her collarbones, then the lovely curve of her shoulders—wide and sturdy and fitting for a future queen—the top of her breasts. His eyes are fixed on her chest, bot caring about the rudeness of the fact, when she finally blesses him with the sight of her bare chest.

Her teats are even more delectable than he would’ve imagined. Their fullness in enough to make his mouth water, but the dark pink nipple, big and pebbled, is what breaks his self-control. Before she can even begin to bare the rest of her to him, he launches towards her.

With a small yelp, Rhaenyra tumbles to the floor, encased in his arms. She laughs delightedly before moaning as he takes one of her nipples in his mouth, sucking on it like a starved babe. Her hands tangle in his hair, now mussed, and she pushes her chest more firmly in his mouth.

He barely realizes that she has taken off his eye patch, and for a moment he panics, afraid of her reaction to the sapphire encased in his flesh. He turns his head, hiding in in the crook of her arm, biting gently at the side of her breast. She doesn’t let him.

Her hands grip his mane more firmly, forcing him to relinquish his hiding place and look at her.

In the back of his mind he knows she wouldn’t be disgusted by his scars, but the tangible proof of his incompleteness is another thing altogether. Yet, she exceeds his expectations. She is not disgusted, as he feared, nor triumphant as she looks upon the damage her son did to him. Instead, her eyes are full of wonder, admiration and—inexplicably, something he is half-convinced he’s simply imagining—love.

“Oh, my sweet brother. How beautiful you are” she murmurs, cradling his injured cheek in her hands.

He melts, tears spring to his eye and he’s surprised beyond belief when he feels wetness over his scar. Since the day he’d been mutilated, he’s never shed a tear, never allowed himself any weakness, but now in the arms of his eldest sister he feels safe. He is home, where he was always supposed to be.

She doesn’t wipe his tears, instead she tastes them with her lips. Maybe she’s as eager as he is to be one with him. He wants to give everything to her, and so he shall.

“Let me worship you, sister” he murmurs, kissing her temple and licking the seam of her lips.

With a hum, she allows him entrance, opening her mouth and letting their tongues tangle together once more. His hands settle on her teats, kneading the soft flesh and pinching her nipples. Sweet moans fill the silence along with their panting breaths and Aemond marvels at the beauty of the sound. He wishes to hear nothing else but this for the rest of his days.

Rhaenyra’s hands are not idle, going to her hips to fully remove her nightgown. He detaches himself from her teat with a pop, and he basks in the beauty that is his sister. Full hips, strong thighs, a pouch of mouth-watering fat right where her womb is, the thick thatch of white hair over her c*nt, and silver stretch marks as proof of the life-creating power she wields.

“Beautiful” he breathes out, the Valyrian marking his words as even more sacred and true.

She smiles placidly, pleased like the vain creature his mother always condemned her to be. But how can she not be vain when this is the body the Gods have blessed her with?

“You flatter me, brother.”

“I only speak the truth.”

She laughs, the sound tinkling and joyful, before she pushes him back to lay down. She throws a log over the dimming fire before coming to straddle him right above the waist. She settles her full weight over him and he moans when her juices join his on his belly. She’s positively dripping.

His co*ck twitches, hard enough to hurt, and she smirks as she feels it bounce against her toned arse.

“You are quite eager” she winks at him.

“You are quite eager yourself, sister” he shoots back, grinding his hips upwards to rub on her c*nt. She moans loudly at the friction, placing her hands on his chest to steady herself. “Feel how wet you are” he whispers, dipping two fingers in between her legs.

He massages her nether lips for a moment, enjoying her quivering and moaning, before placing both hands on her thighs. Rhaenyra deserves to be worshipped, and that’s what he shall do.

She looks momentarily confused as he lifts her up from his lower belly, but then groans with appreciation when he slides further down so that her c*nt is right above his face. He can smell her arousal and it makes him dizzy.

Aemond tugs her closer, and she settles her full weight on his face with a loud hiss. She is not afraid to hurt him, and he’s most certainly not complaining. One of her hands tangles once again in his hair whilst the other wraps around his weeping co*ck. He groans at the pressure, and the vibrations make her buckle over his face.

He quickly gets to work, licking her labia and the small bud right above her opening. Her keening sounds make his co*ck weep, and every time she manages to move her hand he doubles his efforts to make her shiver. The bucking of her hips makes it difficult to hit that spot every time, so he hooks her thighs with his arms, keeping her still and pressed against his face.

“Aemond” she grunts, trying to move away from the incessant movements of his tongue. He hums as an answer, making her groan in pleasure. His huffing laugh earns him a light slap on the balls, making him jolt, white-hot pleasure flashing through his body, and bite her engorged nub.

She screams as her org*sm courses through her body, thighs shaking and clamping around his head. He is enveloped by her smell, flesh and taste. He’s in heaven. Her sweet juices run down his chin as he tries and fails to lap up everything. He doesn’t want to waste a drop, but is it really a waste if the excess marks his face?

He doesn’t have time to realize what happens next, before she shoots on her feet—legs trembling still with the aftermath of her climax—and kneels back, this time in between his knees. Her hands skim over his legs, caressing the pale hair there and kneading his thighs. The groan Aemond makes is even louder than hers as she lowers her mouth and takes him into her mouth in one fell swoop.

“f*ck, sister” he moans, trembling with the effort of restraining himself from pounding her throat like he does in his fantasies. She’s not some whor* he can treat as he likes. She’s his sister, his beloved dragon, and she deserves only the best.

Rhaenyra hums, the vibration going to his head and making his blood boil. Her nails dig in his arsecheeks, drawing him closer. She takes him to the hilt, her nose buried in his pubic hair and tongue slithering out to wet the base of his co*ck and balls.

It takes everything Aemond has to stop himself from spilling down her throat when she hollows her cheeks, sucking him deeply and swallowing around him. She seems determined to have a taste of him, but he’s even more determined to let only her c*nt taste his seed.

Another hum and his hand goes to her head without any conscious thought, pushing her more firmly against his groin. She gags around him, saliva mixed with his own precum leaking all over, yet ‘tis she herself that grips his arse more tightly, burying herself as close as she can be. He gives her what she apparently desires, tugging her back until only the tip of his co*ck is left in her mouth. For a fraction of a second their eyes meet and the lusty fire he sees reflected in her gaze makes his own desire flare. He drives his hips upwards, shoving his entire length in her throat. The squelching sound she makes is music to his ears, as is their cacophony of moans.

A few thrusts won’t hurt, after all, he thinks.

Rhaenyra seems happy to take his co*ck down her throat, humming and licking with every thrust he makes. Diving in her sweet mouth and seeing her lips puffy and distended by his co*ck is making Aemond feel like the most powerful being in this world. Not even a blessing from the Gods could rival the happiness he feels right now, his co*ck buried deep in his sister’s throat and her positively ravenous for it.

Her teats bounce with every snap of his hips, and he sits up on his elbows, grabbing one and twisting the nipple. He makes the conscious effort to raise one leg so that his shin rubs against her c*nt, and immediately she begins humping it. The slide of her wet c*nt over his flesh along with the suction around hic co*ck make him almost tumble over the edge, but he contains himself. He wants to spill in her c*nt, and he doesn’t know if he’ll have the strength for multiple rounds considering the ravenous nature of his sister. He’s quite certain that she’ll wring every last drop of energy from him, leaving him with nothing but her sweet c*nt on his mind.

He grips her silver mane more firmly in his hand, ripping her off his co*ck despite her valiant struggles. She gasps for air, leaving sharp nail mark on his hips and he admires her dazed expression. He did this. ‘Tis he that has her slobbering and ravenous for him. It seems only fitting, since he’s still wet with her own juices.

He tugs her up until she’s face-level with him. “I’ll spill only in your c*nt, dear sister” he murmurs, before conquering her mouth once more. Or perhaps, ‘tis her that lets him in. No matter, the only thing that’s relevant in the sweet taste of her tongue, and the slide of their hands on each other’s bodies. Each of them can taste themselves in the other’s mouth, and when Rhaenyra pushes him back to lay completely on the rug, he lets her, never relinquishing his place attached to her lips.

