Stuff Enthusiast

Baela stood atop the cliffs of Dragonstone, practicing with her crossbow. She was angry. There was no doubt about it. Her relationship with her father was a strange one, when her mother was still alive he did act like her father. He’d sit with her and teach her High Valyrian, say goodnight to her and her sister. He used to talk about how he wished to stay in Pentos with the three of them. She used to believe he loved her mother wholeheartedly, perhaps he did in his own way, but the day that was supposed to be about Laena Velyaron, to celebrate her life and her memory, was also the day her father chose to marry another. The woman he apparently wanted the entire time. Ever since then he’d felt distant. 

In the years to follow he had two sons with Rhaenyra, what he had wished for most likely, perhaps three girls were three too many. At least she had her sister, Jace and Luke during those years. Though the time was often cut short with her travels to and from Driftmark. 

She loaded up the crossbow once again and began to take aim, when a familiar dark haired prince came into her sights. 

“You missed supper.” He called out.

“I wasn’t hungry.”

“I don’t think anyone was really, too many empty seats…” A beat of silence thudded between the two as Jace walked closer. He was grateful to have Baela, ever since leaving King’s Landing he found himself lacking a certain presence he yearned for. She reminded him a lot of you in some ways. Good hearted, but able to stand her ground. It was true he had Luke and Joffrey and that was where he spent most of his time, but with Baela it was just different. The moment they met and held hands at Laena’s funeral there was a connection between them, one that said ‘you can trust me’. Maybe that is what you often talked about with Aemond, that feeling, that moment where you just can feel the shared energy between two people. When you talked about it every now and then he thought you sounded ridiculous, and perhaps a bit jealous. 

There was a time Jace envied Aemond, not for rivalry or love, but for the way you lit up around him, the brightness in your eyes that never quite found Jace. Maybe it was just your kindness, or the way you never seemed to judge him for his dark hair. He used to imagine what it would be like to be seen that way. But you were never his, and he’d known that from the start.

He finally caught up to her and stood at her side as she asked where her father went.

“Harrenhal, I would think.” Her fingers clenched tightly around her crossbow as she loosed another arrow. Anger and frustration with her father’s tendencies exuded from her in a palpable vapor. She set her sights on the wooden post again.

“Sometimes I think I hate him.” Another arrow is fired.

“It’s hard… with fathers.” She had never met her uncle, Laenor Velyaron. He might not have been Jace’s father by blood but he certainly filled the role well. The two spoke of him, Jace how he taught him and his brother how to catch fish and sing sailor shanties. The memories brought him joy that was difficult to come by these days.

“He had a weakness for cake.”

Baela then asked about Ser Harwin Strong. Jace couldn’t help but tense up at the mention of his biological father. His youth was filled with hurtful jabs and questions about his legitimacy, so the name put him on the defensive. But then he remembered who he was talking to, it was Baela, she never once showed any indicator that she cared at all about his parentage. So he relaxed and told her of Harwin ‘Breakbones’. Despite the nickname he was a gentle, kind man. 

“He loved us… I think.” Baela was getting ready to fire again but the last addition to his sentence caused her head to reel back.

“Of course he did.” She spoke with so much sincerity that it caused his nose to stuff up a bit. He sniffed it clear and spoke of how he missed Luke. She offered him a hand on the shoulder for comfort. She wished to ask about you next, but felt awkward in shifting the topic, but Jace could feel her wanting to talk more.

“You have another question?” She averted her eyes before dropping her head to look at her feet. 

“What was she like?”

“...(Y/N)?” 

“Yeah…” Jace was one of the only people unafraid to speak your name. “I… had heard some rumors.” An amused smile graced her face. “That you fancied her quite a bit back in the day.” His eyes widened and the corners of his mouth turned up in embarrassment, but the happy kind, the kind that you get when a family member brings up something silly you had done in the past causing you to blush and bury your face in your hands. 

He’d thought he loved you once. Maybe a part of him still did, if love was wanting so badly to be chosen, to be enough. But that was before he understood what love really was, before Baela. She didn’t ask him to be anyone but himself, and with her, he’d found something solid, something real. 

“It was a fleeting crush, if you had known her you would understand it.” Her face drooped a bit, knowing she had missed out. “You would’ve liked her a lot though. Most people did… except for one person it seems…” He did not have to name names to be understood. “She was kind… but she hit me on the back of the head quite a few times.”

“I am sure it was deserved.”

“Indeed.”

“She was fierce with her love… and it extended to everyone. It was a rare trait to have, I don’t know how she did it though. To have that kind of patience and understanding to others is something I never understood.” 

“She sounds lovely…”

----------

Daemon sat before his brother.

“What happened?” The King spoke in a stern voice, one that might have been used when scolding a child rather than his fully grown brother. “Speak! Your King demands it.”

Daemon’s mouth opened and closed, resembling a fish more than a dragon. His eyes kept that faraway look they had moments earlier in the Small Council chamber.

“I killed my daughter.”

The words barely left his lips as he murmured under his breath.

“What?” Viserys placed an emphasis on the ‘t’, a drop of spit flying from his teeth.

Daemon looked as though he might lose consciousness.

“I killed my daughter.”

Viserys clearly heard it this time, but before he could diminish his brother, he watched as his typically carefree and confident brother stumbled to the balcony and hurled over the edge, the contents of his bowls most likely landing atop some poor sod. A broken sob left him amidst the purging. A wail followed suit. “I killed her! Oh, gods!” His legs gave out, and his face slid against the ledge. “’Twas an accident… I swear it.” His words were now directed towards his brother, this time softer. “It was an accident…”

Viserys moved to comfort his brother, placing his hands on his shoulders and drawing him to him. He shushed him into calming down, something he had not done since Daemon was a babe, mourning their mother.

That confession to his brother would be the last time Daemon bared his feelings about the incident… the last time for a long while….

~~~

Daemon watched as Rhaenys dismounted Meleys. Her white hair turned grey from dirt and soot, clearly exhausted, the same could be said for The Red Queen.

“Take your mount again, we are flying out.” Rhaenys sighed heavily at Daemon’s words. He strutted towards her, dressed in armor, eager for a fight. In no mood, Rhaenys started removing her arm guards; the high-pitched trills of dragons filled the caverns.

“Meleys is tired and must gorge; we have traveled hundreds of miles of open sea endlessly, and I, too, must rest.” She tried walking past him, but he stuck his arm out like a firm barrier.

“We are going to King’s Landing.” He was never one to accept denial.

“To what end?” She fought the urge to roll her eyes.

“Killing Vhagar. I cannot face that whory old bitch alone. With my dragon and yours, we can kill Vhagar… and her rider. Make it a son for a son.” Daemon had been the one to deliver the news to Rhaenyra of Lucerys’ fate. Many of her supporters were in the room, and when Daemon whispered the words in her ear, the air on Dragonstone shifted. War was inevitable, and Aemond had to die.

The news spread fast about how Aemond Targaryen purposefully terrorized and killed Lucerys Velaryon in retaliation for acts committed in his youth. That Aemond was a cold Kinslayer. None of it was true, but history often did not favor the truth. The truth was that Aemond was mortified when he watched Arrax’s dismembered wings crash into the waves. He struggled to look at Vhagar, knowing that his nephew was being digested in her gut after being swallowed whole. The look on your face drove him to the brink of madness. You rarely looked at him without love, but in that moment… it was like you didn’t even recognize him. Then you were gone in an instant.

He was still himself, the boy you loved; he had to keep telling himself that despite what whispers in the Red Keep might imply.

Rhaenys thought for a moment, the phrase mirroring words that had been spoken on Driftmark many years ago: An eye for an eye, and now a son for a son. She wondered if the endless cycle of debts would ever truly be paid.

“Was this the Queen’s command?”

“The Queen remains absent.” Rhaenyra had been gone for days, and what she was searching for he could not fathom. She needed to be here, leading. “I should be at Harrenhal bending knees, but instead I must remain here to wage her war.” Daemon started pacing, itching to mount Caraxes and take the fight right to King’s Landing, like an agitated animal.

“Or perhaps more simply to await her return.”

“She’s been gone for days, too long, she is exposed!”

“She is grieving!”

“The mother grieves as the Queen shirks her duties.” Rhaenys simply stares at the man, not quite believing her ears, but what else should she expect from a man like Daemon Targaryen?

She scoffs, “It was… a raven that brought me news of Laena’s death.” That seemed to get a reaction out of him as his eyes snapped up to hers. She’d like to believe that he did love her daughter in some way, that they found some happiness in each other. “I existed for weeks in torment, refusing to believe what I had been told.” An image of you flashed in his mind, laying the seeds for an agonizing migraine. “It was only until I saw my daughter’s mortal remains that I could begin to mourn her.”

A stretch of silence filled the space between the two of them, some of it in remembrance of an incredible woman who had been taken too soon.

“A raven has told Rhaenyra that her son is dead. She needs to know it for certain. Daemon continued to push the idea that Rhaenyra had made a mistake in leaving, to which Rhaenys pushed back, citing that it was wisdom; most would act in haste and in vengeance under such distress.

“...she has not acted on the vengeful impulse others might have.” It was her way of telling Daemon that he needed to calm down. Instead of taking her advice, it continued to uphold the belief that Rhaenys should’ve acted and burned every single Hightower in the Dragon Pit that day, and that in doing so, Lucerys would still be here. Rhaenys simply looked him up and down, with a tinge of empathy for a man whose vision was so clouded that he thought burning everyone who opposed him would fix anything. Then she turned and walked away. Daemon turned back to the dragon handlers awaiting Caraxes when Rhaenys spoke again.

“I suppose, in a way, you were favored by the gods.” Daemon’s eyes, which had cast downwards once more, slowly flickered up in confusion. “You did not have to sit and wait for days on end to know that your child was gone.”

“What…?” It was more to himself than her.

“You knew, the moment you heard of the stampede, that she was lost to you. And then, to see her body… it was a mercy and a curse at once.”

Baffled that she dared to speak to the rightful King that way, he turned and asked, “What did you say?” But only saw Rhaenys at a distance. It had sounded as though she was right in his ear… but that’s not possible.

Rhaenys looked at him from afar, brows drawn together. She had heard rumblings that the King Consort’s mind was slowly deteriorating. She never paid the rumors any mind, but now she was beginning to believe that his conscience was slipping away.

“I said nothing more, your grace.”

----------

Rhaenyra would return eventually. After finding her son's dragon parts washed ashore, it cemented the truth for her: her son was indeed dead… and it was Aemond Targaryen’s fault. How did her family come to this? Was it when she left King’s Landing? Maybe when Lyonel and Harwin Strong died, and Otto Hightower was reinstated as Hand. Or perhaps it was all those years ago when her father married Alicent Hightower…

It mattered little; her son was dead, and war was on the horizon.

She moved through the corridors numb and silent, her hair wild from days of flight. Her body carried her forward without will, and when she dismounted Syrax, who mourned as well, for Arrax had been of her clutch, she barely registered the world around her. The corridors blurred as she passed, eyes fixed and unseeing, until she reached the Chamber of the Painted Table, flickering candles casting long shadows. Those assembled expected their Queen to rage like a dragon, but Rhaenyra offered only silence, nodding once when Daemon whispered to her,

“Did you find what you were looking for?”

Rhaenys’ voice was muffled as she made her report regarding the blockade in the Gullet. Everyone looked to her for answers, an order, anything at all. She only spoke four words.

“I want Aemond Targaryen.”

----------

Aemond had been invited by his brother to the Small Council meeting, the smartest decision he had made since becoming King. But what he heard did not sound too promising, although he was glad to hear that his betrothal did indeed win the Stormlands over to their side; at least the betrayal wasn’t in vain… However, it seemed the Vale and the North were lost to them. On his way in, he did see Jahaerys being taken out of the chamber.

Aegon was a good enough father to his son, much more open with his love than their own father had been. But he was a shit husband to his sister-wife, frequently taking other women and barely paying her any mind at all once she had popped out two children for him, one being a boy, the other a girl. Halaena was a sweet, quiet girl often misunderstood by those around her; the words ‘odd’ and ‘creepy’ were frequently attached to her. He and his mother loved her dearly, but it’d be a lie to say that they fully understood her, her whisperings and prophecies, her obsession with insects and spiders alike. One of the few that tried and succeeded was lost to her now.

The love he had for her would’ve been deemed unnatural had he been from another of the Great Houses, but he was a part of House Targaryen… and Helaena should’ve been wed to him; even now, she was one of the few people who could help him combat the darkness that had attempted to swallow him whole in recent years.

He remembers the day he spoke about how he would happily ‘do his duty’ to Aegon; it was also one of the few times he made you cry…

~~~

They stood by the Weirwood tree in King’s Landing. Aegon, cup of wine in hand as usual, stood next to his younger brother as they watched their sister. She was attempting to capture some tiny creature; what kind didn’t interest either of them. Their looks did not match. Aemond looked with love and compassion, a slight smile on his face. They had been sent by their mother to fetch her to wash up for dinner, but neither of them wanted to disrupt her and draw her out of her trance-like state. Aegon’s face held thinly veiled disgust; it had been recently announced that Aegon would marry Helaena, a prospect that he deeply resented. He found her to be a foolish girl whose head was in the clouds all the time.

“We have nothing in common…”

“She’s our sister.”

“You marry her then.” The thought had crossed his mind before, he wouldn’t lie. Aegon should be grateful and feel great honor in the fact that he would be continuing the Targaryen tradition and keeping the bloodline as pure as possible.

But thankfully, he was betrothed to you, you had told him a mere two days ago. He felt nothing but  joy, and even that seemed to undercut the extent of his exuberance. Then he kissed you… and you kissed him… His days had been filled with nothing but happiness at the thought of spending the rest of his life with you.

“I would perform my duty if our mother had betrothed us.”

Aegon scoffs then mutters into his cup, “If only.”

You fool…

“It would strengthen the family; you should feel honored, keeping our Valyrian blood pure.”

“She’s an idiot,” Aegon spoke a bit louder than he had meant to, somewhat disturbing Helaena. The idea of marrying her, being an honor, was a ridiculous sentiment. Who cares about ‘keeping the blood pure’?  And why did it have to be him? He didn’t even wish to be here.

“She’s your future queen…” Aemond turned slightly to look at his brother. In the corner of his eye, he saw a familiar figure. He turned fully, and his eyes landed on you.

Gods… you looked so beautiful…

He could practically melt on the spot at the sight of you. The tension in his shoulders, caused by the agitation of his brother, fizzled away, and his pupils blew wide. Your milky white hair flowing down your back, and the touch of brown that framed your face, was so lovely.  Your hair grew from your roots as a Royce brown before eventually fading to Targaryen white as it grew out. It was something rarely seen before.

His eyelids dropped slightly, giving him a dopey look of love; he had to suppress the sigh that wanted to be released. One that was relaxed and content. It gave him the feeling of coming home; you were his home. Your eyes were enchanting; you often described them as muddy purple, but he preferred to compare them to plums, and you were just as sweet as they were, too. But your eyes were glassy today… You looked upset. How much did you hear?

You looked at him with your childish, big doe eyes before running away. Aegon could be heard next to him cackling, something about ‘being in the dog house’. No one heard what Helaena whispered next.

