Crimson

The next day, under a sky that feels heavy with sorrow, I make my way outside the castle walls, ready to face Cannibal. The thought of the fierce dragon I must learn to command fills me with both fear and determination. My steps are steady, but deep down, I’m nervous. I heard he ate one of the Dragonkeepers who tried to help saddle him. Honestly, I'm a bit relieved to know he doesn't only feast on dragons.

As I near the training grounds, a loud roar cuts through the air, echoing across the castle. I look up quickly, my heart skipping a beat as I see Vermax soaring through the sky, his pale green scales shining in the sunlight. A wave of joy washes over me, pushing away some of the sadness I’ve been carrying. Seeing my older brother’s dragon after so many days apart brings a smile to my face.

Without thinking, I start running, my feet moving faster as I head towards the dragon. “Jace!” I shout, my voice full of relief and excitement.

Vermax lands gracefully, and Jace climbs down from his back with ease. But just as I’m about to run into his arms, I suddenly stop, my legs freezing in place. My heart aches as I look at him—something about his face makes me pause. In Jace’s eyes, his nose, his lips, his hair—I see Luke. Memories of my little brother flood my mind, mixing with the painful reality that he’s gone. It’s like I’m looking at an older version of Luke, a version he will never get to be. The thought hits me hard, like a sharp pain in my chest.

Jace steps forward, his face full of concern. When he hugs me, it’s gentle, more tender than any hug he’s ever given me before. As his arms wrap around me, I feel all the emotions I’ve been holding back come rushing out. I cling to him tightly, and tears start streaming down my cheeks. I can’t stop crying as I hold onto him, feeling the deep pain of our loss.

Jace holds me close, his hand gently smoothing down my hair. “I’m here now,” he whispers, his voice thick with emotion. “I’m here, Rys.”

When Jace finally lets go, I look up at him and see tears in his eyes too. There’s a softness in his gaze that I don’t see often, reflecting the same grief I feel.

“I should have been here,” Jace says, his voice rough with regret. “I should have been here for you, for all of us.”

I shake my head, running my fingers through his dark curls, the same as Luke’s once were. “I should have found a dragon sooner,” I say, my voice trembling with the same regret. We both feel the weight of what we could have done differently, the guilt that haunts us.

For a moment, we just stand there, two siblings bound by loss, trying to find comfort in each other. The world seems to pause around us, and in that quiet, the depth of our grief settles in—a reminder that the wounds from this war are more than just physical. Our shared sadness hangs in the air between us, heavy and unspoken, but the moment is interrupted by the powerful sound of wings flapping overhead. Cannibal is nearby, a reminder of the harsh reality we’re facing.

“Ah!” Jace exclaims, wiping a tear from his eye. “He is quite the beast.”

Vermax screeches, and Cannibal puffs hot air from his nostrils, the heat almost palpable even from where we stand. On Cannibal’s back, I spot a massive brown leather saddle, big enough to fit at least three people, secured with thick straps that seem to strain under the dragon's sheer size.

“How? I thought the Cannibal was only a myth,” Jace says, his voice tinged with both awe and disbelief as Vermax flies off towards the dragon pit.

“My eggs hatched the night Luke died,” I begin, my voice flat, devoid of the emotion I wish I could keep buried. “Cannibal was hungry, so I fed him.”

Jace raises an eyebrow, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. “At last, a dragon that matches your temper,” he teases, his joke lightening the atmosphere just a little. “Does he even fit in the dragon pit?” he asks.

“I am not going to keep my dragon in a pit,” I reply, my tone sharper than intended, the mere idea of confining Cannibal somehow offending me. “Mother said you would help me with my combat dragon training,” I add, trying to change the subject.

Jace’s weak smile quickly fades off. “Oh, Vermax is tired. It’s a long way from Winterfell.” He rubs the back of his neck, and I give him a sympathetic smile, understanding the exhaustion he must feel.

“Tomorrow it is, then,” I tell him, nodding as I watch him head towards the castle.

As I stand there, Cannibal’s heavy footsteps draw my attention. He moves with an unsettling grace for a creature of his size, each step causing the ground to tremble slightly beneath his weight. His dark scales are as black as the deepest night, with a sheen that catches the light, making them look almost wet. His eyes, a piercing green, glint with intelligence and a wild, untameable spirit. His mouth, lined with jagged teeth capable of rending steel, emits a low growl, a sound that reverberates in my chest.

Cannibal lowers his massive shoulder, his powerful muscles rippling beneath his scales, and I know this is a sign. My training is about to begin. I pull on my leather gloves, their well-worn surfaces providing a familiar comfort, and I approach him. With far more ease than the first time, I begin to climb his wing, my hands finding the now-familiar grooves and ridges of his scales. I’ve developed a strategy, one that no longer leaves me scrambling awkwardly to mount him. I make my way up, feeling the strength and power beneath me as I settle into the saddle.

As I secure myself, I take a deep breath, steadying my nerves. Cannibal lets out another puff of hot air, his nostrils flaring as if in anticipation.

Cannibal takes off with a powerful surge, and I brace myself for the sheer speed as he ascends into the skies. The force of the wind presses against me, but this time I am ready. Grateful for the new saddle, I grip it tightly, feeling its sturdy leather under my fingers. Unlike before, I do not close my eyes. Instead, I force them open and take in the scenery around me, determined to experience every moment.

The sky above is a vast, endless blue, unmarred by a single cloud. It stretches out in every direction, a perfect canvas that contrasts sharply with the dark, jagged cliffs of Dragonstone below. As we climb higher, the island shrinks beneath us, its volcanic peaks and ancient fortress becoming mere details in a grander view. The sea surrounding Dragonstone glimmers like molten silver, with waves crashing against the rocky shore, sending sprays of white foam into the air. The winding paths and the dragon is now just a tiny dot, barely visible from our height. I can see the black stone walls of the castle, standing tall and proud, a stark reminder of our family’s history and power. The surrounding forests are dark and thick, covering the island like a green blanket, with hidden paths leading to secret caves and coves known only to a few.

As Dragonstone becomes smaller and smaller beneath us, swallowed by the vastness of the sky, I send a silent prayer to the Gods, hoping Cannibal won’t take me to King’s Landing once again. The memory of our last unsanctioned flight there still sends a chill down my spine.

Suddenly, Aemond’s written words flash before my eyes, dragging me back to memories I’d rather forget. His letter, laced with bitter passion, have haunted my thoughts ever since I read it. But just as the weight of his words begins to settle on my chest, Cannibal jolts me back to the present with a sudden, violent swerve in the air.

‘It enrages me, this pull I feel toward you, this vile attraction that defies all reason.’

Cannibal’s movements are wild and untamed, mirroring the storm that brews within me. He tilts violently to one side, then the other, as if he’s trying to throw me off—or perhaps, to see if I’m truly worthy of being his rider. The sheer force of his turns nearly unseats me, and I must fight to stay balanced. The wind whips fiercely against my face, stinging my eyes and stealing my breath, but I grit my teeth and hold on.

‘You haunt me like a curse.’

The words echo through my mind, their venomous tone tightening around my heart like a vice. Cannibal senses my inner turmoil and responds with a sudden, gut-wrenching dive. We plummet toward the earth, the ground rushing up to meet us with terrifying speed. My stomach lurches, and for a moment, I feel as though I’m falling into an abyss.

“Keligon!” Stop! I command, desperate. But just as panic threatens to take hold, Cannibal pulls up sharply, launching us into a steep climb that makes my blood roar in my ears. My pulse races, the adrenaline surging through me like fire. I refuse to give in—to the fear, to Cannibal’s challenge, or to the dark pull of Aemond’s words.

I tighten my grip on the saddle, feeling the leather dig into my hands, grounding me in the chaos. Leaning into Cannibal’s savage manoeuvres, I sense every ripple of his powerful muscles beneath me as he twists and turns, testing my every move.

‘You’ve left your mark on me, and I despise you for it as much as I despise myself.’

Anger flares within me at his audacity, and I feel a burning need to prove him wrong. Cannibal’s wings beat with relentless force, cutting through the sky as he pushes us both to the brink. Without warning, he banks sharply to the left, forcing me to react with lightning speed to stay upright. I adjust my weight just in time, but Cannibal isn’t finished testing me. He rolls suddenly, flipping us upside down in a dizzying manoeuvre that makes the world spin around us. The sky and earth blur together in a whirlwind of colour and motion, and for a heartbeat, I lose all sense of direction. My breath catches in my throat, fear clawing at the edges of my mind, but I refuse to let it take hold.

‘Yours in ways I cannot fully understand.’

The words cut deep, but I reject them with every fibre of my being. He is not mine, and I am not his. I will not be bound by a man’s torment, no matter how deeply he claims to feel it.

Cannibal’s challenge is relentless, his intelligence sharp and calculating as he pushes me to my limits. He twists in the air, diving and climbing with a ferocity that tests my strength, my courage, and my connection to him. The more he challenges me, the more determined I become to prove myself—to show him that I am not just a passenger on his back, but his equal.

“Dohaeragon.” Serve. I say, my tone growing more confident. We begin to move as one, our wills aligning with each twist and turn.

A gut-wrenching thought cuts through my heart: Aemond is painfully beautiful. His long, silver-blonde hair cascades down his back, catching the light of the sun like strands of spun gold. His face, chiseled and sharp, holds an austere elegance, with high cheekbones and a strong jawline that betrays the warrior within. But it is his eye—his single, piercing blue eye—that commands the most attention. It gleams with a cold, calculating intelligence, a stark contrast to the black patch that covers the void where his other eye once was. That patch, a reminder of his brutal past, only adds to the air of danger that surrounds him, making him all the more irresistible, like a storm you cannot help but be drawn to, even as you know it will destroy you.

As much as my mind fights to push him away, trying to erase his image from my thoughts, my soul refuses to let go of its longing for him. I remember all the harshness he has shown me over the years, each touch he's given me—rough and unkind, yet never truly enough to drive me away. Every cruel word he’s spoken, bitter and venomous, but never quite poison enough to kill the lingering hope.

As these thoughts overwhelm me, Cannibal begins his descent toward Dragonstone. The sudden drop in altitude brings me back to the present, but I am as shaken by my realization as I am by the wild flight. The wind whips around me, and I cling to the saddle, my heart still racing—not just from the ride, but from the unsettling truth that no matter how much I try to deny it, a part of me still yearns for Aemond. The conflicting emotions churn within me, making it impossible to tell where my desire ends, and my hatred begins.

And as Cannibal lands with a mighty thud, the ground rushing up to meet us, I realize that this inner turmoil is far more dangerous than any flight through the skies.

When I dismount Cannibal, the reality of our fractured family crashes down on me like a tidal wave. Today is Luke’s funeral. The reminder of this cruel truth pulls me back from the chaos of the skies, and relief washes over me—relief that I didn’t lose myself up there, that I didn’t get lost in the fury of the wind and the cold embrace of the clouds. But there’s no time to dwell on this small mercy. I rush to my chambers, desperate to cleanse myself of the scent of dragon, the smell of salt and scales that clings to me like a second skin.

The water is cold as I scrub away the remnants of the flight, trying to erase the memories that haunt me with every breath. Without Alisha to assist, dressing for the funeral becomes an agonizing task. My hands tremble as I fumble with the dark fabric, struggling to tie the laces, button the clasps. Each failed attempt feels like another wound reopening, but after several painful moments, I manage to pull the black gown over my shoulders, my fingers stiff and aching from the effort.

When I finally arrive at the funeral grounds, I am struck by the sight before me. The funeral pyre is a solemn, heart-wrenching display. Arrax’s once magnificent blue wing, now torn and tattered, rests atop the hay, a haunting reminder of the bond Luke shared with his dragon. But it is Luke’s coat, drenched in blood and shredded by the violence of his death, that truly shatters me. The sight of it, lying there so still, so final, makes the truth of his loss undeniable. My heart breaks anew, the pain searing through me like a hot blade.

Desperate and vulnerable, I scan the faces of my family, hoping for some anchor to steady me in this storm of grief. When my eyes meet theirs, I see the same sorrow reflected back at me, a mirror of my own despair. The grief is a shared burden, but it is no less heavy for being so. And in that moment, I can no longer hold back the flood of tears. I let them fall, let them run freely down my cheeks as I stand there, surrounded by my family, each of us united in our sorrow, each of us mourning not just for Luke, but for all that we have lost.

I’ve attended funerals before; my aunt, Laena, my father, Laenor, Ser Harwin, my stillborn sister, Visenya, but none of them pierce my heart like this one.

I take my place beside Jace and my mother, our bodies forming a silent line of mourning. The flickering light of the funeral pyre casts long shadows over our faces, distorting the grief etched into every crease, every furrowed brow. As the flames take hold, a small, unexpected weight lifts from my shoulders, as if some of the burden I've been carrying is being consumed by the fire. I let the warmth of the flames wash over me, a temporary balm to the raw ache in my chest. For a brief moment, I allow myself to release the grief that has suffocated me for days, surrendering it to the fire’s embrace.

But as the heat engulfs me, another emotion creeps in, one far more insidious than grief. Shame. It wraps around my heart like a serpent, tightening with every beat. Shame for the thoughts I can't banish, for the memory of Aemond that clings to my mind like a stubborn shadow. How dare I think of him now, at my brother’s funeral? How dare I let his image invade this sacred moment? I stare into the flames, willing the fire to burn away the shame, to cleanse me of these unwanted thoughts. I tell myself I can hate myself later—there will be time for that when this is all over.

But then I feel my mother's hand, warm and trembling, slip into mine. She squeezes hard, and the strength of her grip sends a jolt through me. It’s as if she’s holding on not just to me, but to her sanity, to the fragile threads of our fractured family. Her touch speaks of a bond forged in trauma, in the shared agony of loss that has bound us tighter than ever before. We are linked by the ghosts of those we’ve loved and lost, by the wounds that will never fully heal. Her grip is a silent plea for strength, a reminder that we are all we have left.

I will kill Aemond. I will avenge my brother.

In that moment, the fire becomes more than just a pyre for Luke. It becomes a symbol of our shared pain, a testament to the family we were, and the family we’ve become. As I feel her hand holding mine, I realize that this is what it means to survive—to hold on to each other when everything else is falling apart. I tighten my grip in response, pouring every ounce of my love and determination into that simple gesture. We will endure, even if it means carrying the weight of our grief and our shame together. And as the flames continue to rise, I let that thought be my anchor, pushing aside everything else.

For now, I will focus on this moment, on the warmth of my mother’s hand in mine, on the fire that burns away the past. The war in my heart will have to wait.

When the funeral concludes, I find myself seated at my mother’s vacant council table with my sisters, Rhaena and Baela. The three of us, draped in somber attire, lose ourselves in an endless procession of red wine, its rich, dark hue matching the melancholy that fills the room. Rhaena and Baela reminisce about Luke, sharing fond memories of the boy they both adored. Their voices are tinged with nostalgia, each story a painful reminder of what we have lost. I remain silent, the heavy knot in my throat making it impossible to speak, and I refuse to let tears escape. Instead, I immerse myself in the wine, drinking to dull the ache that lingers just beneath the surface.

My mind is a tumultuous storm of conflicting emotions. Aemond’s image invades my thoughts, his face as captivating as it is tormenting. His long, silver-blonde hair glistens in my memory, falling in soft waves that frame his chiseled features. The thought of him is intertwined with the memory of this morning’s flight, where Cannibal tested my limits in the skies. The dragon’s wild manoeuvres, his sharp turns and dizzying rolls, felt like a physical manifestation of my inner chaos. I am torn between the thrill of the flight and the crushing weight of grief from Luke’s funeral. The bitter irony of finding solace in such chaos does not escape me.

“Rys?” Baela’s voice jolts me back to reality.

“You must teach me to tame a wild dragon so I can feed our uncles to him,” Rhaena says with a slightly tipsy determination.

I gulp down the last of my wine, letting its warmth spread through me, and respond with a forced casualness. “Well… first, you must be gifted three dragon eggs from your mother’s dragon and wait about… ten and seven years for them to hatch.” I continue, the wine loosening my tongue. “And when they finally hatch, you would then need to feed them to the wild dragon.”

Rhaena’s eyes sparkle with mischief, though her words are slurred. “And then I will no longer be dragonless.”

“And then,” I correct her, a dark amusement flickering in my eyes, “you will feed our uncles to your dragon.” The thought of Aemond and Aegon meeting a slow, painful end brings a twisted sense of satisfaction, a brief respite from my torment.

“That is too much work,” Baela interjects, her tone decisive. “We shall ride tomorrow at dusk, on Cannibal and Moondancer, and steal Vhagar from Aemond.” She raises her goblet in a mock toast. “Take back what is inherently yours.”

Rhaena hesitates, her face clouded with a mix of hesitation and sorrow. “I…” she begins, the words catching in her throat. “I don’t think I want to ride Vhagar, after…” She struggles to finish, the memory of Luke and Arrax’s horrific end clouding her judgment. “After what happened,” she manages to say.

The room falls silent, the gravity of her words settling over us like a shroud. The echoes of our loss hang heavy in the air, mingling with the heady fumes of the wine. The evening is a blur of grief, anger, and dark humour, a desperate attempt to grasp at something—anything—that might alleviate the pain of our shattered world.