She settles on his hips, his co*ck nestled right between her lower lips but not yet inside. He whines in her mouth when she starts grinding herself on him, the slick from her c*nt dripping all over their lower body.

“Rhaenyra, please. I won’t be able to resist much longer” he sobs, desperate to fill her with his seed, to mark her as his.

“Then don’t. I will be the one to decide what to do, my darling. You follow me” she whispers back, her voice barely audible over the pounding in his head, which is remarkably in time with each of her movements.

He whines, hips bucking, and a scream leaves him when the action makes it so the head of his co*ck slips inside her. She yelps as well, raking her nails over his chest and throwing her head back. He’s sure he’ll be mangled beyond reason after this but he’ll bear the marks with pride, for not many can survive the power of a dragon.

“I need you, sister” he pleads with her, his hands gripping her hips in a desperate attempt at containing both himself and her bucking.

“Then you shall have me, my sweet” she breathes out, reaching down with a hand and pushing him inside in one fell swoop.

And just like that, Aemond is in heaven. The slickness of her c*nt makes the action seamless, and he finds himself enveloped by her walls, his co*ck cradled and milked by her scorching flesh. The heat is nearly unbearable. He knows that Targaryens run hotter than any other, but it burns in the best possible way. It burns his insecurities, his doubts, his ambitions and his desires. It burns everything until the only thing on his mind—until his entire world—is what lays between Rhaenyra’s legs.

She looks regal astride him. Her hair is messy, her cheeks red, and her chin is smeared with spit and the combined fluids they rubbed off each other’s faces, and yet he doesn’t think he’s ever seen a more dignified thing in his entire nine and ten years of life.

Actually, he doesn’t think he’s ever lived before.

“Oh Gods” she moans, her hands going up to cradle her bosom.

“You are a God, my queen” he breathes out without thinking. He realized what he said only after she stills over him.

For a second he panics, worried he has somehow ruined everything, that he has crossed a line, but then she attacks him.

With a feral growl, she dives forward, jostling his co*ck still embedded in her body, and devours him. She kisses and sucks marks all over his chest, his neck, his face, and he’s already more dead than alive, but then she starts moving.

Her wide hips raise and the friction makes him see white, but then she drops down and oh gods, I am dead. I am dead and this is heaven.

The rhythm she dictates is positively punishing. His mind cannot wrap around one thrust that she’s already halfway through another, her c*nt squeezing him with strangling strength and milking the very essence of his person out from his co*ck.

He won’t last long—f*cking hells, it’s a blessing from Syrax that he’s already lasted this much—but he’s determined to make her come once again. He sneaks one hand in between her legs, while the other grabs the back of her neck to bring her down into a ferocious kiss. He regrets having to muffle her beautiful moans, but the clapping of skin against skin is erotic enough to make up for it.

He presses the heel of his hand on her bundle of nerves—a trick taught to him by one of the whor*s his brother tried to tempt him with—rubbing it gently but firmly, whilst he devours her mouth with his own. One of her hands is on his shoulders whilst the other is grabbing his hair, keeping him close to her. Their teeth clash during their kiss, and it seems like they are trying to devour one another. She bites his lip after a particularly hard bounce, much like she did with their uncle, and her sharp teeth draw blood.

He gasps, tasting iron and what his brain inexplicably but immediately associates with magic.

“What are you doing to me” Aemond gasps, stopping her movements to tug her close. The feel of her plentiful teats on his chest is magnificent, and he squeezes her even closer.

“I am making you mine, brother” she hisses in his ear. She kisses his neck, nibbling a trail from his shoulder to the back of his neck, where her hand still rests. She squeezes the muscles of her c*nt, making him see stars.

Suddenly, once his ability to think returns for a fleeting moment, the pieces click together.

“Blood demands blood” he gasps, unable to stop his hips from bucking.

Her head falls back at the pleasurable sensation and Aemond prays that the Gods grant him leave to make her feel like this every day for the rest of time.

“Yes” she hisses, “You are mine now. All mine.”

He knows that they are not married. He knows this, yet he cannot stop himself from letting his mind wander. He wishes to f*ck her in every position, every surface of this damned Keep and Dragonstone too. To forever feel the scorching heat of her c*nt around his co*ck, to f*ck her full of his children, again and again and again and as many times as she would let him.

“I am yours” he growls, gripping her by the shoulders and twisting their position until she is the one on her back, splayed under him like an offering, “But you are mine as well.”

Her answering feral smile twists quickly into a gasp of pleasure as he starts pounding into her, the slap of skin against skin, their combined moans and calls for more harder deeper create a symphony that will forever be imprinted in Aemond’s brain.

He doesn’t last long. With her legs around his hips, their tongues tasting each other and her nails in his shoulders, he spends his seed deep inside her. With a hand, he reaches down to rub her bud, sending her over the edge with a deep grunt. Each spasm of her c*nt milks more of his seed and he feels his very self being sucked from him. he feels like she has absorbed him, everything that makes him what he is now belongs to her. Her arms encircling him feel like the embrace of a mother, the maws of a dragon, creation and destruction at the same time.

He stays inside her long after he has finished spilling, simply resting his weight on her and nuzzling his face in her mussed hair, one hand on her arse keeping her thigh hooked over him and the other on her teat. Her own hands aren’t idle. They caress every bit of his back, try to fix his hair and soothe the bloody marks made by her nails, they skim over his hips, his face, barely tickling the scar on his face. One of her thumbs slips inside his mouth, pressing down on his tongue and he moans, sucking the digit like a babe.

The quiet is jarring after the vigorous sound of their coupling, but he cannot find in in himself to ruin the atmosphere. It reminds him of the silence of a temple, of the reverence reserved for the most sacred of Gods. How fitting that he feels like this with his body in her arms and his co*ck in her c*nt.

Aemond almost starts when Rhaenyra starts humming under her breath. He raises his head, but she pushes him back down, placing her hand on his eye and closing it. The humming becomes singing and he recognizes some sort of Valyrian lullaby, talking about honor and bonds forged with blood. Quite fitting, he admits.

Her hands move in bizarre movements on his back, but they are relaxing like nothing he’s ever felt. The combined sensation of her caresses, the lack of energy after their ferocious f*cking and the sweetness of her song bring him closer and closer to the realm of sleep.

‘Tis only with his last conscious thought before unconsciousness claims him that he realizes she’s drawing runes on his back.

He cannot find it in himself to care.

Chapter 7: Chapter 7

Chapter Text

He wakes up again in the middle of the night, rolling over the soft mattress he doesn’t remember dragging himself to and accidentally jostling Rhaenyra. She is sleeping beside him, both of them naked and bearing the marks of the previous activities. He feels the scratches from her nails burn on his back.

She stretches. “You snore” she mumbles, turning to face him.

He is mesmerized by her. It mustn’t have passed too much time for a few embers are still lit in the fireplace and in their low light his sister looks like a creature born of fables. Her moonlight hair is long and messy around her face, forming a halo over the linen sheets, her lips are still red and swollen from their kisses, as are her nipples.

Laying on her side, she reaches one hand out for him. She catches a strand of his hair and curls it around her finger before bringing it to her mouth and kissing it. He can feel his co*ck harden, something that she doesn’t miss.

“Are you so ravenous for me, sweet brother?” she teases.

Despite the fact that her presence clouds his senses nearly all the time, he still understands what she’s aiming for.

His sister is a vain, prideful and spoiled creature. Always seeking gifts, compliments and attention from all that surround her, deeming it her due.

He won’t disappoint her.

He feels his bones creak as he slots his body over hers, his co*ck leaking between the flesh of her thighs and his head nuzzling the side of her neck. What he thought to be perfume seems to be her natural scent, for it’s still present and strong even now. The heady fragrance makes his head spin, but he concentrates on his task.

“My beautiful queen” he purrs, remembering how pleased she was by the appellative, “I shall never be sated of your body, for no mere man could ever hope to be able to resist the nectar that spills from between your legs, the sweet essence that surrounds you like the most seductive of clouds, the sublime shape of your hips and teats. I envy my younger self, for he had the honor of suckling the syrupy ambrosia that is your milk.”