“Some things are best left behind…”

~~~

Aemond sat with Criston Cole in his quarters. The two discussed strategies, knowing full well that war was inevitable, as much as his mother and grandsire would like to believe otherwise. He was no fool; he knew Criston Cole was entangled with his mother in some way, and Cole’s defense of his mother’s antics certainly supported that. Their plotting was interrupted by his grandsire, Hand of the King, Otto Hightower. Cole was dismissed, and Otto took his place.

He respected his grandsire for what he had accomplished, putting his own blood on the throne, but he doubted his ability to see it through. He was not made of fire and blood.

Otto would continue to use flattery to quell the raging fire in his grandson. Talking about how he and Vhagar were the greatest power in the realm, but that he needed to exercise patience.

I’ve waited long enough…

Frustrated, Aemond left the Red Keep that night to visit Sylvi in the brothel. Desperate for someone to take away the tension strewn all across his body and offer him some temporary relief, even if it was just a few moments.

He missed the gift Daemon Targaryen had sent him, so it was given to a new recipient.

----------

The Rogue Prince had heard his lady wife's wishes and planned to deliver. He met with a Gold Cloak, the man was known for being a nasty one, but loyal to him, and a Ratcatcher.

“You are to find and kill Aemond Targaryen.” That was what he told them…

“What if we can’t find him?”

…

“A son for a son…”

Jaehaerys  Targaryen would be slaughtered in his sleep that night, in front of his mother, next to his sister. The boy was only six years old, and the God’s had decided he had endured life enough and took it from them in the form of Blood and Cheese. His head was sawed off and carried away in a bloody sack.

----------

As was often the case, women would have to bear the consequences of men's actions. For Rhaenyra had not ordered the death of a child, yet the blame would be stuck onto her. The next day, she would be hounded by her council, wanting to know whether she had committed such an act, but her attempts to persuade them were futile, for they and many others had already decided what the truth would be.

Rhaenyra the Cruel.

The Queen of Bastards, who ordered the decapitation of a child in his bed, in retaliation for the death of her own son. It made sense in the minds of many, including King Aegon.

The Hand and Dowager Queen knew better, but it mattered little. Little Jaehaerys would become one of their greatest tools in the war, for the people loved Queen Helaena and wept for her as they gazed upon the work of Team Black.

As she sat before her council, defending herself, the idea that she would commit such an act to Helaena of all people. So quickly after suffering a similar grief. It was then that she happened to turn her head slightly to the right and see a glimpse of the man she married and wished to trust. But never fully could. Daemon.

He was sitting in his chair, utterly unbothered by the horrid news, the corner of his lip slightly upturned. It was then she knew what he had done, and she would never be able to see him the same ever again.

----------

“Did you send assassins to murder children in their beds?” Rhaenyra felt as though he had sliced his heart in half with Dark Sister, causing a blooming pain in her chest. How could he do this? To Helaena, to her?

“I sent the Queen’s Vengeance for her son.”

“What did you tell this ‘vengeance’? What did you say to him?” She suppressed a scoff at the prospect that Daemon was servicing anyone other than himself. He averted her eyes. “Daemon.” Her voice was assertive, like a good queen. “That a boy lies dead, and I am accused of killing him.”

He attempted to shift blame to Mysaria, the White Worm, and the two imbeciles he had paid. “Mysaria gave me names, and I was quite clear in my instructions, Aemond, the brother of Aegon the Usurper.” In hindsight, he probably should have looked into the intelligence of said idiots. He was amused by the mere accusation that he was to blame for the mishap. His body language told everything, his lack of caring, the only emotion showing was irritation at the inconvenience. “I cannot be responsible-”

“Cannot be responsible?” Rhaenyra rounded the table separating them, closing in on him to pressure a true answer from him. She leaned forward, “If Aemond was not to be found, what were your instructions then?”

“They did not concern in any way with that of a little child.” It was no secret that Daemon loathed the Hightowers; he had made his disdain well known for years, the moment Viserys became King and kept Otto as Hand.

“You said it was your aim to spill Hightower blood, and if not Aemond, then anyone would do.” Her voice was laced with a venom seldom used.

“No.” That’s all he had to say?

“You have wounded me.” It was true; as much as he tried to paint a different picture, his actions had set his supposed Queen back. Her council now considers her irrational, and the smallfolk see her as a monster.

“I said ‘no’.”

“I don’t believe you.” She had never been so frustrated with him, his pigheadedness and irrational acts causing her to put distance between them once more. She paced, trying to calm herself by running a hand down her face.

“And so we’ve come to it at long last.” Her voice was softer this time, but that didn’t make the words more comforting. A sigh leaves her as Daemon shifts in his seat, eyes darting around the room, wanting to look anywhere other than at his wife. “I cannot trust you, Daemon.”

The truth was there for all to see. The scheming and ulterior motives were always there, but remained hidden underneath the blanket of a united front against the Greens. And it hurt both of their hearts. Rhaenyra’s starting to break because she cannot trust her own husband, and he's breaking because he knows it was his own doing, once again.

“I’ve never trusted you, wholly. Much that I wished to, willed myself to. But now I have seen that your heart belongs only to you… and it has always been that way.” Once upon a time, Rhaenyra recognized this as a challenge for her, one she took on willingly, but that was a long time ago, and now more than ever, she needed him to be at her side with unwavering loyalty to her. She had bigger problems now, and she would not allow him to deter her from her birthright.

“I have served you faithfully…”

“Have you?” Had he always spoken to her this way? Like she was still a foolish child. “Or have you used me as a tool with which to grasp at your stolen inheritance?” With that, the dragon emerged in a fiery rage from Daemon; any bit of the shellshocked man that had been there vanished in an instant, as he sent his cup flying across the room as he stood up slowly, making his way closer and closer to his wife. He took only a minor pleasure in seeing fear in his wife’s eyes as she stumbled back.

Why do you always do this? Aren’t you tired?

Shut up! You’re not real…

He shook his head clear. Rhaenyra was still staring at him, even now with a touch of concern. He’d been hearing voices as of late, that was the simplest way to put it. He insisted it was nothing. He tried his best to become a more comforting presence, to soothe his wife’s rage towards him. His hand rested on her cheek as he spoke of how he himself had placed his brother’s crown upon her head.

“Yes, but before that, you sought to lead a council of war while I labored alone in my bedchamber. And afterward, when I thought it meet to consider the terms our foes put before us–”

“A folly! A folly! To give up my brother’s throne to the traitorous lies of Otto Hightower!”

“My throne, Daemon, mine!” They both paused at his slip-up. Now more than ever, she needed people’s support to show that they believed in her when she herself struggled to see her potential. But now it felt as though she was willinging peeling back the curtain that had concealed her husband’s motives. He still wanted the throne.

“I think you used my words as an excuse to take your own revenge… to indulge the darkness you keep sheathed within you like a blade.”

“You think me some kind of monster–”

“Oh, I don’t know what to think of you… I don’t know what you are, or who it is you serve.”

“W-What? How? Am I not on my way, even now, to Harrenhal to raise an army in your name, Rhaenyra?! Yours!” He was beginning to grow tired of this. It was always said that actions speak louder than words, but what about when the motive of said actions comes into question?

They still stood in the same room, but the distance between them had never felt greater, even when he was across the Narrow Sea in Pentos. It was then that Rhaenyra asked the penultimate question.

“Do you accept me as your queen and ruler? Or do you cling, even now, to what you think you lost?”

Think I lost? I did. I was his heir, I should’ve remained it.

“You did not lose it…. You gave it away… because you thought ever and only of your own glory, and not of my father in his grief who needed you… and not even of your children… Aegon, Viserys, Baela, and Rhaena…and-”

“Your father was a coward who knew I was the stronger son, that I was the leader of men, and he was afraid to be seen in my shadow.  He’s spiraling now… It was his way of things. To spiral and lash out at those around him when things did not go his way… when he is confronted with the truth. The truth is always more painful when it comes from a loved one. As much as Daemon would like to keep up the appearance of not caring for anyone, he did. He loved his brother, he loved his wife… he loved his sons… his daughters… he loved y-

A sharp pain emerged in his head. Like someone was pressing a dagger into each side of his temples. He groaned suddenly, and his hands flew to his head to press into the spots causing him grief. It was a fairly common occurrence, and normally, Rhaenyra would come to his aid and summon a Maester to help soothe his pain. But now she doesn’t know what to believe. She knew it had something to do with you.

Her mind traveled back to that day. The day she watched as Daemon rushed away in a panic, only for her to find him later, just before the Hour of the Bat, knelt beside a broken tree and holding an even more broken girl. Even though she herself was not particularly close to you, she was able to recognize the irony that she probably knew you better than he did and that his reaction shocked her because she truthfully did not think he cared all that much for you. Maybe he didn’t know it himself until that very moment.  For years, she defended him. Held steadfast in the truth that he never meant to get you killed, that it was truly a horrible accident. But now, after knowing he aided in the slaughter of a child even younger than you had been, she found it hard to believe it wasn’t intentional. Nothing in the past indicated he held any love for you, really.

~~~

Daemon had just been invited back to court after his victory at the Stepstones. His hair was much shorter than it had been when Rhaenyra last saw him. His hair was cropped, leaving no hair to go past his ears. It looked good on him. The tension between them still as potent as ever. She still wore the necklace he had given her on her brother’s tourney day, the same day she lost her mother. She knew there had to be another reason for her uncle's return to King’s Landing, other than taunting her father.

“So… what do you want?” He did look really good that day. The sun was shining brightly, illuminating his clear, clean-shaven face. He wore a black tunic with a red undershirt, of course. He played with the necklace around her neck.

“Only the comforts of home.” Not the response she was expecting.

“I not thought you’d be particularly comfortable in this home. Though I do suppose you seem changed by your adventures. And I assume the Red Keep is more welcoming to your presence than let us say… Runestone?” He gave an amused huff. He’d only been to Runestone a handful of times, usually when he had nowhere else to go. There was one presence who made his short visits slightly more bearable though.

Rhaenyra expressed her grievances about her father, including her perception that he wanted to ‘sell her off to the highest bidder’. It’s understandable why she would believe that, but Daemon knew his brother only ever wished the best for his daughter, perhaps why he shut down any prospects of him marrying her. But for her sake, he simply agreed with her.

The two spoke in High Valyrian, concealing the contents of the conversation to the prying ears that littered the city.

“Marriage is only a political arrangement. Once you are wed, you can do as you like.”

“For men, perhaps, for women it is like a death sentence.”

“Would that it were. I would have been rid of my Bronze Bitch ages ago.”

“And your ‘Bronze Bastard’ too?” His fingers tightened around his cup. I never called her that, he wished to yell out to the world, but that would mean admitting he cared even just a little bit. So he stayed quiet. “I often forget you are married, much less have a child with her.”

“Do not remind me. I was as shocked as anyone to receive that letter. I didn’t think life was capable of blooming in such a hostile environment." He had just gotten back from a war; he did not need to be hounded by the memory of a little girl in her room at Runestone who looked out the window every day and every night, hoping her father would come home to her.

“Do you regret it?”

“Marrying her? Absolutely, I-”

“No, no. Do you regret having her? Your daughter.”

…Did he? He never really felt hatred towards her existence, nor excitement. You were always just… there. He didn’t feel much of anything towards you, not now at least. So the only response he offered his dear niece was a distant hum.

~~~

The pain in his head seemed to fuel the angry flames spewing from his mouth. “Do you believe he made you heir because of your great wisdom? Because of your virtue?”

Rhaenyra rolled her head, not being the first time he had misinterpreted her father’s wishes. She was just so tired… “How dare you-”

“Or did he merely use you as a tool to put me in my place because he was afraid of me? Because he knew your legacy, unlike mine, would never outshine his own!”

“He was not afraid of you, Daemon!” She quickly paced towards him, her arms set out in front of her, almost begging him to finally understand that people pushed him away, not out of fear, but out of self-preservation. “He could not trust you! …Any more than I can trust you. No more than anyone can!”

“How can you not trust me?!”

“Enough, Daemon! We are not going-”

“Why is it so hard to place your trust in me?! I admit this last excursion had unseemly consequences, ones that were not intentional, but believe me-”

“How can I believe you?”

“W-wha- because I am your husband! Your blood!”

“After what you did to (Y/N)?”

It slipped out. One of those thoughts that was never meant to be heard by other ears, and never meant to fall off of lips. Her name was rarely spoken, often just referred to in passing as ‘she’ or ‘her’ or ‘princess’. She knew it was wrong the moment it left her, and her husband’s face was cursed with a look she had not seen in years. There was a reason he did not ever want to hear her name spoken again.

His face, so recently twisted with anger, slowly started to melt into one of distress as the words she had just spoken settled into his very being. The fire in his eyes died, leaving them vacant and empty, no longer windows to his soul, but mere tools for seeing. It was as if Rhaenyra had struck the life from him with a single word. A single name.

Then his jaw fell open, just barely, shallow gasping breaths escaping him. His eyes grew wide, but his pupils were small. His posture was stiff yet not intimidating, like he’d been paralyzed. Then his brow drew up slightly, and his jaw started to quiver a bit. His eyes glossed over, tears of panic making them shine. Hearing your name, said in such a way, by someone he never viewed as a threat, he’d prefer it if she had simply pushed a dagger directly into his heart, over and over. His body trembled, making his head shake in a wobbly manner, and his neck did little to conceal his throat contracting.

Rhaenyra herself was shocked to have said it, but she stood firm in her position. If she let her guard down now, he would leave once again without taking ownership. Her nostrils flared in anger and upset. She had to speak first, as she could see the angry dragon slowly reinhabiting his being once more.

“You struck down a child.” Tears were ready to fall from her eyes. How could he not see, even now, how much pain he causes to the people he claims to love and support? How?

His breaths were heavy as his eyes darkened fully once more. He scarcely whispered out, “...It was a mistake.”

A mistake… that’s one way to put it. But a mistake, to this magnitude, cannot be without consequences.

“You’re pathetic…” That was the last thing she said to him before he stormed off, passing Baela as he left the Queen’s chambers. It would be the last thing said between the two for months. Daemon flew away on Caraxes, a familiar sight to those around him, to Harrenhal, but no matter how far he ran, he could not escape you.

----------

Aemond lay curled against Sylvi’s scantily clad figure. Her motherly presence and the warmth of the room melted the tension in his shoulders, much like the wax of the surrounding candles. Her fingers gently traced his knuckles. His hair was completely down, parted in the middle, and his eyepatch gone. The barmaid went unacknowledged by both, the only sound being her pouring hot milk into a cup.

“Daemon sent them to kill me.” Sylvi paused and looked at him. He was no doubt referring to the murder of his young nephew. It was all anyone had been discussing lately.

“I was out.”

“You were with me.” She remembers that night clearly. Nothing out of the ordinary. He came to her that night very agitated and wishing to be held, similar to how they were at the moment. However, that night he also wished for a bit more; they embraced each other in a slow, rhythmic pace, quite uncommon for a whore but not outlandish for Aemond.

“In truth, I am proud.” His one eye looked off, staring at a fixed point in the wall. “That he considers me such a foe. But it was cowardly to have someone else try to kill me. I wish to take him on, face to face.” A small smirk graced his face. He never really smiled anymore, not a real, happy smile. Any sort of grin or upturn of his mouth was laced with dark intentions. “He’s afraid of me.”

The Madam turned to him again, “As well he should be.” A touch of sultriness was woven into her voice with practiced ease. It was about now that he wished for more ‘action’.  “The boy had grown into a man…” She whispered, leaning forward to press her lips to his face, but he pulled away with a dismissive hum.

“No, not here.” Oh, something must’ve been troubling severely if it was one of those sessions. He pulled back completely before curling into a fetal position and resting his head on her lap. Gods, he was skinny. He’d always been slim, but now Sylvi was wondering if he was eating properly. He had broken down in front of her before; she knew he was a troubled boy. Every encounter with him was a delicate dance, hoping that she would not trip over her own feet, and she knew about you. Not in grave detail, he did not enjoy rehashing many memories of you with her for a multitude of reasons.

He closed his one eye as she gently stroked his milky white hair. He was a handsome lad, wasn’t he? Despite the eye, for some, that might only add to the appeal of a Targaryen prince. They sat in silence for a moment before he croaked out,

“I do regret that business with Luke… I lost my temper that day… I am sorry for it.”

That was one of the few moments where he allowed his true soul to shine through. There were bits of him here and there that would leak through the One Eyed Prince persona he had protected himself with all these years. That boy, the one you loved so dearly, was still in there; he was trapped at the bottom of a well. At his most vulnerable, that boy was allowed to climb up the sides and see the brightness of day, but it was only for a brief moment before he was kicked back down again.

Sylvi leaned over him a bit and whispered, “I am glad to hear it.” and then rubbed a gentle hand along his ribcage.

“They used to tease me… You know… because I was different.” She inhaled a breath before delicately saying,

“Not all of them… if I remember correctly.” His shoulders tensed up. Perhaps it was a mistake to bring it up; she knew it was a gamble. And one that eventually paid off as she felt the princeling relax once more.

“Yes… she defended me. …Sometimes I worry.”

“About?”

“I worry that… that she’d hate me, for what I’ve done. Th-that she… she’d be afraid of me.”

“...She loved-”

“I saw her that night. I had never seen her look at me like that…” Devastation leaked from his mouth. “She looked disappointed… disappointed in me. I think…”

This was all for you… Why aren’t you proud?

She had stopped petting his hair. She knew she had a voice in his presence, one that he would be more likely to listen to than those who shared her social class, and she often took that opportunity to rein in the young prince.

“I would remind you only that when princes lose their temper, it is often others who suffer. The smallfolk… Like me.”

He did not offer her any response; instead, his eye stared off into the distance, not particularly focused on anything. However, his mind was still cursed with the picture of you that night… it was not a look he wished to see on your visage ever again.

It was just my mind playing a trick on me at night… it meant nothing… She loves me…. She has too, because if she didn’t…

----------

Harrenhal had a reputation, not a good one. It was a castle built from hubris and delusion, and it often plagued those who stayed within its walls. Daemon did not believe a single second of it, or at the very least, he believed it was an exaggeration of what was actually shadowing hallways and leaky sounds.

He had stayed at the castle less than a day before he realized that it was true, it was all true.

The constant dripping sounds from the worn castle proved unhelpful in finding sleep. His mind, being wracked with the events that had brought him here, was of even less help.

Drip

Why did you say that?

Drip

It doesn’t matter… It’ll pass…

Drip

You always say that, but it always comes back around…

Drip

Rhaenyra won’t forget this.

Drip

She has too

Drip

She will not… she wouldn’t have stooped so low if she-

The door to his bedroom rattled as someone shook it violently from the other side. Thankfully, whoever it was was unable to enter, the door having been barred with a sword.

Who in this run-down castle would dare to disturb him in such a way? He watched as the shadow of feet underneath the crack of the door disappeared with the light. The pursuer paused before attempting to push the door open once more, rattling the old door repeatedly. Whoever it was was clearly no friend, so Daemon armed himself at the ready.

Once it was quiet for a moment, he skillfully removed the sword and just barely opened the door. Only to be met with nothing… nothing but the quiet hums of a female voice. He stepped a single foot forward and heard a cracking sound. His nervous system jumped, and he looked down. At his feet lay a, now cracked, wooden toy… One he had not seen in a very long time.

~~~

His hair was longer then, much longer. It was straight and white as ever, falling down to his waist. You had just turned two at the time, and the royal family wished to travel to the Vale for your nameday. It was meant to be a brief affair, your birthday coming a few months after Aegon's, so many of the crown's resources were being devoted to the Great Hunt for him. But it didn’t bother you much, seeing as you were only two.

Your father wasn’t around. He had only visited you once. That day was ingrained in his mind just as much.

You were born while he was away fighting his war in the Stepstones. When he received a raven telling him that Lady Rhea Royce had birthed a child, a daughter, he had a less than enthusiastic reaction. He regretted lying with her, and now he had an irritating reminder that he had made that mistake, and now all the realm knows that he fucked his ‘Bronze Bitch’. There was no denying you were his; the Targaryen hair and purple-tinted eyes said everything. He originally had no intention of being a figure in your life at all. But that all changed when he first heard of your existence. That was until about a year later, when he got a letter informing him of a harsh fever sweeping its way through the Vale, you being one of its victims as well. He could not help but be curious to see what the mixture of this miserable marriage managed to produce, and it seemed possible that his window for seeing it was closing. So, while the war had reached a stalling point, he flew up to Runestone under the cover of night. He slipped through the bronze walls, following maids and wet nurses around until he finally managed to find your nursery. There was nothing to make notice of in the room other than its severe blandness. There was nothing personalized at all; it was simply the place where a babe was kept. His babe.

There were a few candles lit solely for vision, so as not to cause you to overheat. His eyes landed on the brown crib near the window. The window was cracked open slightly to allow in the cool breeze of the Vale. A small, sickly cry started coming from the crib. He crept forward, and there you were. Little chubby limbs and a tear-stricken face, crying from discomfort. Your hair was mostly brown, but even he could start to see the older hair beginning to turn white.

His face loomed over the crib, and suddenly you stopped wailing. Your eyes, which had been swollen into thin slits, widened at the new face. The two of you simply stared for a moment, Daemon unsure of what to do with a crying babe, and you were just trying to identify who this stranger was. You then smiled at him. It was a sweet, loving smile, the kind only a child could give. It shifted his entire worldview for just a few moments. How could this innocent, little, lovely being… be so happy to see him? A man whose mere presence often meant destruction, the man who had celebrated in his brother’s grief… the man who didn’t even react at the knowledge of your birth.

Your little legs kicked with glee before being cut off by a little sneeze. He saw the tears well up in your eyes and the beginnings of crying starting up again.

He wasn’t thinking much when he reached a single finger to you, and began to gently stroke your chubby cheeks.

No one, not even the gods, could tell what happened between the two of you. It was like a thin, weathered, imaginary thread connecting the two of you upon skin-to-skin contact. Strong enough to keep the two of you connected in life, but not rigid enough to keep both of you close together. You’d always be with him… even when you two were worlds apart.