The doors to the council chamber slam open with a deafening crash, making the three of us jump in our seats. My mother storms into the room, flanked by Daemon and Jace. Rhaenyra looks disheveled, her normally pristine silver hair a wild mess, and her eyes are red and puffy from crying. The sight of her like this adds a weight to the air that makes it hard to breathe.

“Maehrys, I demand an explanation,” she commands, her voice sharp and demanding as she strides towards the council table.

I stand up abruptly, the wine making my legs unsteady. I nearly stumble, catching myself just in time, but not before I spot the crumpled letter lying discarded on the table. The realization hits me like a punch to the gut.

“You kissed Aemond?” Jace’s voice cuts through the tension, loud and accusing, his tone leaving no room for misinterpretation.

My heart starts pounding fiercely in my chest, a surge of shame and panic washing over me. The horrified looks on Baela, Rhaena, and Jace’s faces make my cheeks flush with heat. Baela’s expression is one of stunned disbelief, her eyes wide and her mouth slightly open in shock. Rhaena looks torn between anger and betrayal, her eyes brimming with unshed tears that mirror my own. Jace’s face is a mixture of outrage and confusion, his brows furrowed deeply. The weight of their gazes feels like a heavy cloak, pressing down on me, suffocating me with their disappointment.

“Well?” My mother demands, her tone leaving no room for evasion.

“He kissed me!” I finally blurt out, the words spilling out clumsily through the haze of wine. “On the night of my nameday, he kissed me right after he told me that Alicent planned to write to you.”

“What does she have to do with this?” Rhaenyra interrupts, tossing the crumpled letter onto the table with a sharp gesture.

“She wanted to request a betrothal between Aemond and me, to stop the war,” I explain, struggling to keep my voice steady and clear despite the slurred edges. My heart aches with the weight of my confession, each word dragging me deeper into a pit of regret.

“You kissed your uncle!” My mother’s voice rises with a mix of fury and disbelief. Her eyes flash with a storm of emotions, and I feel the sting of her anger like a physical blow. I fight to hold back the tears that threaten to spill over, my throat tightening as I struggle to keep my composure.

“Like mother, like daughter,” I finally snap, my voice breaking with a mix of defiance and despair as I glance at Daemon’s disappointed face. His gaze is cold and distant, and it cuts through me like a blade.

Rhaenyra’s face contorts with a new level of fury as my words hang in the air, her eye twitching with barely contained rage. I can see the moment when she realizes that I’ve crossed a line, her expression shifting from shock to a dark, simmering anger. The room falls silent, the tension so thick it feels almost tangible. My own shame and regret seem to amplify, filling the space between us with a suffocating heaviness.

“We will talk about this on the morrow.”

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As Cannibal approaches Dragonstone, two figures and their dragons stand waiting before the castle gates: my mother, Rhaenyra, and Daemon. Their dragons, Syrax, and Caraxes, cast long shadows in the early dawn light. An anxious knot tightens in my stomach as Cannibal lands, a bit too close for comfort. The unpredictable nature of my dragon, combined with the uncertain reactions of the other dragons and my family, fills me with worry. Cannibal remains a mystery to me—a wild and terrifying creature.

Sliding off his wing is easier than my first attempt, though the ground beneath my feet reminds me of my recent trials; the pain of nearly dying three times in one night still lingers in my bones. As the first rays of dawn break, I keep my eyes on Cannibal, not daring to turn my back on him. His wings fold against his sides, their dark colour seemingly absorbing the morning light. I notice the shreds on his wings, similar to Vhagar’s, and I wonder how he got them. Does Cannibal fight other dragons when he gets hungry? I thought he fed on dead dragon’s carcasses and unhatched eggs. His head moves from left to right, studying the other dragons in silence. His horns, like two sharp towers of obsidian, stick out from his head.

"Maehrys," my mother's voice calls, making me finally face my family.

"The Cannibal, the wild beast," Daemon says, as Cannibal growls, shaking the ground beneath us. "Well done, Princess."

"How?" my mother asks, her tone a mix of curiosity and concern.

"It's a rather disturbing story," I admit, exhaustion weighing me down. "Don't congratulate me, your Grace. Cannibal claimed me." I meet Daemon's eyes as I speak.

Rhaenyra and Daemon share a worried look, while Syrax, my mother’s dragon, stares at the fierce dragon now under my control. From afar, Caraxes screeches, and Cannibal growls again. I wonder if they like each other.

"Alisha told me you left in the middle of the night with the iron chest that held your dragon eggs," my mother steps closer, her voice tinged with worry. "Did they hatch?" she asks.

"Yes," I reply, the truth stark and painful. "But Cannibal was starving."

"You fed your hatchlings to him?" Daemon, pointing towards the beast behind me and I cannot decipher the look on his face; shocked, disturbed, impressed?

"Look at him! Does Your Grace think I had a choice?" I snap, my patience wearing thin. Striding towards the castle entrance, I add, "I brought you a war dragon, Mother." With a final pat on her shoulder, I continue on my way, the weight of my night's ordeal pressing heavily upon me.

A gust of wind sweeps across my skin as Cannibal's massive wings beat powerfully, propelling him into the sky. I turn, my eyes following his dark silhouette as he ascends, disappearing behind the thick clouds. My mother and Daemon stand below, their gazes fixed on the heavens, watching the wild dragon vanish.

As I make my way up to my chamber, a heavy fog of guilt settles over my mind, seeping into every corner of my thoughts. A few nights ago, my mother made fateful decisions: she sent Jace to Winterfell to secure an alliance with Lord Cregan Stark and dispatched Luke to Storm’s End as a messenger. She chose them because they had dragons—trusted, bonded dragons. My stomach churns, and my body feels weighed down by regret. If only I had acted faster, if only Cannibal had found me sooner... I could have been the one to go. I should have been the one at Storm’s End, not Luke. The thought gnaws at me, a relentless torment.

Each step feels heavier than the last as I climb towards my chamber. The guilt is a tangible presence, pressing down on my shoulders, making every movement a struggle. My mind replays the events endlessly—my hesitation, the lost moments, the chance I failed to seize. I see Luke’s eager face, his determination, his trust in me as his elder sibling. The image of him flying off into the stormy sky haunts me, a constant reminder of my failure.

I should have fucking killed Aemond when I had the chance.

Suddenly, another memory crashes into my consciousness, striking like a dagger to the heart—Aemond's kisses, searing and forbidden. The taste of his lips, the warmth of his breath, the intensity of his gaze—all flash before my eyes with startling clarity. My heart skips a beat, and a shiver runs down my spine. The forbidden nature of our secret moments, the betrayal they represent, weighs heavily on my soul. The guilt is almost too much to bear, a relentless, crushing force.

I reach my chamber and close the door behind me, leaning against it as if to keep the world at bay. Helplessness creeps into my heart, a dark, insidious presence that saps my strength. The room is cold and dim, the first light of dawn casting long shadows that dance across the walls. I move to the window, staring out at the vast expanse of sky where Cannibal vanished. The horizon is tinged with the pinks and golds of sunrise, a stark contrast to the turmoil within me.

I clasp my hands together, fingers trembling. The weight of my choices, the burden of my inaction, presses down on me. I am at the mercy of my guilt, a prisoner of my own making. The dawn breaks, but for me, the darkness remains.

Later, I am awakened by Alisha’s gentle voice. I only got to sleep just a little bit, as I look out the window and notice the sun has barely begun to set.

“Your mother has asked to join her at the council table.” She announces. Dazed and confused, I leave my comfortable bed.

I get ready quite swiftly with her help, and when I am seated at my vanity mirror, Alisha is braiding my hair.

“I saw your dragon fly by this afternoon.” Alisha speaks. “He is quite the beast.”

“He is.” I affirm, looking at myself in the mirror, heavy bags rest under my eyes.

“I heard whispers that he ate your hatchlings.” She adds.

“He did.” I affirm again and I look at Alisha through the mirror’s reflection. She looks happy, and I try to smile, but my heart aches too much.

I can sense that she wants me to share the good news, but I cannot. My mind is troubled by the events that happened yesterday with Aemond, and my heart still aches for my brother. I feel isolated.

The council chamber is dimly lit, the flickering flames from the hearth casting long, shifting shadows across the stone walls. The air is thick with the scent of burning wood and tension. At the head of the table, my mother sits, regal and composed, the weight of her crown apparent in the solemnity of her gaze. Beside her, Rhaenys, Corlys, and Daemon, their expressions guarded, watch me with varying degrees of interest and suspicion. The other lords and council members are seated around them, faces I have seen countless times but whose names I’ve never bothered to remember. Their eyes are all on me, their scrutiny palpable.

I am seated at the far end of the table, feeling the distance between us both physically and metaphorically. The table, heavy and imposing, feels like a chasm separating me from their trust. The fire beneath the table offers little warmth, and I am acutely aware of every breath, every heartbeat, as I await their judgment.

“You have tamed the Cannibal,” Ser Robert Quince speaks, breaking the silence. His voice is calm, measured, but there is a hint of disbelief in his tone. I recognize him—he is the castellan of Dragonstone, the man who knows more about dragons than anyone else in this room.

“I did not,” I correct him, my voice steady despite the turmoil within. The words taste bitter on my tongue, a reminder of the blood I have spilled.

“The princess fed her three hatchlings to the Cannibal,” Daemon interjects, his tone laced with a mix of approval and something darker, something that makes my skin crawl.

A murmur ripples through the room, a mixture of shock and disgust. I feel their judgment in every whispered word, every sideways glance.

“Your Grace, if you don’t mind, I would like to hear the princess’ story,” Ser Quince says, his voice cutting through the murmurs as he shifts his gaze from Daemon to me. His eyes are piercing, demanding honesty, and for a moment, I feel a flicker of respect for the man.

All eyes turn to me, and the weight of their expectations settles on my shoulders like a physical burden. The pressure is suffocating, the need to explain myself, to justify the horrors I have committed, gnaws at my insides. The silence stretches, each second an eternity. Panic flares in my chest, and I instinctively look to my mother, seeking reassurance in her calm demeanour. Her gaze meets mine, and though she gives nothing away, I can see the faintest flicker of concern in her eyes. It’s enough to keep me anchored, to prevent the rising tide of anxiety from sweeping me away.

But as I prepare to speak, the weight of last night’s actions presses down on me, a suffocating reminder of what I have done. The kiss I shared with my uncle, the life-threatening fight we had, the regret in Aemond’s eyes—it all comes rushing back, threatening to overwhelm me.

I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself, to find the words that might make them understand. But as I look around the room, at the faces waiting for my confession, I realize that no explanation will ever be enough. They want to hear about my dragon, but they will never truly grasp the choices I had to make, the sacrifices I had to endure.

Still, I must try.

"My decision to feed the hatchlings to Cannibal was not one made lightly," I begin, my voice trembling slightly but growing stronger with each word. The truth is, I did not mean to kiss the kin slayer. It’s what I wanted to say, what I needed to confess. "It was a choice born out of necessity, of survival. Cannibal is not a dragon that can be tamed by ordinary means." My words are measured, careful, each one a shield against the turmoil inside me. I did not understand why I reciprocated the kiss. "He is a beast of wrath and hunger, and to control him, I had to show him my strength, my willingness to do whatever it takes. The hatchlings... they were a sacrifice, a necessary evil to secure Cannibal's loyalty." I do not know why I liked his lips on mine so much, and why the taste of Aemond lingers in my mind.

As I speak, the memory of that kiss, fiery and desperate, rises unbidden. It was a moment of weakness, of raw emotion, and yet it consumes me. Just as I had to face the darkness within to master Cannibal, I had to confront the storm that raged between Aemond and me. The kiss was not planned, not wanted—at least not consciously—but in the heat of the moment, it felt inevitable, like two forces colliding with devastating intensity.

But just as with the dragon, I was drawn into that fire, helpless to resist its pull. I remember the way his hands gripped me, not in violence, but in a twisted kind of need. The way our lips met with an urgency that felt like drowning and breathing at once. It was wrong, it was madness, and yet...

My voice wavers as I finish my explanation, the words catching in my throat as the memory of Aemond’s kiss lingers like a wound. “The hatchlings were a necessary evil,” I repeat, more to myself than anyone else, as if saying it aloud could absolve me of both sins—the sacrifice and the kiss.

But deep down, I know that no amount of justification can cleanse me of the fire that still burns in my veins, ignited by his touch. And as the council murmurs in response to my words, I realize that I cannot dwell on this now. There are greater battles ahead, and the luxury of guilt is not one I can afford.

“So,” Rhaenys begins with a wry smile, “What are we going to feed him? Dragons?” Her jest cuts through the tension in the room, drawing a few quiet laughs. Even my mother, her heart heavy with grief, manages a faint smile, though it’s a fragile mask over her pain.

I watch her, trying to understand how she copes with loss, how she carries the weight of grief and still stands tall. I don’t even know how to cope with the loss of my brother, and the thought of losing a child as young as Luke is unimaginable.

“The better question is…” One of the lords begins, his voice hesitant but determined. “When are we going to send the Cannibal to slay Vhagar?” His words hang in the air like a challenge, and I see my mother’s composure crack as she violently shakes her head.

“We shall not. I shall not,” she declares, her voice rising, betraying the storm of emotions she battles to keep in check.

“The Cannibal is the strongest weapon we have,” the lord presses, his audacity surprising me. Where does he find the nerve to speak to his Queen with such boldness?

“I shall not send my daughter to such a cruel fate. The Cannibal is a wild dragon, not a war dragon,” Rhaenyra replies, her voice laced with a mother’s fierce protectiveness.

“If I may, your Grace,” Robert Quince intervenes, his tone more measured. “We can train Cannibal, and the Princess. He is wild, yes, but he is also ancient. I do not doubt that he has experience in combat, and we could make use of him. As a last resort.”

My mother’s gaze shifts to me, her eyes mirroring the same panic and anxiety I felt earlier. She wants me to say no, to refuse this path of danger and vengeance. She is terrified of losing another child to the Greens’ cruelty. But as I recall the petrified look on Aemond’s face last night, the memory of Cannibal’s arrival fills me with a dark satisfaction. The fear in Aemond’s eyes, the shock—it was intoxicating, a rush of power I’ve never felt before.

“I will need a very large saddle,” I finally say, breaking the silence. My mother’s head shakes again, disbelief and dread mingling in her expression.

“Meeting adjourned,” she sighs, her voice heavy with defeat.

As the council members begin to disperse, I remain seated, lost in thought. The decision I’ve made feels like a step toward something irreversible, a path that will either lead to my revenge or my downfall. The room clears out, leaving only the crackling fire and the echoes of our discussion. Daemon and Rhaenyra remain seated as well, starting a fiery exchange of whispers, about me and my dragon, no doubt.

Just as I rise to leave, the chamber doors swing open, and Alisha rushes in, her face pale and drawn. She kneels before my mother, clutching a sealed letter in her trembling hands.

“Your Grace,” she says, breathless, “it’s for you, from King’s Landing.” She turns to me and hands me the letter.

My mind starts to wonder in many different directions. Has Alicent decided to request a betrothal between Aemond and I? Does she have that kind of courage, especially now when he has slain my brother? Has she written to apologize?

With shaking hands, I open the letter and hold my breath.

“To My Niece, Maehrys,

Do you remember when we first met? How quickly we became enemies?

Writing to you feels like a betrayal of everything I stand for, yet I cannot silence the thoughts that have plagued me since last night. It sickens me to admit that you’ve found a place in my mind—a place you have no right to occupy, and yet, you do. I hate that I’m writing to you. I hate even more that I feel compelled to.

You are the villain in my story, Maehrys. Your bastard bloodline is the reason for this war, the reason for all this death and suffering. I should despise you entirely, and I do. But it’s not that simple, is it? Because despite the hatred that courses through my veins whenever I think of your family, there’s something else—something I can’t quite shake, no matter how hard I try.

And yet, despite every ounce of hatred I hold for you, I cannot banish the memory of those moments from my mind. It enrages me, this pull I feel toward you, this vile attraction that defies all reason. How dare you invade my thoughts, twist my desires, and make me question everything I have sworn to uphold? You are nothing but a traitor’s spawn, a tool of our enemies, and yet… yet you haunt me like a curse.

I hate that I feel this way, Maehrys. I hate that I’m torn between my duty to my family, and this twisted connection between us. I’ve been taught my entire life to see you and yours as the enemy, to destroy anything that threatens the Greens. And yet, when I think of you, I’m filled with a conflict I never anticipated.

You are everything I should loathe—a symbol of the war, of the bloodshed, of everything that has been torn apart. But you are also something else, something I can’t quite define. And that infuriates me. I want to hate you entirely. I want to see you as nothing more than the daughter of the woman who seeks to take what is rightfully ours. But there’s a part of me, buried deep, that can’t let go of what we shared, however brief, however wrong it was.

I don’t know what to make of this, Maehrys. I don’t know how to reconcile these feelings with the man I’ve always believed myself to be. But I do know this: I will not let these emotions cloud my judgment. My loyalty is to my family, to my cause, and I will not waver in that. But as much as I want to forget, I can’t. You’ve left your mark on me, and I despise you for it as much as I despise myself.