With everyone of his words she looks more and more pleased. Her smile grows feline, the aura surrounding her turns positively smug. He is proud of being enough for his comments to cause such a reaction.

His sister might be the most vain of the two, but Aemond needs some words of his own for his peace of mind. “I am sure many men have appreciated such delightfulness.”

In his addled mind, he doesn’t recognize the hidden meaning in his words, so he’s left quite surprised when her hand roughly grips his hair and rips his head away from the warmth of her skin.

“You mean to call me a whor*?” she snarls, rage swirling in her violet eyes.

He stammers for a second. “Of-of course not, my queen. I merely meant to say that surely many have commented on your beauty. Nothing else, I swear.”

Her pleased smile returns and she licks her lips, but she still has his hair in a fiery grip. His scalp is starting to hurt and his neck is bent at a painful angle, but he ignores it all in favor of staring at the beautiful woman in front of him.

He dares the words. “How sublimely lethal you are, Rhaenyra. I fear you have ensnared me.”

Her grin is as sharp as Valyrian steel. “Oh, my dear, that was my intention all along” she says, before surging up and claiming his lips once more.

‘Tis mid-morning when Aemond wakes for the second time. The fireplace is cold and empty of embers and ashes alike.

He is confused and bone tired. The memories of the earlier part of the previous night are imprinted in his mind, yet whatever happened after is less clear. He remembers their shared conversation and the nearly damning mistake he committed, but all that happened after that is a blur. Yet something definitely happened, for the ache in his lower parts and the new scratches and bruises on his back, neck and chest, and even some in the inner parts of his thighs, can be only the product of Rhaenyra’s hands and mouth.

He strains his memory to recall something, anything, about the night, but nothing concrete surfaces. Only a vague sensation of something being simultaneously pulled from him and closed around the very air in his lungs.

What the f*ck did she do to me?

He groans, stretching his arms and legs, ignoring the pulsing of his co*ck. It’s not hard but it’s definitely aching for the warmth of Rhaenyra’s c*nt. Judging by the redness of his balls and the dryness of his throat, she must’ve drained him quite thoroughly.

He gingerly gets up from the bed. He realizes with a start that, when before he was in Rhaenyra’s chambers, he’s now in his. Did she have him carried here? Who carried him? Someone must’ve seen something…

Before his panic can get the best of him, he spies over his private desk a rolled-up parchment over what he discovers are his neatly folded clothes from the night before and his eyepatch. He slips it on and picks up the message, unrolling it. He doesn’t immediately recognize the calligraphy, but the words leave no doubt as to who wrote the message.

Much to Aemond’s surprise, it’s not Rhaenyra.

Dear nephew, I thank you for leaving my wife so well satisfied. I had doubts about your ability to do so, but it seems I’ve been proven wrong. I hope you’ll remember the wonderful gift she has bestowed upon you when the time comes. I have carried you myself to your rooms, taking care of staying out of view. Although it would have been amusing to see how your delightful mother and grandfather would have reacted, my wife forbid me to cause scandals and I am powerless to resist her. A feeling I’m sure we share. Despite my dislike of half of your heritage, I am glad you enjoyed yourself. Judging by the moans and shouts coming from your other siblings’ rooms, you were not the only one with a fruitful night.

Aemond is flabbergasted. f*cking hells, he thinks on loop.

Daemon saw him in bed, naked with his wife. He’s not dead. He f*cked Daemon Targaryen’s wife, with him fully aware of the fact, and he’s still breathing.

His mind is still trying to wrap around the fact when the doors to his rooms are thrown open. His heart is in his throat as he reaches for a sword that’s not there. Hells, he’s still naked!

“Brother where the f*ck—what the hell happened to you?”

Aegon hastily closes the door behind him, still gaping at the naked form of his younger brother.

“Aegon, you stupid f*ck, what are you doing here?” Aemond snarls, roughly grabbing his clothes to start dressing himself.

His brother, however, seems to have different ideas for he rips the material out of his hands with surprising strength. He bursts out laughing, looking at him with disbelieving eyes. “I’ll be damned! I had my fun with Helaena last night but it seems Rhaenyra did even worse with you. Or, I guess, better. Depends on the point of view.”

“Shut up” he grumbles, trying to cover his privates with his hands. He doesn’t want the sacred night he has shared with Rhaenyra to be sullied by his brother’s eyes.

“No, you shut up. She clawed you up good! And look how your legs tremble, you look like a newborn fawn, brother” he grins, “How many times did she make you come?”

“I am not going to tell you, you cretin. Now get out.”

His brother is certainly unsuited for anything even remotely resembling responsibility, but he’s not as stupid as many think. His eyes widen as he spies the blush taking over Aemond’s cheeks.

He hoots, “Seven hells, you don’t even remember. I might need to ask my sister a few pointers if she’s this good. I have a few boys I’d like to see thoroughly debauched.”

“Quiet” Aemond snaps, finally succeeding in getting on his smallclothes. “I won’t tell you sh*t and neither will she.”

“I wasn’t asking you anything. Did you even do something or did she do all the work? Please, do not embarrass my good name with your poor performance.”

“What good name? Your name is the same as mine, hers and the f*cking royalty of this continent. It is you who’s sullying the Targaryen name with your perversion.”

Aegon purses his mouth, unconvinced. “Meh. Helaena seemed to enjoy my perversion last night. And you still haven’t answered my question.”

“I do not want to hear a single thing about you and Helaena, for the love of the Gods. And I am not answering you.”

He pulls up his trousers, wincing at the friction of the material over his still sensitive skin. Aegon, huffing and pouting, throws him the rest of his clothes. Aemond makes sure every mark is covered by the black material lest someone sees.

He notices that Aegon is dressed in black as well. he stares him up and down for a few seconds. “Why are you dressed like that?”

“Ah. Yes. I was coming here to berate you” Aegon, the theatrical c*nt he is, clears his voice and begins his tirade. “You idiot, I understand you were c*ntstruck, but you could have still bothered to be awake by the time Rhaenyra flew away.”

Aemond turns his head so fast that the bones of his neck crack. “What?!”

“Yes, exactly. Rhaenyra and her family—babes and Rhaenys included—all flew off earlier this morn, seen off by only Helaena and I. Mother was caring for the King and Otto was somewhere plotting his treason, most likely.”

She left. Rhaenyra left.

He is aware that she had said she would depart in the morning, but he naively hoped she would stay. Stay with him, in the Keep.

“Oh, don’t look so crestfallen brother. She gave us a message to give you. Helaena has it because she didn’t trust me not to read it.”

“Who, Rhaenyra or Helaena?”

“Both.”

He barks a laugh, moderately cheered up. Besides, he thinks, no one will stop me from going to visit her, now that I know Daemon doesn’t mind my presence in Rhaenyra’s bed. And in her c*nt.

“I would suggest you freshen up some more” Aegon claps him on the back, “I can see you thinking about whatever wonders are in our lovely eldest sister’s legs. I’ll hold off mother, just make haste.”

“c*nt.”

“Yes, that’s what I meant when I said ‘wonders’” he smirks.

Aemond sends him a gesture that would make their mother throw a fit. “You stupid cretin.”

“If I’m a cretin you’re a stuck-up bitch.”

“f*ck off, idiot.”

“c*nt.”

“Perverted arse.”

“Is that supposed to be an insult?”

Aemond throws him out.

The King dies five moons later, two moons before Jacaerys and Baela’s wedding.

News from his sister’s dwelling have been scarce, but whatever letter managed to be delivered to his rooms was dearly cherished.

Aemond has them all in a pile, right beside his altar, from the first she left him when she departed the Keep to the last one, sent a sennight prior.