The connection frightened him, causing him to pull back suddenly. You were saddened by the loss of his touch and started softly sobbing. Not wishing anyone to know of his presence, he slipped away back into the night.

~~~

You recovered from the fever not long after his visit. No one on Runestone knew that Daemon had set foot into the castle that night, except for you. You wouldn’t remember the face, but you always did keep that faint memory of someone with white hair looming over you, protecting you, which is what you believed. But you didn’t see him for a long while after that night. You heard the stories that your father was fighting a war, that he was a prince protecting the people, and the nursemaids felt you did not need to know the details of your father’s personality at such a young age. And so, that was the image of him in your head. The heroic prince, who had to sacrifice family time for the people. That’s why he wasn’t around much, because he was being a hero… and you were proud of that. You babbled about him constantly.

“My da’s a hero!”

“He protectin’ people.”

“Da’s on a dragon!”

The people of Runestone consistently nodded in agreement to placate you, and despite all her hatred for her husband, so did your mother. If your resemblance to him didn’t exhaust her enough, your constant praise and love for him essentially cemented her withdrawal from you. You never understood why she rolled her eyes at every mention of him. In your books, husbands and wives loved each other… but soon you noticed how others would become uncomfortable at the mention of him as well.

He did think of you while he was in the Stepstones. He knew your second nameday was coming up, marking two years already of him at war and his child existing. Time flies when you’re suppressing a rebellion. War took time, and in between battles, Daemon had taken up a personal project.

When your nameday did come to pass, you were sad. You had been given a fair celebration, but at the end of the night, you were sitting in your room, sad and alone. You did not expect to see your father, but you still held out hope you would see him again and remember it properly this time. Your crib was gone, and you had been switched to a twin-sized bed instead. You sat on top of the covers playing with your fingers, unable to sleep. Tears began to well in your eyes, from disappointment but also from the exhaustion of meeting family members. Your little eyes began to cross as your head lolled to the side, ready for sleep, when you heard a creaking sound.

The door to your room was cracked open, letting in a sliver of yellow light. The light was then blocked by a tall figure tiptoeing into the room. You almost called out for the guards, but the man gently shushed you and brought a finger to his lips.

“I suppose I shouldn’t have expected you to recognize me.” You stilled.

“...Da…?” You whispered into the night. He gave a deep chuckle and nodded. The sadness that had been dampening your mood all day evaporated instantly.

He came! He actually came!

You jumped off your bed and ran to him, as best as you could. Your face planted into his knees. He stiffened up, unsure of what to do next. Eventually, he reached down and placed a single hand on your back, giving you a small pat. He pried you off of him and guided you back to your bed. He couldn’t stay for long, can’t have you getting overly attached, but it's possible that the door has closed.

“The-they say you… not come. You did! Like I say!”

“Ha! Of course I did. Two is quite the milestone.” You giggled as you climbed atop the bed once more. “Now, I regret to tell you… I cannot stay.” Your smile fell a moment before returning.

“I know.” That surprised him. He was expecting a tantrum, but instead, you looked at him with kind, understanding eyes. Eyes more mature beyond your years. You always searched for the good in people, willing to see what others missed. But sometimes, understanding became excuse-making, and the line between the two vanished before you even saw it coming.

“Okay… However, I do have a present for you.” He knelt beside your bed and carefully retrieved a small parcel wrapped in cloth. You waited with anticipation, eyes wide and your smile even wider. He slowly untied the string, keeping it closed, and the fabric flowed apart to reveal a wooden toy.

“It is not much I know, there aren’t many shopping opportunities down there, but I did make it myself.” If  your eyes could actually sparkle, they would. The toy was a wooden horse with a flowing mane, taking a powerful stride, and large dragon wings on the back, mid-flap. You eagerly took it from him, breathing heavily. You stood up on the bed and jumped around with it.

“I love it!” You made the hybrid animal fly around your room and crash into the bed with you. Daemon simply watched with an amused smile. Secretly, he was relieved that you liked it. He was never one to be insecure, but he had never made a gift for someone before; he usually commissioned it.

“I am glad. But I must go.” He rose, then felt a small hand grip his.

“You can’t stay? Not even for a bit longer?” Your voice was tiny. He told you he had to leave, but right now? Truth was, he didn’t have to leave right this second. Caraxes was fast and could travel quickly. He would’ve made it back with plenty of time to spare. But he didn’t want to. When he felt your hand tug on his, he felt that familiar concoction fill his stomach and lungs once more. The same mixture of feelings he felt when his brother kicked him from court, the same one he felt a year ago when you couldn’t form words yet. So he pulled away, not wishing to taste it any longer.

“Do not be selfish, my dear. I must go.” Your excitement faded as your shoulders sagged. He regretted his choice of words, who calls a two-year-old selfish? “Let’s get you to bed.” He pulled back the sheets, and you scooted into place. The warm furs covered you, and you immediately donned a sleepy face, your energy levels finally coming down once more. He took the toy and placed it on your end table. It wasn’t a toy you cuddled with.

“There, he’s watching over you.” You cracked a smile at the idea that your father was watching over you through the wooden horse. That was why you liked it so much, the knowledge that your father was still thinking of you. You watched as he slipped out the door and into the night.

Soon the war would be over, and he’d be with you all the time; you longed for that day. But that day would never come to pass.

~~~

He looked down at the toy. One of the wings had cracked and snapped off under his foot. He hadn’t seen it since that night; he assumed you left it at Runestone… What was it doing here? The humming distracted him once more, and he carefully stepped through the dripping castle. A warm light was coming from one of the rooms, but when he stepped through it, it looked nothing like the rooms of Harrenhal; it looked like King’s Landing. His eyes landed upon a head of pin-straight, white hair. He rounded the couch to make sure his eyes weren’t deceiving him; they weren’t. There sat Rhaenyra, but not as he had come to know her so well… she was younger. The door shut behind him, and he looked and saw another familiar face: Alicent Hightower. Both girls looked as young as they did the day of the tourney. The day he had asked Alicent for her favor. His gaze whipped between the two, sword pointed at both. Alicent did not speak, but Rhaenyra did.

“Always coming and going… and I am left to clean up after you.” It was then that he registered what she had been holding. It was the prince, Jaehaerys. He watched as she ran a thread through the cut in his neck, sewing his head back onto his tiny body. Her face was one of exhaustion, most likely with him. She kept humming a comforting tune for the boy, and Daemon felt his eyes become wet. He did not react all that much when news came of the actions of Blood and Cheese, but seeing it for himself caused a cog to finally turn in him. A cog that had been overgrown with moss and rust, preventing it from moving. Her humming echoed in the empty chamber that his head had become, only reacting to the stimulants around him. His lips became dry. Every time he ran his tongue across them to wet them, it seemed they became drier than before.

Alicent’s feet shuffled to a corner, causing him to turn sharply. He kept his sword pointed in front of him, pivoting between the two girls. Nothing about this was right…

Rhaenyra kept stitching a broken boy back together as if it were normal, and Alicent… She was hidden in the shadowy corner by the darkness and a thin sheet separating the room. She was fiddling with something, and he cautiously moved closer, using his sword to push the sheer sheet away. Alicent stepped to the side for a moment to allow his gaze to land upon her work.

The setup resembled a children's tea party. The small roundtable, each seat occupied by a doll. Each with platnium hair, each missing something. One of them was missing the crown of its head, leaving an empty hole on top. The other two had longer hair, one missing an eye and another with a hole in its stomach. He was no fool, he knew who they were meant to be.

That left two empty seats. Obviously one for Alicent and one more. He contemplated if it was strangely meant for him but then he saw it. Sitting atop the vanity, slumped to the side. Half of the doll’s face was cracked open, revealing an empty, gaping void. It sat next to a pile of sharp, broken pieces. The doll’s face, the half of it, felt familiar… and so did the hair: long Targaryen white, with brown Royce roots.

Alicent picked up a shard of discarded porcelain, the point of it pricking her finger, drew a drop of blood from her finger, and she had no reaction. She carefully applied some sort of adhesive to it and stuck it onto the frame of your- the doll’s face. Some of the blood seeped into the crack before dripping down, staining the cheek. Piece by piece, she tried her best to put the doll back together, but the crack would never be sealed, and the doll would never be whole again. She placed the doll into its corresponding seat. You were with them. it was a hard pill to swallow, but it was the truth. If you were still around, you likely would've algined yourself with the Greens. You would've been married to Aemond by now, maybe a babe too. They were your family. The ones who took you in when he was uninterested in you. The ones who took care of you, taught you all you know... knew.

He noticed the tip of his sword begin to waver as his hands violently shook. He stepped forward, sword lowering, but he was stopped when Alicent firmly stepped in front of you. Rhaenyra’s humming had stopped.

You weren't his.

Alicent wrapped her hand around the sword and tugged it from his grip, and it clattered onto the floor. The sound jolted him from the vision and back to reality, his gaze focused again on the face of the Weirwood tree in the courtyard of Harrenhal. He looked up at the vibrant red leaves, his body still trembling from what he had seen. Perhaps he was a fool to dismiss the rumors of Harrenhal. A presence is felt behind him, and he is met with the form of a pale woman with impossibly long, jet black hair. He had seen her earlier, in the same room as Simon Strong, when he bent the knee. She looked at him with some sort of fascination but also pity.

“You will die in this place.” She says, before picking up her dress and walking back inside, leaving him alone.

----------

Aegon wasn’t supposed to be here. He intended to fly out on Sunfyre and aid Cole and the Hightower host, but he was talked out of it by Larys Strong and his Kingsguard. So instead, he was in the depths of King’s Landing doing what he does best: drinking and whoring. Although the whore was not for him, it was for a new squire, and he knew just the one for a newcomer. He searched the brothel, interrupting many as he did so, ripping curtains open in search of the Madam. He was impossibly drunk, stumbling into others and stepping on multiple feet; it was a miracle he was able to see and recognize the form who lay with Madam Sylvi. His own brother. The image shocked him, and Aemond, who had been curled up on his side facing her chest, was bare as the day he was born, turned over.

It suddenly became the most hysterical thing Aegon had ever seen, but he could not tell. He doubled over in drunken laughter,

“Oh ho ho! And here I thought all these years you were still a virgin!” He turned to look at his posse, “You should’ve seen him. I’ve tried so many times to get him to lie with a woman, and he always refused. Still too hung up on some childhood love that slipped through his fingers.” Aegon was the only one who actually seemed to find anything about the situation amusing. Sure, the men he was with laughed, but it was hollow, only doing so to appease their King. But most had a hard time witnessing the way a brother could treat his younger sibling. Aemond had sat up, hunched away from his brother to conceal his expression. At the reference to you, he retreated into his own mind, but he failed to tune out his own brother’s mocking.

“Did you fuck her like a hound?” Aegon proceeded to bark loudly at Aemond, “I told you, y’know. That once you feel a woman around you, you’d forget all about her… do you not feel better?”

No, I do not…

The sessions with Sylvi had become less and less effective over the years. The first time was hell; he had broken down completely. But as time went on and he kept seeing her, he felt more at ease with each visit. The problem was the aftermath. The first couple of times, he was able to forget his existence for a few days. Then the days became hours, then minutes, and then the satisfaction was something he could only obtain in the sanctity of the brothel. And now, even that had been completely tainted by his own blood. Was nothing truly his and his alone?

~~~

He had chased after you from the courtyard, now wishing he had better phrased his words, you were not meant to hear them.

He could never pick another girl over you… not even Helaena.

You had barred the door to your room shut, including the secret passage he often used.

“(Y/N), please open the door… It’s not what you believe. I-I-” I love you.

~~~

Aegon proceeded to ridicule his brother, crossing too many boundaries to count, and even he knew it. Underneath the haze of liquor, Aegon was ashamed of what he was doing to his baby brother. He knew his words were cruel, he knew how much he loved you, and yet he spewed obscenities out about your relationship as if it were a fleeting moment in his life. But it wasn’t, and although he didn’t love you as Aemond did, no one could; Aegon did love you in a way as well. It’s true you were not as close to him as his other siblings, but you were there for him in ways that mattered. He remembers the day he had pranked Aemond with the Pink Dread. His mother came into his quarters while he was… attending to a personal achievement… It resulted in him on the floor of his chambers, nude with nothing more than a blanket to cover his privates. She scolded him intensely about how Aemond was his brother. It was meant to be a joke… Jace and Luke found it funny. The conversation had turned into how Aegon was the challenge to Rhaenyra’s claim, whether he liked it or not. She had grabbed his face and screamed in it. He considered himself lucky she didn’t hit him again. He was left there, hair frizzed out, feeling more bare than he did moments earlier as Alicent stomped out of his room. On her way out, she failed to see your figure standing off to the side in the shadow created by the door.

You had originally come to yell at Aegon for hurting Aemond as well, but after seeing a side of Alicent you had never seen before, you decided he had gotten the message. So when you made yourself known to him by taking a few steps forward, he flinched before drawing more blankets atop him. He expected harsher words, maybe a slap or two as you drew closer, a frown donning your face. But instead, you had simply sunk to your knees next to him and wrapped your arms around his shoulders. The cool air from the open window no longer had a grip on him, replaced instead with your warm embrace. It made him relax in a way that required no booze for whores, something he wasn’t sure existed. From then on, he no longer wished to make fun of his brother if it meant being on the receiving end of your love. But you died just a few days after that, and here he was once again, humiliating his brother.

Madam Sylvi had grown unsettled the longer Aegon stayed, despite his compliments to her. “You see? I do not exaggerate the Madam's prowess. Even now, my brother will not sample another.” He let out a few hiccupy laughs, “Hard luck for your squire though, as you can see she-” Hiccup “She’s now very much occupied…”

Aemond just sat there and listened to his eldest sibling, the firstborn. What right did he have to be the firstborn, to be King, to not have a care in the world? How can he sit there, while they were at war, and make a mockery of everything their mother worked so hard to give them? Their poor mother… who had to spend hours in labor just to squeeze this lazy parasite into the world. Their poor mother, who had tried to remind him of his role in this world, only for him to throw it back in her face and say he does not care. When Aemond realized that the opportunity for Aegon to be King was a waste of time, that if he had been born first, he would have been King… it was the angriest he’s ever been in a very, long time.

He briefly peeked over his shoulder at his brother still laughing, but Madam Sylvi’s form had been replaced with someone new. Her clothing was the same, but that was all. Her face had changed; it now resembled you… Or he thought it did. The intricate parts of your face were becoming harder and harder to recall, your memory beginning to take on the vague shape of your head.

~~~

“Go away, Aemond…” You didn’t sound all that angry, more defeated. In truth, your reaction was out of fear. The fear that Aemond, like your father, would rather be with someone else. That you were an afterthought. You were very upset when your attempts to bond with him were repeatedly shut down. It also caused Aemond great upset, partly because he didn't want you to break down over that man, and partly because you had bailed on spending time with him to be rejected by your father again. He felt ridiculous, competing with your own father for your attention, and yet, somehow, he was losing to a man who never showed any real interest in you.

Aemond stood firm in his stance outside your door.

“What I said back there… I spoke clumsily. Given the choice, I’d choose you every time.” No response. “But it’s not just me you’re upset with… is it?” Irritation laced the last few syllables of his question, a tone you did pick up on, which mirrored the beginning of your next words.

“You don’t get it, Aemond.”

“Why don’t you let me understand?”

“That’s not-no! I can handle these things on my own, so you can leave now.”

He just stared at the wooden door, an inkling telling him that you were not too far from the other side. He looked into the grains of oak as though it were actually your face. His eyes were blown wider than normal, a slight shimmer to them, joined by a mischievous smirk.

“No…” He spoke softly despite his intention behind the pushback. He knew you would be able to hear it.

Silence filled his ears before the creaking of your door; your doorknob was adorned with vibrant violets. Your face was puffy from upset, yet was also tinged with anger, a rare sight.

“No? What do you mean, no?” You sounded more perplexed than irritated now. To be honest, Aemond was not quite sure what he was going to do to make it all better, but he wasn’t going to leave you, that’s for sure. Your eyebrows knitted together, nose still sniffling, and mouth ever so slightly parted, making you look like a baby rabbit, and the stuffy nose didn’t help much either. He couldn’t help but crack a smirk. You were so cute. He bobbled his head with giddiness, smirk turning into an actual smile.

“No.” He reaffirmed before pushing past you and into your room. Luckily for him, he was in the midst of a growth spurt.