This war will end, one way or another. When that time comes, I don’t know where we’ll stand, or what will be left of these feelings. But for now, I’m caught between hatred and something I can’t name—a pull toward you that defies everything I’ve been taught, everything I’ve believed.

If we meet again, I won’t know whether to strike you down or to… I don’t even know. But until then, I’ll keep fighting this war, and the war within myself, knowing that both may tear me apart.

Yours in ways I cannot fully understand,

Aemond”

My heartbeat quickens as I finish reading the letter, a surge of emotions crashing over me like a tidal wave. My chest feels tight, my breath shallow, and I suddenly feel lightheaded. How dare I invade his thoughts? How dare he kiss me? How dare he send me this letter, setting my heart and brain at war with one another? How dare he make my soul twitch and convulse in this unbearable way?

"Your Grace," Alisha's voice cuts through my turmoil, making me jump. I look up from the letter, startled, and find her eyes locked onto mine, filled with worry. The world around me seems to blur as I try to steady my racing thoughts.

"Did you read this?" I whisper, my voice trembling with the hope that my words haven’t reached my mother’s ears. Panic tightens its grip on me, squeezing my chest until I feel I might break under the pressure.

"You kissed Aemond?" Alisha’s whisper is sharp, laced with accusation. The weight of her words sends a chill down my spine.

My eyes widen in horror as I meet her gaze. Panic floods my body, a cold sweat breaking out on my skin. Her expression hardens, shifting from concern to judgment, and I can’t bear the intensity of her stare. Shame crashes into me like a wave, pulling me under, and I quickly avert my gaze, my heart pounding painfully in my chest.

"You are dismissed for today," I say swiftly, my voice barely above a whisper. "Take tomorrow off too." Alisha huffs in response, leaving with a scoff that echoes in my ears like a slap. The sound of the council chamber doors slamming shut behind her reverberates through the room, amplifying the silence that follows. I can’t bring myself to look at my mother and Daemon, the weight of their unspoken questions pressing down on me like a boulder.

"Jace is flying back on the morrow," my mother’s voice finally breaks the silence, mercifully not mentioning the letter. "He will aid you in your dragon training, I think."

Grateful for the reprieve, I quickly shove the letter into my leg grater, next to my dagger. The cold steel against my thigh is a reminder of the choices I’ve made, the path I’m on. "Will he arrive with good news?" I ask, desperate to focus on anything other than the storm raging inside me.

"I hope so," she replies, and I finally gather the courage to meet her gaze. Her eyes are soft, filled with a pain that mirrors my own. "We will hold Lucerys’ funeral tomorrow."

"Very well," I say, standing abruptly, eager to escape the suffocating tension in the room.

"I love you, Maehrys," my mother’s voice trembles, the words heavy with emotion.

"I love you too," I reply, my voice thick with unshed tears. I sniff, fighting to keep my composure, and then turn on my heel, fleeing the council chamber before my resolve crumbles.

As I walk away from the council chamber, the echo of the heavy doors closing behind me feels like a sentence sealing my fate. The letter tucked against my thigh feels like a secret flame, burning with intensity I can barely contain. My steps quicken as I make my way through the winding corridors of Dragonstone, my mind a whirlwind of confusion, anger, and something far darker.

The distant roar of Cannibal pulls me from my thoughts, a sound that sends a shiver down my spine. He is out there, somewhere in the skies, a beast of legend—untameable, unpredictable, and now bound to me through blood and fire. I should feel victorious, perhaps even proud, but instead, all I feel is the weight of everything I have lost and everything I stand to lose. Lucerys, my sweet, innocent brother, gone to the whims of fate and the cruelty of war. And now this—whatever this is between Aemond and me, a poisonous thread weaving through the fabric of our destinies.

I take the stone steps two at a time, desperate to reach the solitude of my chambers. The halls blur around me as the ache in my chest grows sharper with each passing moment. When I finally reach my room, I slam the door shut behind me, leaning against it as I try to steady my breathing. The walls feel too close, the air too thin. Every breath is a struggle.

I pace the length of the room, my hands clenched into fists at my sides. His words churn in my mind, a poison I can't seem to rid myself of. Every breath I take feels like I'm drawing in the remnants of his presence, that arrogant smirk, the way he looms in my thoughts as though he's burrowed his way into the very fabric of my soul. I should be planning my next move, strategizing how to bring him down—but instead, I'm fixated on him.

In between these thoughts, I close my eyes, willing the chaotic storm inside me to calm, but the memory of his letter lingers, as does the ghost of his kiss. I hate him. I should hate him. And yet, I can’t deny the twisted thrill that courses through me when I think of him—the way his eye darkened with something more than hatred, the way our lips met like a clash of swords.

But that’s the problem, isn’t it? I don’t just want to strike him down—I want to understand him. And I loathe myself for it.

I pull the crumpled letter from my pocket for what must be the hundredth time. The edges are worn now, the ink slightly smudged from where my fingers have repeatedly traced the words. As I unfold it, my eyes scan the lines, searching for something I’ve missed, some hidden meaning or lie, some trick meant to twist the knife deeper into my back. But it remains maddeningly the same—an enigma wrapped in promises and contradictions.

Do you remember when we first met? How quickly we became enemies? the letter begins.

Of course, I remember. How could I not? It was a dark time, our shared childhood at the Red Keep. It was a dance of hatred from the start, a venomous game of wills. But now, he dares to speak of it as if it were something else—as if it were the beginning of some dark, twisted connection. His words speak of regret, of a bond that transcends our enmity, but I can’t help but doubt every line, every sentiment. Does he mean any of it? Or is this just another one of his manipulations, another way to get under my skin?

I want to throw the letter into the fire, to watch it burn and erase his words from my mind. But I cannot. I hold on to it, my fingers tightening around the paper as I try to make sense of the torrent of emotions swirling within me. The letter speaks of things unsaid; things left between the lines. It’s not just an apology, not just an admission of our shared darkness—it’s an invitation. An invitation to what, though, I don’t know.

Am I supposed to believe him? Am I supposed to care?

I shake my head, forcing myself to remain detached, to keep a clear head. But it’s impossible. Every time I look at his words, I feel the confusion creeping in, the uncertainty of whether I’m reading them with a clear mind or through the lens of the feelings I refuse to acknowledge. It’s as though there’s a part of me that wants to believe him, wants to understand him, even though I know I shouldn’t.

And that scares me more than anything else.

I toss the letter onto the table, unable to stomach reading it any longer. Yet even as it lies there, taunting me with its presence, I can’t deny the pull it has on me. I can’t stop thinking about him. About the kiss that still lingers on my lips like a curse, about the look in his eyes when he spoke those final words.

There’s a part of me that wants to hate him completely, that wants to purge him from my thoughts entirely. But then there’s another part, the part that thrills at the game we play, the part that doesn’t just want to destroy him—it wants to unravel him.

And I despise myself for it.

I let out a frustrated breath, running a hand through my hair. This should be simple. He’s my enemy. He’s always been my enemy. But nothing feels simple anymore.

And the worst part is, I’m not sure if I want it to be.

With a frustrated groan, I push away from the door and stalk toward the window. The sun has almost set, casting long shadows across the room. The sky is tinged with deep purples and reds, and somewhere out there, Cannibal is prowling the skies, a living reminder of the line I have crossed.

I turn towards the table and reach for the letter once again. The parchment feels heavy in my hands, and I scan Aemond’s words again, each line a dagger to my heart. How dare you invade my thoughts? he had written. I shake my head bitterly, wondering the same. How could he think I wouldn’t?

Tearing my gaze away from the letter, I fold it carefully and place it back into its hiding place, where it feels safer, buried next to the cold steel. No one can know. Not my mother. Not Daemon. Not even Jace.

A loud knock at the door startles me. I turn, gripping the back of a chair as though I can anchor myself to something solid. The door creaks open, and a familiar figure steps inside.

Daemon. His silver hair gleams in the dim light of the room, and his expression is unreadable—calm, but there’s always something lurking beneath the surface with him. He closes the door behind him softly and regards me with narrowed eyes.

“What troubles you, Maehrys?” His voice is low, probing.

I shake my head, forcing a smile that doesn’t reach my eyes. “Nothing I can’t handle, Your Grace.”

He doesn’t seem convinced, stepping closer. His gaze sharpens, scanning my face, searching for the cracks in my facade. I stiffen under his scrutiny.

“Don’t lie to me,” he says, his voice taking on a dangerous edge. “I see the storm in your eyes. You’re battling something, and I want to know what.”

For a long moment, I say nothing, my mind racing with all the things I cannot say. I glance toward the window, the dying light of day casting a long shadow between us. “This war,” I say, finally breaking the silence. “It demands more of us than we were ever prepared to give.”

His eyes darken at my words, and he crosses the room to stand beside me, gazing out at the horizon. “War is a cruel master,” he says. “It twists us into shapes we no longer recognize. It demands sacrifices.”

I close my eyes, swallowing the lump in my throat. “And if those sacrifices leave us hollow inside? What then?”

Daemon’s hand falls on my shoulder, a rare gesture of comfort from a man who so rarely gives it. His voice softens, though there is an edge of steel beneath. “Then we fight on, Maehrys. We use that hollow place as fuel. We make it burn.”

I nod, though his words do little to soothe the turmoil inside me. As Daemon turns to leave, I catch sight of his reflection in the mirror—he is still a warrior, still a man who thrives in the fire of battle. I wonder if I am the same. Or if I am something else entirely.

When the door closes behind him, I let out a long breath, the tension in my body easing just slightly. The letter still presses against my skin, a silent reminder of the choices I have made and the ones I am yet to face.

Tomorrow, Luke will be laid to rest. And after that? Cannibal and I will face the skies again. The weight of vengeance presses heavily on my chest, a promise yet to be fulfilled.

And somewhere, in the distance, Aemond waits—whether for battle or for something else entirely, I cannot say.

But soon, I will find out.

Also read on: AO3

Taglist: @watermel0nsugarhigh

The fire's cracking echoes in my head as I watch my mother break down. I have seen my mother cry before; she has suffered enough heartache. But this time is different. This time, I feel she shares my anger. My heart races, and tears start falling down my hot cheeks. Luke is dead. My innocent, dearest little brother is dead at the hands of my one-eyed uncle. I was a fool to think he would ever change, even now, after he has... reduced his cruelties toward me.

A crushing weight settles on my chest, squeezing the breath out of me. The pain is unbearable, a deep, gnawing ache that refuses to relent. Luke, my sweet Luke, with his bright eyes and infectious laughter, is gone. The memories flood my mind: his mischievous grin when he played pranks, the way he would cling to me when he was scared, his boundless energy and curiosity. How can the world continue to turn without him in it?

My uncle's face flashes in my mind, his single eye cold and unfeeling. The rage burns through my grief, a scorching fire that threatens to consume me. He took Luke from me, from us, and for that, I will never forgive him. But even my fury cannot mask the overwhelming sense of loss. Luke's absence is a gaping void, an abyss that swallows everything in its path.

I start running towards my chambers, my feet moving without thought. I must do something; I am tired of sitting and watching the Hightowers and my silver-haired uncles plot to destroy us. I cannot allow myself to grief.

"Princess, is everything—"

"Luke is dead, Alisha." I bend my knees in front of the scorching hot chest that holds my three dragon eggs. Thunder roars outside the palace’s windows, and I know a storm is coming. Suddenly, I am struck by panic. Arms shaking, I lift the chest and place the cloak over my head.

"Whatever do you think you are doing?" Alisha's voice rises, and I jump. I turn around, hands burning.

"I cannot bear to be purposeless to my mother..." I choke on my own tears. "To my family anymore." Suddenly, everything goes quiet, and a ringing sound makes my ears ache.

Before Alisha can speak again, I take the chest and sprint through the door. I dodge the knights and household folk with ease, as they are also distracted by my sweet brother’s death. The palace of Dragonstone is buzzing with panic, sorrow, and derangement, making it trouble-free for me to leave. I hear dragons' cries and roars coming from the dragon pit, and my body acts on its own. I grip the chest tighter.

My grandsire passed just a few days after we returned to Dragonstone, and Alicent has already planned to usurp my mother by putting Aegon on the throne. My drunk, good-for-nothing, and irresponsible uncle. My heartbeat quickens when I think about Aemond. Before we left King’s Landing, we shared a kiss. I have tried not to think about it, about how my stomach turns, and my heart skips a beat when it comes to Aemond. I was a fool.

He murdered my baby brother.

The cold air sends a chill down my spine, and I am reminded of the weight of the chest I am holding. My arms start burning. Even if my dragons hatched, they would be useless to me. There is no guarantee they will accept me, and they will be too small to fly if it comes to war. When it comes to war. I do not have the luxury of waiting; time is not on my side. I start climbing a hill, my body throbbing with pain. I do not know where I am going, and I do not know if I am returning alive. When I arrive at the top of the hill, my palms are burning. I feel the first drops of rain on my hot cheeks as I look up at the jet-black sky. The winds are strong, and the moon peeks from behind a cloud.

“Ouch.” I drop the chest on the wet grass as steam starts rising out of it, and my heart drops. Could it be? My dragon eggs are hatching.

I open the chest, my hands trembling, and I see the first crack on the middle egg. The shell splits further, revealing a small, horned hatchling. Its scales are the colour of deep, rich mud, glistening with a sheen of newborn moisture. Its eyes, a striking shade of honey, peer up at me with a mixture of curiosity and confusion. It lets out a high-pitched screech, its tiny wings unfurling slightly as it takes in its surroundings.

Shortly after, the second egg begins to fracture. The pieces fall away, revealing a hatchling that is the spitting image of Syrax, with gleaming, pale gold scales that shimmer in the dim light. This dragon’s eyes are a fierce, bright yellow, filled with an innate sense of pride and defiance. It growls, a surprisingly deep sound for such a small creature, and stretches its delicate wings, testing their strength.

Before I can fully process the first two, the final egg starts to crack open. A long-necked hatchling emerges, its scales a soft, buttery yellow. Its wings are larger in proportion to its body, giving it an almost ethereal appearance. This one is quieter, its cries softer, more like chirps. It lifts its tiny wings, attempting to fly, but only managing to flutter slightly before settling down.

The three of them are no bigger than small dogs, yet their presence is monumental. They wobble towards me on unsteady legs, their honey-coloured eyes filled with a babe-like curiosity and a glimmer of recognition. I wonder if they hatched because they felt the sorrow in my heart, the burning need for purpose and revenge.

This is all I have ever wanted.

I am overwhelmed with a rush of emotions, watching the three warm-coloured hatchlings. They are beautiful, each unique, each a miracle. The muddy-scaled hatchling with its piercing honey eyes, the golden Syrax lookalike with its proud yellow gaze, and the delicate yellow dragon with its ethereal wings. Their cries fill the air, hot steam rising from their tiny bodies as they nuzzle against me.

They have all chosen me, I think, and I hope that I am right. I smile, feeling a strange mixture of maternal pride and fierce determination. I may not have a war dragon, but I have dragon blood, and they know it. The hatchlings' shrieks become more alarmed and nervous as the moonlight is stolen by a black shadow, and all three of them jump into my arms. Holding the hatchlings, I swiftly turn around, and my eyes are met with a pair of gigantic, emerald-coloured dragon eyes staring at me from above.

At first, I mistakenly thought that the huge dragon before me was Vermithor, who had decided to take a stroll into the night, but I soon realize that this dragon has black scales and is much bigger than Vermithor. I squint my eyes, attempting to figure out who this dragon is, but before I come to any conclusion, a low grumble shakes the ground beneath me. My hatchlings grow restless, and suddenly, I am hit with a realization. I let the hatchlings go, putting them back on the ground, and they wail, frightened. The coal-black dragon lowers its head and squints its eyes at my hatchlings. With a sharp snarl, the dragon swallows my three hatchlings, the earth shaking under its weight.

“Sȳrje.” Very well. I speak, and in a second, my hatchlings are gone, but I do not feel sad. The dragon keeps his emerald gaze on me, and I study him further, noticing the two massive horns sticking out of his forehead like obsidian towers.

This must be Cannibal, the largest and oldest of the three wild dragons roaming Dragonstone. He has never had a rider and is often depicted as a wild, violent beast. I feel the ground shake once again as the gigantic dragon lowers its wing before me. I lift my arm up, reaching for its head. His growls become louder, and I watch his two long horns reach for me as his neck stretches out. His abyssal black scales absorb all the moonlight, giving him a shadowy presence.

“Dohaeres, Cannibal.” Serve, Cannibal. I waste no time and take my first step forward towards his shoulder. The dragon growls, but I do not feel menace in its voice. “Dohaeres.” Serve. I take another step towards him and look up. His body is immense, and with no dragon saddle, the chances of me mounting him and not perishing are low, but not non-existent. Cannibal lowers his body even more, puffing hot steam out of his nostrils. I make contact, touching the side of his shoulder, and I tremble when I touch his freezing scales. He shifts again, and I take a step back, almost falling to the ground.

“Lykiri.” Calm down. I say in a comforting voice. With haste, I use the side of his wing, his tilted horn, and his scales to climb on his back. Before I can process that I am on dragon back, Cannibal suddenly gets up, startling me. I grab onto him and pray to the gods that I will not fall. His scales are rough under my body, my thighs already aching, but I brace and tighten my grip.