Brother, I apologize for leaving you like this, but my children’s wedding is steadily approaching and I need to organize it to the best of my abilities. The marriage of a future king is no small matter, as I’m sure you understand. Moreover, I found myself wishing for the comforts of our House’s ancestral home. I thank you for the wonderful night you have given me. I shall carry it with me for the rest of my days. I shall have other missives sent to you. Don’t bother replying, I would rather hear every word fall from your sweet lips rather than reading them on paper. My husband and I send you our well-wishes. With love, your sister

Sweet Aemond, a whole moon has passed since our last meeting. I hope you are doing well, our siblings as well. My sons are all growing up to be proud and handsome, while my daughters are steadily feeding the fire that burns in their veins like the Targaryens they are. They all grow up so fast. Rhaena has made wonderful progress with Grey Ghost, who she has renamed Aegarax. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you who that is. In a few moons I’ll have the invite for Jace and Baela’s wedding sent. I dearly hope you’ll be able to attend. I send you love. Your sister, Rhaenyra

Brother mine, I hope all is well at the Red Keep. Things are certainly progressing here, but the worst has passed. These past two moons since my last message have been quite taxing on me. The wedding planning, the storm that destroyed part of our small village, Joffrey finally mounting his dear Tyraxes… I am well now, though, so please do not worry as I’m sure you are doing right now, the dear boy you are. Many things have changed in our lives here at Dragonstone, and I’m sure they’ll soon change for you as well. My girls have been hounding me with questions about pregnancy and childbirth, asking to see and touch my belly. They seem enamored with my silverly stretch marks. Although, I believe only you and Daemon have reached the levels of devotion that make my heart throb. I wish you pleasant dreams and fruitful days. With affection, Rhaenyra

Beloved Aemond, I am happy to inform you that I have sent the invitations to the wedding of my eldest children, Baela and Jacaerys. I know you hold no particular love for them, but I’d be delighted if you could attend. It will be a wonderful chance to try out some foods you cannot get in King’s Landing. Lately, I find I have developed a taste for swordfish and anchovies—something not so commonly served in the Keep. I also adore the fruits Daemon went to buy for me all the way to Pentos. They are called dragon fruit, can you believe? I wish you were here with me, basking in the magical atmosphere of our ancestral keep, but alas I shall have to wait until the wedding. Love, your sister

He remembers every word of each message. He read them so many times he could recite them even in his sleep.

Despite his obsession over Rhaenyra, however, he is not blind to what is happening right under his nose.

He can tell that Otto, regardless of the public near humiliation that was the debacle with Vaemond Velaryon, has not been idle. His grandfather trusts him, considers him the weapon that will tip the scales in their favor, and so that’s how Aemond came to learn just how deep the treasonous plots run.

Lannisters, Baratheons and Hightowers, along with House Bracken, Wylde and the pitiful remains of House Strong, all declared for Aegon’s claim. Never mind that his brother doesn’t want anything to do with the throne. Plans to split the treasury and smuggle away two thirds of it have been made—a way to ensure that, even if the city were to fall, his grandfather said, the whor* of Dragonstone would have no way of using the gold of the King. Aemond nearly decked Otto on the spot. They also wanted to recall Daeron from Oldtown and send to war him as well.

That, thankfully, is easy to prevent. His brother in Oldtown has kept in contact with all his full-blooded siblings, and so with just a few coded letters sent from Helaena, Aegon and Aemond have ensured that he wouldn’t participate in any conflict.

“He’s late” Helaena says, catching Aemond’s attention.

She is pacing in his rooms, where they’ve been since the news of their father’s death, two days ago, have been delivered in secret by loyal servants. Alicent, thankfully, has been to worried with her plots to care for her younger children, caring only for the oldest. Pity that he’s also with them, or at least should be.

Men loyal to his grandfather have been dispatched to find Aegon to secure him until the time to place him on the throne arrives. They’ve sent him to stay hidden in the same place where they’ve put all Targaryen heraldry, and he should’ve been back two hours ago.

“What if they’ve caught him?” she worries.

He gets up from before his altar, set in prayer, and goes to take her hand. She doesn’t recoil from his touch. “He’ll be well. he might simply have taken a detour to avoid the guards searching for him. Worry not, sister.”

Sure enough, a few minutes later a winded Aegon stumbles in the room wearing his servant disguise. “This wig is terribly itchy.”

“You are late” hisses Helaena.

“I know, but I had things to do.”

“What would be more important than ensuring you don’t end up on the throne?” Aemond snarks.

“Ensuring Rhaenyra does. As I was coming here I heard Otto and Orwyle talking. Remember the lovely message we’d been trying to send to Rhaenyra? They’ve intercepted it.”

Helaena gasps. “No.”

“Yes. They don’t suspect us but they’re starting to hasten their preparation. They want me on the throne before seven days have passed since Father’s death. For symbolic sh*t or something.”

“We still have five days then, brother. Helaena can manage to send another raven. This one will surely be delivered.”

He shakes his head. “Why do you think it took me so long to come here? I followed them. They have the rookery on lockdown and only grandfather’s ravens can go out.”

“f*ck” Helaena curses, shocking the two men. They’d never heard her so much as say anything rude to another person, never mind cussing.

“How will we alert Sister?” she asks.

“Grandsire said that they have the rookery and all the city gates secured, the port is closely guarded as well.”

“What about the Dragonpit?”

“How would we manage to sneak away on dragonback? You cannot leave the Keep or you’d have to leave the children here and Aegon cannot risk going out too much. Moreover, the moment he steps foot in the dragonpit and requests to see Sunfyre, surely mother or Otto will know immediately. My Vhagar doesn’t even reside in the pit because of her size.”

“But you could go outside” Helaena exclaims, lighting up. “You could tell whoever questions you that you are going to the Pit to check if Aegon hasn’t hid there, and then slink off to Vhagar. You’d first fly away from the Keep and then bound back to Dragonstone. Even if they were to notice you, what will they do?”

“If the city gates are manned by men loyal to grandsire they’ll never let me pass. They’d never risk a prince escaping at such a critical time” Aemond laments.

“But not all men in the city are loyal to grandsire” their sister grins.

Ser Luthor Largent is nearly as big as Ser Harwin was, but his eyes are much less gentle as they run over Aemond’s cloaked form.

“And why would I help you, Prince?” The title is spit with disdain. Aemond knows that none of the Goldcloaks particularly care about the children of the King born of his second marriage, so he doesn’t take it to heart. His mission is too important to let petty fights hinder its success.

“Because I seek to aid your Prince and his wife, the Rightful Queen.”

The loyalty of the Goldcloaks to the Rogue Prince has never wavered, not even after so many years with a different commander at their helm. The only one with no such devotion is probably Gwayne Hightower, but that is to be expected.

“And how am I to believe that?”

“You can either help me, or let treason stand. I assure you, I will see my eldest sister claim her birthright. The only choice you have to make is whether, once the crown is safely resting on her head, I shall have to tell her that her ascension was facilitated or opposed by those supposedly loyal to her husband and herself by extension.”

The man scrutinizes him with dark eyes. Aemond meets his stare head on or, at least, as much as he can with the heavy cloak covering his white hair and a makeshift bandage that covers the eyepatch over his eye, otherwise too recognizable. Helaena took care of the disguise herself.

“Very well. You better not f*ck this up” the gruff voice of the man is nearly lost in the loudness of the brothel where they’re conversing.

He grabs the elbow of one of the other Goldcloaks and whispers something in his ear, before leaving him to the whor* on his lap. Then, he grabs Aemond and drags him outside from a side entrance. They find themselves in a dark alley. Only a few men, already piss-drunk despite it being late afternoon, are laying around, some whor*s looting their pockets for any leftover coin. Good for them.

The man lets him go, motioning for him to follow. He does, and he’s led away from Flea bottom all the way to what the knight tells him is the East Barrack of the Goldcloaks.

“The Dragon Gate is not too far, I will accompany you and distract the c*nts guarding the gate. Your only job” he looks sternly at the younger man, “Is not to get caught. I will not help you if that happens. The moment you’re out of the city, you’re on your own.”

“Thank you, ser. I shall not forget this” Aemond promises.

“Worry not” he chuckles, “For if you do, I shall remind you. Now let us make haste.”

By the grace of the Fourteen, the plan goes off without a hitch. He’s quite amazed by the filthy words spewing from Ser Largent’s mouth, insults and jests alike, and the four guards—all dressed in white-grey or green—apparently share his amazement for they all turn their attention away from their assignment in favor of berating the knight. The Prince slips out without struggle.