~~~

There you were… when he focused hard enough on a specific memory, your face became clearer, like your visage slowly rising from the ocean. Water dripping away, revealing more and more of your countenance.

~~~

“Hey! Aemond! Stop it!” He had jumped atop your bed and began bouncing, shoes and all, on your nice sheets.

“Come here and make me!” So you did, you ran right after him, only for him to just narrowly slip through your fingers. He made you chase him across your room, up and down furniture, blankets, and pillows thrown in defense, and a stalemate between the two of you with a table in between. “Help! The princess has gone absolutely feral!”

“Aemond!”

“Forgive me, and maybe a smile, then I shall surrender.”

“What in the Seven Hells are you two doing?” A new voice had entered the scene. Aemond’s very own mother, the Queen Consort, Alicent Hightower, stood in the still-open doorway, hands pinching her skirts as he witnessed the two of you bouncing around the room like a bug attempting to escape from a closed window. “You were supposed to be washing up for supper.” Her serious demeanor made the whole situation more humorous. You found yourself actively avoiding Aemond’s eye contact, for you knew the moment the two of you locked eyes, you would burst with laughter in front of the Queen.

Though your moment was cut short, Aemond considered it a success. Your tear streaks were still visible, but the frown that adorned your face was a distant memory, now replaced with a poorly concealed smile.

It could be like this all the time, he thought to himself, if you just let him go… Please…

​~~~

You looked older in this moment, perhaps what you would have looked like if you had been allowed to reach his age. Your face was one of concern, and a hand came out to his shoulder.

He quickly turned away, a familiar feeling beginning to fill his chest, so he steeled himself from the many faces who had gathered to watch the show. His face hardened, and his eye darkened further as he stood, allowing all to see his nude form.

“He can have her… what’s another whore…” And then he walked out, leaving Aegon behind.

----------

News of Daemon's easy takeover of Harrenhal soon swept the Seven Kingdoms. It caused the boy king to flare up quickly at Larys Strong, whom he had just appointed to the Small Council.

“I give you a job to do, and now you just sit there. IT’S YOUR FUCKING CASTLE!” The council barely moved, now growing used to Aegon’s outbursts.

“That castle is more crippled than I am, your Grace. It’ll surely drive him to madness.” That was all Larys Clubfoot had to say in response.

And he was correct, for Daemon’s stay in Harrenhal had been less productive than he’d have hoped. He hadn’t been sleeping well for a good while, and now the ghosts of Harrenhal seem determined to barely allow him a single wink. His visions spanned from vivid dreams to brief hallucinations.

He had dreamed of a young Rhaenyra again, this time taunting him from the Iron Throne, with his brother’s, her father’s, crown upon her head. She talked about how he wished to destroy her, to cause her downfall because deep down he knew Viserys loved her more than him, that couldn’t be true…

Her accusation had been followed by repetitive taunts in High Valyrian, ones that made him feel the need to draw his sword and separate her head from her body. Then he was awoken by Simon Strong. Later that night, after a long day of dealing with the River lords, he was eager to get to bed once more. Though the old castle would not have it, not that he was able to sleep well to begin with.

Strangely enough, he was glad that at least his dreams were changing. For years now, it has been confined to a narrow range of images and sounds. But they all had one thing in common: you were heavily featured in them. He tried, oh, did he try to forget you and move on, but how can you when every time he closed his eyes and entered the dream realm, you were there. He always heard you, in the shadows of Dragonstone, your voice brushing past his ears. Always just out of his reach.

Oftentimes, he’d see you from afar, clinging to that tree. He pushed his body as he ran to you. He heard you calling out for him in tears, begging for her Kepa to save her from the threat of death. But every time he was too late, and you fell again, and again, and again, over and over, driving him mad. Then there were the more gruesome sights…

So when he saw himself dressed as Aemond roaming the halls of Harrenhal, he found himself relieved at the lack of you. But then he followed the hybrid of him and his nephew through a door, and then he was no longer in Harrenhal. At first, he did not recognize his setting, but then he noticed the sigil on the banners: runes from the Old Tongue of the First Men. He was in Runestone. It made sense that his lack of recognition was because he had only been there a handful of times, two of them to see you, and one to kill your mother.

It was eerily empty. No handmaidens scurrying about, no guards on duty, no footsteps, nothing but silence. He aimlessly roamed the castle looking for a way out and back to reality. He stopped in his steps at a faint sound crossing his eardrum. A cry. A baby’s cry.

His feet moved without thinking to the source of the sound, and it led him to a door that panged with a memory in his mind.

It was that same plain door that led to your nursery. The runes carved into the door signified so.

The brass doorknob felt like it was burning his hand with how cold it was. He carefully turned the knob and prayed to himself that it would lead back to Harrenhal, and he'd see Simon Strong once more. But alas, it was still Runestone. The nursery was chilly, the window wide open, and the wispy curtains, which were much longer than any he’d seen before, flowed like a calm river in the wind. The crib where you had once lain your head was covered by them. The crying became louder once he crossed the threshold of the room.

His footsteps echoed loudly in the empty chamber; most of the furniture in the room was missing, but the pieces that were there were covered in a mist that refused to focus. It was as if nothing mattered but the crib in front of him. The crying turned into wailing, the babe in the crib becoming more and more distressed the closer he got. This is what he had expected to happen when he first met you. He could just barely make out the form of a baby through the thin veil of the curtains. His baby.

He stood in front of the crib, one hand dead at his side, the other hovering above the curtain. He knows he should remove it and see you, but he was… wary. Every time he’d seen you up until this point had been a nightmarish picture; he wasn’t sure if he was ready to see you as a babe again. But there was no other way out of here. So he gently pushed the curtain away, and the crying became piercingly loud. But then it stopped. It was sudden, like someone ripped an instrument from a musician's grip. It was so quiet his ears began to ring, and even more surprising, the crib was empty. All that remained was the faint outline of where you had been lying.

He let out a shaky, relieved breath. His breathing had been shallow and short before, so the sudden air caused him to feel a bit lightheaded. He stumbled back a bit and nearly tripped on something. But the floor was empty?

He looked down, and on the floor was some kind of… organ? It was rope-like. Fleshy but with gray veins running along it. It was pink but not the vibrant kind. The kind of pink that was telling him there was no blood flow. But the flesh was covered in spots of blood. He followed it with his eyes to the crib, as though it was emerging from the structure. It was an umbilical cord, wasn’t it? He hadn’t seen one in person before; men were not permitted into the birthing chambers until the babe was ready. But its placement and appearance left few options. The cord led out the door and into the hallway. Daemon took a deep breath, attempting to center himself again, before following. It turned right, then remained in that direction. As he followed, he felt his ears playing tricks on him. He heard faint gurgling and shuffling that grew louder as he neared the end of the hallway.

Then a baby’s cry. But this one was different. It felt…close.

Daemon could hardly believe his eyes. For the first time in who knows how long, he felt terrified. He was frozen in place as he watched it appear behind him.

It was a baby, sort of, but about ten times the size it was meant to be. It looked like its skin had been peeled, leaving a blood-spotted, pink, wet flesh on display, as if it were in the midst of growing but had never made it to term. The head was much larger than the rest of its body, if you could call it that. Its legs were crumpled, and its arms were covered in rolls of baby fat. It crawled across the floor towards him, the legs being underdeveloped. Unable to lift its abdomen off the ground, its stomach dragged across the stone floors, leaving a slimy trail of blood and caseous matter. Its entire body was shaped… wrong. The legs were bent backward, giving it an overall shape more akin to a grasshopper or cricket. Its mouth was open, the bottom of it looking like a broken jaw hanging on. It had no teeth, just a wide, empty hole.

All Daemon could do was watch with watery eyes as it dragged itself closer to him, its mouth an echoing cavernous chamber of gargled wails. It screamed, the sides of its mouth shaking from the force of it. Daemon broke out of his paralysis when he felt the viscous and warm drops of spit land on his face and clothes. His feet stumbled backward, nearly tripping on the umbilical cord again, before turning and running down the corridor. All the while, he could hear the “baby” screaming.

Then it sounded like it was calling for him.

“Da…dada…”

Dada… Daemon began to slow his running.

It nearly made him stop. Was that meant… to be you? Even like this, you were calling out to him, wanting to receive his love and affection. Even now, after everything he has done. He shook his head. No. That was not you.

“You wouldn’t- you’re not-” A single sob forces its way out of his constricted throat, “You are not… here.” He picked up his pace once more, noticing how the cord started becoming more and more white and drained of blood as he kept moving. Then he saw a door.

He hoped and prayed this was his way out. The cord leads underneath the door. It had to be.

The door refused to budge for him; he threw his entire body into it over and over and over, begging himself to be free of the monstrosity that dared to claim he was its father. His body ached as the door stood strong despite his efforts. The baby dragged itself closer and closer, eventually pinning him to the door. Its fat limb grabs his foot, knocking him over. Daemon struggles against it, attempting to kick its face, but his foot gets caught in its mouth.

The baby wanted to swallow him whole, akin to a serpent swallowing a rat. His boot-clad feet felt warm as they pushed them into its mouth. The baby continued to attempt to swallow him. The warmth spreads through his body before quickly dissipating, replaced by a coldness that drains your energy. He was afraid. But what else was there to do? Maybe this is what he deserves; many in the realm would think so, or perhaps something worse.

So he let the creature continue to devour him. Daemon closed his eyes, letting the cold grip of death slowly take hold as it reached his waist, when the door flung open, and hands gripped him and pulled him from the creature's throat. The grip was unfamiliar. His savior continued to drag him into the room, leaving a trail of saliva on the floor, before slamming and barring the door shut.

“I can’t believe I had to save you…” His savior spoke with disdain. Daemon blinked a few times to clear up his cloudy vision. Curly brown hair was the first thing he registered. Then the bronze armor. Oh gods… Daemon simply stared for a moment before greeting her. “But she’d be very upset if I left you for dead…”

“...Hello again, wife.” Rhea Royce.

“Ugh, do not start.” She walked past him on the floor and to her desk. She sat down and began to look at more paperwork as though there was not a giant fetus monster in front of her moments ago. Daemon sat there for a moment, collecting himself, before stumbling to his feet, shaking off some saliva in the process. Daemon’s brow furrowed. He opened his mouth, only to close it again, searching Rhea’s face for some hint of what he was meant to do here. It was quiet once more, save for the scratching sound of her quill. Sensing his gaze on her, her eyes lifted along with her eyebrows. “What do you want?”

Daemon looked around, baffled.

“A way back to reality would be most beneficial to me.” His voice was laced with irritation, a byproduct of being in the same room as Rhea.

“The door is right there. You can make your own way out.” She says, gesturing to the very door he had just come from.

Daemon hesitated, the silence between them thick and unnatural.

From somewhere beyond the barred door, or perhaps only in his mind, the monstrous child’s voice echoed:

“Dada…?”

A chill crawled up Daemon’s spine.

Rhea’s quill stilled. She didn’t look at him as she spoke, her words sharper and more brittle than before.

“She thought the world of you, you know…” Rhea spoke once more. He already knew who she was talking about. “She always talked about how ‘my father is a hero’. It drove me insane. But I never had the heart to tell her the truth about you.”

“And that would be?”

“That you never gave a damn about her.”

“That’s not-! Oh, like you did?” Rhea sat back and sighed.

“I… am not sure what to feel.” She stood up from her seat, hands still leaning on her desk. “I know… I was not a good mother to her. Not a bad one, per se, but I did not… make myself as… available as I should have. The same could be said for you, I suppose, up until a certain point that is.” She rounded the desk and leaned on the front, hands folded together and head tilted down. “The truth is I am unsure if I can fully say that I loved her, because I didn’t know her, but I did not hate her.” She tilted her head back, her eyes meeting his. “Unlike you.”

“I did not.”

“Your choices speak otherwise.”

“You-you don’t know anything.” He scoffed; she was dead, and even in life, he barely saw her. How could she know anything about his feelings?

More than he seemed to know about himself. He says he did not hate you, yet he chose to break your heart time and time again. And he knew it upset you. Yet he did nothing. You don’t do that to someone you don’t have any resentment towards, and he knew it. But he’d rather see horrific visions night and night again, rather than face his complex web of emotions.

“I may have been an absent parent, but it is surely better than what you did to her. That’s just cruel.”

He did not wish to hear anything else she had to say, even if it meant facing a grotesque monster on the other side of the door; he was going to walk through it. As he turned, Rhea began to throw more taunts his way,

“Oh, go ahead and leave again… It’s what you do best, isn’t it?”

Powering through the criticism, he flung the door open, and to his luck, he was back in Harrenhal at last. If he were truly mad, he would’ve kissed the floor. The tension that had long made its home in his body was released at last, for now. He drew his sword, which had finally returned to his side, just in case it was simply a continuation of the nightmare realm he had grown too familiar with.

“It’s a touch late to be stalking about a strange castle putting its people to the sword.” Her voice nearly made him jump. He turned, sword pointing, to the voice. He had seen her before, by the Weirwood tree, and when he first arrived. Her long black hair is quite recognizable. She was grinding up some remedy into a paste, her tone relaxed as though he wasn’t pointing a sword at her currently.

“You.”

“I’m called Alys.”

“Strong?”

“Rivers.”

A bastard. And an odd one at that, Daemon looked about the table that surrounded her at the many different remedies and herbs scattered about. Many of them he was unfamiliar with. Turns out, she was filling the spot of Maester at Harrenhal ever since the former Maester fled in the night.

He could only imagine why…

“How are you settling in?” Horribly. “I’ve come to know the face of tortured rest well enough. Sleep can be… thin, in this place.” She went about mixing remedies, producing disgusting sloshing noises in the process. The sight caused Daemon’s response to be delayed,

“What would you know of my sleep?” She looked at him as though he were slow.

“Harrenhal’s been cursed since its first stone was laid.” She licked some of… whatever she was making off of her finger. She talked about the story of Black Harren and his hubris. How he made Harrenhal from the Weirwood trees that grew here. Weirwood trees were an odd flora. Heart trees possessed the spirits of those who were there long before Harren was. The spirits haunt all those who dare to rest their heads in this castle. But Daemon was well-versed in being haunted, and yet it still came very close to taking him to the other side tonight.

“A midwife’s tale.” He brushed it off; it was just another nightmare, he’d had plenty of them.

“The very bed you sleep in was made from such a heart tree.” She turned to the fireplace and picked up a hot pitcher, a rag to protect her hand. “Have you experienced anything… of note?” Her pitch rose at the end; she knew exactly what he had been witnessing.

“You are a strange kind of woman.”

“I’m no woman at all. I’m a barn owl, cursed to live in human form.” Her eyes were about as wide as a barn owl’s. They looked at him seriously before her minor chuckle broke the facade. He was not amused and was about to make his way out.

“Do you come here after quarreling with your wife?” How did she know that… “You arrive here alone to claim the castle and yet send no ravens.” Perceptive woman… She spoke of how it must’ve been hard for him to have his role as heir replaced by the woman he ended up marrying. The irony of it all. The woman who he bounced on his knee as a babe… He tried his best to ignore the… oddness of their relationship. It was considered normal for his house, but the longer he thought of it, the more perturbed he became. He would be a fool not to think about putting forth his own claim for the throne. Rhaenyra would still be the Queen Consort, but not The Queen.

“It must’ve been a terrible fight. I wonder what about.” She approached him with the concoction she had been making during the conversation. “Here, drink this. You’ll need your sleep if you wish to bring this place to your side. Unless there is something you wish to find in the dreams of Harrnehal?”

He eyed her carefully. It did not smell like any poison he knew of, the ones that have a scent anyway. She did not have murder in her eyes, so he took his chances and tipped the cup back. It was thick, lumpy, and slowly slid down his throat. The image of a slug slowly dragging itself down a wall came to mind. He handed the cup back to her and turned once more, desperate to get back to sleep.

“This place will test you, Daemon Targaryen. I am quite eager to see if you prevail or perish.”

----------

A/N: Its been 84 years... No but fr I feel bad this took so long but I didn't want to just write if I wasn't putting my heart in it. Sometimes im just too tired to write and actually put effort into it so thank you guys for waiting so patiently!

-You are the first born of Maekar and Dyanna.

-He didn't know how to raise a girl at the time so he kinda raised you as though you were his son. He taught you to fight and that resulted in a pretty stubborn and competitive personality. Which in turn also resulted in some rebellious behavior.

-You were a very intelligent girl, and fairly physically able as well. You had to be the best at everything, you always wished for your father's approval growing up. But he struggled to balance his work and family life.

-Maekar went white not from Targaryen genetics, or Aerion, but from you and him trying to keep your name clear and cover up after you. Most of your actions stemmed from wanting your parents attention. He was busy you know that but sometimes it felt like you had to do something bad to get his attention. Especially as more and more of your siblings came about.

-But the thing that takes the cake happens during the Tourney at Ashford. When you meant a certain sandy haired, mountian of a man named Dunk.

-You rode into Ashford earlier than your family, wanting to get away after a spat with your father.

-You had your fair share of lovers in the past. Most of them ended by you, but your last one ditched you just before the tournament. You would be lying if you said that didn't hurt your ego and leave your looking for another to fill the gap. Which is when you ran into Dunk. Literally, you rode in and some how missed his large form and ran straight into him with you horse. So you hopped off to apologize to him and saw him comforting your horse, it did something to you strangely.

-"he'll do" is basically what you say to yourself. He's tall, handsome in a rugged way, with large hands... baby blue eyes... and cute crooked teeth... gods you were starting to fall in love a bit.

-You flirt around him in a practiced ease but sometimes he'd say something so stupid that it though you for a loop. Then is made you laugh. It felt good to laugh for real, so often you had to use a practiced lady-like laugh around other lords, typically men who found jokes about women to be a hoot.

-The first time he made you laugh was also the time your father first met him, and after that it was safe to say he didn't care for Dunk very much. Your brothers, Daeron and Aegon, were missing and instead of wishing your father luck in finding them, or simply saying nothing on the matter, he chose to say something along the lines of "i hope they aren't found dead".

-What.

-It made you wheeze out a laugh, which got your father into an even grumpier mood.

-You kept seeing him around Ashford in the following days. You didn't waste time in pursuing him but he did make it quite difficult. You made it very clear that he was not taking advantage of you in any way at all, it only helped him a little bit.

-How could he, a hedge knight, have a relationship with a Targaryen princess... you were far out of his league, and you were so beautiful too...

-It starts with a few kisses behind some trees and bushes... his large hands gently pawing at your body. You actually had to slide his hand down to your arse yourself.

-Then... the daring do happened. It was nighttime and you had snuck out of the castle to find his little camp by the river. You moved towards him, he grabbed you in a familar way... and clothes starting coming off piece by piece. (i'm bad at writing smut)

-The actual events at the Ashford Tourney occur. Your father and Daeron take Aerion's side. You did not attend the event, not wishing to see the outcome as it would cause you grief on both sides. You did however give Ser Duncan your favor. A red and black embroidered hankey tied around his arm.

-Your father notices it when Dunk addresses how they only have 6 men in the Trial of Seven. He rightly assumes that this was your new play thing.

-By then you also found out about Egg. You were actually inspired by his actions, the idea of running away with the night sounding nice to you as well.

-You were relieved when your family and Dunk came out unscathed. Including your uncle Baelor. Your brother Aerion was sent East still. To be honest that wasn't the worst thing, he was a little shit who loved reminding you of your short comings.

-Dunk is worried you're mad at him for fighting your family, but you aren't. You even give him a little 'treat' for fighting so gallantly... 😏

-In the end, Dunk ends up coming back to Summerhall to finish his training, with Egg as his squire. Your trysts in the night continue, but your father decides to turn a blind eye assuming you'd drop him eventually.

-You don't

-You actually start liking him even more, but not enough to call it love (yet) and it drives Maekar crazy. He nearly broke Dunk's foot when he suddenly had his horse move back and stomp on his foot, although he says it was an accident

-It all came to a head when you find out you are pregnant. Usually you took moon tea but you skipped it one time, thinking it'd be fine. Moon tea tastes like shit and is not fun to digest.

-You try to write a letter to Dunk to let him know that you had to speak to him urgently, too afraid to say it out loud to him. He wanted to be a knight, you can't tie him down with a baby...

-The letter was scratched out and rewritten hundreds of times, you got up and began pacing around your quarters practicing speaking your letter to no one.

-"Duncan... um... I need to tell you something and I don't tell you this slightly... it is quite important actually. You know almost life and death important... Not death- J-just life! Ha! Oh seven hells... I'm pregnant!"

-"What...?" Dunk was standing in the doorway

-You felt scared, not because you thought he was going to be mad or blame you for anything, he knew what he was signing up for. But you were afraid you would lose him.

-"You're pregnant..."

-"I am... and I am keeping it... and I am happy about it and I know you want to be a knight and I won't stop you but I am raising this baby whether you are there or not."

-"Can I say something?"

-"Go on."

-"That is the greatest news, 've ever heard."

-"...Really?" "Yeah! Why wouldn't it be?"

-It was nice to have Dunk's support, he proposed to you a moment after. He got down on one knee and took your hand in his like a true gentleman and asked for your hand in marriage, even though he was just a former hedge knight. You said yes, knowing he would be a good father and having his support meant a lot, not cause you were in entirely in love with him or anything...