The dragon takes off with a growl, and I lower myself, hugging his back tightly. He was starving. He was starving, and he claimed me. My heart beats faster and faster, and I feel the dragon’s blood run through my veins. I am reminded of my grandsire’s words: The idea that we control dragons is an illusion. I was completely helpless before him, and he made his decision. I am not in control.

His long wings cut through the thick clouds as we make our way above them. Cannibal rumbles, sending vibrations through my whole body. The air cuts my skin, and he picks up the pace, flying above the clouds. I straighten my back, looking around, trying to decipher where we are headed. My cloak flies off, followed by the bow that was holding my long hair together.

I cannot help but hold tight and admire this majestic dragon. His huge, black scales shine in the faint moonlight, each one like a perfect shield. His wings, vast and powerful, cut through the night air gracefully, despite his massive size. The beat of those wings sends vibrations through my entire body, a reminder of the incredible power beneath me. My heart is full of sorrow and pride, each emotion battling within me. The sorrow for Luke, my beloved brother taken too soon, feels overwhelming. Yet, pride swells within me, for in this moment, I am connected to a creature of legend, a dragon few have seen, and none have tamed. I wonder if Luke sent Cannibal to me from beyond the grave. The thought is both comforting and haunting. Could Luke, with his gentle soul, have reached out from the afterlife to guide this magnificent beast to me? I imagine his face, his innocent eyes filled with curiosity, now watching over me with a wisdom beyond his years. Perhaps it is his spirit that stirs within Cannibal, a final act of brotherly love to protect me in my darkest hour. As we continue to soar through the night, the stars above us and the world far below, I allow myself to believe that Luke’s spirit is guiding me. His presence feels real, and I whisper a silent promise to him. I will be strong. I will carry on. And I will make sure that his death is not in vain. With Cannibal beneath me and Luke’s spirit within me, I am no longer just a grieving sister. I am a rider of the largest dragon that has ever lived, a symbol of hope and defiance against Aemond and the others who seek to destroy my family.

I must have lost track of time, and we must have been flying for a while because I look at the horizon and notice the first sun rays peeking above the sea. All around me, we are surrounded by sea and salt.

"Where are we going, boy?" I whisper, and my body starts to shiver. Without my cloak, I am left with my evening dress, not suited for flying and absolutely not suited for dragon back. I tighten my grip and dare to look past his head. My eyes widen as I realize where we are. King’s Landing. He has flown me to King’s Landing. Panic rushes through my whole body, and my stomach rumbles. Does he know I am angry at my uncle? Does he feel my anger and my hunger for revenge? Will he burn down the palace?

" Daor, Cannibal." No, Cannibal. I say, lowering myself again, attempting to be as close to him as possible. I cannot show the greens that I have claimed a dragon, not yet.

Cannibal lowers himself, and I almost slip and fall. He begins his descent upon King’s Landing. I start climbing his back, grabbing onto every scale I can get my hands on, and slowly making my way up to his head. I thank the gods he does not have a long neck like Caraxes, and I continue my climb. I am close to his head when I hear the first scream and look down. A sailor on King’s Landing beach has spotted us. Soon, more folk start screaming as Cannibal reduces altitude.

"Lykiri." Calm down. I say, grabbing his horns. Cannibal growls again, and soon enough, he makes his way to the Red Keep, the castle’s towers shining dimly in the morning sun. I drown in panic. I do not know what to do.

"Dragon!" I hear the guards shout.

The dragon screeches, a deep and frightening growl, and I feel we are hit by arrows. None of them pierce him, though. Cannibal does not stop, and he circles around one of the castle’s towers, ignoring the White Cloak’s countless arrows that are being thrown in his direction. I recognize the tower we are circling because I’ve been inside the chambers not long ago. Aemond’s chambers. I lower myself and pray that nobody sees that Cannibal has a rider.

“Daor!” No! Feeling powerless, I yell. “Dohaeres.” Serve.

-

Before I can process what happened, Cannibal takes off and I am left on Aemond’s balcony. Cannibal has taken off as swiftly as he landed, disappearing above the clouds. I am unsure if I was spotted, or if the guards saw that Cannibal has a rider. One thing I know for sure is that Aemond has not noticed my arrival.

Thankfully, I do not leave anywhere without a dagger. I take it out of my grater and make my way to the door. The sun has not yet risen, and it is difficult for me to see through the window. But I can hear.

“Maehrys, Maehrys, Maehrys.” Aemond’s voice is trembling, filled with something that makes my heartbeat quicken. Does he know I am here? 

I look back, hoping to see Cannibal in my proximity, but it is hopeless. There is no going back. I hold my breath and open the balcony door as quietly as I can. I thank the Gods that Aemond has his back turned on me and is sitting in front of the fireplace on a chair. The first thing I notice is his eyepatch, slanted on the small table beside him. The second thing I noticed is an empty flask of wine next to the eyepatch. He mutters under his breath, words I cannot understand, and puts his head in his hands. I slowly and swiftly make my way to him, holding my breath and hoping he does not hear my heartbeat.

Suddenly, I cannot hear again. Suddenly, my heart tells me to pierce my dagger through the back of his skull. Suddenly, I am two and ten again, relentlessly harassed by my uncle.

I grab the chair he is sitting on and turn it around, my muscles aching and my heart pounding. With a swift kick, Aemond falls on his back, startled. Before he has time to react, I put all my body weight onto his, placing his left wrist under my right knee. I grab his right hand with my free hand and place my dagger underneath his chin.

“Maehrys?” He asks. Aemond’s cheeks are flushed and wet, his good eye is wide open, and his sapphire eye is reflecting the fireplace’s fire. I waste no time and apply pressure onto his throat with my dagger.

“Why?” I ask, swallowing hard. For the first time in my life, I do not act out on my anger, and decide that before I kill my uncle, I want to get as much information about the greens as I can.

“I did not mean to kill him!” he exclaims. The desperation in his voice gives me a rush and I loosen the pressure on my dagger. “I just-“ he chokes. “I just wanted to scare him, get revenge because he took my eye.” I apply pressure again. He does not react. “I lost control of Vhagar.” I can smell the alcohol in his breath and the regret in his voice.

“He was but a child.” Once again, I feel tears run down my cheeks.

“I was a child too.” He speaks. “When he took my eye, when Jace and Aegon laughed at me because I did not have a dragon.”

“And now you do.” I cut a bit deeper, a small river of blood ran down his neck.

“I’m sorry.” He whispers, and my tears fall onto his face. “I’m sorry, Maehrys.” I feel his long leg kick my back and I wince in pain, loosening the grip on my dagger. In a heartbeat, he knocks it out of my hand and throws me on the floor, his body now on mine, holding me with great strength. My heart beats faster than before and I squirm, hopelessly trying to get him off of me. My mind is foggy, and I lose control of my body, kicking the floor, attempting to grab anything in my proximity, but all my efforts are for nothing.

Aemond’s grip tightens, his breath hot and ragged against my ear. “Please, Maehrys,” he whispers, his voice a mix of desperation and regret. “I never wanted any of this.”

But his words do little to soothe the storm inside me. My heart is a cauldron of rage and grief, each beat echoing the loss of my brother, the betrayal, and the pain. I look into Aemond’s eyes, searching for any sign of the boy I once knew, the uncle who could have been different. But all I see is the man who took Luke from me, and I cannot forgive that.

With a final, desperate surge of strength, I try to push him off, my nails digging into his arms, but he is too strong. My movements grow weaker, and I feel the fight leaving my body. Tears of frustration and sorrow stream down my face as I lay there, pinned and powerless, the dagger just out of reach. The weight of my helplessness crushes me as Aemond’s face hovers inches from mine, his eyes filled with a torment that mirrors my own.

“Why?” I ask again, choking on my tears, my voice breaking under the weight of my sorrow and rage.

“I told you, I lost control of Vhagar,” he answers quickly, his voice tinged with desperation, but it isn't enough for me.

“No,” I say, shaking my head. “Why were you saying my name before I attacked you?” I try to stall, needing to understand, needing something more from him.

His one good eye, filled with a mixture of pain and something I can’t quite place, locks onto mine. “Maehrys,” he begins, his voice trembling. “I was calling for you because… because I needed you. I needed to tell you how sorry I am, how much I regret everything.”

“Regret?” I spit out the word, feeling the hot sting of betrayal and grief. “You think regret will bring Luke back?”

“No,” he whispers, his voice barely audible. “Nothing can bring him back. But I needed you to know that I am not the monster you think I am. I needed you to hear it from me, to see that I am suffering too.” His words hang in the air, a desperate plea for absolution that I am not sure I can give.

Then, without warning, he crashes his lips onto mine. It is not a kiss of love, but of desperation, anger, and regret. His lips are forceful, almost punishing, as if trying to convey all the emotions he cannot put into words. I try to resist, but the intensity of the kiss overwhelms me, drawing me into the storm of his feelings. Our tears mingle, the salt stinging the rawness of the kiss. His hands grip my arms tightly, almost painfully, as if afraid I will disappear if he lets go. The kiss deepens, a fierce battle of wills, a collision of our broken hearts. I taste the wine on his tongue. My own anger and sorrow surge to the surface, and I kiss him back with equal fervour, letting all my emotions pour into that single, heart-wrenching moment.

Our kiss is broken by Cannibal’s screeches, and I seize the moment. While Aemond is distracted, I push him off me and make a run for the balcony doors. I open both of them and sigh in relief when I see my dragon, the powerful wind wiping away my tears. I wait a few seconds before turning back to Aemond.

"Have you ever wondered how I managed to get up here?" I ask Aemond, a sadistic smile forming on my face.

"You—" he starts, but I do not let him finish. He has said and done enough for one night.

"I am no longer dragonless," I tell him, basking in the horrified expression that crosses his face.

Cannibal puffs hot air out of his nostrils, a sign he wants me to climb him. The sound of his wings flapping stops, and I hear one of the outer walls of the Red Keep almost giving way under his weight. The dragon lowers his wing, and I successfully climb it.

As I settle onto Cannibal's back, I take one last look at Aemond. His face is a mix of shock and fear, emotions I never thought I’d see in him. The satisfaction of seeing him so vulnerable fills me with a sense of triumph. But there is no time to dwell on it.

Cannibal takes off, and the rush of wind engulfs me, scattering my thoughts. The kiss, the fight, the fleeting moment of connection—they are all left behind in the chaos. My focus sharpens as the Red Keep becomes smaller beneath us.

In the sky, I find a small victory. I have my dragon, my escape, and for now, that is enough. The pain and confusion of tonight will have to wait. There is no time to process what just happened, no room for lingering on the emotions that battle within me. All that matters is the freedom of the open sky and the powerful beast beneath me, carrying me far away from the nightmares of the past.

With a final screech, we are vertical again, his wings fluttering with violence and speed, and I am almost thrown off him. My whole body jerks violently as the dragon ascends, and I lose my grip momentarily, my fingers slipping from the rough scales. The world tilts and spins, and I see the ground far below, a blur of grey stone and green foliage. My heart leaps into my throat, and a scream escapes my lips as I feel myself sliding, the wind tearing at my clothes and hair.

I claw desperately at Cannibal's scales, my nails scraping against the hard surface. My legs dangle precariously, and my body is aching as we gain altitude. The dragon's immense wings beat powerfully, each stroke sending a rush of air that threatens to dislodge me completely. I manage to catch hold of a small ridge on Cannibal's back, my fingers digging in with all my strength. My arms burn with the effort, muscles straining as I fight to pull myself back up.

"Cannibal, please!" I cry out, my voice barely audible over the roar of the wind and the dragon's growls. He seems oblivious to my struggle, focused entirely on his flight. The cold air bites at my skin, and I feel a sharp pain in my palms as they begin to bleed, the rough scales cutting into them.

I cannot die. Not now, when I am no longer dragon less. Not now, when I have a fair shot of defeating Aemond. Not now, when I finally do not feel powerless anymore.

I cannot die.

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I run as fast as I can. I picked up my book and made a run to my chambers, the wine’s effect wearing off. Alisha was there waiting for me, but I dismissed her quickly. I need to be alone.

My heart was still beating as fast as it did when I intertwined my lips with my uncle’s, and I sit in front of my vanity mirror. My hair is loose and scruffy, a few curls stuck to my temple. My eyes have heavy bags under them, and my palms are bruised. My gaze lingers on my lips; they are swollen and bloody.  Why did he kiss me? The question echoes in my mind, a haunting refrain. The intimacy of the moment feels wrong on so many levels, the boundaries of family and pride shattered in an instant. Why didn’t I stop him? My passivity feels like complicity, my inaction a betrayal of myself. Why did I like it? This question is the hardest to face, the one that fills me with the deepest sense of self-revulsion. The pleasure I felt, however fleeting, twists like a knife in my gut.

Why did I like it?

My stomach turns in pain and disgust, and I get up as fast as I can and walk over to my chamber pot. With one hand, I hold my hair and with the other, I hold my stomach as I spew all the wine and grapes that I had today. One moment, Aemond was telling me to make haste and find a husband before Alicent sends word for Rhaenyra to wed us, and in the next moment, he was kissing my lips with hunger. I throw up once more, the force of it making my knees buckle. Tears fall unchecked down my cheeks, hot and relentless. Each retch feels like a purging of the confusion and guilt that weigh so heavily on me. The room spins, my vision blurring with tears and the remnants of nausea. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, the taste of bile lingering.

When I am sure the contents of my stomach are all gone, I maniacally undress and get into the bath that Alisha prepared for me. I grab the sponge with a trembling hand, my grip tight and desperate. I plunge it into the water, soaking it thoroughly, and then I press it against my skin. I rub with a ferocity that borders on madness, scrubbing at my flesh as if I can erase the memory of what happened. But I cannot. We kissed. And I liked it. The sponge moves in harsh circles, my skin turning red under the relentless friction. I scrub until it hurts, but the physical pain is a welcome distraction from the turmoil inside me.

My breath hitches as I continue, tears mingling with the bathwater. The harder I scrub, the more I feel the sting of my actions, but I can't stop. The need to be clean, to be free of the lingering ghost of Aemond's touch, consumes me. The water turns murky with each pass of the sponge, but no amount of scrubbing can reach the stain that I feel inside.

Still nauseous, I manage to scrub myself clean. When I am done bathing, I decide that the vomit aftertaste is too much, so I chug a lot of water. My throat is burning, and my mind is still foggy. I cannot allow myself to think about that moment any longer, and I cannot allow myself to let it happen again.

When my mind finally quiets down, I fall asleep, body aching and spirit wounded.

-

“Happy name day, Maehrys!” Rhaena’s voice startles me.

We left King’s Landing a few hours ago, and it will not be long before we reach Dragonstone. Corlys insisted he send the biggest ship he has, even though Daemon and Jace took off on dragon back. My head aches like never before as I watch the ship cut through the dark blue sea.

“Why did I think the salty air would help with my aching head?” I ask Rhaena, and she frowns.

“Someone had too much to drink last night.” She teases, a smile forming on her face. “You had a merry night, I assume?” She asks.

“Yes.” I lie. “Though I cannot wait to return to Dragonstone.” I say, leaning over the hard wood of the ship. Above us, I hear Syrax’s and Vermax’s screeches.

“How are the eggs?” She asks, and I turn my gaze towards her.

When Aemond was ten and two, he stole Rhaena’s rightful dragon, leaving her dragonless to this day.  The act was a bold and unforgivable affront, a theft that cast a long shadow over her, robbing her not just of a dragon but of a birthright. Vhagar was Laena’s dragon before she died, and since Baela claimed Moondancer, it was only fair that Rhaena claims Vhagar. From time to time, she would ask me about my unhatched dragon eggs, her voice a mixture of curiosity and something deeper, something more poignant. Each time, I am not sure if she wants to comfort me, or if she needs comfort herself.

“Still unhatched.” I answer, with a sigh. I can sense her inner turmoil, the way she clings to the hope that my dragon eggs might hatch, as if their success could somehow mend the wound left by Aemond’s betrayal.

“When we arrive to Dragonstone, I will try to claim Seasmoke.” Rhaena states.

Seasmoke has been riderless ever since Laenor, my father, died. Some nights, when the world is quiet and the darkness settles over the castle like a shroud, I hear Seasmoke’s growl echoing through the night air. It is a low, mournful sound, filled with a sorrow that mirrors my own. In his voice, I sense his solitude, a powerful creature left bereft and alone.

“I wish you luck, sister.”  I give her a reassuring smile, and she places her head on my shoulder.

We watch the horizon as the ship drifts towards Dragonstone, the world around us growing still and silent. Two dragonless Targaryens, bound by blood and loss—what a tragedy.

I spend the next few days trying to keep myself busy, to stave off the heavy thoughts plaguing my mind. I dive into studying High Valyrian, spending hours learning the language and its complicated rules. The focus it requires helps distract me from my worries. Moreover, I need to perfect my High Valyrian. I am doing this for myself, yes, but I am also doing it for the little girl I used to be, who dreamed of claiming the biggest dragon in the world.