The walk to his Vhagar is a long one and the sun is nearly entirely set as he reaches her. No matter, Aemond thinks, the darkness will only aid me.

He knows both his brother and sister are watching for any sign of his departure, the only ones looking upwards instead of down for everyone else is still busy with manhunt for Aegon. When the sun sets, his brother will go into hiding once more, protected by all the interference his sister will be able to run.

Aemond climbs the ropes to the saddle, settling and chaining himself with haste. “My dear, we must fly as swift as the wind. We must go to our Queen” he tells his beloved mount, tugging on their connection to wake her up.

The old dragon takes a minute to stir but takes flight just as fast. Her scales reflect the dying light of the sun as they fly north, away from the keep, and he directs her to climb even higher, piercing the coat of clouds gathered in the skies. Usually, Aemond enjoys greatly flying. It’s a luxury he was denied for many years and now that he has the powerful wings of Vhagar to gift him this freedom he oft indulges. Now, however, all delight and cheer is suffocated under a heavy cloak of urgency and worry.

His mount, the smart old girl that she is, seems to understand the gravity of the situation, for she flies faster than she ever has. Not even when she was testing his worthiness as rider, that night so long ago, has she flied with such speed.

He passes over Driftmark on his way to his sister’s seat and decides to lower his altitude to breach the clouds. He knows Rhaenys and Corlys are smart people, and they’d no doubt understand the reason for his presence. If they don’t, he’s sure they won’t hesitate to investigate. As he planes lower, he sees Meleys lounging on one of the hills surrounding High Tide. The dragon raises her head and roars in greeting.

“Wake them up, my love” he tells Vhagar.

He can physically feel the breath she takes before letting out the loudest roar he’s ever heard. His ears ring for a few seconds, but as he circles high over the isle he can see fires being lit and the keep waking up. He would regret being so rude if it weren’t for the circ*mstances.

Once sure his presence has been noted, he directs Vhagar to fly to their original destination.

It doesn’t take long to reach Dragonstone. The black-stone castle juts out of the volcanic terrain, proud and tall. Many dragons roam the hills near the keep, and the wild ones reside on the Dragonmont. As he looks for a place large enough to land Vhagar on, he hears a shrill cry from behind him. With a swift maneuver he turns and is met with the sight of Meleys flying towards him at full speed.

The two dragons know each other very well, yet he still sends some calm down the bond. It would not do for Vhagar to kill the Princess Rhaenys.

“What are you doing here, boy” she yells, directing her dragon to hover beside him.

He can see she’s still in her nightgown, hair braided back into a simple bun and only what looks like Corlys’ leather overcoat protecting her from the freezing winds, and he has to admire her tenacity.

“I fear I bring bad tidings, but I would prefer to discuss everything on the ground. We must make haste” he shouts back.

Wasting no time, Meleys dives and Aemond follows, trusting the older woman to direct him. he doesn’t follow her when she sweeps low enough to circle around one of the keep’s towers—Vhagar would destroy the castle if they were to attempt to do such a maneuver—but he does follow her when she flies further away to a clearing that can, indeed, safely withstand his mount’s landing.

Meleys touches the ground first, quickly moving out of the way for the older dragon to land. A massive cloud of dust makes both him and Rhaenys cough. They don’t have time to get their bearing when their two dragons take flight once more.

“What brings you here?” The Princess gets immediately down to business.

“I have news for Rhaenyra.”

Thankfully, he is saved from offering further explanations by the sound of approaching horses. Several knights dressed in red and black come to a stop in front of them. “The Princess of Dragonstone welcomes you to her domain. She is quite surprised by your sudden arrival and apologizes for the lack of a proper welcome. We are here to bring you to her. If you’d follow us” one of the man gestures to two riderless horses.

Aemond’s arse aches terribly by the time they reach the throne room where they’re told Rhaenyra will meet them. He is bone-tired but he cannot help but feel some excitement and anticipation for his meeting with his sister. His Queen.

While he waits, he admires the seat from which his sister rules over this isle. Apparently, all Targaryen seats are meant to be uncomfortable because that slab of black stone does not look pleasant to sit on. He has to admit, however, that it is quite spectacular in it’s roughness. The raw power of House Targaryen. Where the Iron Throne symbolizes their power over the Seven Kingdoms and their victories, this is stark proof of the might of their blood. Flames and magic are said to have forged this entire dwelling, and only someone with the same amount of power could ever sit this throne and not be smothered by its weight.

“Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen, Princess of Dragonstone and Heir to the Iron Throne.”

Aemond’s breath stops in his lungs. His eyes are glued to his sister’s figure.

Dressed in a tight-fitting red dress, she looks beautiful. Her hair is held back by a simple circlet of rubies and amethysts the same color as her eyes. She’s smiling brightly, if not a bit tired, as she looks at him—he chooses to believe he is the cause of her smile and not Rhaenys—but the thing that catches his eye is her swollen belly.

Rhaenyra is pregnant.

Thankfully neither their uncle nor Aegon are present, for they would have surely jested at his expense if they’d have seen the way his mouth is gaping as he looks upon the heavenly vision that is his sister.

She sits on her throne. “Brother, good-mother. What a lovely surprise. We weren’t expecting you.”

“Apologizes, my dear. I wasn’t planning to come here but when Aemond woke up the entirety of Driftmark with Vhagar I simply had to follow. I also apologize for my state of clothing. I had no time to change into proper attire.”

“We are family, propriety is not required nearly as much. Aemond, would you please explain why you felt the need to visit us so urgently? I would have gladly welcomed you even with the light of morn” she jests.

Both women turn to him and Aemond steels his nerves.

Before he can open his mouth, the crier announces the arrival of the majority of the royals residing in the keep. Daemon, Jacaerys, Lucerys and the twins all enter perfectly dressed. The only sign of the late hour is the way Lucerys can barely keep his eyes open. In the back of his mind, Aemond notices that the white in their hair has spread to entire sections of their hair and Jacaerys’ eyes look completely purple.

“Nephew, what a surprise” his uncle drawls, coming to stand beside his wife. He takes ahold of her hand and places a reverent kiss on her palm.

How Aemond wishes to be able to do the same.

“Husband, our esteemed guest was just telling me why he has come here and dragged with him Rhaenys, to boot.”

When all eyes turn to him, he clears his throat. He knows that, while neither he nor his full siblings care much about their late father, the people in this room do. He wishes there was a way to sugarcoat the news, but alas there is not.

“Treason is afoot in the capital, sister” he begins, eyes solely on Rhaenyra’s darkening face. “I regret the bluntness of the news I’m to deliver but…” He chokes on his words.

“Speak, boy, what are you implying” snarls Daemon, taking one menacing step forward with feline grace.

He takes a deep breath. “King Viserys has died peacefully in his sleep, nearly three days ago” gasps echo in the room, but he continues. “Enemies of the true Queen Rhaenyra have kept his death a secret and begun plotting for my eldest brother to take the throne. They have the city on lockdown and are actively searching for Aegon to ensure his safety until the moment the King’s death will be announced and the new monarch crowned, which they’re planning to do in five days, seven days after our father’s demise.”

“No…” Rhaenyra breathes out, horror and sorrow in her beautiful, crying eyes.

Aemond hates seeing her this utterly dejected, so he continues with slightly brighter news—or, at least, he hopes they are. “I come here to tell you this, and to also assure you that you have much support in the capital. All your loyal supporters are still safe in the Keep for grandsire has yet to begin his purge. Aegon is hidden away, protected by mine and our sister’s interference. He has no desire to take what is rightfully yours. The Goldcloaks are still loyal, as well. In fact, Ser Luthor Largent was instrumental in my escape from the city to here.”

His sister is only marginally comforted by his words, but then she bends over and clutches her stomach. Immediately, Daemon, Rhaenys and Jacaerys launch to her side. Aemond wishes to join them but a withering glare from Baela stops him. He wishes to glower back, but it wouldn’t do to antagonize the side of the family he’s come to pledge his loyalty to.