-Your father's reaction... left some things to be desired. He was not happy, and even less so that you were going to marry Dunk. He always found Dunk to be a large, slow, buffoon. Duncan tried to gain his approval during his stay at Summerhall. He typically ended up embarrassing himself or succeeding but only getting a grunt in response.

-There was yelling and some tears, you only ever wanted your father to be proud and now you've gotten married and knocked up by someone from Fleabottom...

-You went weeks without contact from your father, he had suggested you move out of Summerhall for a while, with Dunk. Maekar had not permitted Egg to join you two despite his efforts.

-It broke your heart, and your fathers. You were his first, his little girl still and he had spoken to you so terribly. But he was hurt, he had always dreamed of walking you down the isle in the Sept of Baelor... a large beautiful wedding... giving you away to a prince. But you got married in the Sept so suddenly, so a low born, and no grand wedding.

-Maekar had provided a nice home for the two of you, hoping the distance would help with the tensions. One day you both received a letter from your brother, Daeron. You were close with him, he was the first sibling you had. For a while you two quite the duo, before your parents added more to the litter.

-He expressed his sorrow about father not having a better reaction:

"To Ser Duncan the Tall and my dear sister,

My father had informed me of your situation. Though I cannot say I am suprised, i do regret that he did not have a better reaction. I hope you do not take it too much to heart, that is just his way and I believe he will come around to the idea. if not, then it is his loss. I miss you sister, and you have my love and support.

Your drunken brother, Daeron."

-It gave you much comfort to know someone in your family supported you (other than Egg cause that was a given)

-The day came when you finally went into labor. It was a baby girl, and her name was Hayleigh. She had wide blue eyes like her father and his sandy blonde hair. Dunk almost started crying at the sight of her.

-When he held her is the moment you admitted to yourself you were in love.

----------

“I think we should pay our respects.” He did not have to specify to whom before they both understood. Three made their way down to the Vaults under the Red Keep, where many of the remains of past Targaryens remained. Lucerys had always had quite the attachment to you; you always told him he was one of the most adorable boys you’d ever seen. It was never in the same tone as when you told Aemond this, more like a girl finding a puppy adorable.

~

“You are just the cutest little boy I have ever seen!” You smushed little Lucerys’ cheeks together, causing him to giggle and his face to turn red. It was a nice change of pace from the treatment he usually got from his uncles. Aegon would be nice enough to them when they were teasing Aemond, but still, it was not the kind of unconditional love and affection you often supplied everyone with. You even began to show empathy to Aegon despite being wary of him in the past. You had never once implied the legitimacy of his or his brother’s birth, despite knowing the truth for yourself. For you knew all too well that blood does not necessarily make someone your kin.

~

The trio made their way to the Vaults eventually, making a few wrong turns here and there. Your ashes were next to Jahaerys and Alysanne’s as well. The three of them knelt before the small urn and said their prayers. They lingered afterward, all of them wondering what might’ve been. Lucerys apologized to you for taking Aemond’s eye. He hadn’t meant to; he only meant to cut Aemond, not carve out his eye. Perhaps it was best you were not here to witness the event, for your heart would have been broken at seeing the two of them brawling.

Luke and Jace also felt immense guilt at the possibility that it was they and their dragons that might’ve spooked the horses and caused them to… run.

I am so sorry… if it was me… I never meant to… we all loved you. Both of them shared the same thought as they knelt their heads. 

Rhaena’s thoughts differed. She did not get many opportunities to bond with you, and she regretted that. Her older sister, Baela, had been taken in as a ward on Driftmark, and she really wished she had a sister all these years. Her sister was always coming and going atop her dragon. You did not have a dragon either; perhaps she would’ve joined you and Aemond on your quest to claim one. I wish we could’ve been sisters…

With that, the three of them rose and left you to rest; Rhaena being the first to leave, then Jace, then little Lucerys.

----------

Rhaenyra and Daemon looked over King Viserys. It was true, he had deteriorated further in the past six years. He lay in bed, shallow breaths and incoherent mumblings. Rhaenyra addressed her father and informed him of Daemon’s presence as well. They briefly mention the reason for their presence, the succession of Driftmark, and how he must reaffirm Lucerys as heir, but Viserys struggles to follow. Wishing to change the subject and made aware of the handmaidens' arrival at the sound of the door, she spoke.

“Father, there is someone I wish for you to meet.” The handmaiden hands her a babe while another woman continues holding the other. “That,”  looking at the baby in the woman's arms, “is Aegon, and this is Viserys.” Her father seemed delighted with the name.

“Now that is a name… fit for a King.” Everyone gave a huff of laughter at the comment. “And… and how are the other little ones?” Rhaenyra discussed how Jace and Luke were faring, learning Valyrian and practicing swords every day. How Baela spent her time on Driftmark under Rhaenys's supervision. How Rhaena has grown into an incredible young woman, choosing to omit the few times she almost died while attempting to claim a dragon. It had been a while since Viserys smiled so much, glad to hear that his family, which he held so dear, was doing well. His eyes clouded, and he seemed to struggle for a moment, uncertain.

“There was… someone else. Wasn’t there? I feel as though… someone is missing.”

The silence that followed was heavy. Daemon’s face closed off, anger and grief flickering in his eyes as he stared hard at the floor.

Rhaenyra cleared her throat, her voice gentle but strained. “Father… she passed. Do you remember?”

Viserys’s hands trembled. “Oh… yes. Of course. I remember now.”

He fell silent, gaze drifting away, and the weight of her absence settled over them all.

----------

Jace and Luke roamed the yard of the Red Keep, reminiscing on the shared training they’d experienced under Criston Cole. The last time they trained here was the day Harwin Strong was expelled from the City Watch, the day things started to fall apart for them. It was just a few days before… you. Their true-born father was gone, then died in a fire, then their move to Dragonstone was postponed after Daemon returned, their mother wishing to see him, then their beloved aunt perished in a gruesome way… Followed by the supposed death of their legal father. The Gods must truly have it out for them and those around them.

They were all too aware of the stares they had been receiving from the other nobles in the yard. The two boys assumed it was due to the color of their hair and eyes; it was typical, but it was also because of the rumor that had yet to reach their ears. The rumor that it was they who caused your death, that the two boys had it out for you and Aemond. The two boys sent their dragons to scare the horses and cause them to trample you, and they laughed from above. Who started the rumor was unclear; everyone heard it from someone else. While plenty of doubt was sown, it did not stop people from looking at the boys even more obtusely. Their attention was drawn to the clanging of a sword and the flail of a morningstar.

A crowd had gathered around the two fighters. One of them was easily identifiable, Ser Criston Cole. The other had signature Targaryen platinum hair; however, it was not until he turned that the ‘strong’ boys would recognize their uncle: Aemond Targaryen. Much taller than the last time they’d seen him, and his eye still missing, but fully healed, covered with an eyepatch. Lucerys looked to his older brother, and a chill fear went down his spine. A debt was left unpaid as everyone parted ways on Driftmark. Aemond was acutely aware of his nephew's presence, and he reveled in the fear he felt radiating from them. He wanted them to know their actions would not be forgotten, and he intended to be the one to deliver justice.

----------

It was apparent to both Rhaenyra and Daemon that the King had been put out of commission, via milk of the poppy, on purpose so that some ‘Hightower fucks’ could warm the Iron Throne. Rhaenyra, in the midst of her accusations, noticed her husband’s eyes. They were half-lidded and unfocused, likely due to exhaustion, and his head slowly leaned more and more to the side. She had known of his struggles with sleep for a while now; how long it had actually been ailing him was unknown.

“You look tired.”

“I am fine.” That was always his response. The defensiveness and distance had come to be associated with a certain topic: you. Daemon refused to hear the name of his dead daughter, let alone let the name cross his lips. However, in dreams, he was powerless, something he would come to know all too well.

He never thought he would be glad to see a Hightower enter the room but here he was, thanking the gods for Alicent entering, causing Rhaenyra to shift back to the topic of her father.

----------

The next morning, Otto Hightower would sit on the Iron Throne, and the court would debate Driftmark’s succession. Among those assembled, both Daemon and Aemond Targaryen stand. Uncle and nephew sharing the same space for the first time in years, tension simmering between and around them. Vaemond Velaryon would press his claim, followed by Rhaenyra’s, on behalf of her son. King Viserys would rise to defend his daughter once more, something many members of the court were tired of, and he reaffirms Lucerys’ inheritance of Driftmark. Vaemond Velaryon, enraged at the King’s willful blindness, hastily calls Jace, Luke, and Joffrey bastards, and Rhaenyra a whore. It became apparent to everyone in the room that Vaemond had just spoken his last words, aware to everyone but the man himself. Before the King could take his tongue, Daemon cut through his head with ease with Dark Sister.

“He can keep his tongue.”

As the court recoiled, Aemond’s gaze lingered on Daemon. Admiration warred with resentment; for a heartbeat, he saw himself reflected in that ruthless poise, and it left him cold. How could he ever admire a man who cared so little for anyone, least of all for you? The bitterness that followed was as much for himself as for his uncle.

How could you even admire him for a second? After all he’s done…

The court moved on swiftly as the King began coughing once more and collapsed atop the Iron Throne. Aemond stood silent among the gathered lords, his posture rigid as Daemon stepped forward. For a heartbeat, Aemond felt a jolt of something dangerously close to understanding. He wondered, not for the first time, if there was a line he wouldn’t cross.

----------

The King had ordered a joint dinner later that night to celebrate his entire family being together for the first time in years. They all gathered around the long table in Viserys personal chambers. He sat between Rhaenyra and Alicent; Otto sat next to his daughter. Daemon sat himself next to his wife, and to his left were the two newly betrothed pairs, Rhaena and Lucerys, as well as Jacerys and Baela on the other side of the table. Aegon was sitting next to his eldest nephew and to his left, his sister-wife Halaena. At the right end, Aemond sat by himself, an empty chair next to him. He’d insisted on the empty chair. A silent accusation aimed at the other half of his family.

No one missed the empty chair at Aemond’s side. But no one spoke of it. Eyes slid away. Conversation faltered. The silence was heavy with everything left unsaid.

Good. Let their guilt eat at them.

The King, to the surprise of many, stood up from his chair. Breathing heavily, he spoke.

“It both gladdens my heart… and fills me with sorrow to see these faces around the table. The faces most dear to me in all the world. Yet grown so distant from each other in years past.”

The King went on to remove the half mask covering his face. So that his family could see him as he truly was. He continued to beg the two sides of  his family to reconcile and become one. It was all he had ever wished for, and for a time it seemed that reality was not too far away…

But that was many years ago, and the wedge between Alicent and Rhaenyra’s clans had only widened.

“The Crown cannot remain strong if the House of the Dragon remains divided.” A sentiment you had also shared.

~

“Stupid bastards…” Aemond muttered under his breath. Soon after, he felt a hand clip the back of his head, drawing a sound of pain out of him.

“Do not say such things about your family.” You sternly told him.

“You know it’s true, look at their hair.” Yes, anyone with eyes could see that Jace, Luke, and Joff had not a single drop of Velaryon blood in them.

“It does not matter, they are your nephews… and you should set a better standard, certainly a better one than Aegon.” Aemond huffed, almost amused. “Why do you care so much who their father is?”

Aemond never put much thought into it if he was honest. He mostly echoed his mother's comments about how Rhaenyra could get away with anything. It took him a while to put this into words for you. 

“Well… I do not see how that is their fault…” You were right, you typically were. “It’s a good thing, I think.” Aemond’s brows drew together. How could being a bastard be a good thing for anyone? “They were born from love, I don’t see how that’s something to be ashamed of at all…” Aemond looked deep into your eyes as you spoke, seeing the drops of melancholy there, which dimmed them. Aemond didn’t say anything; he usually did not need to, and instead tucked his head into the crook of your neck.

~

You’d hate to see the family like this, held together by nothing but a thin thread of blood.

Suddenly, Rhaenyra stood and gave a toast to his mother, the Queen Alicent. From there, Alicent toasted to Rhaenyra as well, followed by Jace, who, provoked by Aegon, suddenly stood, seeming very tense. The sudden movement caused Aemond himself to stand in case Jace decided to attack his brother. Jace was able to compose himself and disguised the outburst as another toast.

“A toast to Prince Aegon and Prince Aemond. We have not seen each other in years but I have fond memories of our shared youth…” Jace could not help but look at Aemond’s missing eye, concealed by the eyepatch he now wore. While he did not bring the blade to his face, he was the one who had brought it to begin with, and for that, he had felt partially responsible for the act. His gaze drifted to the empty seat next to his uncle. He knew he would likely get in trouble with Daemon for what he said next, but he hardly cared… it needed to be said.

“And a toast… to the Princess (Y/N).” The room fell silent, even the servants pausing. Aemond stood as still as stone, though inside he felt himself crumble. “I loved every minute I was able to spend with her and… ‘tis a shame that she is no longer with us, and I feel as though we have not properly honored her legacy as we should have. And for that, I would also apologize to her and hope that she can hear this from the Seven Heavens, we all miss her dearly…” Jace finished with a final raise of his cup, which was an action mirrored by others at the table, save for the two people whose fates had been so tightly woven to yours. Aemond remained standing before giving a gentle nod, his lips tightly pressed together, before slowly lowering himself back into his seat.

Daemon had stopped listening the moment your name was spoken. He stared into his cup, watching red wine darken and swirl until it looked almost black, the color of the blood that had seeped from your head, staining the dirt and your hair. Daemon blinked once, and suddenly his hands were stained the same color. The wine began to thicken, and chunks floated to the top, pink and fleshy, resembling pieces of your mind. The cup startled, bubbling, something trying to breach the surface. A pale orb floated to the top, it rolled over, and Daemon stared into the familiar eye. Your dark purple eye stared at him, the usual shimmer in your eye gone, the color once reminded him of elderberry juice, now it resembled a contusion. Images he attempted to bury flashed to the forefront of his mind. Your head, the one eye that had been smashed to pieces, and the one that remained just barely intact. Daemon’s hand shook, just enough for Rhaenyra to notice and gently cover it with hers. He swallowed against the bile rising in his throat. The vision faded. The wine was just wine again, his hands clean, and the dinner carried on as if nothing had happened.

The family laughed and talked to each other as if they had been close for years. Jace and Halaena danced to the music, and Viserys looked around at his family, seemingly enjoying their time together. Unfortunately, it did not last long. As soon as the King was taken back to his chambers to sleep for the night, a suckling pig was brought out and placed before Aemond. Luke, who was sitting all the way at the other end of the table, tried his very best to stifle his laughter at the memory of ‘The Pink Dread’, which you had always hated when they made fun of Aemond.

“I was just following Aegon!” That's what he always said to you.

“Why would you listen to Aegon?” It was a fair point you made.

But the thought of that fat pig trotting out of the Dragon Pit with fake wings on it amused him too much.

Aemond’s ears were tuned to nothing else but the laughter of his nephew. The memory of his humiliation rushed back, taking a firm grip on him. He made eye contact with Luke and saw his smug face. Aemond heard Luke’s stifled laugh and felt the old humiliation burn through him. For a moment, it was years ago, the Pink Dread snorting in the Dragonpit, everyone laughing.

Not this time.

They think you are a joke…

At that, he slammed his fist into the table and stood, cup in hand. The music cut out suddenly, and everyone looked at Aemond, now having their full attention.

They dare make fun of me… those bastards.

“A final tribute… to the health of my nephews. Jace, Luke, and Joffrey. Each of them handsome, wise…” He paused for a second. Should he say it? He really wants to remind them of their place and of how they are a mockery to both House Velaryon and Targaryen. But he knew you would be upset with him; honestly, he’d prefer you were upset, and that way he would feel the back of your hand slap against the back of his head. To feel your touch once more, even if for a fleeting moment, even if it is done to scold him. But he wouldn’t feel your hand again because the chair next to him was empty, and it would never be filled. “Strong…”

He heard his mother call his name, trying to stop the ball he had set in motion, but he doubled down instead. “Let us drain our cups… to these three Strong boys…”

“I dare you to say that again…” Jace snapped back immediately, understanding his intention. He hoped that his threat would cause Aemond to back off, but it seemed to have the opposite effect. He didn’t want to fight Aemond, especially after his tribute to you…

“Why? ‘Tis only a compliment.” The gap between the two boys got smaller and smaller. Aegon started to go on the defensive when he sensed Lucerys start to slowly rise. “Do you not think yourself strong?” Jace’s fist struck Aemond’s face. He barely flinched; if anything, he seemed to welcome it. Meanwhile, Aegon had Luke pressed against the table once he noticed Luke getting up to help his brother. Aemond easily shoved Jace to the ground with one hand, cup of wine still in the other, not a drop spilled. Aemond could not help but give a slight chuckle as he watched his nephew scramble up, clearly wanting a second chance.

Guards grabbed them, and Aemond feels his mother grab his arm, and she scolds him. Aemond feigns innocence, further agitating the situation. Aemond yanks his arm from his mother's grasp and moves towards the strong boys. Before he can get there, a familiar figure stands between them. Daemon holds up a hand before Jace and Luke, telling them to calm down, followed by Rhaenyra ordering them to bed. Daemon’s gaze moved to the floor before rising once more to look his own nephew in the eye, the man who would’ve been his son-in-law in another timeline. The room is more tense than ever as the two stare each other down. Daemon saw the fire in Aemond’s eye, a fire aimed at everyone in his way. This was not the boy he’d known, not the one you’d loved. Daemon sighed, wishing things had been different. He couldn’t help but see himself in Aemond, and he wasn’t sure if he liked it.

When Aemond looked into Daemon’s eyes, all he saw was indifference. towards him, towards you, towards everything. He hated the indifference in Daemon’s gaze. How could he not care? It was easier, Aemond decided, to see Daemon as a pure monster, never mind the flicker of despair Aemond refused to acknowledge. Aemond was no fool; he knew how skilled his uncle was, and after the display of violence in the throne room, he knew his uncle had no difficulty taking a life in front of his stepsons and his daughters. So he reluctantly backed down, giving a small hum before sauntering off, and everyone there assumed he was going to his chambers.

----------

Rhaenyra’s side of the family was preparing to leave for Dragonstone once more, although a certain member was noticeably absent. Daemon had made a detour and found himself outside the vaguely familiar door, the handle adorned with red chrysanthemums. Someone had been changing the flowers at your door; he had a good idea as to who. He gently gripped the handle and hesitantly pushed the door open, the stale air filling his lungs as if he had just stepped into a crypt. Your room was virtually untouched; a few blankets had been folded, but it seems the royal family refused to have your items removed and turned the bedroom into a plain guest room.

His fingers traced over the deep cuts in the wooden bedframe, a miracle it had not given out yet. All your items were accounted for, the ones he could remember anyway, except for a new addition. It was a small ornate urn. Were your remains kept here? What about the spot in the Vaults, which he hadn’t visited, but he knew about it. Perhaps it was simply a formality, and someone had been keeping your remains in a more personal space.

Kepa..?

Daemon whipped his head around at the voice, only to see no one there. Was that you? He had started to forget what you truly sounded like. He continued to spin his head around seeking out the voice once more, his breath quickened. Perhaps he was going mad, well, even more so than the usual Targaryen madness. He saw a flash of white hair from the secret passage in your room, leading to Maegor’s tunnels, a childish laughter following suit. Daemon forced his feet to shuffle towards it, a pressure beginning to build in his ears. He gently pushed the door open wider and looked into the darkness. The torches were unlit, and he couldn’t see more than a few feet in front of him before it turned to pitch black. It was quiet, then suddenly a sharp screech came from the darkness. He quickly shuffled backward, almost tripping over his own feet.

“Why are you here?” The voice had startled Daemon, a rare occurrence, but he was quickly eased when he met the singular eye of his nephew that he had just stared down an hour or so ago. Daemon’s mind came back to him, and he kept his head still as his eyes moved around. He was back in the middle of your room, right in front of the urn. He looked at the passageway, which was closed.

Gods, perhaps I should request milk of the poppy tonight.

But he asked a good question: what was he doing here? He might have said he came to grieve, but grief felt distant, out of reach. At first, there was only emptiness. Now, fear and confusion had taken its place.

“To pay respects, I was not aware… she’d be here…” His eyes cast downward to the urn. The silence was awkward.

“You took your time.”

“We must all grieve in our own way.”

“I am sure you were inconsolable.”

The jab made him pull Dark Sister out halfway before pausing. Aemond had gone on the defensive, stepping a foot back and lowering himself into a proper stance. Daemon drew in a steady stream of air through his nose before letting his shoulders drop. He drew Dark Sister, but let the blade hang at his side.

“I am sure you believe that I did not… care… for my daughter. But I did, I planned to leave her with many things. Including Dark Sister.”

Aemond huffed at that. He seemed amused. Daemons brows drew together.

“A strange inheritance, I am not sure she would’ve made the best use of it.”

“I was told that she was quite good in a fight, for a girl ten and three.”

“She was, but she did not use a sword. She used a war axe, usually two of them.”

Oh. I did not know that. That was all he thought to himself. Once again, the gods reminded him of how little he knew about you. It was odd, the way you can grieve someone whom you barely knew. But the grief was not alone, it was dancing across his mind along with guilt. A feeling that was mostly foreign to him, which is possibly why he was blind to its presence.

It was a lesson Daemon hadn’t learned yet: to truly grieve, he’d have to face the guilt that came with it. He said nothing else to Aemond; he simply sheathed his sword once more and passed his nephew on the way out. He saw Aemond slip past him to light a few candles. The door slammed before Daemon could see more, before he could see Aemond kneel and speak to you.

It was part of his daily routine; just before bed, he would visit you to speak about his day and what had been weighing on his mind. Today, he took some time to apologize for his behavior at dinner.