I also train with my brothers, pushing myself hard in our practice sessions. Maybe pushing Jace a bit harder. I convince Daemon to train with us, and he surprisingly agreed. I study his technique and note how it is much more violent that Ser Criston’s. Daemon acts on impulse, on feeling, and he spares no strength when it comes to defeating us in combat. At the end of the day, I cannot go to sleep without a hot bath to soothe my aching muscles. The physical activity gives me a break from my thoughts and helps me feel stronger, as if I can control something in my life.

I make time to be with my pregnant mother, offering her support and company. We sometimes talk about my grandmother, Aemma, and how she died in childbirth, and I grow tired of seeing pain in my mother’s eyes. Our time together is soothing, and her presence reminds me of what’s important amidst all the confusion.

Despite all this, my mind often drifts back to Aemond and the kiss we shared. I think about his words and the urgency to find a husband quickly to avoid being married to him. This pressure weighs heavily on me.

I also comfort Rhaena, who failed to claim Seasmoke by changing the bandages on her shoulder. The dragon did a number, not only on her body, but on her soul as well.

In search of advice, I talk to Baela about what it’s like to be betrothed to a half-brother. I hope she can share her personal feelings and experiences. However, she mainly discusses the political aspects of such a marriage, focusing on alliances and strategic benefits. Her talk about politics only makes me feel more alone, leaving me with more questions and uncertainties about my own situation.

“Maehrys?” On a Sunday afternoon, I hear my mother’s voice echo in the library, cutting through the silence like a knife through butter. The smell of old parchment and ink fills the room, a familiar comfort.

“Yes, mother?” I close the High Valyrian book and dismiss the tutor who was helping me. His bow is deep, respectful, before he quietly exits the room, leaving us alone.

“I cannot help but notice how distracted you have been lately.” She sits at the table in front of me, her eyes searching mine. “Is something troubling you?” she asks, her voice softening as she holds my hand in hers.

I absolutely cannot tell her that what has been troubling me is Aemond, and the fact that we shared a kiss. A kiss that haunts me to this day, consuming my thoughts and dreams. “No…” I say, half-heartedly, my voice betraying me. She gives me the same comforting look she has given me all my childhood, a look filled with love and concern.

“Maehrys, my sweet child, I know you too well. There is a shadow upon your heart. Speak truthfully to me.” Her grip on my hand tightens slightly, urging me to open up.

“Yes,” I confess, my voice barely a whisper. “Will you marry me off to some lord soon?” My question catches her off guard, and she seems taken aback by my curiosity.

“Perhaps,” she answers after a pause, and my heart drops to my stomach. “But do not worry, there is no rush for betrothal now.” Rhaenyra continues, her thumb gently rubbing the scar on my left wrist, a scar from my sinister childhood that binds us even closer. A youth where I did not want to live any longer. “Why so curious about marriage all of a sudden?”

I cannot tell her that Alicent is planning to suggest I marry Aemond. The very thought makes my heart race with a mix of fear and longing. I point at her big belly; “I do not wish to bear children,” I tell her, the words coming out steadier than I feel. It is not considered lying if I do not tell the whole truth. “But if it is ever needed, I want you to know that I will not be against it.” I continue, my voice steady. “I promise.”

She sighs, a deep, weary sound. “The burden of women in our world is a heavy one, Maehrys. But know that you are not alone. Whatever the future holds, we will face it together.”

I nod, the weight of unspoken words pressing down on me. As she rises to leave, I feel a mix of relief and dread. The path ahead is uncertain, and the shadows of the past cling to me like a cloak.

“Rest now,” she says gently. “And remember, my dear, that you are loved beyond measure.”

As she exits the library, I am left with my thoughts, the flickering candlelight casting long shadows on the walls. The memory of Aemond’s kiss lingers, a forbidden secret that binds me to a future I cannot yet see.

The very next day, I am awakened by the sound of alarmed voices between servants, handmaidens, and guards echoing through the stone corridors. The usually serene morning air is thick with tension and unease. I dress swiftly, with Alisha’s expert hands guiding me into my gown, her fingers trembling slightly as she fastens the intricate clasps.

“What is happening?” I ask, but Alisha only shakes her head, worry etched across her face.

I make my way to the council room, my heart pounding. The castle halls, usually bustling with activity, seem darker and more foreboding today. As I pass through the grand corridors, I catch sight of Meleys, Rhaenys’ dragon, flying in frantic circles above the palace, her growls echoing with a desperate urgency. The sight sends a shiver down my spine.

I reach the massive doors of the council room and push them open, stepping inside to hear Rhaenys’ voice ringing out. “-and the Queen Regent insists your father changed his mind on his deathbed.”

“What is happening?” I whisper to Jace, who stands nearby, his face pale and anxious.

“They crowned Aegon this morning,” my brother answers quickly, his voice trembling. The weight of his words sinks into me like a stone.

Luke joins us shortly, followed by Rhaena and Baela, their expressions mirroring the same shock and disbelief that I feel. My heart starts quickening its pace as I listen to Rhaenys’ words. How could they? My mother is the rightful heir to the crown. Aegon is just a drunk usurper.

Rhaenys continues, her voice steady but laced with anger. “The Queen Regent claims that King Viserys, in his final moments, wished for Aegon to take the throne. It is a blatant lie, a fabrication to seize power.”

My mother stands at the head of the table, her face a mask of controlled fury. “This cannot stand. We have the support of many houses. They will not accept Aegon as king,” she declares, her voice resolute.

“But what can we do?” Luke asks, his voice small and frightened. “They have already crowned him. The people... they might believe their lies.” He grabs my hand, squeezing it tightly.

Rhaenyra’s eyes flash with determination. “We must rally our allies, make our position known. We will not be silent. We will not let them steal what is rightfully ours.”

As the council debates, plans forming and falling apart in rapid succession, I feel a surge of resolve. This is not just about a throne. It is about our family, our honour, and the future of the realm. Aegon may have a crown, but he will never have the loyalty of the true Targaryen blood. He does not have my mother’s expertise

Suddenly, I hear my mother groan in pain, and I know exactly what is happening; the labours of pregnancy. But it cannot be—it is too early. Fear grips my heart as I realize the potential danger she and the unborn child are in.

As Rhaenyra is carried away by her handmaidens, her face contorted in agony, I desperately want to follow, to be by her side, to offer comfort. But my mother dismisses me swiftly with a firm wave of her hand, her eyes filled with a mix of pain and determination. “Stay here,” she commands through gritted teeth, and I know better than to argue.

Defeated and filled with worry, I sit next to Rhaenys, who watches the scene with a solemn expression. Her presence is both a comfort and a reminder of the gravity of our situation.

“How did you manage to escape?” I ask, needing a distraction from the anguish I feel.

“I have a dragon,” Rhaenys says quickly, and her words cut like a dagger. The simplicity and power of her statement highlight the stark difference between us. Her eyes soften when she notices my hurt expression. “A war is about to begin,” she continues, and I nod, feeling the weight of the impending conflict settle over me.

“What stopped you from raining dragon fire upon them?” I ask, thinking about what I would do if I had a dragon at my command. The thought of vengeance, of justice delivered through fire and blood, is a tantalizing one.

Rhaenys sighs, her gaze distant as if seeing a past filled with similar choices. “I do not wish to start the war, Princess,” she answers. “Fire and blood bring destruction, not only to our enemies but to our own as well. There is a time for dragons, and there is a time for restraint.”

Her words linger in the air, a sobering reminder of the responsibilities that come with power. As I sit there, the sounds of my mother’s labours and Syrax’s growls echoing faintly through the walls, I realize that our path is fraught with difficult choices. The dragons we command are both our greatest strength and our greatest burden.

“I wish my eggs hatched.” I sigh, desperation lingering in my voice.

Rhaenys’ gaze meets mine, and I see a flicker of understanding. “You will have your time, Maehrys. But for now, we must be patient, even as the storm gathers around us.”

In that moment, I feel utterly powerless. The chaos around me, the fear in my mother’s eyes, and the weight of impending war all crash down upon me like a relentless storm. I do not know what to do, and I do not know how I can be of aid to my mother. I cannot comfort her through the agonizing labours of early childbirth, I cannot fly to King’s Landing and kill Aegon, I cannot do anything that would make a difference. My helplessness claws at me, a cruel reminder of my limitations.

Suddenly, I am eight years of age again, scared and anxious, lost in a world of uncertainty. I remember the nights I would wake from nightmares, seeking my mother’s embrace, her soothing words the only balm to my fears. Now, the roles are reversed, and I am the one who should be offering comfort and strength, but I feel just as frightened as I did then.

Tears sting my eyes, but I blink them back, unwilling to show weakness in front of Rhaenys or anyone else. The hall feels colder, the shadows longer and more oppressive. Each second that ticks by feels like an eternity, and the sound of my mother’s pained cries echoes hauntingly in my ears.

Rhaenys must sense my turmoil, for she places a reassuring hand on my shoulder. “You are stronger than you know, Maehrys. Your presence alone is a comfort to your mother, even if it doesn’t feel like it.”

I nod mechanically, but her words do little to alleviate the knot of anxiety tightening in my chest. I watch as the handmaidens hurry back and forth, their faces masks of grim determination. Every fiber of my being screams to do something, anything, but I remain rooted to the spot, paralyzed by my own inadequacy.

The memory of Aemond’s kiss flashes in my mind, a stark contrast to the present reality. The confusion of my feelings for him mingles with my anger and fear, creating a turbulent storm within me. How can I navigate these emotions when the world around me is falling apart? My breathing becomes manic, and I choke on the thick air.

“Breathe, Maehrys,” Rhaenys whispers, her voice cutting through the fog of my thoughts. “We will get through this. Your mother is strong, and so are you. The Targaryen blood runs hot and true in your veins.”

I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself, but it feels as if there is not enough air in the world. My chest tightens, and each breath becomes a struggle, as though an invisible force is squeezing the life out of me. My vision blurs, the edges of my sight darkening and narrowing as if I am peering through a tunnel. The sounds around me become distorted, and my mother’s cries are muffled by a high-pitched ringing that fills my ears, drowning out everything else.

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My grip tightens around the wooden sword, wishing I held a real Valyrian steel blade in my hand. Aemond’s face remains expressionless as I begin circling him on the training ground. We are alone; almost everyone in the Red Keep has left for supper. Ser Criston took his disgusting assertions and left as well, giving me enough reason to act on my anger. Suddenly, I feel no pain in my shoulder and no shame from Criston’s defeat moments earlier. It is just me, Aemond, and my thirst for a good battle, nay, a good victory. The white-haired man raises a brow. In the dark of the night, I think of Daemon and how Aemond resembles him, just a little bit.

I prime my sword, waiting for him to pick his up. “We are late for supper.” Aemond turns around, and my heart starts galloping. He shall not dismiss me, he shall not underestimate me, he shall not turn his back on me. How dare he? He owes me a fair battle, especially after he attacked me in the library, and my shoulder is clearly still wounded. Wounded, like my pride in this moment.

As a loud, guttural growl escapes from my throat, I swing my sword at the silver-haired man. Aemond quickly turns and avoids my blow, taking me by surprise. Not ready to accept defeat, I swing again and again, my vision blurred and my mind fogged with anger. My blows quickly become useless as Aemond avoids me yet again. Why won’t he fight back? I notice his patience wearing thin and take the opportunity, hitting him in the shoulder as hard as I can. “Enough!” he yells, gripping the wooden sword and pulling it from my hands with so much force that I wince in pain, my palms burning from the harsh wood. “I shall not fight a child.” With those last words, Aemond walks away swiftly without looking back.

I am left alone. Child. That word makes my stomach turn. He thought me a child, yet he was the one aimlessly harassing me in the library moments earlier. How could he be such a hypocrite? When I am sure Aemond is truly gone, I allow my exhausted body to rest, falling to my knees and placing my burning palms on my sweaty forehead. If only I had a dragon.

-

The air is so tense in the supper chamber, I cannot stand it. Every breath I take, imaginary fumes come out of my nostrils. I feel restless, as Aemond had defeated me twice, along with Ser Criston Cole, whom I have begun to despise. It is not the same hatred I feel for Aemond. No, I feel repulsed by Ser Criston, disgusted even, and there’s something in my gut telling me I am right to feel that way.

Aemond’s piercing look catches my attention. My whole family, along with the three silver-haired children and Queen Alicent, are waiting for my grandsire, Viserys, to make an appearance. I grow restless as my stomach growls in hunger. The only thing I have in front of me is a chalice full of wine, and I think about downing it twice. I dismiss that thought quickly, as Aegon is already drunk as a dog. He made a fool of himself in front of everyone just moments earlier. I do not want to make a fool of myself.

The doors open with a loud creak as the doormen announce His Majesty’s name. The smell of death and decay thickens the air, and soon enough, I lose my appetite. Viserys takes a seat between Alicent and Rhaenyra and starts to talk. His words are muffled in my ears as I watch Aemond exchange dirty looks with my brothers. Once again, I hold my head in my aching palms, and I cannot help but feel like I am back on the training grounds, left alone and ashamed after losing to him again.

A few drinks later, the King is carried away to his chambers, as his health does not allow him to continue supper. My stomach is still empty, as is my cup. I signal Jace to pour some more wine as servants carry a pig and place it in front of Aemond. Luke chuckles at Aemond, and I feel something I hadn’t felt in a while: sympathy towards my uncle. We both shared a painful childhood. I glance at his eyepatch, and then glance at my scar. The wine must have done a number on me because Aemond slams the table, suddenly getting up and startling everyone except me.

“A final tribute.” He raises his cup, keeping his eye on Luke. “To the health of my nephews and niece.” He moves his cold gaze towards Jace. “Jace, Luke, Joffrey.” And finally, his eye moves swiftly to me and remains there. “And Maehrys.” I try as hard as I can to keep my face expressionless. “Each of them handsome, wise,” he continues, and I know what’s coming next “and strong.” Fucker.

“Aemond—” Alicent’s voice is full of worry and authority.

“Come, let us drain our cups for these four strong people,” Aemond continues.

“I dare you to say that again.” Jace rises from his chair and takes a step towards Aemond. Intoxicated, my first instinct is to get up and follow my brother. I smell a fight.

“Why? It was only a compliment,” Aemond says, and I recognize his tone. He is playing dirty, just as he had in the library and on the training field, every time he faces me or my brothers. “Do you not think of yourself as strong?”

Aemond is interrupted by a weak punch thrown by Jace. I grin, eager to join the fight, but before I can take a step, I feel my mother’s hand on mine. She shakes her head and I sit back down, reminding myself that I must not make a fool of myself.

“Your sister’s punch hurts more than yours.” Aemond shoves Jace and walks away.

“I am still so famished,” I announce, throwing a ripe grape into my mouth.

After supper, Rhaenyra sends word for me to join her in her chambers.

“Have you not had enough food? Should I call for the cook?” Rhaenyra asks, her tone growing worried.

“No, Mother, these grapes are splendid.” I sit on the divan. “Why am I here?” I ask, looking at Rhaenyra’s slightly disheveled appearance.

“You never really knew your grandsire,” Rhaenyra starts. “Yet you share so many of his passions.” Passions? I never knew King Viserys loved combat and hated his uncles. “History, for example. You share his passion for the histories of the Seven Kingdoms.” My cheeks burn in surprise and a bit of embarrassment. It is true, I do love to read about history, but dragon history in particular, and, on some occasions, Old Valyria. I doubt that my grandfather’s passion for reading came from a burning resentment because he did not claim a dragon. After all, he had Balerion the Black Dread, Aegon the Conqueror’s dragon.

“You are my dearest daughter,” Rhaenyra says, moving closer to me. “And I love you immensely.” Rhaenyra signals her handmaiden to grab something. The handmaiden hands me an old book. “Tomorrow is your name day, and your grandfather wished for you to have this.” She hands me the same book about Old Valyria that I already read when I was younger.

-

I do not have the heart to tell my mother that I have already read the book my grandsire gave me, so I thank her and decide to go back to my chambers. We are to leave for Dragonstone tomorrow, and I cannot be happier. As much as the Red Keep fills me with nostalgia, I have grown to hate it in these past few days. Before I can reach my chambers, I see Alicent walking down the hall, accompanied by Aemond.

“Good evening, Your Grace.” I grip the book harder as I bow.

"'Tis late indeed to be wandering these halls unaccompanied, Princess," she says, and I nod.

“I was just about to retire for the night.” I speak, making eye contact with her. “We depart for Dragonstone on the morrow."

“Very well,” she says and begins to leave, but Aemond does not move. “Aemond?”

“May I have a moment alone with my niece?” he asks, and Alicent continues walking, leaving us alone. I hate the way he speaks. My niece, as if I am property, and not a person.

I thank the Gods that the guards to my mother’s chamber are not far, because I am unarmed, exhausted, and slightly drunk.

“How old will you be on the morrow?” he asks, and I take a step back, putting some distance between us.

"I believe the hour is past midnight, so it is now my seventeenth name day." I frown. “Why are you asking?”

Aemond sighs. “And yet, you remain unwed.” He takes a step closer, and my heart begins galloping. His face is slightly lit by the torches, and I cannot read his expression well. The corners of his mouth are downturned, and his eye is dark. He does look a bit flushed, most likely from the wine he drank during supper. By the tone of his voice, he sounds annoyed.