He’s ready to start shouting for a maester when Rhaenyra’s voice stops everyone. “I am well. The babe just kicked very hard.”

“Mother, please, let the maester check you over” Jacaerys pleads, kneeling in front of her and holding one of her hands.

“Later, my darling boy. Now let us hear whatever else Aemond has to say.”

“Whatever else could he have to say” Daemon snarls, “More treason? I say we mount our dragons and torch the vile vermin that thinks to subdue the House of the Dragon.”

Despite the violence in his words, Aemond can see the glint of tears in his eyes.

“I agree” declares Rhaenys, who doesn’t flinch as his uncle’s fiery gaze lands on her, “We should hear everything he has to say before making hasty decisions. This is not the time to be ruled by rage and grief, but by reason. The Queen is wise in her choice.”

A new atmosphere seems to settle over the occupants in the room. It seems everyone comes to the realization that Rhaenyra is, indeed, the Queen. The first of the Seven Kingdoms. All the people surrounding her around her throne walk down the few steps and come to stand in front of her.

Before anyone else can say or do something more, Aemond clears his throat.

Then, he kneels.

“I, Prince Aemond Targaryen, fourth child and second son of the late King Viserys I, swear allegiance to the true Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, first of her name. I also carry with me the words of my siblings,” he announces to the silent room, holding out two pieces of rolled parchment. He knows that, inked on the paper, similar words swear the loyalty of Helaena and Aegon.

Daemon gingerly takes the two scrolls from his hands, and he bows his head once more. “We swear fealty to the Queen and her heir, and swear to do whatever it takes to see her claim her rightful place as the head of House Targaryen, to support her reign and her every decision, to destroy her enemies and strengthen her rule in whatever way necessary.”

For a few seconds, all is silent. Then, Rhaenys kneels as well. Baela, Lucerys and Rhaena as well. The shuffle he can hear behind him can only mean the guards present in the room are also taking the knee. The only people standing now are Daemon, Jacaerys and Rhaenyra, who raised as he spoke his vows.

The two men share a glance before taking one single step on the stairs to Rhaenyra’s throne—Jacaerys’ now, Aemond supposes. They kneel.

His sister wears no crown, nor is she dressed like her new station would require, but Aemond thinks he’s never seen someone more powerful.

“Long live Queen Rhaenyra, first of Her name, and her son, Jacaerys Targaryen of House Velaryon and Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone” Daemon cries into the silence.

Cheers from the children and guards echo in the room.

When he raises his head, Aemond doesn’t see his sister, nor a mother. He sees a Goddess ready to take the throne that belongs to her.

And he cannot wait to help her.

Chapter 8: Chapter 8, and Epilogue

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra and the Blacks secure the throne with impressive ease.

Without Aegon in their clutches and with half the Kingsguard—now Queensguard—against them, the Greens were quickly subdued. With Daemon gone to rally the Goldcloaks, the task of bringing Rhaenyra in the castle was left to Aemond and Aegon, who they collected midway through their journey through the passages in the castle.

His nephews were left in charge of patrolling the skies on their dragons, with Rhaenys and Helaena, who by the time they arrived was soaring in the skies with her three children secured to her chest with leather and linen harnesses.

The Small Council was immediately called, and the news of Rhaenyra’s imminent ascension were received with varying degrees of acceptance. Grand Maester Orwyle, who Aemond knows to prefer Aegon to Rhaenyra, has the good sense of distancing himself from the treasonous plots, Ser Tyland as well. Lord Beesbury, a fierce supporter of his sister’s, was elated and more than a little relieved, as was Lord Commander Westerling. Lord Wylde and Otto were much less pleased and were not afraid to show it.

The noble traitors immediately got arrested, much to the Blacks’ pleasure.

Aemond thinks Aegon has never looked so relieved and jubilant, seeing Rhaenyra seated in their Father’s place at the head of the council table, while their mother looks distraught. One can almost hear Otto seething still, spewing obscenities at both Rhaenyra and his grandchildren, cursing their names and their treachery against Gods and law. Everyone is content to ignore the man, but he can see that Daemon is more than looking forward to the former Hand’s execution.

A few hours later, the Goldcloaks have finally taken custody of all nobles and guards loyal to the Greens. The Houses that dared rise against Rhaenyra will be heavily taxed by the new, rightful Queen and forced to bend the knee or face extinction. The guards are to be interrogated and given the choice, if found guilty of treason, to go to the Wall or be executed. No such choice will be given to Otto, nor Alicent, Larys or Criston.

Aemond is not particularly sad to see Larys and Otto die—they fully deserve it after all the pain they caused both him and his siblings. A part of him is saddened to see Ser Criston, the man who trained him for much of his life and was present for the entirety of it, be put to death but he understands the necessity of getting rid of the main conspirators. What he genuinely cannot stomach is the thought of his mother’s death.

He hopes to convince Rhaenyra to spare her. He knows she cannot be absolved of all her numerous crimes, but he will fight for her life. Aegon, fidgeting by his side, seems to want to do the same. Helaena, on the other hand, looks eerily serene.

The three of them are now outside her rooms—formerly their Father’s—and awaiting for permission to enter. Sers Harrold and Erryk are standing straight, not looking directly at them but also aware of every little movement they make. When the door to the Queen’s quarters open and a servant pokes her head out, the two men step aside to allow the three royals to enter.

It is eerie to watch the difference in the rooms that were, not too long ago, belonging to the King. It’s astounding how the rooms, whilst looking exactly the same, also seem entirely different.

The model of Old Valyria still occupies the majority of the room but now it’s pushed more in a corner, more a decoration than the entire focus of the space. Targaryen heraldry, along with small nods to Houses Velaryon and Arryn, dominates the chambers. The air is clearer, fresher, and both bed and mattress have been changed new.

Aemond doesn’t want to think about why that is. He forces himself to stop thinking about the state of his father’s body, left to rot on the bed for days without proper care or reverence. Instead, he turns to look at the woman who now lives in these rooms. The woman who now owns the Seven Kingdoms.

Rhaenyra is sitting at her vanity, a familiar ladymaid brushing the last locks of silver hair, straight as a pin and falling down her back. He recalls her name is Elinda and he nods to her as she finishes her job and sweeps out of the room, beautifully ignoring the lusty glance Aegon spares her.

“Brothers, sister. What a lovely surprise. I would have thought you’d be still readying for my crowning. I shall have you all by my side, as you were told.”

When Rhaenyra rises, all his siblings inhale sharply. She looks magnificent.

Her gown is of deepest black, with ample sleeves embroidered in red and gold so long they brush the ground. Dragons, falcons and seadragons cover the lower half of her voluminous skirts, embroidered in gold, red and silver, with rubies and pearls interspersed between the designs. Her hair is not woven in intricate braids and loops, but instead falls straight and long down her back, a silver cape that, even in the low light of the fire, shines like the moon.

“You look beautiful, sister” Helaena whispers, getting closer to the vision that is their eldest sibling.

“Thank you, my dear. You all look strapping, too” she compliments.

They all wear black clothes with a few red accents. They had to have the outfits done hastily, so they lack the pomp that would be expected, but Aemond is certain that no one will notice, enchanted as they’re bound to be by their new Queen.

“We did our best” Aegon replies with a laugh.

Rhaenyra smiles as well, placing her hands on her swollen belly. Aemond immediately zeroes in on the movement—he wants so bad to touch her, to taste her like he did they last time they met, but he forces himself to remember the reason for his visit.

“Sister, may I be the first to petition the new Queen?” he asks, bowing his head demurely.

Just when Rhaenyra opens her mouth to answer, the doors open once more—without permission nor announcement much to Aemond’s displeasure—and Daemon strolls in, dressed in black finery and with Dark Sister strapped to his side.

“Wife mine, you look ravishing” he grins, kissing her cheek.

“Thank you, my love.”

Aemond burns with jealousy. Some of it must show on his face for Aegon elbows him in the ribs and glares at him.

“Everything is ready for the coronation, my dear” their uncle informs her.