“I am sorry, my love. I have embarrassed myself, my nephews, and you in the process.” He took a dry gulp. “But they provoked me, they dared to laugh at me. After that toast to you I had considered that maybe they were genuine. But they all laughed at me; they still think me to be a farce.” He said it as if it were everyone at the table, not just his little nephew.

“I study harder than anyone, I train longer hours, I ride the largest dragon in the world, just as you had said. Yet, it is still not enough to get me the respect I deserve. I think if you were there, you would see my words as just, but I am a prince, and I should have conducted myself in a more fitting manner.”

You would not have agreed. Love did not mean indulging bad manners, not for him, not for his brother, not for your cousins. You’d learned to stand your ground among so many boys, or risk being trampled. That always seemed to crumble in front of one particular individual. He always hated how much Daemon’s presence affected you; it was as if the amazing girl he loved faded into a translucent version of herself.

Aemond always looked forward to talking to you at the end of his day, and yet, it felt as though he had been holding something back. Something much darker, a feeling that twisted his heart and banged against his ribcage, begging to be released. But he pushed it down, night after night, refusing to face the thoughts locked deep away in his mind, the ones that his mind had deemed too appalling to see the light of day. Sooner or later, they force a clawed hand from his chest and shred him to pieces.

----------

The King had died that same night, Alicent claimed that his dying wish was for Aegon to ascend the throne, not Rhaenyra. Everything was falling into place, just as Otto Hightower had wanted; the only piece missing was Aegon himself, who had disappeared into the night.

Aemond was not sure how to feel at the passing of his father. King Viserys had always been a loyal and steadfast supporter of his firstborn, his daughter. The same could not be said for his other children. While he enjoyed seeing them flourish and bond with their nephews, he never spent much personal time with his Hightower children. Aemond especially grew resentful of the Driftmark incident, being told to just ‘let it go’. But he was still his father, so when he received the news, he felt something akin to indifference, then dread, for he knew what was coming. He knew his brother was not suited to rule a Kingdom; everyone knew, including Aegon himself. That did not stop the Small Council from moving forward with their plans. When it was brought to his grandsire and mother’s attention that Aegon had disappeared somewhere into the city, his mother dispatched Ser Criston Cole and Aemond to find him before Ser Erryak and Arryak, who were doing the same but for Otto.

The first place that came to Aemond’s mind was the Street of Silk. Memories of his thirteenth nameday flashed in brief sections. The woman’s face, the one who had gotten on top of him, was blank in his memory. In recent months, he had visited the brothel by himself once or twice. Always for one woman, Slyvi. Most of the time spent there, he just lay his head in her lap as she stroked his hair. The first time he had sex with her, he had done so to scratch an itch that was not uncommon in men. He had taken care of it himself in the past, but that would not satisfy him this time. He tried for days, but nothing. So he slipped out in the middle of the night, cloaked in black, and made his way to the same building. He chose the most motherly whore he could find and lay with her. The satisfaction did not last long; soon after, his heart rate returned to normal, and reality set in. He was intimate with someone else. He shared a once-in-a-lifetime experience with a stranger. Aemond suddenly felt clammy and wanted to shed his skin like a serpent and leave it on the ground of the brothel to wither away. To forget he ever did that. He quickly got dressed and ran away, leaving some gold for the madam. He ran back to his chambers and ordered a bath to be drawn, extra hot.

~

He was alone in the room after yelling at the servants to leave. He threw the clothes he had been wearing into the corner, considering burning them. The water burned his skin, but it wasn’t enough. He grabbed the scrubber and scraped at himself. The feeling of cleanliness never washed over him. His breath quickened, and water began building in his eyes. He sobbed hard; loud, ugly, snot and salt running down his face. He hadn’t cried this hard since the day he lost you.

His skin was red and raw, begging for him to stop. Steam rolled off of him, and the scrub started coming apart. It fell from his fingers, and he brought his hand to his face; they moved up his features and to his hair. He pulled at the base of his roots, fingers digging deep into his scalp. He made a fist and pounded on his head. The whole time, his body never stopped shaking from his cries, and the tears never seemed to cease. He suddenly felt too warm and threw himself from the tub; water splashed all across his chambers. A deep guttural scream tore from his throat, and his hands returned to his head, desperate to force the pieces of his fractured mind back together.

He sat hunched over on the floor, still nude, when the aching warmth of his abraded skin was joined by a thin sheet of coldness. His eye peeked through his fingers and landed on the tunic you had made for him years ago. It did not fit anymore. He had been distraught when he started feeling the tightness and pinching of fabric around his arms, and when the buttons would not close across his broadening chest anymore. His breath started to slow a bit. He dragged on a robe, clutched the tunic, and stumbled through Maegor’s tunnels to your room.

He had begged and pleaded with his mother and father to keep your remains in your room, a place that you loved and had many fond memories of, a place more intimate than in the pits of the Red Keep. He burst through the passageway and immediately found your urn, kept on the end table in front of your bed, and fell to his knees in front of it.

“Ñuha jorrāelagon,” My love. 

“I have done something, something bad. Please do not hate me.” He spoke between sniffs. “You-” Another sniff, this time drawing spittle back into his nose. “You’re still- still my number one girl.” His shoulders hunched forward as he pawed at the shirt. He held his towards you, as if his keeping of it was proof of his dedication to you. “You have to believe me!” His mouth was open, but no sound came from it. His sapphire eye was on full display, a rare occurrence; it kept tears from falling, causing great discomfort.

That night, he whispered to the urn until the exhaustion caught up to him. He crawled into your bed, clutching the shirt like a child with a beloved doll. During his training, he came after Criston Cole with an intensity that was even too much for the experienced Kingsguard. He had been holding off the prince through great effort; eventually, their faces came close together, and Criston saw something in Aemond’s eye that threw him off entirely. It was a look he could not quite identify, but the feeling somehow settled into his chest, the feeling that you had done something wrong.

~

Aemond watched as Criston banged on the door to the establishment. Sylvi had been the one to answer. A few words were exchanged, telling them that Aegon had not visited in a while. Her eyes eventually met his once Cole had started walking away.

“Should I expect to see you sometime soon?” Aemond simply hummed in response, a typical response.

----------

On their continued search through the shit-stained parts of King’s Landing, Cole found himself questioning Aemond and voiced his concern. At this rate, Otto Hightower would have Aegon before Alicent, and that just wouldn’t do. He would not wish to say it out loud, but a large part of him did not wish to find Aegon, that his brother would stay gone.

“Here I am, trawling the city, ever the good soldier in search of a wastrel who’s never taken half an interest in his birthright.” Even from his youth, he can remember the feeling of being cheated. His brother had no discipline, no knowledge of tactics, and was average at best in a fight. And yet, he was being rewarded with the crown. “‘Tis I, the younger brother who studies history and philosophy, it is I who trains with the sword, who rides the largest dragon in the world. It is I who should be…” He cut himself off, but Cole got the point loud and clear and, if he was being honest, he found himself agreeing.

King Aemond Targaryen, First of His Name, sounded great in his ears.

“I know what it is to toil for what others are freely given.”

You don’t know the half of it.

“Mm. And we can’t find him, Cole. We are decent men with no taste for depravity. His secrets are his own… and he’s welcome to them.” He was a good man, he was… he had to be… for you.

“I’m next in line to the throne. Should they come looking for me, I intend to be found.” Aemond would be lying if he were to say the thought of him sitting atop the Iron Throne did not cross his mind in recent years. Often with you at his side… but you did not look happy. Not behind the eyes. You were good at pretending like that, but he always saw through it. You did not want anything to do with that ‘stupid disease-ridden chair’ as you had referred to it once.

~

Aemond had been searching for you all day; it was one of the few days both of you were free of lessons, and yet he could not find you anywhere. He overheard some maids discussing the gardens and eventually, he found you tucked away in a small corner all by yourself.

“What are you doing here? We should do something; we are free all day.” He did not miss you wiping your eyes.

“Yes, yes of course. I’m sorry, let’s go.” You tried to walk past him, but he grabbed your arm and pushed you back. The two of you moved as one back to the corner hedge.

“What is wrong?”

“What do you mean? I am great, what’s bothering me is you keeping us from having fun.” You moved to stand up once more. He laughed a bit,

“I know that face, you’re not.” Your eyes and mouth drooped a bit. He got you. “I know you have to be perfect and happy for everyone else, and you do an amazing job. But you don’t have to do it for me.” He watched as your nostrils quivered, trying to suppress some sniffles. You opened up your hands to a letter.

“I wrote him a letter, I am unsure if I should send it…” You smoothed out the crumpled paper and read it over again. “I write to him a lot, but I never get a response anymore. I barely got one in the beginning…” Your face screwed up in pain, and you tore the letter into two pieces. A dry heave forced its way through your lungs and out of your mouth. “Why doesn’t he want me?”

He didn’t say anything; he took you into his arms and held your head to his chest. It was rare to see you in such a state; you always tried your best to handle your personal issues on your own. The idea of burdening others with your feelings was an embarrassment you could not bear. There was so much more to worry about, and more grave events unfolding that required everyone's attention; how could you waste their time with your minor issues? It is not their job to take care of you.

“I’m sorry, Aemond…”

“…For what?”

“For dumping this onto you.” You pulled away and wiped your face, “You shouldn’t have to make me feel less insecure… I just… I always feel like if I’m not happy, not easy to be around, people will leave. I’m supposed to be pleasant, right? I don’t want to be a problem.”

Aemond tangled his fingers into the hair at the base of your neck and played with the hairs, rubbing the back of your neck in the process. It relaxed you enough to coax a confession from you.

“…But I am sad… I am really sad…” The tears finally came rolling down your cheeks before connecting at your chin and dripping onto your dress. “I don’t wish to be alone…”

“I don’t plan to let that happen.”

~

You died alone.

It was a fact that haunted him all these years. Your worst fears had come to fruition, and then your life ceased to exist.

----------

Aegon had been found hiding in the Great Sept; later that day, he was quickly crowned King of the Seven Kingdoms in the Dragonpit in front of many. Aemond did his best to cease his fantasies. To not imagine himself in his brother’s place, the Conqueror’s Crown being placed atop his own head, carrying his sword as well.

You promised me we would leave the Throne behind…

He drew his gaze away from his brother as the vision faded. His brother turned to face the crowd and relished in the people of King’s Landing cheering for him. The moment was soiled when Meleys burst through the boards of the Dragonpit, Rhaenys atop. His family survived unscathed, but it was clear she would inform Rhaenyra of the happenings in King’s Landing, and that conflict was inevitable, and the Green Council would have to move swiftly.

----------

The Small Council had come to an obvious yet awkward conclusion. Aemond Targaryen would have to be wed. It was one of their biggest bargaining chips, and they needed to secure allies quickly, with House Baratheon as the main contender. However, many on the council feared the reaction of the One Eyed Prince, so Alicent volunteered to tell him herself, privately.

That night, Alicent visited her son in his chambers. Aemond had been stewing all day, pacing around his room like a caged animal, knowing what was coming, something that he was still not prepared for, even after all these years. But he knew what his role as a Prince of the Crown entailed… it was odd to think that, in the past, it had been a prospect that excited him, and the day he had dressed in anticipation now wore a gown of dread.

A soft knock was at the door. His mother, he knew before he opened the door.

“Aemond, how are you?” She used her soft, motherly voice, something she rarely used unless she wanted something from one of them.

“I am fine, Mother.”

“Are you so certain? I… am aware the sixth… ‘anniversary’ is coming up…”

It was true. It was coming up on six years without you  by his side. Something fired up in his chest; if she wanted to talk to him about ‘his importance,’ like he expected, he’d prefer she just get on with it.

“I am aware, I do not need to be reminded. Is there something you wish to discuss with me? If so, I would much appreciate the exclusion of flowery transitions.”

She should’ve expected the snapping tone from him, the cold, almost monotone voice. It was a trademark of his; he rarely raised his voice. He found he did not need to in order to intimidate others.

Alicent sighed, “Fine, there is something I wanted to bring to your attention, but make no mistake, I do wish to make sure your mind is indeed sound.” Aemond was her favorite son after all. “Rhaenyra is bound to retaliate once word reaches her of Aegon’s crowning. We must secure our allies… and the best method is doing so… is marriage.”

And there it is.

Alicent braces herself for her son’s wrath at the mere suggestion that he is wed. But it never came. Instead, she saw his shoulders slump and his one eye turn to glass. He took in a deep breath, held it for several moments, and let it out. Rather than rage a look of defeat crossed his face.

“Who am I set to marry?” He could see his mother was rather shocked by his agreeableness. “U-um,” she cleared her throat. “One of Borros Baratheon’s daughters… it would be your choice.” He simply nodded in response. “Aemond, are you certain you are all right?”

“Yes, Mother, I have a duty to the Realm and my family… I am prepared to do so.”

“…Right…”

“Is that all?”

“…Yes.”

“Very well, I do not mean to dismiss you, but I do need to rest for tomorrow's flight. I hear Storm’s End has had rather rough weather as of late.”

Alicent nods, “Alright then, goodnight, my son.”

“Goodnight, mother.”

The door shut behind her with a resounding thud. His resolve stood firm before slowly but surely chipping away at itself. He hated the way his mother would walk on eggshells around him. Not because he disliked being feared, but he despised being perceived as weak. The idea that she thought he would fall apart in her arms at the prospect of being married insulted him. He also hated that it was partially true.

He visited you for the second time that night. The first was part of his usual routine; the second was to inform you of the news.

“I am to be wed, to a Baratheon girl,” he spoke softly in front of the urn. “I’d like to think you would understand… You always did. You would understand that I am a Prince of the Crown and I have a duty to fulfill… no matter how heartbroken I still am.” He laughed a bit and sniffed, “I had our wedding all planned out in my head… even before you told me of our betrothal. I imagine you had similar visions. I wonder if our celebrations looked similar.” His smile dimmed, and his face turned back to the stone that many knew him for. “I will always love you… nothing is ever going to change that…”

There is something else… say it… SAY IT!

He shook that small fiendish voice out of his head… He refused to think of you in that way.

----------

The weather was to be expected; they didn’t call it ‘Storm’s End’ for no reason, but it was little trouble for Vhagar. Her large form cuts through the air and makes a short trip. Vhagar landed just outside the castle walls, and Aemond made his way inside, escorted by Baratheon men. A hood covered his platinum hair, keeping it somewhat dry; he removed it as he approached Lord Borros Baratheon. The Maester took the written agreement and read it to Borros. He seemed pleased with the terms. He summoned his daughters to court, and they lined up before Aemond One-Eye. He paced back and forth, giving each one several looks over. They were not… unfortunate looking… one in particular being quite beautiful. Each were the perfect picture of what the realm deemed a lady should be. Demure, graceful and ready to serve their role in providing heirs. Hair done up in intricate braids and leaving their faces unobscured. He stood before the youngest, Floris, by far the prettiest of the Four Storms. Her hair was a shade of brown that reminded him of his love… the bit of brown hair that she had been ashamed of for a time before she learned to embrace her mother’s heritage.

~

He remembered that day, years ago, when he’d found her behind a locked door…

You had locked your chamber door, preventing anyone from entering. His mother grew worried as did your handmaidens… what on earth could you be doing behind closed doors for so long?

Aemond managed to sneak his way through the tunnels into your room. He made his presence unnoticed as he simply watched you. You sat in front of your dresser, a white paste sat in a wooden bowl before you. You took a small brush and dipped it; the paste made a sizzling sound. You hesitated before moving to place it on your roots.

“What are you doing?” You screamed and jumped up, dropping the brush, some of the paste splattering onto your bare foot. It burned, and you moved to wipe it off.

“AEMOND! YOU SCARED ME!” He rarely saw you furious before. “What are you doing here?”

“I was worried. Now tell me what you were doing.” His gaze moved to the mess around your dresser. Juiced lemons scattered the floor, the smell of citrus mixing with the stench of what he now identified as lye. Various herbs and remedies were scattered as well. Your usually brown roots lightened to an odd orange color, resembling copper more than bronze.

“What’s it look like?”

“Something stupid…” You picked up a lemon carcass and threw it at him, making him laugh, but you only scowled, growing more upset.

“I looked ridiculous…” You approached the floor-length mirror and teased your hair, trying your best to make it look better. “It won’t get lighter…” You murmured under your breath.

“Why are you trying to lighten your hair? It’s already blonde.”

“Not all of it…” You turned your gaze to him and his purely white hair, not a trace of his mother to be found, the same went for all his siblings, what luck… “The lemon juice just made the hairs turn orange.”

“One might mistake you for a Tully.” Your face remained unamused. “It’s good I stopped you, your face would be burnt if you put that so close to your head,” he gestured to the lye mixture. “Why would you wish to rid yourself of the brown?”

You looked at your hair once more; it was fully down, no braids or accessories, frizzed up from all the stress you had put it through. It reached your waist and was parted down the middle. You took a deep inhale and let out a heavy sigh.

“I just want to look more like you all… Fully white hair and bright purple eyes...” You ran your hand through your hair, flipping it to the side and attempted to smooth it out. “I can’t do much about eye color, but I thought I could lighten the brown… that way people would see me as… as a dragon.”

“People see you as a dragon… the brown is hardly noticeable.”

“It’s all he ever saw…” Oh, of course it was about him again.

Forget about him! You have me! It's what Aemond had wished to yell at you time and time again. Every time you fell into a hole of sorrow and insecurity, it was because of him and his lasting impression on you. Some days it was all you talked about. Daemon, Daemon, Daemon! DAEMON!

He was nobody! Let him go! But he knew that was untrue… regretably, your father was everything to you, even if you refused to acknowledge it. But he did not wish to beat a dead horse… and he sat on your bed patting the spot next to him. You plopped down beside him. He reached up to the formerly brown hair, its texture rougher than before, more brittle.

“I think your hair is beautiful.” Warmth flooded your face as you looked at your feet, which kicked back and forth, giddiness overwhelming your upset. He had a knack for making you feel happiness. You finally cracked a smile.

“Be honest… It’s horrendous, isn’t it?”

“It is.”  A small slap to his chest. “You look like a cracked egg.”

“A WHAT?”

“An egg,” He touched the orange hair again. “The orange yolk, and the egg white.” You scoffed and dragged him to lie flat on the bed and tugged his hair. Giggles and smiles filled the room.

It was true: it looked as though your head was an egg that had cracked open, and the yolk had leaked out…

~

Aemond smiled at the memory. Floris and her father mistakenly thought he was smiling at her, but he had, after all, chosen to wed Floris Baratheon. At that moment, an envoy entered the room. Lucerys. Anger took over the happy memory of you. In the six years, alone in his grief and without an eye… His distaste for this particular nephew grew into a festering sore that refused to heal. He was here on behalf of his mother, thankfully with no gift, ensuring the Baratheons to the Greens.

“I shall take your answer to the Queen, My Lord.” Luke started walking away,

“Wait…” Aemond spoke without thinking. “My Lord Strong.” Luke turned at that. “Did you really think that you could just fly about the realm, trying to steal my brother’s throne at no cost?” This was not about Aegon; everyone knew it.

“I will not fight you,” It was true that Luke had no desire to fight Aemond for many reasons, for starters he knew his uncle was much stronger, then there was also the promise he made to his mother to not engage in a fight, and then there was also the fact that he knew Aemond meant the world to you and in scaring his uncle he knew he had already dishonored you, he would not wish to do so again. “I came as a messenger, not a warrior.”

“A fight would be little challenge.” Aemond… don’t… “No.” He slid the eyepatch off his visage, revealing his sapphire eye. “I want you to put out your eye.” Aemond… please stop… “As payment for mine, one will serve.” He threw his dagger, the metal making a harsh scraping sound as it slid towards the heir to Driftmark. “I would not blind you; I plan to present it as a gift…” Luke’s hesitation sparked Aemond’s rage once more, and the conflict was postponed by Borros, and Luke was escorted back to his dragon. A chase would ensue. Luke and Arrax did their best to navigate the harsh storm. Soon, a large shadow would appear above them, dwarfing them.

Aemond chased down his nephew, spewing Valyrian insults about him owing him a debt and mocking him as he had once done. He wanted only to terrify the boy, to remind him of his place. You always adored Lucerys, he thought bitterly, much to my chagrin. Aemond began to lose himself, relishing in the terror he was causing. A jagged, predatory laugh leaped out of him. In the corner of his eye, he thought he saw something. Another dragon? No, just a shadow, a blur on the lightning-lit clouds. For a moment, he saw a rider.

His breath caught.

The next flash of lightning revealed a face: yours. Disappointment and sadness twisted your features. Why are you sad?

He reached out, desperate to touch you, but in that instant, Arrax, in an act of fear, burned Vhagar, angering the ancient dragon. Aemond searched for you again, but you were gone, leaving only a cloud shaped like your silhouette.

He had lost control over Vhagar. She relentlessly pursued Arrax in retaliation. He tried his best to deter her and make her obey, but the moment served as a reminder that the idea that they controlled the dragons was an illusion. Arrax finally made it out of the storm, seeming to lose Vhagar in the process. Luke continued to look around, panicked. Relief had just started to set in when Vhagar emerged from the clouds and swallowed him whole, chomping Arrax, leaving a few bits to fall into the ocean.

Aemond now understood why you looked so sad…

----------

Finally at the end of season 1, next part will be Daemon's reckoning trust me...

Daemon didn’t speak a word on the flight back. Rhaenyra occasionally glanced at him, worry growing more with each minute. In her hands was a drawstring bag made of animal skins. Inside it was the cremated remains she was able to salvage from the pyre. At least then your remains would be with your ancestors in King’s Landing. She gripped it tighter to protect it from the occasional drop of rain.