“What is it you are implying?” I ask, dazed and confused. Aemond shakes his head, and I cannot help but notice how perfect he looks. Despite our fight, despite Jace’s punch, despite everything that happened today, he keeps his appearance as clean as a dragon’s fire. In this moment, I think I do not want to hit him.

“When the King dies,” he starts, his voice low and a bit desperate. “If your mother sits on the Iron Throne,” he continues, “my mother will want us to wed.” Aemond whispers the last few words, and my eyes widen.

“First, when my mother sits upon the Iron Throne.” I correct him, whispering. “Second, why would your mother even suggest such a thing?” I continue. “I do not feel anything but hate towards you.”

He sighs, again, and this time I can smell the wine on his hot breath. “It is not about feeling, stupid girl.” He grabs my shoulders, but it does not hurt, and I drop my book on the floor. “It’s about politics, and how we are both unwed.” Aemond speaks to me like I am a child again. “You must find a husband before that happens.” He continues, and I smell desperation in his voice. I gather every bit of strength that I have left for today and slap him so hard that his head turns to the right. For a moment, he appears taken aback, but as the seconds stretch, a grin slowly spreads across his face. “You hit harder than your brother, still.” He wipes the blood from his lower lip and looks down at me.

“My mother would never allow me to be wed to such a…” I stumble on my words, and I curse the wine that has clouded my tongue.

“Handsome man?” he interrupts me, and my heart quickens in pace. How can he jest in this moment?

“Cruel and vile man,” I say, finding my words at last. His gaze remains locked on mine, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips.

"And yet, here we are," he taunts, his voice low and dripping with mockery. "Two souls bound by fate and disdain." Aemond must be drunker than I imagined.

I glare at him, my anger boiling over. "You think your arrogance and cruelty can sway me? You’re nothing but a wretched excuse for a man." Things are escalating swiftly.

He steps closer, his presence overwhelming. "You’re no prize yourself, bastard."

The space between us feels electric, charged with a mix of hatred and something more. My pulse races, not just from the fury but from the undeniable tension in the air. I can almost taste the animosity between us.

Without warning, he grabs my shoulders yet again, pulling me sharply against him. The intensity of his touch catches me off guard. Our faces are mere inches apart, and for a heartbeat, time seems to freeze.

"Perhaps it is the very fire we share that ignites this conflict," he murmurs, his breath warm against my skin.

My breath hitches, and my heart beats fast as his lips hover dangerously close. “You’re insufferable,” I manage, though my voice is almost a whisper.

"Yet you cannot deny the truth of it," he replies, his gaze locked onto mine with intensity.

In a sudden, reckless moment, I close the distance between us. Our lips crash together, the kiss fierce and consuming. The anger that once defined us melds with an unexpected, scorching passion. The taste of blood and wine lingers as our mouths move in a heated, desperate dance, challenging the very essence of our loathing.

As we finally pull away, breathless and disheveled, the fire in our eyes is matched only by the shared, tumultuous resolve. The hatred remains, but now it burns alongside something darker, something neither of us can ignore.

Also read on: AO3

 The throne room remained as massive as Maehrys remembered.

 The Iron Throne, on the other hand, seemed smaller, the thousand swords have lost their magic over time; their edges became softer, less fearsome, but the man that was standing on it made Maehrys feel physically sick. Otto Hightower, the King’s Hand was sitting on the edge of the throne, with a slight complacent expression on his face. He had no right to sit on the throne.

 “Though it is the great hope of this court that lord Corlys Velaryon survive his wounds, we gather here with the grim task of dealing with the succession of Driftmark.” Otto spoke and Maehrys clenched her jaw. Her grandfather should’ve been on that throne, not the father of Alicent. The princess’ gaze shifted on the Queen who was standing beside her three children: Aegon, Aemond and Helaena, on the right side of the throne, while Maehrys, Rhaenyra, her brothers and Daemon were located on the left side of the throne. The princess could not recall when was the last time she was in a room full of people who despised her and her family. “As Hand, I speak with the King’s voice on this and all other matters.” Otto added as Aemond’s gaze caught Maehrys’ attention. Her half-uncle seemed proud that his grandfather was standing on the throne and was staring at the princess with a triumphant expression on his face. “The crown will now hear the petitions.” Luke began to tug at the princess’ sleeve, singling that he wishes to hold her hand. Maehrys shook her head and refused to. She did not wish for her little brother to appear weak in that moment. “Ser Vaemond of House Velaryon.” Otto called.

 Maehrys’ great uncle stepped forward before throwing Luke a bitter look.

 “My Queen.” Vaemond greeted Alicent, who seemed more worried than Rhaenyra. “My Lord Hand.” Maehrys yearned for the formalities to cease, and for Vaemond to start complaining already. “The history of our noble houses extends beyond the Seven Kingdoms to the days of Old Valyria. For as long as House Targaryen has ruled the skies, House Velaryon has ruled the seas. When the Doom fell on Valyria, our houses became the last of their kind. Our forebearers came to this new land, knowing that were they to fail, it would mean the end of their bloodlines and their name.” Lord Vaemond’s approach was tiring. Maehrys did not wish for a history lesson. “I have spent my entire life on Driftmark defending my brother’s seat. I am Lord Corlys’ closest kin, his own blood. The true, unimpeachable blood of House Velaryon runs through my veins.” Maehrys wanted to scream as the tension rose higher.

 “As it does in my son’s, the offspring of Laenor Velaryon.” Rhaenyra spoke. “If you care so much about your house’s blood, Ser Vaemond, you would not be so bold as to supplant its rightful heir.” She added, finally looking at Lord Vaemond. “No, you only speak for yourself and your own ambition.” The energy in the throne chamber made Maehrys feel as if she was going to suffocate.

 “You will have chance to make your own petition, Princess Rhaenyra.” Alicent interrupted. “Do Ser Vaemond the courtesy of allowing his to be heard.” She added as Vaemond’s body turned to face Maehrys’ family.

 “What do you know of Velaryon blood, Princess? I could cut my veins and show it to you, and you still wouldn’t recognize it.” Ser Vaemond spoke and Maehrys could only hope he would do as he said. “This is about the future and survival of my house, not yours.” His eyes drifted towards Luke, who seemed terrified. “My Queen, my Lord Hand. This is a matter of blood, not ambition. I place the continuation of the survival of my house and my line above all.” Vaemond continued as he turned to face Otto again. Maehrys could feel Aemond’s gaze on her, burning through her, desiring to destroy her and her family once and for all. She will not allow him that satisfaction. “I humbly put myself before you as my brother’s successor… the Lord of Driftmark and Lord of the Tides.” Vaemond, at last, finished his speech.

 “Thank you, Ser Vaemond. Princess Rhaenyra, you may now speak for your son, Lucerys Velaryon.” Otto spoke.

 Maehrys’ glance follows Rhaenyra’s body as she leaves her family’s side and steps in front of the Iron Throne. “If I am to grace this farce with some answer, I will start by reminding the court that nearly twenty years ago, in this very-“ Rhaenyra’s speech was interrupted by the sound of the massive doors of the throne room opening.

“King Viserys of House Targaryen, the first of his name, King of the Andals, and the Rhoynar, and the first Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and protector of the Realm.”

 The sound of the King’s cane thumping on the floor echoed through the chamber, as everyone, including Maehrys watched her grandfather approach the Iron Throne. She has not seen him in almost a decade and struggled to recognize the old man. The princess bowed, as did everyone else. The King was wearing a golden mask on the right side of his face and Maehrys wondered what had happened. She knew he fell ill, and assumed that he could not even talk, since Maehrys was not allowed to see him. But there he was, slowly limping, crown looking heavy on his head. King Viserys looked at Rhaenyra, and Maehrys caught a glance of his face. He looked sick, as if death was trying to catch him off guard. He stopped walking as he reached the throne’s stairs.

 “I will sit on the throne today.” He whispered to Otto.

 “Your Grace.” Otto nodded and joined his family.

 King Viserys was struggling to walk up the stairs and a knight came to his aid. “I will be fine.” His voice sounded ill. All Maehrys could do was watch in awe as he was making his way up to the throne. The sound of the crown’s metal falling on the ground startled the Princess, and she raised herself on her tiptoes, attempting to observe what had happened. Daemon hurried to help him. “I said I’m fine.” The king’s hoarse voice echoed through the room. Maehrys wondered if it was his stubbornness keeping him alive.

 “Come on.” Daemon helped him sit on the throne and placed the crown back on his head.

 Maehrys was pleased to find Alicent and Otto’s worried faces staring at the King.

 “I must… admit my confusion.” The King spoke and Rhaenyra walked back by Maehrys’ side. “I do not understand why petitions are being heard over a settled succession. The only one present who might offer keener insight into Lord Corlys’ wishes is the Princess Rhaenys.” Everyone turned to look at Maehrys’ grandmother.

 “Indeed, your Grace.” Princess Rhaenys stepped in front of the throne. “It was ever my husband’s will that Driftmark pass through Ser Laenor to his trueborn son… Lucerys Velaryon. His mind never changed. Nor did my support of him. As a matter of fact, the Princess Rhaenyra has just informed me of her desire to marry her sons Jace and Luke to Lord Corlys’ granddaughters, Baela and Rhaena. A proposal to which I heartily agree.” Maehrys was delighted that her brother had her grandmother’s support. She was starting to doubt.

 “Well… the matter is settled. Again. I hereby reaffirm Prince Lucerys of House Velaryon as heir to Driftmark, the Driftwood Throne, and the next Lord of the Tides.” The King announced and Maehrys wished to sigh in relief, but she could not.

 A knot was settling in her stomach as she watched Ser Vaemond’s facial expressions change from confusion to resentment. “You break law, and centuries of tradition to install your daughter as heir.” Ser Vaemond began to walk towards the throne. “Yet you dare tell me… who deserves to inherit the name Velaryon.” His voice was glazed with hatred and disgust. “No. I will not allow it.”

 “Allow it?” The King questioned. “Do not forget yourself, Vaemond.”

 Ser Vaemond suddenly turned towards Luke and Maehrys. “That is no true Velaryon,” he pointed his finger at them. “And certainly not nephew of mine.” Maehrys instinctively placed her hand over her gown pocket who offered her easy access to the garter that was holding her dagger.

 “Go to your chambers. You have said enough.” Rhaenyra protectively positioned herself in front of Luke.

 “Lucerys is my trueborn grandson. And you… are no more than the second son of Driftmark.” The King spoke again, with much more ease this time.

 “You may run your house as you see fit but you will not decide the future of mine.” Vaemond turned to face the King. “My house survived the Doom and a thousand tribulations besides. And Gods be damned…” He turned towards Luke, again and spoke on a threatening tone. “I will not see it ended on the account of this-“ He stopped himself before saying the word that everyone was thinking. Maehrys wanted to slash his neck.

 “Say it.” Daemon spoke.

 “Her children…” Ser Vaemond wasted no time. “Are bastards! And she is a whore.” He yelled and Maehrys was ready to take out the dagger from her garter, but Daemon’s hand on her shoulder stopped her from taking Vaemond’s life.

 “I…” King Viserys slowly got up from the Iron Throne. “Will have your tongue for that.”

 Daemon’s sword slashed Vaemond’s head, a waterfall of crimson erupting from him, as his body fell on the floor. Maehrys watched his lifeless body while listening to the gasps of the people echo through the throne chamber. Her gaze instinctively drifted towards Aemond, who was looking at Daemon clean his sword. His violet eye had a hint of admiration in it.

 That was it. The title of “Lord of Driftmark” was secured, and her brother ought to wear the crown in short time.

 “The King demanded a family supper.” Alisha announced as Maehrys entered her chambers.

 “Daemon killed Ser Vaemond.” The princess sat down in front of her vanity. “Slashed his head in two.” She looked at Alisha’s face brighten through the mirror.

“That… sounds like something Daemon would do.” Alisha spoke and started taking off jewellery from the Princess’ hair.

 “Yes, but he did it to defend Luke. To defend us, Ser Vaemond was calling us bastards!” Maehrys exclaimed.

 Daemon’s violent outbursts were no surprise to the Princess. She witnessed Daemon kill other knights in tourneys simply because they had the upper hand. There was even an instance where her great-uncle made his dragon eat a messenger because he did not receive good news. Maehrys knew Daemon was ruthless and impulsive, yet she could not understand why he would defend her and her brothers. She reckoned he only cared about Rhaenyra’s silvered haired children.

 “Perhaps the prince is beginning to get attached to you and your brothers.” The lady-in-waiting speculated.

 A shiver ran down Maehrys’ spine when she heard Alisha’s words. She was afraid that her words were true, and that she would have to look at Daemon as a father, rather than as her mother’s consort. The thought physically made Maehrys shake her head.

 “You were saying that my grandsire wishes to have supper with us?” Maehrys changed the subject and began to look through the different hair accessories. She picked up a pearly necklace, wondering if it would be appropriate to wear at the feast.

 “Yes. He demands his whole family to be present.” Alisha spoke, braiding the Princess’ hair.

 The Princess dropped the necklace, her body suddenly feeling restless. She did not wish to have supper with Alicent and her children. It was a nightmare waiting to begin. Maehrys got up from the chair as soon as Alisha finished braiding her second braid. She walked towards the chest where she had training clothes and began taking her gown off. “I wish to train.” She announced and Alisha hurried to help her dress. “Tell Ser Criston to meet me in the courtyard.” Maehrys commanded.

 “Yes, your Grace.” Alisha left her chambers.

 Maehrys was aware that if she did not train, or engage in any sort of physical activity, she will have too much energy during the supper. She ought to be exhausted during the dinner, she did not wish to have a clear mind and process all the insults that her uncles will throw at her and her siblings. It would be a lie if she said she did not miss a good training session. The Princess finished tying the laces of her boots when Alisha returned to her chamber.

 Maehrys shivered as she made her way through the castle to the courtyard, which was less crowded than the day before; a scent of hay and rain floating through the air. Ser Criston was waiting by the wooden swords with his armour off. “Princess.” The knight threw a sword at her. The Princess was caught off-guard but managed to catch the wooden sword before it hit her face. “Position.” Ser Criston said as he positioned himself in front of her. Maehrys moved her body in a defensive position, guessing his aggressive sword fighting style.

Ser Criston swings first, just as Maehrys predicted. The Princess blocked his blow, their wooden swords slamming together. “You look like your mother.” Ser Criston spoke, applying more pressure onto Maehrys’ sword. He stepped closer. “From up close.” He added, swinging his sword a few more times. Maehrys parried his blows with effort, her muscles remembering what he taught her during her youth days.

 “I could even say that you are pretty.” Ser Criston continued to attack, and all Maehrys could do is block his blows, not having a chance to swing herself. The Princess knew what he was doing: trying to distract her with words, but she was no fool. “You will grow into her.” Criston said and Maehrys started breathing harder as adrenaline levels began to adjourn. She whirled away from him, creating distance. The pain in her right shoulder reminded her of its creator and Maehrys finally swung, anger flowing through her body. Ser Criston was taken aback by her sudden offence and steps back after blocking her blow. “I might have been mistaken. You fight like your father.” He said and Maehrys instinctively swung her sword again. The knight avoided the blow and instead of swinging his sword, he pushed the princess on the ground.

 Maehrys’ body plummeted on the cold, dirty ground, and she groaned when the pain in her shoulder began spreading through her entire arm. She attempted to grab the wooden sword that fell besides her, but her body would not obey her mind’s commands. Ser Criston did not try to help her, but just watched as the young princess struggled to get up. “I saw your mother in that position some time ago.” Ser Criston spoke again, and she slowly got up.

 “What is the meaning of that?” Maehrys frowned, not understanding what Ser Criston was talking about. Did he fight Rhaenyra? Was her mother trained in combat?

 “It means he fucked her.” Aemond’s sharp voice made her get up from the ground. She impulsively brought the sword up, the sharp edge pointing at her uncle.

 “I could have your tongue for that.” Her mind began to fog, dread running through her veins. She wanted to defeat Aemond, badly.

 “I do not wish to fight a girl.” The silver-haired prince spoke.

 “Then I shall not be a girl today.” Maehrys started walking around Aemond, circling him, as she kept her wooden sword pointed at him.

˜”*°˜”*°˜”*°˜”*°˜”*°˜”*°˜”*°˜”*°˜”*°˜”*°˜”*°˜”*°˜”*°˜”*°˜”*°˜”*°˜”*°

Also read on: AO3

 Aemond was playing dirty.

 A mixture of fear, anxiety and slight excitement ran through Maehrys’ veins when she tried to take the dagger that she hid under her garter. The book about Old Valyria fell on her foot in her attempt to grab the dagger. Aemond swiftly grabbed her other hand. The silvered hair prince pushed her against the library shelf with such force that she swore she bruised a shoulder. The impact was sudden, and her right shoulder throbbed in pain. The small blade fell from underneath the red gown onto the floor and Aemond kicked it further away, not letting her go.

 “I should have your eye, you know.” He said on a low, ominous tone. “I should take revenge for what your younger brother did.” He kept on applying more and more pressure onto her wrist, his nails digging more and more through the princess’ pale skin.

 “You’re dreadful.” She spoke, voice trembling with hate.