The funeral was a private affair, done with just the immediate family as witness and a few nobles and guards, but the coronation is to be anything but.

It will be held in the Dragonpit, in the presence of the Blacks and the smallfolk. Daemon and Rhaenys have arranged everything with astounding celerity to satisfy the Queen’s wishes, forgoing the presence of the High Septon in favor of a more rapid crowning. Not all the nobles will be present to the crowning itself, so preparations for a feast a few days from now—both to celebrate the new monarch and to honor the former one—are already beginning.

“Wonderful, but they shall have to wait a little bit longer. Now, let me hear what my siblings have to say” she tells her husband, kissing him before turning her attention back to them.

“Your Grace,” Aemond begins, “We were simply wondering what was going to be done with our mother. We are fully aware her crimes against you have been unforgivable, yet we cannot help but desire for an… outcome that doesn’t include her death.”

He gets the entire sentence out in one breath, mildly fearful of the rage mounting on Daemon’s face.

His uncle steps forward. “What makes you think you have the right to demand such a thing?” he spits out.

Aemond steels his back, never taking his eye off Rhaenyra. She has yet to say anything, but she doesn’t look impressed. “Sister,” he is not above begging, “Please, I know she has hurt you. She has hurt us all, as well. Her death will not undo all she has done. Spare her life.”

“You have no idea how much that woman—”

“Daemon” she snaps. He closes him mouth immediately, turning to look at her. It’s frightening how quickly the anger is replaced by obeisance, how effectively she has him under her control.

Aemond doesn’t bother to acknowledge the fact that he’d be the same way, were he in Daemon’s position.

Aegon hasn’t said a word, nor has Helaena, but Rhaenyra still sweeps her eyes over all three of them. What she’s looking for, Aemond has no idea.

“You love her” she says, in the end.

“We cannot help it” Aegon chuckles. It’s a bitter sound, one that belies years of hurt and neglect. Which is worse, only the Gods know.

Helaena goes to stand beside her husband and the two interlace their arms, holding each other up. Aemond suddenly wishes for something like that. He wants comfort, he wants someone who’ll stay with him. he wants not to be alone.

Rhaenyra’s caress burns more than the fiercest fire.

“Oh, my sweet siblings” she croons, holding her arms open for all three of them.

They all fall into her arms, none with as much delight as Aemond himself, and let their older sister take their worries and pains away for a few moments.

“My sweet darlings. You have helped me, so I shall fulfill your wish. Alicent Hightower will be spared. She shall be declared a traitor and sent to live the rest of her days in the Sept of White Harbor as a Silent Sister” she says, and the words take off one great boulder from their backs.

He has to admit, it’s quite the devious solution. The vows will eliminate every trace of nobility from her name and if she were to ever escape she’d be stuck between the North, fiercely loyal to Rhaenyra, or the Vale, where Rhaenyra’s mother comes from.

It keeps his mother alive, though, so he shan’t complain.

Helaena kisses her cheek. “Thank you, sister.”

“As touching as this is” Daemon drawls, and he doesn’t seem displeased by the fate of the former consort, “We have a Queen to crown, now.”

Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, first of Her name, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, is the most heavenly vision he has ever seen.

Aemond regrets having to bow his head for the sole reason that it means he cannot drink in the sight of her standing tall and proud, the Conqueror’s blade and crown shining in the fading light of dusk, any longer.

Men and women alike all cheer and clap and hail her name.

As they should, Aemond thinks viciously.

Once everyone has risen, the Queen smiles and addresses her subjects.

“My leal lords and ladies, my cherished people. Whilst I would enjoy this day to be blessed with only good tidings” she says, and her voice echoes in the absolute silence, “I fear that other matters must be settled before my reign officially begins.”

She raises a hand, pointing to the skies. “The light of day is fading, and just as it leaves darkness all around us, I wish for the dark treason that took place to be brought forward.”

The smallfolk begins to murmur, but soon focuses back on their monarch. “My kingly Father, Viserys the Peaceful, died nearly a sennight ago” she shouts, “And was left bereft of any comfort, both in life and in death, by those who should have cared for him the most. ‘Tis only the love my siblings hold for me and our late father that treason was stopped.”

The prisoners are brought forward.

“Ser Otto Hightower, Ser Criston Cole, Ser Tyland Lannister, Lord Larys Strong, Lord Jasper Wylde, Grand Maester Orwyle and Dowager Queen Alicent Hightower” Rhaenyra calls out each of their names, ignoring insults thrown at her by some of the accused and their attempts to escape. “You are all accused and found guilty of treason. You have all conspired to force my brother Aegon to usurp my throne, given to me by both birthright and decree. You have left my father, you King, to rot in his chambers so that you could steal the Kingdoms’ gold and plan your treason.”

She has to stop for a few moments due to the outrage of the people.

“’Tis only thanks to my siblings that such treachery will be punished. Such loyalty will be rewarded. But now, it is my duty to rid the Kingdom of such vermin and punish you all accordingly.”

“After much deliberation with my consort, King Daemon, my Lady Hand, Princess Rhaenys Targaryen, and my heir, Prince Jacaerys Targaryen, we have decided on the punishments.”

Each sentence is spoken with clear, firm words.

“Lord Jasper Wylde, you are sentenced to death by beheading. Lord Larys Strong, you are sentenced to death by beheading. Ser Criston Cole, you are sentenced to death by beheading. Ser Otto Hightower” she smirks cruelly, and it’s a wonderful sight, “You are sentenced to death by dragonfire.”

His mother’s wails drown out even the loudest of the booing smallfolk.

“Grand Maester Orwyle” Rhaenyra continues, “You are sentenced to spend the rest of your life at the Wall, serving as a maester. You will be succeeded in your place as Grand Maester by Maester Gerardys.”

Wisely, no one even bothers to protest the blatant disrespect to the Citadel.

“Ser Tyland Lannister, you are sentenced to the black as well and you shall spend the rest of your life at the Wall. Your House’s gold mines shall provide the Kingdom thrice the amount you were planning to steal from the treasury for the next five years.”

That’s one way to ensure the coffers never run out.

“Dowager Queen Alicent Hightower” Rhaenyra clicks her tongue, “It’s only by your children’s request that I let you keep your head. It is by their grace only that you are now sentenced to spending the rest of your life as a Silent Sister, in the sept of White Harbor.”

Without further ado, the beheadings are carried out, and Otto is roasted alive by Vermax—Jacaerys gives the order himself, taking care not to injure anyone else. Goldcloaks carry the remaining prisoners in the Black Cells.

For a moment, the only sounds that can be heard are insults towards the traitors. Then, Daemon captures everyone’s attention with a loud cry.

“All hail Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, the Dragon Queen!”

Nothing else but those words is heard for long into the night.

His sister summons him in her chambers.

“Ah, here you are. Please, sit” she beckons him to a chair.

He does, nervously.

Daemon and Rhaenyra sit in front of him, holding hands and, occasionally, sharing lazy kisses that make Aemond’s veins burn with envy.

“Before we get to the real reason why I’ve asked you to meet us” the Queen tells him, absentmindedly caressing her swollen belly, “I have just received word from our brother Daeron. He shall arrive in time for the celebratory feast. We shall see what he desires to do then.”

“What do you mean?” he asks, before hastily adding “Your Grace.”

Daemon looks immensely pleased by his nervousness and submission, while Rhaenyra seems only amused.

“He has spent much of his life in Oldtown, learning from some of the best maesters the Citadel has to offer, from what I’m told. It might be his desire to become a maester himself and pursue the destiny of links and chain, rather than remain here at the Keep. Naturally” she waves a hand in the air, “I shall endeavor to support him regardless of which path he chooses.”

“Yes, of course. Forgive my forgetfulness.”

“Nothing needs forgiving, brother. Now, onto the main topic of this eve’s conversation” she smiles.

“May I?” Daemon interrupts, turning to him after having secured her consent. His smirk is feral. “Did you enjoy my wife the last time we were here?”

Aemond nearly chokes on his spit. He knows Daemon knows about their night together, but he didn’t expect him to approach the subject to directly. He stutters a few broken words, but they seem to be enough for his uncle to decipher a positive response.