~~~~~

“Daemon?” Rhaenyra asked softly, waiting for an answer or any movement from her uncle. He did and said nothing. “Daemon, we have to go home.”

“I can’t...” The words just barely left his lips.

Rhaenyra thought for a moment. She moved to Syrax and dug around in her saddlebag. She came back with a small drawstring pouch. She knelt before the pyre, the remaining heat warming her face, almost burning. She did her best to collect your remains, ignoring the slight burn from the ashes as best she could.

“Here, we’ll bring her home.” She moved to place the remains in his hands, but Daemon backed away. If Rhaenyra didn’t know any better, she’d say her uncle looked afraid... afraid to hold his daughter, what was left of her at least. She spoke gently, “...I’ll hold onto her.”

~~~~~

She looked down at the bag once more. Unfortunately, she was able to piece together what had transpired, though she had no idea why you had been down there to begin with. She knew you, not very well, but you had often spent time with her boys. While you moved freely between Alicent's children and her own, you never seemed to carry the same resentment the green children did. Perhaps you were simply happy to have company, regardless of who it was. Or perhaps the circumstances of her children's heritage had never troubled you. It was unlikely you would have cared either way; you were a kind girl, generous with your warmth even when it was not returned.

You always assumed others' poor actions were simply the result of something deeply upsetting them, and therefore always lent a sympathetic ear. Likely what drew you and Aemond close together, where others saw a cold and detached boy, you looked at him and knew he was someone who had been disappointed by the gods and those around him. A boy who was angry at the adults in his life who were not there for him in the way he needed, so when Aemond allowed you near him, you became that person. The person who could always see something in him that he failed to see for himself, the person who had been the truest companion he had ever had or would ever know, and the girl whom he loved so dearly. You were his person, simply and completely. Two people who had chosen each other long before they had the words for it, and now only one of them remained to remember that even if he did not know it yet...

----------

It was deep into the night when they returned to King’s Landing. The rain had picked up, and it was properly pouring now. The princess had let the guards know to call a council with the King and Queen.

“There has been... an accident.” That was all she said.

The children were thought to be asleep; in reality, they had overheard that a council was being called late at night. Aegon, never one to miss a drama, rallied his brother and nephews to listen in.

“Was it really necessary to wake us, brother?” Aemond was still under the spell of sleep as he walked through the hidden passages of the Red Keep.

“How often do they call a meeting this late? It must be for something interesting.” Aegon was wide awake with excitement. He often wanted nothing to do with court and politics, but he would be lying if he said he didn’t reminisce about the court's dramas; they were quite entertaining at times. Jacaerys and Lucerys followed their uncle with similar enthusiasm, feeling excited to be included; meanwhile, Aemond slugged behind the three of them.

The four of them made their way to the door that led to the small council room. They spotted Daemon and Rhaenyra already present. Aegon noted a small bag in the grip of his half-sister.

“Well? What do you see?” Little Lucerys asked, he could barely see a thing amongst his taller uncles and brother. He wondered if this matter had anything to do with Daemon’s sudden departure earlier. He turned to his brother and asked him.

“It might; it was rather odd of him...”

“What happened?” Aegon butted in,

“Earlier today, we were flying dragons, and all of a sudden, Daemon took off. It was very... out of character.” Aegon just hummed in response, then agreed to its oddity. Aemond remained quiet, preferring to listen and observe. He had fibbed slightly earlier; he wasn’t asleep at all, for instead, he was worried. He had not seen you at all today.

He had wandered the castle all day looking for you after you had missed your training session with him and had apparently skipped your shared High Valyrian lesson. He had asked everyone, even Aegon, if he had seen you at all today. You had told him of your plan to spend time with your father; perhaps he had failed you yet again? He wondered how your father was involved this time, how he had disappointed you yet again. He had advised you time and time again to let your father go, for he had done so to you. He usually dropped it soon after bringing it up; he did not wish to see you upset, not ever, and the thought that your father did not care for you brought you more upset than anything. So the moment he saw tears well up in your purple eyes, he moved on and helped distract you with something else. Aemond was brought out of his thoughts at the entrance of the King and Queen, both rather perturbed but also concerned as to what could be so important.

“By the Seven, what could be so important that you would wake the King in his state?” Alicent complained as soon as she entered, barely letting the room breathe.

“I am capable, wife, I don’t need to be fussed over consistently. I don’t doubt there is a good reason to call us together.” Viserys gestured for Rhaenyra to speak once he and the others were seated. Rhaenyra turned to Daemon to see if he would speak. She would fail to receive an answer.

“It is concerning the Princess (Y/n)...” That had gotten Alicent’s attention. She cared for you very deeply, showing you more motherly attention than your own mother had given you, even in the short three years you had with her.

“What is it?” Alicent rose slightly in her chair, causing it to make a loud sound as it scraped against the flooring.

“The princess...” She turned once more to her uncle, still nothing, Daemon just stared at the place where a stone ball would be on the small council table, eyes glazed over. Rhaenyra sighed, “The princess... is dead.” She finally got it out, then slowly placed the bag of ashes on the table for them to see.

It was silent, even the rats in the walls had stopped to pay their respects to a beloved child.

Beyond the walls, the giddy grin on Aegon’s face slowly disappeared as what was said registered in his ears. The bubbly life in the two younger boys fizzled out as well, and all three slowly turned to look at Aemond. They cleared the way for Aemond to get a clear look; his eyes immediately landed on the bag in front of Rhaenyra. He listened to his mother’s voice rise with upset, the King trying to calm her while also not quite comprehending what he had been told. Dead? No, he had seen her just yesterday... that was not possible. He listened to Rhaenyra explain in little detail what had transpired. The dragons, the horses, and the burning.

Aemond felt it in his chest; it was the truth. You were gone. He felt his ears start to muffle the noises around him as he stumbled back a bit. His breathing became shallow and more frequent. His gaze unfocused until he made out the figure in the chair next to his sister. Daemon. It was him... it had always been him. It was his fault; he had taken you from him. Aemond’s mouth, which had been open, taking in large breaths, closed, and his jaw tightened, his teeth grinding together. He zeroed in on your father. How dare he? Things were going so well, and he had the audacity to show up after all these years and ruin it all... what else could he possibly want in this world? Why did he have to ruin everything?

Aegon knew what his brother wanted to do; he placed his hand on his shoulder, causing his younger brother to turn slightly.

‘Don’t,’ he mouthed to his kin while shaking his head. His warning was ignored completely as Aemond pushed out of the hidden passage, startling the adults in the room, even causing Daemon to move. Aemond’s eyes landed on the pouch that held you. You were in there, that tiny little bag, the very being of the girl who meant the world and more to him... was in a tiny little sack. Aemond’s mouth pressed into a thin line before curling inwards. His eyes moved to Daemon, and the two made eye contact for a moment before Aemond charged at his uncle. Aemond almost collided with his kin but was held back momentarily by his older brother. He thrashed against Aegon violently,

“Let go of me!” he cried out. He looked feral, his eyes never looking away from the man who was responsible for his grief. He stomped on his brother's foot and freed himself from Aegon’s gangly arms and rushed to his uncle and immediately started hitting him with all his might. Closed fists hit him on the chest and stomach. Daemon did nothing to stop him or fight against it; he knew it was coming eventually. He listened to his little nephew yell how he hated him and how he wished he were dead instead of you. He was inclined to agree.

Alicent moved to collect and calm her child as he spouted out phrases in Valyrian.

“Nyke vēdros ao!” I hate you!

“Ao ossēntan zirȳla!” You killed her!

“Nyke ossēnagon ao!” I will kill you!

“Nyke jaelagon īlē morghe!” I wish you were dead!

“Ao sesīr daor ivestragī nyke ivestragon geros ilas!” You did not even let me say goodbye!

She pulled him away and into her chest. He pushed away repeatedly, getting more and more tired by the second. He eventually slumped against his mother as she hushed him and sobbed into her, his chest still heaving frantically.

The other adults, and even the other children, stood awkwardly. Aegon, who never took anything seriously, stood with his head low and the corners of his mouth drawn down. Jace and Luke still stood in the hidden passageway, eyes wide and lips slightly parted. Their dark eyes met their mothers, who had moved closer to them. She gave them each a kiss to the head and told them, under her breath, to go back to their chambers.

The King stood hunched over the table, unmoving. Everything was going so well... How could this have happened? The stress of the situation caused him to become short of breath and to cough up some blood. Rhaenyra called the Kingsguard in to escort him back to his chambers. Viserys gave his brother one last look, signaling that they would discuss this later, more privately.

----------

It had passed into the early hours of the morning, the sun just about to rise over the curve of the land, and the rain starting to die down. Alicent wished to escort Aemond back to his chambers, but he refused, stating he wanted to go to yours. She could barely say no to her son at the best of times, and especially not now.

Aemond, despite his begging, struggled to cross the threshold of the room once the door was open. The candles weren’t lit, it was dark and cold... so unlike you.

That’s because she’s dead, you bloody fool.

His own conscience mocked him.

Aemond let out a shaky sigh and forced himself forward. He hovered by the bed, afraid to disturb the room’s stillness. After a moment, he sat on the very edge of the mattress. His hand found the bedpost you used for practice, fingers tracing the worn grooves. His body still felt raw from the outburst earlier, his eyes and chest burning. He wanted to keep moving, to do anything but rest, but exhaustion crept over him, and he let himself sink into the mattress.

Alicent just stood and watched her son, not sure what she could offer him other than her presence.

“Aemond,” he looked at his mother, eyes red and cheeks stained. “Do you want to sleep in here?” He silently nodded his head. “Okay, you can. Do you wish for me to stay with you?” Aemond did not respond, preferring to pick at his fingernails. “I will not take offense if you say no.” Only then did Aemond shake his head slightly, telling his mother he wished to be alone. “Okay then.” Alicent considered tucking him in herself for the night, but she refrained. “You can stay for as long as you wish.” She kissed her son on the forehead before leaving the room, gently closing the door on her way out.

Aemond turned in the bed onto his side, facing away from the door and out the window. Your bed always felt comfier than his for some reason. It wasn’t the first time he’d been in your bed. If one of you had a hard time sleeping, you’d use the passageways to go to each other’s rooms and stay together. He always slept well next to you. His eyes ached to close, and his body cried at him to sleep, but Aemond found it ridiculous that he was expected to sleep as if everything was normal. The rain had stopped, and he found it an insult; if he had his way, the Gods would be crying for over a fortnight to pay their respects to you. Sleep eventually took over the young prince as even his mind grew tired of being awake.

----------

Daemon stood in the hallway of the Red Keep, looking at the series of doors across the hallway. He wanted to go to your room, but... he couldn't recall which way it was, as he’d only visited once.

How pathetic... You cannot even remember how to get to her chambers.

Daemon shook his head to clear the cruel thoughts. He tried harder to remember that day. He left Viserys' chambers, then made a right, continued down the hallway, then a left, and then a right and down a staircase, no, the staircase was later... Gods, why couldn’t he remember? A maid greeted him in passing, carrying a stack of linens. He gave in and asked her the direction to your room, which she knew.

Daemon stood outside your door. It was plain oak, but you always had flowers on the doorknob to “add a pop of color” to the ordinary door. The flowers were wilted now; you had meant to change them yesterday. It seemed the Gods took every opportunity to remind Daemon of the tragedy; little did he know the wilted flowers and the rain were just the beginning.

He cracked the door open and was startled at the sight of white hair in your bed. Perhaps you were alive? That is, it had all been a bad dream, that when he woke, he’d open the door and you’d be there, demanding to spend time with him, and he’d gladly do so. As he moved into the room, his hopes were dashed when he realized it was just Aemond sleeping in your place.

Daemon took a good look around your room once more and scanned Aemond’s sleeping face. He didn’t look at peace. It was then that Daemon realized he had no place here; he had no right to be in your room, and that his being there was tainting your very memory. He quietly yet quickly exited the room and briskly walked away, breath jagged.

----------

The morning sun was obscured by clouds, the ground was muddied, and the few remaining blades of grass were covered with dew. Aemond woke slowly, mind still hazy. He wondered why he was in your room, then it came to him. He slowly turned to the other side of the bed, only to be met with emptiness, not even an imprint of where you might have been lying. He had hoped that when he woke, you would be there, that none of it had happened. But reality was often disappointing. Aemond couldn’t suppress the heavy sob from leaving his lips. He turned his whole body to face the side of the bed you had always preferred, stuffed his face into your pillow, and screamed as loud as his little lungs could produce. The grief moved through him in waves he could not contain, his whole body curling around it. His mouth fell open and stayed that way, chest heaving unevenly, each breath more ragged than the last. There was nothing composed about it. There was nothing of him in it at all. The handmaidens passing by did their best to ignore the wails of a child who’d lost his whole world in just a few hours. Aemond’s cries haunted the walls of the Red Keep. After that, Prince Aemond’s face didn’t convey much. His mother stayed by his side; she’d hoped that her presence would bring him some comfort, but to no avail.

----------

The Targaryens, both Green and Black, gathered on Driftmark for the funeral of Laena Velaryon. It had been a planned affair, the delay due to your untimely demise. The haste led to a rushed ceremony for you. One that Aemond felt was inadequate. It took place in the Dragon Pits, a place you once found lots of joy and excitement in. However, there were only a few attendees, given that there was no time to send letters out to the noble houses and even less time for them to arrive.

~~~~~

“This is all an unfortunate affair.” The King had said. Viserys was as sad as most at your departure from the world of the living, and its coming so soon after Laena’s leaving was no help, but it was particularly unfortunate that it occurred so suddenly. You were a princess of the Realm, closer to the crown than Laena ever was; that was part of the reason why Aemond felt that everything about this ‘ceremony’ was a joke. You deserved so much more… even in death, you were being let down. Even though you probably would’ve preferred a more intimate funeral, it was not supposed to be that way, solely due to your death interrupting the royal family's travel plans.

What a joke…

Aemond was standing in the corner, watching the attendees act as if they knew you. Rage bubbled beneath the surface, a single thought almost boiling him over. The thought of how Daemon did not stay for your service. He fled to Driftmark with his other daughters ahead of his late wife’s service. Aemond didn’t wish to stick around, for he felt it was more of a disservice to you and your existence than a celebration. Aegon trailed behind his brother, hands shoved in his pockets. He wanted to say something, anything, anything at all, but the words caught in his throat. Instead, he muttered, “At least it’s over,” with a half-hearted shrug. He knew it was the wrong thing to say. He always did. Their mother would be furious if she heard. She always was.

~~~~~

He was half listening to Vaemond’s eulogy to his niece. Something about Velaryon blood needing to remain pure, likely in reference to his nephews. Jace and Luke… He felt resentment towards them, and Baela and Rhaena, but at least they weren’t bastards. Daemon preferred spending time with them rather than with you, and yet somehow you paid the price for it.

You always tried your best, but Daemon never seemed to notice.

However, once Aemond looked at how devastated Baela and Rhaena were, he couldn’t help but feel remorse for his cruel thoughts. He heard rumors that they saw their mother burned alive by her own dragon. He looked at Jace, who had been standing nearby while Rhaenys talked to her granddaughters for the first time. He wanted to say something… but chose not to. What would he even say?

I’m sorry…

----------

Aemond felt like a ghost throughout the ordeal, going through the motions, nodding when his mother or his grandfather spoke. His trance was broken when he heard dragon cries. There were many on Driftmark today… the thought of one of them lingered in Aemond’s mind: Vhagar.

She was on Driftmark somewhere, riderless once more. “You will have a dragon Ñuha nēdenka zaldrīzes.” Your words echoed in his mind. “It will be the biggest dragon to ever live, and men will then know how great you are.”

Dusk had come, and everyone began retiring for the night. Aemond took the opportunity to sneak off into the night, his observant grandfather thankfully distracted by his drunken brother.

He ran across the beach, over dunes, and slid down grassy hills until he saw in the distance the great beast herself. Her green coloring almost camouflaged her into the grassy mounds that surrounded them.

This was for you.

That’s what he told himself. How much truth it contained would reveal itself as time ticked on.

He tiptoed towards the legendary dragon and carefully grabbed the netting that was necessary to get on top of her. A show of her grandness. Aemond has heard that you needed a long rope ladder to get on top of Balerion. The moment Aemond touched the netting, Vhagar moved and got on the defensive. She backs down slightly once recognizing a prince of Targaryen blood; however, once Aemond tries again, he sees fire building up in the back of her throat.

He can’t give up now… he had promised you that you would both claim dragons one day, and then you two would be off into the world and forget Westeros. That promise would never come to fruition, not anymore.

Perhaps he would meet the same fate as Laena Velaryon and be burned by the oldest living dragon. Either way, he figured, grimly, he’d be okay with the outcome.

He reaches a hand out, "Dohaerās! Dohaerās Vhagar!” Vhagar’s mouth is still open, and the glow in the back burns brighter, “Lykirī… Lykirī!” Vhagar finally closes her gaping maw and stares him in the eye. Aemond looks deep into her own… Aemond’s eyes began to feel wet. He blinked them away, not wanting Vhagar to witness his weakness. Vhagar did notice and offered a small whine in response, even dragons grieve those they have lost.

No one can truly fathom the mind of a dragon, but after a tense and inscrutable pause, she yields, permitting him to climb onto her back. He does so accordingly; it felt like such a simple thing now… no great struggle like he had been anticipating. Vhagar readied herself for flight, seemingly mildly disgruntled at being brought out of retirement already. She took off running, jostling Aemond around violently, before lifting herself into the air.

The feeling was indescribable. The fear was entangled with excitement during the first flight. As much as he hated to admit it, Aegon was right; the first flight is the hardest. He almost fell off a few times but regained his grip and lived through his first time airborne.

If only you could have seen it.

When Vhagar landed with a giant thud on the ground, Aemond hopped off and was immediately met with accusations from his cousins, your half-sisters, and his nephews, not too far behind. They accused him of ‘stealing’ Vhagar, a preposterous claim; you cannot steal a dragon. Vhagar chose him as much as he chose her; a dragon was not a piece of land with a birthright attached to them. Aemond made a comment about Rhaena getting a pig, and before he knew it, they ran at him. He shoved them away and did well to defend himself, but four-on-one is hardly a fair fight. They knocked him down and started punching. He kicked one of them off and took down the other two. Insults were exchanged, along with punches and kicks. Aemond got hold of a large rock as a weapon. He held it up as he had Lucerys by the throat.

“You will die screaming in flames just as your father did". It was a low blow, he won’t lie, but anything to make them feel the hurt he has felt nearly every day.

“My father is still alive!” The little, naive boy responded.

“He doesn’t know, does he?” He had turned his attention to Jacerys. “Lord Strong.” At that, Jace pulled out a dagger, small but enough to do some damage. Baela and Rhaena had decided to sit this out, the smartest move they could’ve made. Jace moved to attack and failed, dropping the knife. Luke picked it up, the action going unnoticed. Aemond held up the rock once more, standing above his oldest nephew. Before he knew it, Jace threw dirt in his face, temporarily blinding him, then Luke sliced his face with the dagger, permanently blinding him in his left eye.

----------

The adults gathered in the main Hall of Nine to address the situation. As Maester Kelvyn stitches his eye, he fights the urge to cry from his other eye. He knew the eye was gone before the Maester confirmed it. That, however, was only part of his upset. As he sat there, adults arguing around him, no one came to his comfort. She yelled at Aegon, despite it not being his fault at all; for all his brothers' faults, he could not be held accountable for this. He barely listened as his mother and father continued to bicker on what to do, with the occasional chiming in of Rhaenyra. All he wanted in that moment was for someone to hold him, to tell him it’ll all be okay… he wanted you. But he couldn’t show weakness, not anymore of it, and certainly not here.

“His eye had been taken, over an insult, and now you would subject him to interrogation. Have you all not taken enough from him?” The accusation stilled in the air. Rhaenyra stood stunned; she knew she was not placing the blame directly on her, but rather on the whole lot of them: her, her sons, and Daemon. Once you thought about it, the stampede would not have occurred had it not been for their dragons, but which one caused the horses to become frightened could not be determined.

He sat there imagining you next to him, holding his head to your chest as he listened to your heartbeat in an effort to slow his own down. To tell him that you still loved him and found him as handsome as ever. To tell him that he was not at fault for this. To run your fingers through his hair and shield him from the world around them. That was the part he liked most about being with you. It was like the whole world around both of you just quietly fizzled out, and it was just you two. The best times were underneath the Weirwood tree in the Godswood in King’s Landing.