 “You’re a bastard.” Aemond spoke back, his eye looking down on her.

 The same never-ending bitter words. Maehrys was tired of Aemond’s hatred springing from her alleged paternal figure. But which one was he referring to now? Was he talking about the late Laenor? The father who does not look like her, and who was absent even before his death? Or perhaps he was talking about Ser Harwin Strong, who was more of a father figure than Laenor ever was. Or perhaps her great-uncle-stepfather, Daemon… who she was sure he did not care for children that are not white-haired. She had lost count.

 “And how am I to blame?” She raised her voice, and he quickly placed his palm over her lips, shushing the girl.

 “Shh, now.” His lips curled with a sinister smile. “I wouldn’t want people assuming that I was harming you, princess.” He could not claim this victory, because it was not a fair one.

 Maehrys was afraid, angry but also confused. Why was Aemond doing this to her? If he really wanted to, which he certainly did, he could have killed her already. She could not comprehend why he has not done it already. The prince slowly removed his hand.

 “How am I to blame for my mother’s doings? You think I chose to be born a bastard?” She asked, frantically trying to escape his grip.

 Aemond pushed harder and she winced at the pain coming from her shoulder. “No, but I think you had the right intentions when you tried to take your life.” He finally let her go and she exhaled all the air she had been holding. Aemond took a step back and picked up the valyrian steel dagger. “I just wished you would have gone through with it.” He spoke his final words and walked off.

 Maehrys’ heart was beating as fast as her thoughts were sprinting through her mind. The pain in her right shoulder was growing larger and her wrist was bleeding. She just stood there, processing what had happened not long ago. Aemond could have killed her; he had her pinned down, he had a blade in his hand. He did not even need the blade, his force was enough to suffocate her, or snap her neck, or gauge her eyes out.

 Aemond Targaryen did not need a blade to kill her.

 The princess picked up the book that she previously dropped and, despite the intense pain in her right shoulder and her left wrist, started sprinting to her chambers, hoping she will not encounter a familiar face on the way. Maehrys used to enjoy walking from the library to her chambers when she was younger. She used to look forward to reading a new book and fall asleep with it in her hands. It used to be a comforting, delightful way to end her day. But that was when she still considered the Red Keep her home. She was foolish and young: the Red Keep was all she knew. As of recent, she could not call that castle her home.

 She tunnel-visioned her chamber and did not pay attention to the hand that had been placed on her shoulder until she felt the awful aching again.

 “It’s late.” Daemon’s voice was low and sharp. Rhaenyra’s husband appeared like a tall, ghostly figure; his features slightly lit up by the candlelight. Maehrys shivered at his sight. “What happened to you?” He asked, glaring at the girl’s bloody wrist.

 ‘Aemond scratched, cut and hit me, again’ was what she would have said, if Daemon was not the way he was. She did not want to talk to him or be in his presence. Maehrys did not like him.

 “Paper cut.” Maehrys lied, avoiding eye contact with the prince. Ever since she met him, Maehrys found his violent tendencies fascinating. There was a point in the princess’ life where she wanted to be just like him. Those moments passed fast when she realized how much of a cunt Daemon can be.

 “You’re a bad liar.” He spoke. “And here I was, believing you are your mother’s daughter.” He added and the princess finally looked up at him.

 “Perfect. Now everyone in the castle is not only going to question if Laenor is actually my father, but also if Rhaenyra is actually my mother.” She spoke, quickly regretting her words. Maehrys did not have any intention of pursuing the conversation any further. Her whole body was aching and all she wished to do was fall asleep reading. “I have to go.”

 “Not so fast.” Daemon’s grip tightened around her shoulder. Her eyes started watering because of the pain. “What of your dragon eggs?” He asked and she frowned.

 “What of them?” Maehrys questioned, the conversation suddenly piquing her curiosity.

 “Any signs of them hatching as of recent?” Daemon’s gaze was sincere, with a sprinkle of confusion, and the princess swore she could of identify of some hope behind his blue eyes.

 “I shall check when I get back in my chambers.” She said, deciding not to question the reason behind his curiosity tonight. “Good night, your Grace.”

 Before allowing Daemon to say anything else, Maehrys picked up the pace to her chambers. When she reached her chambers’ door, she struggled to open it. A handful of maidens were tidying up her room, and she felt her knees shaking with exasperation. She felt drained.

 “Out! Now!” She commanded and the women hurried to leave.

 Alisha remained in the middle of the chamber, watching the princess as she placed the book on the table and desperately looking around the room. “You’re bleeding.” Alisha stated, trying to grab the princess’ arm, but Maehrys took a step back, shaking her head. She has had enough physical contact for the day. Her body felt dirty with Aemond’s touch still fresh on it. “I prepared a bath for you.” Alisha pointed to the big tub. “Hot-fiery water, just as you like it.” She added, in an attempt to get a few words out of the princess.

 “I wish to be alone.” Maehrys whispered, feeling as if her speech has abandoned her.

 “Very well, have a pleasant bath, your Grace.” The lady-in-waiting said.

 Just after she heard the doors closing, the princess positioned herself in front of the long mirror and began to take off her red dress. Once every article of clothing was resting on the floor, she ripped the jewellery that was holding her heavy hair in place, throwing it. She could not stand looking at the reflection in the mirror any longer. It repulsed her knowing that she had lost to Aemond Targaryen that evening.

 The girl groaned in pain as her skin made contact with the hot water, but not because of the temperature of the water, but because of her open wounds. She never minded the fire; it was one of the advantages of having Targaryen blood. The freshly made wounds on her left arm felt like small, sharp blades were piercing her skin. One, two, three, four, five. Maehrys counted five moon-shaped marks on her arm. Fuelled by self-hatred, the princess allowed the scorching water to soak her body when she disappeared under the water.

 She hated herself for being foolish and believing that Aemond would not attack her when he had the chance. She hated herself for thinking that her uncle was mature enough to at least hurt her during a fair battle. The one-eyed prince remained as cruel as he was in their youth. If Aemond was playing dirty, she ought to play dirtier.

 The princess emerged from the water when she felt like she could not hold her breath any longer. She was a fool to think that the Red Keep would ever feel like home again.

 The morning came soon, and the first few minutes of bliss passed quickly as Alisha entered the chamber, bringing in fresh clothing and a tray of jewellery. Maehrys got up from the bed, feeling her sore shoulder quiver in pain. Alisha helped her dress up in a simple red and black gown, her mother’s favourite colour combination. She made sure the dress covered her left arm, down to her wrist in order to avoid showing off her newly made scars.

 “The Princess Helaena has requested your presence for breakfast.” Alisha placed a necklace made out of gold around the princess’ neck and she shivered when the cold metal touched her hot skin.

 Maehrys frowned at Alisha’s disclosure. If she was being true to herself, out of the three silvered-haired children of Alicent Hightower, she hated Helaena the least. From what she could recall, during her childhood, Helaena did not try to harm her, she simply used to always speak strange words that Maehrys could not comprehend. She would have been lying if she said she was not curious about Haelena’s current state.

 Besides being married to Aegon, Maehrys did not know anything about her.

 “Very well.” The princess nodded as she got up from her vanity.

 “And later today, the trial court begins.” Alisha added as they left Maehrys’ chambers.

 Perhaps she could kill Vaemond Velaryon before the trial.

 A few ladies in waiting opened the big doors to Helaena’s chambers and the first thing that Maehrys noticed were the two silvered haired babes playing on the floor. She could not believe that Helaena gave birth. The concept of motherhood always terrified Maehrys, mainly because her mother’s birthing screams still haunted her dreams. She vividly remembered being in her chambers at Dragonstone while Rhaenyra gave birth to the twins, Viserys and Aegon. Rhaenyra screamed so loudly that her voice was gone the day after.

 “Niece.” Helaena’s voiced changed since the last time Maehrys’ heard her.

 “Your Grace.” Maehrys did not bow when Helaena greeted her but chose to sit down at the table.

 “This is Jaehaerys and Jaehaera.” Helaena introduced her babes. “Their father will join us soon.”

 The thought of Aegon joining their breakfast made Maehrys frown. It would have been polite if her half-aunt announced Aegon’s presence prior to Maehrys accepting to have breakfast with her. Helaena is not stupid; she knew that the princess would never agree to have breakfast with her if she mentioned her betrothed’s name.

 “You’ve grown so much.” Helaena said while sipping on her tea. Maehrys nodded, giving Alisha a puzzled look. “Have you bled yet?”

 Maehrys’ gaze suddenly shifted towards her half aunt, astonished at the outrageous questions she asked. “Yes.” The princess responded quickly and started eating, hoping that if her mouth were full, she would not have to answer Helaena’s questions.

 “Your name day is approaching. Are you to be betrothed to one of your brothers?” Maehrys felt a piece of bread being stuck in her throat when Helaena continued to ask her strange questions. She took a sip of water and swallowed quickly.

 “No. Jace and Luke are to be wed to Baela and Rhaena.” The concept of wedding one of her brothers was strange to Maehrys. It frightened her. She did not carry any other affection for her brothers besides sibling-love.

 Helaena began eating her breakfast in silence, and Maehrys could not be happier. She was relieved that her half aunt did not speak in riddles anymore, but terrified of her peculiar questions. She had only discussed the concept of marriage and motherhood to one person prior to her: Alisha. Rhaenyra instructed Alisha to teach the princess about the principles of both from an early age, but Maehrys buried that conversation deep in her memory.

 She did not wish to wed a man or give birth to a child; she did not even have a dragon yet.

 “You are to wed the wild dragon.” Helaena stated, breaking the silence. Maehrys looked at her aunt in awe. Helaena’s eyes drifted towards the window; she looked as if she had been taken away by a dream.

 The sound of the doors opening startled Maehrys. Aegon entered Helaena’s chambers in a rush and sat down as fast as he could, next to his sister-wife. He looked as if he has not slept in a fortnight and, since Maehrys saw him last, he cut his hair. His icy locks were gone, and his hair was barely touching his shoulders. Maehrys could swear she caught a glimpse of Alicent before the doors to Helaena’s chambers were closed.

 Aegon did not wish to be here.

 “Maehrys. It is lovely to see you.” Aegon spoke, his voice raspy and out of breath. The prince took a glass of water and chugged it before telling one of the servants to fill it up with wine.

 Of course, Aegon grew into a drunk, debauched man.

 “Your compliments are appreciated.” Maehrys lied as she took a final look at him. Aegon did not make her blood boil and he did not send her heart racing, in the way his brother did. The princess felt it in her bones that she could easily defeat Aegon in combat.

 “You are to wed the wild dragon.” Helaena’s dream-like words caused Aegon to snicker.

 Maehrys concluded that they were both laughing at her. Half of the realm knew that she was one of the only Velaryon children to not have claimed a dragon yet.

 “You are to wed the wild dragon.” Maehrys jumped when she felt Helaena’s hand grip hers.

 Helaena’s grip tightened and the princess suddenly got up from her seat, already overwhelmed with the two siblings. She did not need any more silvered-haired children laughing at her. Maehrys did not bow and did not say farewell as she stormed out of Helaena’s chambers. Alisha followed the princess while she was pacing through the halls.

 “I am not going to wed a fucking dragon.” Maehrys swore, making her way back to her chambers.

 “Wait, your Grace!” Alisha’s voice echoed through the empty hallway.

 Maehrys’ mind drifted to the encounter with Daemon last night. He seemed strangely interested in her dragon eggs. Maybe Helaena’s words were true, and her eggs hatched. Maybe Daemon had a prophetic dream, and her eggs hatched. Maybe, maybe, maybe. She opened her chambers’ doors and walked directly to the chest where her three dragon eggs were held. Filled with rage and resent, Maehrys opened the chest, hoping that at least one of them hatched. Hoping that she could finally prove everyone wrong. Hoping that she will finally have a dragon of her own. Hoping, hoping, hoping.

 The princess sighed in disappointment at the sight of the intact eggs.

 “Princess!” Alisha entered her chamber and closed the door. The lady-in-waiting approached Maehrys, who collapsed besides the opened chest.

 “What am I to do, Alisha?” Maehrys asked, frustration coating her words. “How am I to defeat them if I do not have a dragon?” She cried as Alisha wrapped her hands around the princess.

 “Perhaps you will wed one.” Alisha said, wiping her tears away. Maehrys giggled through the tears. The joke was laugh-worthy when it came out of her friend’s mouth.

 A knock on the door surprised them both, as Jace’s figure remained in front of her chamber. “The trial is starting, dear sister.” He announced.

 Maehrys wiped her tears and straightened her gown. It was time she supported her brother’s claim to Driftmark.

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Maehrys Velaryon, age 16

The waves of Dragonstone were particularly loud that day. The princess Maehrys was sorrowful that she had to leave, but she did not have a choice. Her mother forced her and her siblings to get on the ship and sail to King’s Landing. Ser Vaemond wanted to question Luke’s legitimacy and plead for the title of Lord of Driftmark. If she were to leave on any other circumstances, Maehrys would have been a little bit content with going back to the place where she spent her childhood.

 Despite King Landing being a nightmare-fuelled place, Maehrys found herself chasing the feeling of nostalgia. She missed the capital and its sights, but she did not miss the people.

 “Your name day is approaching.” Jace’s voice startled Maehrys. She turned away from the ship’s window and smiled at her older brother.

 “It is.” Her voice was raspier than usual, and she decided to take a sip of water. “Are you going to get me a gift?” She put down the glass as Jace sat down beside her.

 “Perhaps I should get you a new dress made. Are you going to change before we arrive?” Jace pointed at the short sleeves of her dress, specifically at the scar on her lower left arm.

 Maehrys looked down and grazed her fingertips along the eight-year-old scar. When she was younger and still lived in King’s Landing, Rhaenyra forbade her to ever wear a short-sleeved piece of clothing. Her mother commanded her to never tell anyone about her attempt on taking her life and threatened to cut anyone’s tongue who would ever speak a word about it. Maehrys did not care any longer, as she buried her old self once she left the Red Keep. The new Maehrys decided to not let a scar define who she is.

 “Perhaps I’ve grown fond of it.” She told Jace. The prince’s eyes furrowed in a mix of uncertainty and compassion. Maehrys sighed; she was tired of the pity that she often received from her mother and brothers. She wanted to be more than just a pity-worthy, weak princess and she planned on proving everyone the opposite, particularly her mother.

 “Would you mind accompanying me on my walk?” Jace enjoined, drifting away from the main topic of their conversation.

 “Lead the way, brother.” Maehrys responded, delighted that her older brother decided to not continue the conversation about her scar.

 The ship’s deck was filled with servants and sailors, all of whom bowed down to the pair of heirs and saluted them, respectfully. Maehrys will miss the genuine politeness when they will arrive at King’s Landing. The folk of Dragonstone were truthfully respectful of Maehrys and her brothers’ titles, and would not dare do otherwise, whereas the people of the Red Keep would not fail an opportunity to throw an insult or give them a venomous look.

 Vermax’s screeches stifled the sound of the waves crashing against the ship as Maehrys looked up, eyeing the leafy-scaled dragon. The three eggs that were presented to the princess while she was in the cradle did not hatch, so she remained dragonless.

 Do not trouble yourself with these eggs, I am sure they will hatch someday was Luke’s signature comment when it came to comforting his older sister. Maehrys appreciated Luke’s optimism, but the girl lost hope long time ago, despite still carrying the chest containing the three dragon eggs everywhere she went. She began to feel attached to them, and even though she made peace with the certitude that they will never hatch, and she still treasured them. Luke, Jace and Joffrey got lucky.

 “Perhaps you will claim a dragon at an older age.” Jace spoke, still gazing at his dragon. “It is not rare and if that little shit Aemond accomplished it, so can you.”

 Maehry’s body shivered at the sound of her uncle’s name. She despised that after all those years, his presence still impacts her. Out of all the silver-haired children, she hated Aemond the most. During her pre-teens, Aemond was the one to target her the most; he would call her names, hurt her, and make her cry herself to sleep. He was the cruellest of them all. The princess was tired of fearing him, it ought to be the other way around.

 “I am sure one of our dear uncles will die soon, and I will hurry to claim his dragon.” Maehrys spoke, shifting her gaze towards Daemon, who was keeping the captain company. “Or maybe Seasmoke will come back, he has been rider-less for quite a while now.” She added as Jace stopped and leaned on the ship’s wooden edge.

 “Do you ever notice the absence of our father?” Jace asked, and Maehrys frowned at the vagueness of her older brother’s question.

 Every time the word father would invade Maehry’s ears, she would have to put on her defences. Because of the people she was surrounded by growing up, she learned to always be cautious when someone would mention her paternal figure. She also learned to doubt whomever they were referring to.

 “Not more than I did when he was alive.” The princess responded. “Though Daemon is doing a significant job when it comes to filling Laenor’s shoes.” She added, hinting at Rhaenyra’s pregnancy. Jace scoffed.

 “You dislike him.” Jace’s intention was to ask her a question, but it sounded more of a statement.

 “He refused to train with me.” Maehrys joined Jace, leaning on the edge of the ship. The ocean seemed restless today, as did her. Daemon would train with the boys, but never with her.