He hums, leaning back into his chair and placing one hand on Rhaenyra’s thigh. The young Prince’s eye focuses on the gesture—how his fingers dig into the soft meat of her thigh, how she minutely spreads her legs a little bit more, …

“Ha.” Daemon barks a laugh, “He will be yours before the sun rises on the new day, wife.”

Rhaenyra hums, looking intently at her brother but answering her husband’s words. “He already is, my love.”

Queen and King Consort chuckle, ignoring their confused relative. “I shall leave you to it then. I will ensure the prisoners are… comfortably settled in preparation for their departure, my Queen” Daemon says, kissing Rhaenyra. Aemond can hear their moans and the sounds they make.

He wants to shove Daemon away from his beautiful sister, take his place, and bury himself in her c*nt like he did so many months ago. He can feel himself harden—his anger and jealousy rising as well—when the two separate. With one last grin in his direction, Daemon sweeps out of the room. He turns back to Rhaenyra.

Her lips are swollen, her eyes heavy with lust and desire. She catches his gaze and he feels like his blood is on fire. The inferno in her eyes only worsens as she looks at him. Her lust is quickly matched by his, and he is enterally glad they are now alone for he doesn’t think he’d be able to conceal the visible proof of his desire.

He is quick to fall into her arms when she extends a hand, falling into the seat her husband previously occupied and entangling his hands in her silver tresses.

The low neckline of her gown—this one red and trimmed with white lace, so unlike the dress she wore during her coronation but no less enticing—is a blessed thing, for it allows Aemond to run his lips and tongue all over her neck and chest. He feels a hand tugging him upwards and he meets Rhaenyra’s eyes with his own. She is panting and full of desire.

She meets his mouth in a ferocious kiss, teeth clashing and tongues tangling, before ripping him away from her. He tries to go back to her, but her hold on his hair doesn’t budge. While she speaks, she works with one hand on the laces of her gown and he’s more than eager to help her with that. “How beautiful you are, and all mine” she pants.

“I am yours and you are mine. Become mine, Rhaenyra” he moans at the sight of her breasts, full and heaving with her pregnancy. The two of them remove their clothes, remaining bare in front of the other.

She climbs into his lap, immediately taking his leaking co*ck deep into her c*nt. It seems she is as eager as he is to be one once more. Aemond’s hands settle on her backside, kneading the soft flesh and using his strength to aid her in her movements.

“Is that the proper way to speak to your Queen?” she snarls in his ear, biting his lobe. She rips the eyepatch off his face and kisses him all over his scar.

He shivers at the sensation. “I believe the two of us have a far closer relationship than a simple one of regnant and subject.”

“Do you, now?”

He hums, kissing her neck and thrusting up into her. Her moans sound like heaven. “Feeding me milk straight from your teat and having me into your c*nt” he groans as she squeezes him, “is not the best way to put distance between us, sister.”

The two of them move with wild abandon, their flesh slapping and their sweat and arousal mixing. He licks a strip on her neck and she retaliates by leaving deep, burning scratches down his back.

“It’s very fortunate for you, then, that I have no intention of simply having you as my subject” she smiles, kissing the eyelid of his healthy eye.

Aemond can barely concentrate on her words, the pleasure of their coupling intense and all-encompassing. What he does catch, however, makes him cum faster than anything ever did.

The High Valyrian flows seamlessly from her mouth, even more seductively with the way she is left breathless as her org*sm overcomes her. “You shall be my husband, Aemond, and the father of my children.”

He explodes.

He feels everything and nothing all at once.

He cannot understand anything but the feel of her body over his, her weight grounding him to reality.

His hands grasp at her back and he doesn’t realize he’s crying and hugging her and whispering broken ‘thank you’s in her hair until she shushes him gently, wrapping her own arms around him and squeezing him to her body. He can feel both of their heartbeats, and the feeling of her belly rubbing on his own taut stomach makes him go crazy.

“The babe” he mutters, “It’s mine?”

“Yes. I apologize for not telling you sooner, but I wanted you to piece it together. I left you many hints in my missives, but you never seemed to realize. I admit I thought you didn’t want anything to do with our babe.”

Aemond has never hated himself this much. “No! I genuinely didn’t realize… Rhaenyra, hells, how could I not want you? How could I not want this?” he presses a hand over her stomach.

Her smile is blinding. “I am glad to hear that” then, her smile turns more playful, “It would have been embarrassing to have drawn the mark of the father and husband on your back only for you to reject me.”

A memory comes to the forefront of his mind, then. A memory of soft caresses given in front of the fire, of sure movements and things taking place in his soul that his brain couldn’t explain.

“The mark of the husband?” he asks, voice small and young, not daring to hope yet hoping all the same.

She hums, kissing him tenderly. “Yes. I shall take two husbands, just as Aegon did.”

“Naturally,” she continues, “The Lord will be told of our secret Valyrian marriage, which took place after Vaemond’s petition, with Daemon and Jacaerys as witnesses.”

“Wait, so they both know the child is mine?”

“I shall have no secrets with my husbands, nor with my heir. I assume the other older children know as well” she smiles with clear affection, “They are unable to keep any secret away from each other.”

“We will celebrate our marriage tomorrow night, under the new full moon, and bind our blood in the ways of our ancestors. This child will be declared as yours in front of the Lords at the same time we’ll announce our already consumed nuptials.”

Her power and sharp mind leave him speechless, so he doesn’t bother trying to articulate any of his thoughts. Instead, he resorts to showing her his love.

No more words are spoken for a long time after that. Not even when Daemon comes back and the two men, whilst uninterested in each other, decide to team up to bring as much pleasure to their wife as possible.

Many decades later, Grand Maester Daeron returns to his study after aiding in the birth of another Targaryen Prince, named after one of his deceased siblings. For nearly three years now, he’s been the last one of his clutch—as they’d all taken to refer to themselves.

Aegon, unsurprisingly, was the first one to go, his liver giving out at the age of fifty. Helaena had followed five years later, dying from a broken heart. The Dragon Queen Rhaenyra had died soon after the birth of her twelfth grandchild after having lived a full life, slipping away in her sleep at the age of seventy. Her husbands had both died by that time, one of old age and the other during a skirmish with the Triarchy, whose cities got destroyed by the fury of abandoned widow and children, and they were probably already awaiting her in the afterlife.

Daeron takes out the book containing the entire Targaryen family tree. “More of a wreath” young Joffrey had complained once, when reading that very same book, making all the adult laugh.

The aged Grand Maester looks at all the names there, before penning the latest one.

Rhaenyra Targaryen had given each of her husbands three children. Jace, Luke and Joffrey to Laenor; Egg, Vis and little Daenys to Daemon; and the twins Visenya and Aemma, along with young Gaemon, the last of the Queen’s children, to Aemond.

Jace and Baela had married soon after the Queen’s coronation and their union soon bore fruits. Three children they created in their marriage: Daemion, their firstborn, and twins Naerys and Laena. Lucerys and Rhaena, not wanting to be left behind, birthed three babes as well. Sadly for Rhaena, all three of them came at the same time: Monterys, Alysanne and Corwyn were much beloved, but the teasing about their crowded birth had never stopped. Joffrey had decided to become his mother’s Queensguard, knighted at the age of sixteen by King Consort Daemon himself. Aegon and Visenya had little Rhaella; Viserys and his sister-wife Daenys had Aerys, betrothed to Laena, and Daemon, betrothed to Rhaella. Viserra, child of Aemma and Gaemon, was already itching for the time when she’d be allowed to wed her betrothed, Corwyn, much to everyone’s amusem*nt. Jaehaerys and Jaehaera had given birth to little Daella, wife to her uncle Maelor.

Daeron admires his work. Princess Alysanne and Crown Prince Daemion, connected by a line indicating marriage, now had another line: Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen, who would one day be second of her name.

Daeron hopes that, wherever his siblings are, they are happy. He knows he will join them soon, he can feel it in his bones, and he cannot wait to tell them everything.

House Targaryen is thriving, and shall do so for many years still. Of this, he is sure.