 “That’s because you’re a-“

 “Woman?” Maehrys cut off Jace in the middle of his speech and gave him an imposing look. They both knew that the only reason Daemon would not want to train the princess was because her mother could not command him. No knight in the Seven Kingdoms would willingly train with a girl.

 In spite of Daemon’s refusal to train with Maehrys, she still trained with plenty of knights at Dragonstone, none of them compared with ser Criston Cole, her first mentor. She began to feel like the training sessions became dull three years ago, and she asked Daemon to train her. He laughed in her face.

 “All hail Rhaenyra of House Targaryen, princess of Dragonstone and heir to the Iron Throne, her royal consort, Daemon Targaryen and their children.”

 A shiver ran down Maehrys’ spine as she stepped out of the carriage. The cold autumn air was as unwelcoming as the lack of presence from the Queen, King, or the other silver-haired children. Lord Caswell’s figure came out of the massive doors.

 “Welcome back, Princess.” The man greeted Rhaenyra.

 As they were walking towards the castle doors, a swarm of servants approached the young heirs. A couple of ladies-in-waiting insisted on leading Maehrys to her old chamber, forcing her to split from her brothers. The princess wished she did not feel like an enemy within the castle, but as a guest. Walking through the Red Keep’s hallways felt strange to Maehrys. Every chamber and every corridor seemed so much smaller than she remembered. The princess’ mind was not the only thing that matured, but her height as well. She has grown almost as tall as Jace, and she is finally able to see the actual size of the castle. Maehrys wondered if her world also became much smaller than she remembered.

 “This way, my princess.” A faceless servant stopped Maehrys from walking. “That is the way to the library.”

 Perhaps her muscle memory was taking her to the library, one of the few places where Maehrys was allowed to have some peace during her youth. The smell of lavender and candle wax invades her nostrils as she entered her old chambers. Nothing has been changed from the last time she saw it, besides the bedsheets and a few tablecloths. “Very well, you may leave now.” She spoke to the group of servants.

 “But-“

 “It’s a command, not a request.” Maehrys put on a forged smile as she placed her hand on the doorknob. The ladies gave her bitter glances as they turned around to leave. “Not you, Alisha.” She added as she noticed her lady-in-waiting attempting to leave with the group.

 The princess closed the doors as soon as Alisha entered the room. Alisha has been her primary lady-in-waiting ever since she got to Dragonstone, and Maehrys found comfort in her. She would sometimes tell Alisha what bothered the young princess and would even ask her for guidance, which is not an ordinary thing, but Alisha was wiser, and a bit older than her. Maehrys did not care for formalities with her and would even go as far as considering Alisha her friend… which she did not have many of, besides her brothers.

 “How could I be of use, your Grace?” Alisha asked as Maehrys prompted herself onto the comfortable armchair. It was the same armchair she used to climb onto and watch Ser Harwin Strong train with Jace when they were younger.

 “I wish to train with my brothers, fetch me the training clothes.” Maehrys commanded.

 “Yes, your Grace.” Alisha opened the chest that arrived with them from Dragonstone and laid the clothes on the big bed. “Do you think it is wise, your Grace?” She asked as the princess stood up, looking at the bland tunics. Some of them were blood-stained, and some of them were even ripped. Rhaenyra would always give her second born a lesson about how she should avoid getting cut or hit during training sessions, but Maehrys refused to let that happen. She considered that if she didn’t bleed or bruised, she would not learn.

 “Why would it not be?” Maehrys scowled and turned her back to her lady-in-waiting, signalling her to help the girl take off her necklace.

 “Your uncles might have the same idea as you.” Alisha spoke as she placed the pearly necklace on the desk.

 The thought of Maehrys training against her uncles, Aemond especially, used to terrify her. They both trained with the sword ever since they were able to think, and Maehrys was attuned to sleep with a dagger under her pillow just in case her uncle might sneak in her chamber in the middle of the night to try and kill her.

 Maehrys is no longer afraid. She yearned for the day she would defeat Aemond in combat and prove to everyone at the Red Keep that she is no longer a weakling.

 “I am looking forward to my encounter with my uncles on the training field.” The princess finally answered as she put on the last article of clothing.

The training grounds were cooler than the ones in Dragonstone, and the winds seemed to be restless, same as the waves she arrived upon. Maehrys checked her surroundings, hoping she would spot her two brothers. She did not, instead, she was met with disgruntled stares from the folk of the Red Keep. Suddenly, she was ten years old again and people would whisper bitter things behind her back, looking at her as if she was a traitor and offering her false smiles. Suddenly, the world felt bigger and Maehrys felt small again.

 Jace’s snicker made the young princess focus her attention on her two brothers and she sighed in relief, feeling her anxiety-filled body relax.

 “Brothers.” Maehrys greeted the pair.

 “I defeated Luke, again.” Jace said, triumphantly.

 Maehrys’ smile faded as she shifted her gaze towards her younger brother, who had an uneasy look on his face. “What’s your problem?” The older brother asked.

 “Everyone is staring at us.” Luke replied quickly.

 Maehrys’ could swear she felt her heart break because of the words her little brother spoke. One of her biggest fears was that Luke would experience a similar youth to hers and Jace’s. People marginalizing him, discriminating him, and calling him a bastard. Luke did not deserve this. None of them did. The princess decided to not let this visit upset Luke or sweet Joffrey.

 Jace grabbed a wooden sword, trying to distract Luke from drowning in sorrowful thoughts. “No one would question me being the heir of Driftmark… if I looked more like Ser Laenor Velaryon than Ser Harwin Strong.” Luke spoke, looking around anxiously, making sure no one heard him.

 “Don’t say that around them.” Maehrys took a step closer to Luke. “If you do, you accept defeat.” She added on a worried but also commanding tone.

 “It does not matter what they think.” Jace added.

 The crowd was growing noisier and noisier as a circle was forming around two people. The three siblings made their way towards the mass of people and watched in silence. Maehrys quickly recognized the pair that were duelling: Ser Criston Cole and Aemond Targaryen, her half-uncle. Aemond’s silver hair has grown longer, and he wore an eyepatch covering his left eye. The prince moved swiftly, dodging Ser Criston’s attacks. It looked as if he was dancing. Maehrys gripped the wooden sword harder and harder as she watched the man she desperately wanted to defeat in combat, winning against her childhood mentor. Aemond’s sword rapidly found its way a few centimetres away from Criston’s neck. She could not help but wonder if she had any chance of winning.

 The crowd applauded as Ser Criston accepted defeat. “Well done, my Prince.” He spoke and Maehrys noticed that his voiced has changed over the years. It became deeper, sharper, and more menacing. “You’ll be winning tourneys in no time.”

 “I don’t give a shit about tourneys.” Aemond said, his tone being as icy as his hair. He lowered the wooden sword and shifted his attention towards the trio. “Nephews, niece…” The sight of him made her stomach turn. “Have you come to train?” Aemond was making eye contact with Maehrys, and she could feel her heart galloping with anger. His face was unreadable, but his voice was threatening.

 The princess waited so long for this moment, where she could prove to everyone that she’s changed, and she’s capable of fighting. Maybe she was wrong about not fearing her uncle, because the moment she saw him, her body was rejecting any kind of confidence it once held. She greatly wanted to fight him, but she was no longer certain that she will take the victory.

 “Open the gates!” A foreign voice startled the folk. Everyone turned their back from Ser Criston and Aemond, who was placing the wooden sword back where it belonged.

 Everyone but Maehrys.

 The princess watched her uncle’s every move with curiosity but also despair. He has grown a lot, his figure was not as slim as it used to be, and his height was taller than even Ser Criston’s. She desperately tried to find any weakness within him, but she failed miserably. Maehrys drew the conclusion that her uncle countered her from every perspective.

 Maehrys finally turned around towards the gate and watched the bannermen march towards them, together with a man who resembled Lord Corlys. Lord Vaemond Velaryon came to defend his right to claim Driftmark., and with that, question Luke’s legitimacy. Overwhelmed by the situation, the princess decided to leave.

 As she paced back to her chambers, Maehrys found herself haunted by shame. It was the first time she ever backed out from a fight. She was afraid to admit that she would have to fight dirty in order to beat Aemond, but she had no other option. The princess opened the doors to her chambers and found a satisfied-looking Alisha.

 “I do not wish to hear it!” Maehrys exclaimed as she stormed through the chamber.

 “Hear what, your Grace?” Alisha asked, with a grin on her face.

 “You know what. Now help me out with these.” The princess commanded.

 Maehrys felt like she was not worthy of wearing her training clothes anymore and was glad once she was back in her red gown. She left her chambers and headed to her only battlefield for today: the library. The princess would lie if she said she did not miss the massive library within the Red Keep. Dragonstone had its own library, sure, but it did not compare to the Red Keep’s.

 Walking through the giant isles of books, she felt delighted. The books were more welcoming than the people. As she encountered the history section, she picked up a book titled The doom of Valyria. The contents of the book described how the magic-powered empire turned to ash when the volcano erupted, its lava killing even the biggest of the dragons.

 “Bastard.” Her lecture was interrupted by Aemond’s voice.

 Maehrys quickly closed the book and furrowed her brows. She had almost forgotten that Aemond liked to frequent the library as much as the training grounds. He has changed from his previous training clothes into a greener uniform. It appeared as though Alicent’s preferred colour of clothes imprinted on her children. His long hair was tied back, with only one silvery strand of hair hanging over his eyepatch. Aemond had his arms behind his back, and Maehrys wondered if he was holding a dagger, or perhaps even a sword.

 “Aemond.” She simply greeted him, not taking her eyes off his arms, afraid that he would try to harm her. It appears that harming the princess remained his preferred activity.

 “I see you’ve chosen not to hide your scar anymore.” Aemond pointed towards her left arm.

 The princess could not help but ponder on why he has initiated the conversation. Has he come to torment her again? Was his body the only thing that matured? Is his mind still young and stupid, still searching for fights with people that would not win against him? Maehrys glared at him again, anger fuelling her train of thought. She also wondered if the Gods were testing her, because she wanted to wrap her hands around his neck, and not leaving the library until he was breathless. Maybe it was good exercise to be around him to not fear him anymore.

 Maehrys needed discipline as much as she needed revenge.

 “I see you’ve chosen to hide yours.” Maehrys let displeasure take control of her and spoke without giving too much thought. She immediately put her defences up when she noticed the young prince begin to slowly walk towards her.

 “Do you wish for me to take it off?” He asked nonchalantly, with every step getting closer and closer. “Do you wish to see the aftermath of your brother’s doing?” Her heart started beating faster and faster as Aemond got closer to her. The anger quickly turned into fear when he grabbed her left arm. His clutch was strong, and she winced when he dug his nails into her skin. Aemond forced her to turn her wrist up, disclosing her scar. “I wish you would’ve pierced deeper, dear niece.” His words hurt as much as his grip.

 Maehrys was right, the library turned into her battlefield that day.

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A/N: Thank you so much for your support! Let me know if you want to be added to the taglist!

Also read on: AO3 | Wattpad

29th of October, 112 AC

I was born under the full moon on the last day of autumn’s second month at the Red Keep in King’s Landing. The night was colder than usual, and my dark hair seemed to mirror the chill—cool but not quite icy, like my mother’s. As a tiny babe, I had no way of knowing how my arrival would shape Rhaenyra’s life or the troubles my dark locks would bring.

I was a quiet babe. Rhaenyra’s labor was swift and less painful than when Jacaerys was born. That day was the last time I would be silent.

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Maehrys Velaryon, age 6

The oinking of the pig grew louder as I neared the dragon pit. The room was just as gloomy as I remembered, and the thick air seemed almost to suffocate me. Jace, Aegon, and Luke were laughing at Aemond’s expression. They had played another trick on him.

“Looks like you cannot claim a dragon either.” I tried to offer a small smile to comfort my uncle, who had fallen prey to Jace and Aegon’s jest once again.

“I will claim the biggest dragon one day.” Aemond avoided looking at me. “Unlike you.” He turned to face me, his voice dripping with contempt. “Dragons do not like bastards.” His words were harsh, and even the darkness of the dragon pit couldn’t hide the disgust on his face.

My brothers and my other uncle quickly left, leaving Aemond and me alone.

“I am not a bastard!” I shrieked, my vision blurring with tears. I didn’t fully understand the term, but I knew it was meant to hurt, and I could tell it wasn’t a compliment.

“Out of my way, bastard.” Aemond pushed me, and I stumbled, falling to the ground.

Lying there in the dragon pit, I could barely hear the faint noises of the pig. I wondered why my uncle hated me so much. I didn’t understand what “bastard” meant, but I knew it was whispered behind my back lately.

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Maehrys Velaryon, age 8

I turned the page in my book about dragons and read about the oldest and biggest of them all: the Cannibal. This dragon was said to be the eldest of all the wild dragons, even older than Sheepstealer. His scales were as black as coal, and his eyes glowed green with menace. The smallfolk of Dragonstone called him Cannibal because he feasted on dragon eggs, smaller dragons, and even dragon corpses. I traced my fingers over the page depicting Cannibal. I didn’t think of him as a beast but as a dream. I never imagined I would relate so deeply to a wild dragon. The smallfolk were afraid of him and cast him aside instead of trying to bond with the majestic creature.

I vowed to grow up and tame the biggest and oldest wild dragon ever: Cannibal.

“You are not allowed to be here.” Aemond’s voice startled me. He walked toward me, his gaze fixed on the book I was holding. “The Wild Dragons of Westeros.” He read the title and laughed, snatching the book from my small hands.

“Give it back!” I exclaimed, but he held it out of my reach. He was taller than me, already maturing faster than me, making it even harder for me to get the book back. He might not have been as tall as Aegon, but I struggled nonetheless.

“You are not to read about dragons, bastard.” He looked down at me with disdain. “Go back to your unhatched eggs.”

“Give it back, uncle!” I tried to hold back tears. I jumped, considering touching his arm, but I feared he might hurt me again. “Please!”

“Fine.” Aemond dropped the heavy book, and it landed on my feet.

I cried out in pain as the book hit my right foot and collapsed to the ground, tears streaming down my cheeks.

If I had a dragon, no one would dare to hurt me.

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Ser Harwin Strong would seize the Velaryon steel blade out of my hands. “Seven hells, what do you think you are doing?” He asked, looking horrified at the open wound on my arm.

I whimpered in pain. I was tired of hearing the words “bastard,” “dark-haired,” and “illegitimate.” The poisonous whispers seemed endless, and I envied the dead—at least they couldn’t hear, feel, or cry. I was exhausted from the taunting and physical assaults, and I wanted to disappear.

I wished my grandsire, the King, would sentence me to death and let me rest.

My grandsire was selfish.

“Maehrys!” Rhaenyra’s voice cracked, her heart breaking. “Fetch me the maester!”

I couldn’t understand why I hadn’t pierced deeper. I hesitated because I felt weak. As my eyes grew heavy and my breathing slowed, I felt a strange sense of peace.

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Maehrys Velaryon, age 10

I mourned my father, Laenor, my aunt Laena, and my only friend, Harwin Strong. People were dropping dead suddenly, and I knew my time might come soon—maybe sooner, after what happened at Driftmark, when my younger brother Luke took one of Aemond’s eyes.

Life felt so fragile, and I remembered Ser Harwin’s words: “Life is precious, people get very little of it lately.” I wished I’d never heard them. I didn’t fully understand what went wrong with my attempt to end my life, but I was somehow grateful for it.

“Mother.” I approached Rhaenyra as she tended to the wound inflicted by the Queen on her arm. I raised my sleeve and placed my arm next to hers. “Look, we are the same.”

“Oh, child.” Rhaenyra sighed and hugged me tightly despite the pain in her arm.

I didn’t understand why my mother cried so often, but I wanted to believe her tears were happy ones—happy that despite our differences in hair color and the cruel whispers, we were still the same.

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Maehrys Velaryon, age 13

“Enough!” Ser Criston Cole shouted as he shoved me onto the icy ground. “I do not wish to harm you anymore, princess!” He said as he saw me struggling.

I spat blood as I pushed my sword into the muddy ground. My muscles were aching, my head was throbbing, but I didn’t listen to Ser Criston. With the help of my sword, I slowly got up. My tunic’s right sleeve had rolled up slightly, revealing the scar on my lower arm—a reminder of a time when I wished to end my life. “Our training session is not over,” I said, raising my sword despite the pain. The sharp edge was directed at a sorrowful Criston Cole.

“I yield.” Ser Criston threw his sword down and raised his arms in defeat. The cold, heavy autumn rain made it hard for him to see my face, but he could sense my frustration.

“Pick up your sword.” My voice was rough from the blood in my throat. When he didn’t move, I shouted, “I command you to pick up your sword!”

I was young, but I was determined. After the failed attempt on my life, I decided to train every day, hoping to one day defeat Aemond in combat. Not just Aemond, but Aegon too; and Ser Criston Cole, and the cruel Queen, and everyone who dared call me a bastard.

If I couldn’t be one of them, I would become something far worse.

☽➛A/N: Hi! Sorry for being gone for so long, I've been doing uni work and binging game of thrones/house of the dragon. I've had this idea for a fanfic for quite a while now so I finally decided to publish it. !!DISCLAIMER: English is not my first language! feel free to correct me at any time!