~~~~~

You two would just lie on the ground next to each other, looking up at the sky. You’d talk about flying away once you both had dragons, seeing the world outside the Red Keep, and not having to deal with the politics of Westeros. For both of you knew how it corrupted and poisoned those who dared to play the game. Eventually, your hands would connect and cause the typically stoic Prince Aemond to smile as brightly as a falling star cresting the night sky.

~~~~~

But now you’re gone, and he’s still here.

He’s brought back when the King asks him where he heard rumors of the Prince’s legitimacy. It was a stupid question, really… Anyone who saw them would see that they are clearly not Laenor Velaryon’s kin. Quite a stupid act of his half-sister's part, she should’ve at least chosen a lover similar to her husband. Aemond placed the blame on his older brother, knowing that he would be fine.

Things escalated when the King simply asked the infighting to cease, and Alicent claims this was insufficient. That Lucerys should give one of his eyes to atone. Aemond didn’t want his nephew's eye, not now at least… he just wanted his father to care. His mother seemed to at least, but not in the way he wanted, the way he needed. Before he knew it, his mother had taken the dagger from his father, and in a struggle between the Princess and the Queen, the Princess Rhaenyra was cut on the arm. Aemond saw the blood drip onto the floor. He appreciated his mother for coming to his defense so forcefully, but he truly wished this ordeal were over for now.

“It was a fair exchange, Mother. I may have lost an eye, but I gained a dragon.”

----------

In the following days, the news reached everyone of Ser Laenor’s passing and Rhaenyra’s new marriage to Daemon…

The thought made Aemond burn from within. How Daemon seemingly moved on so quickly. His daughter and wife passed away, and he just married his niece as if it meant nothing. He took no time to grieve. That realization made Aemond consider the idea that perhaps Daemon meant to kill you, similar to your mother. Both looked like accidents, but were they really? It appears that he was not the only one to consider this as a possible truth. News emerged from the Vale that Runestone would pass to one of Lady Rhea Royce’s cousins. You would have inherited Runestone yourself, being the only offspring of Lady Royce and Daemon. He heard the accusation that Daemon had you killed so that he would inherit Runestone instead. It wasn’t an unfounded idea; he had partly killed his wife so that he might inherit Runestone since you were still a wee babe, and so that he could marry Rhaenyra, which it seems that he was able to do both now. However, the Vale would not have it, and they rejected him. The only fact that caused Aemond to doubt the thought was how easily Daemon relinquished any claim to the seat.

----------

Many moons had passed since their visit to Driftmark, and soon enough, it was Aemond’s nameday. Aemond hated tourneys, but the King wanted to throw one for his nameday, maybe to lift his spirits, which shows how little the King knew about his other children. Aemond’s face remained unimpressed by the shattering of shields and the roars of the crowd. However, what did start to affect him was the pounding of hooves on the ground. Is that the last thing you heard? All other sounds drowned out to him as all he could hear was the horses stomping on the ground over and over, and his mind started drifting to how those horses must’ve beaten you to a pulp. The thought made his breath quicken. How was this fair in the eyes of the gods… to him, but mostly to you. What did you do to deserve death, especially in such a horrible way? Alicent noticed her son’s distress and moved to escort him somewhere else. She knew this was a horrible idea when her husband suggested a celebration for his second son.

“Aemond.” She spoke once they were alone in her chambers. “I was going to save this for later, but perhaps you might want it for the feast later.” Alicent brought out a box from underneath her bed and gently placed it on the table in front of her son. “It’s not from me.” Aemond sucked in a sharp breath, knowing what his mother meant.

He carefully opened the box with shaking hands. When he laid his eyes on the fabric, his face crumpled. Of course, you had an amazing present for him. He picked up the tunic and ran his fingers over the stitching that was so clearly yours, then held it up to see the full design. Aemond felt tears fall down his cheeks, which his mother wiped away with her thumb. “Turn it around.” He did as his mother asked and saw the map of Valyria on the back, which made him let out a tearful laugh. It was the first time Alicent had heard her sons laugh in weeks, even if it was bittersweet. Aemond placed it down and stood up, moving to take off the shirt he had been wearing and, with Alicent’s help, dressing himself in your gift. It was a perfect fit.

Of course it was. How could you have made anything less than perfect?

He looked at himself in the mirror, hand smoothing over the fabric. His eyes turned down as his mother came up behind him. He spoke rarely these days, so Alicent flinched a bit when he choked out, “I love her…”

Love. Not loved.

“I know.” She ran her hand through his hair before squeezing his shoulders. “She would be proud of you for continuing on. I know it. It’s hard, losing someone, it always is.” Alicent thought back to her mother; no one had even said they were sorry when her mother passed. She turned her son around, “I am sorry, Aemond.” She felt his small shoulders shake, and his face crumpled as fresh tears came. He wrapped his arms around his mother and squeezed her. She hushed him in an attempt to soothe him, but to no avail. He stayed there until the feast, when he showed up composed once more but in his new tunic.

----------

Seasons changed, and the castle seemed unchanged, except that Aemond was thirteen now, another nameday marked without you. The day was spent with the usual formalities; in the past, Aemond would’ve preferred a small, short, intimate nameday celebration, but now he could not bring himself to care all that much. Like most days, they passed with a blur until the hour of the owl came about and Aegon dragged Aemond out of bed.

Aegon had dragged him to the Street of Silk, the only context being him saying, “Time to get it wet.” He was not quite sure what that meant, but when they stopped in front of the brothel, it all became quite clear.

I don't want this.

He should’ve said it out loud to his brother, but the moment that woman took hold of his arm, his tongue went numb, and his mind ran rampant.

Don’t do it.

The shame you’d bring to her memory.

You’d break her heart.

Aemond never thought twice about whores and brothels when you were around, unlike his brother. Everything was so clear then; he’d marry you and remain faithful, and you’d have at least one child. Why would he ever need to see others out when he had you?

~~~~~

You often played house together, and every time you’d say you had a daughter. Always a girl, named Zienna. He was never sure where the name came from, but he liked it.

“I would want my children to be the first of their names. Something different, not completely Valyrian.”

“Why not Valyrian?”

“They all sound so similar… I want my name and my children's to be ones to remember!”

~~~~~

But he doesn’t have you, just your memory.

He was dragged back to reality when the woman pushed him onto the thin mattress. He was frozen. He wanted her to get away from him, but didn’t know how to express it. It was strange; he was usually so direct with his wants, but now it felt as though the Stranger had taken his tongue. His one eye became glassy as he looked up at her. He hadn’t felt this fear before in his entire life, not even when face to face with Vhagar. He thought he might be sick, but all he could do was stare at the peeling ceiling, wishing himself anywhere else.

Aegon was entertaining his own whore when he looked across the building to see his brother not quite having the time of his life as he expected. He had always found pleasure in whoring and wished to share it with his brother. His intention had been to help him move on from you and allow himself to feel happiness again. But when he saw him, he knew his attempt had been poor. Aegon moved across the building and told the woman to get off of him. He threw a small pouch of gold her way to get her to shut up and helped his brother up. The two threw on their cloaks again and made their way back to the Red Keep.

Aegon wanted to tell him he was sorry. To explain that his intention was to share something fun with his brother.

“I thought you would enjoy it. I always did.” Aemond said nothing in response. Aegon opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. He looked for a joke, a way to make things light. But all that came out was, “You’re always so mopey nowadays… I don’t quite understand it.”

Aegon wanted to apologize, but to take something seriously, he would have to admit that something was wrong, and that was more complicated than he would’ve liked. So he settled for a small gesture, his fist bumping the side of Aemond’s shoulder. Aemond didn’t respond. The silence stretched between them as they walked back through the sleeping castle. For once, Aegon didn’t fill it with jokes or complaints. When they reached the fork in the corridor, he just muttered, “Good night, brother,” and turned away.

Aemond watched him go, feeling even more alone.

Aemond knew, somewhere beneath the numbness, that Aegon hadn’t meant to hurt him and somehow, that had made the feeling worse. That night, sleep wouldn’t come. Every time he closed his eye, he saw her face, the room, the way everything felt wrong. He wondered if he would ever feel clean again.

Shame burned in his chest, but beneath it was something colder. The feeling that he deserved to feel this way. That he was not allowed to feel happiness because happiness was for those who had not failed, and he had failed you by not being there. Moving on would mean letting go, and letting go would mean forgetting.

But is it really forgetting if you choose it?

That question swam in his mind as he gripped his bedsheets. How could he let go of you? Why was everyone expecting him to  “move on”? To him, his grief was the only thing keeping your memory alive; everyone else was so eager to forget simply because it was deemed an “unpleasant” situation. But he would make them all remember even if they did not want to.

----------

Aemond’s contempt for everyone kept building. Everything he did was in your memory. Whenever his body ached, he pushed himself harder, determined not to fail you.

Alicent grew more worried, recognizing his behavior as self-destructive. She knew you would have hated seeing Aemond so tormented, but how could she talk to him about it? Whenever she tried, he’d accuse her of holding him back, just as he had with Ser Criston Cole.

“You will not hold me back! I refuse to disappoint her!” he yelled in the training yard. Aegon just looked on in confusion, wondering who he was referring to. Surely not you, right? He still couldn’t be this hung up on a childhood love. That’s all it seemed to be from an outsider's perspective. Childhood love. Something that Aemond would recover from with a little time. But that time never came, and it never would.

The ambition would continue to poison him as he began to emulate the man he claimed to despise more and more each day. The way he fought, the way that he walked and spoke all reminded the inhabitants of the Red Keep far too much of the Rogue Prince himself. Aemond moved through the hall with measured steps, his hands clasped behind his back, his singular eye sharp as dragonglass. It was a manner he’d adopted without realizing, one he’d seen on Daemon a hundred times; shoulders squared, jaw square, every motion confident and deliberate.

He didn’t notice the resemblance, not at first. But sometimes, when a passing servant dipped their head a little lower, or when Aegon snorted and muttered, “Careful, you’re starting to brood like our uncle.” Aemond’s jaw would tighten. Aegon relented when he would notice his younger brother's hand slip to the dagger at his waist.

He told himself he was forging his own path, that Daemon held no authority over him. Yet the shadow he cast was not entirely his own.

Just because I carry myself with purpose doesn’t make me him. I’m not a coward. I don’t run from the people I love.

The words fizzled to ash and fell into his throat, and he found himself walking a little faster, as if he could outpace the comparison.

And so, six years passed. Six long years, until he finally saw the man he believed to be the source of his ire: Daemon Targaryen.

----------

A/N: Okay so this was originally gonna go to the end of season 1 but as I kept writing it kept getting longer and longer so I decided to make part 2 into 2 more parts instead to avoid reader fatigue. Part 3 now is almost done already tho so yay! I really hope I portrayed the brothel scene in a way that is respectful to those who have experienced such things but I wanted to address it as I feel like it is something that was established in season 1 that nobody really talks about. Like he was 13 and they just glossed over it and I hate when male SA gets waved off just cause it might be an attractive woman, like that is a CHILD GET AWAY!

Part 3 will also likely be more Aemond centered, like I said it isn't 100% done yet but I PROMISE I WILL GET TO DAEMON I just really want it to be its own dedicated part.

----------

1989 - Mid-November, Nevermore - Jericho, Vermont

You and Isaac had been going on dates here and there ever since the Rave’N, and it was amazing. You two talked for hours; more than that, he actually enjoyed listening. You did your best to follow his technological rantings, but sometimes they turned your brain to mush. When you asked for clarification, he’d smile and patiently explain, making you feel seen instead of small. It was easy and exciting, and your heart felt lighter with every date. Still, you couldn’t shake the hope for that one cinematic moment: him officially asking you to be his girlfriend, the kind of sweeping gesture that would make it all real.

But the magic was interrupted one afternoon when Samuel Holt, your closest pack friend, pulled you aside, his grip urgent as he steered you into the catacombs beneath Nevermore. “(Y/N), we have to talk.” That was all he said before pulling you further into the catacombs of Nevermore’s passageways.

You had felt the eyes on you whenever you participated in pack activities. Deep down, you knew what was coming, but you chose to ignore it. You had been particularly close with Samuel, so it was odd to hear him so cold with you. You both wished to be actors and often practiced and read scripts together.

“I can walk myself, let go of me, Sam.” You tugged your arm out of his grasp, irritation prickling beneath your skin. You demanded more respect than that. “Fine, we’re here anyway.” The ‘here’ is a section of the library focused on werewolf history and culture. He pulled out a book titled Blood and Bond: The History and Heritage of Werewolves. “Have you ever read this one?”

You sighed, “Of course, it's mandatory reading.”

“So you know what this is about?”

“...Yeah.”

“You can’t be with him then, so whatever you two have got going on? It’s done.” You didn’t respond. What were you supposed to say to that? You loved Isaac… but you loved being a werewolf too. You took great pride in it and being part of a pack.

“I-I-” Your throat felt tight, your words thick with ache. “I can’t just give him up, Sam.” Samuel just sighed.

“(Y/N), look at me.” He lowered himself to your level and placed his hands on your shoulders. “I need you to understand what you would be doing if you continue. You’d be throwing your pack, your entire way of life away for a boy you’ve known for a few months.”

“We-well, why does it have to be all or nothing y’know?”

“That’s the way of things, your scent is already being thrown off, how do you ever expect to find a proper match if you keep giving yourself to him?”

He is my match, is what you wanted to yell at him, but what came out was more raw: “I love him.”

“You barely know him, (Y/N). You’re caught up in a feeling.”

“You wouldn’t understand there is… something there.”

“Please.”

“Something I can’t quite explain. It’s like my instincts pull me to him, like it's fate.”

“He’s a guy! A DaVinci at that!”

“So what!”

Sam paused and just stared at you. His eyes darkened, voice dropping to a low, almost mournful growl. “He’ll never understand you the way you need. He can’t share the moon, the change, the pull that makes us a pack. You’ll be alone in the moments that matter most.” Each word hit you square in the chest. The pack’s stories echoed in your mind. It was rare to find lasting love outside the werewolf world, and those who tried often found themselves lost between two worlds or ended up being a waste of time.

But this was different. The moment our eyes connected, I knew he was the one.

“I know it sounds ridiculous that I am just falling for those tropes in books and movies, but I can’t just ignore this.” Sam seemingly conceded. His shoulders slouched, and he took his hands off you.

“You’re serious about this, aren’t you?” You nodded. “Okay, look,” He ran his hands down his face in frustration. “Tonight is a full moon, you’re probably just feeling everything very heightened right now.” You rolled your eyes at that, not appreciating his dismissal of your feelings on ‘sensory issues’. “So, let's just get through the night, and you give me your final answer in the morning.” He didn’t leave much room for you to argue, but perhaps it was best for you to think about it a little longer.

​-

The sun was high in the sky as you spent your Saturday thinking instead of having fun. You sat on one of the picnic tables in the middle of the Quad. All you had done was think and think and think, your mind was blocked with a thick fog that refused to let up and show you the answer. You felt a weight next to you; when you turned, you saw Gomez. You nodded a greeting.

“You look like a kicked puppy, and yes, that was intentional.” He tried to make you laugh, but all you could offer in return was an amused huff. “Do you wish to tell me what ails your mind?” You shook your head, not really wanting to get into it right now.

“I just,” You breathed through your nose. “My head is clouded, and I don’t know what to do.”

“Walk.” He said it so casually, like the answer was right there the whole time.

“Huh?”

“I always like to take a stroll through the woods by Nevermore.” That didn’t sound too bad.

“Okay, that sounds nice. I think I’ll walk through the town, though. Thanks, Gomez.”

With that, you were off. You took a shuttle bus to Jericho and started walking. You weren’t going anywhere in particular, just walking, maybe looking for a sign or anything that’ll clear your conscience. The sun was starting to set, and you knew you had to make it back eventually and get locked in the Lupin cages for the night. On the way back to the shuttle, you stopped at the pond. You saw a mother goose and her goslings. Some dumb normie tried to pick up one of the babies. They were really cute, you had to admit. All fluffy and just looking like tiny puff balls. It was no surprise when the mother goose flapped her wings and flew right into the face of the normie, knocking them over. You laughed a bit, you’d think everyone knows not to mess with a flock.

Or a pack.

For a moment, you watched the geese huddle together, the way they moved as one, protective, inseparable. Hadn’t you always believed in that, too? Your laughter died down at that. Perhaps… they were right. The pack sticks together.

-

You made your way back to the lupin cages, shoulders hunched, the weight of your indecision pressing down with every step. You caught Sam’s eyes through the bars—his worry clear, but his disappointment clearer. The transformations you could handle; it was the waiting, the tension, the ache of not knowing your own heart that felt unbearable. In your haze, you’d forgotten the comforts that usually eased the change. Instead, you sat in the scratchy hay, cold and alone, wishing you’d packed better for a night like this.

We’re not fucking horses…

Your snacks were also left in your dorm, all in the bag you had packed for tonight. You lost your Walkman when you fell in the river, so no music tonight.

Gotta find out who that was still…

The air had started to settle as the moon climbed higher and higher into the sky. You closed your eyes in an attempt to ease your mind and quell your anxiety. Then you heard a shuffling and a scent you’d become all too familiar with. The smell that made your chest fill with excitement, unintentionally. His face came into view, and there he was: your Isaac. His pale skin seemed to glitter in the moonlight. Then you heard him speak.

“Hey, (Y/N).” He was quiet to avoid causing too much disruption. “You forgot this.” He held out your bag between the cage bars.

“My bag!” You grabbed it with excitement. Your snacks, blankets, and pillows, as well as an unfamiliar box. It was wrapped in dark blue, almost black, wrapping paper.

“It was me who… knocked you into the river… So I just thought it was the least I could do.” You peeled off the wrapping, and it was a brand-new Walkman. This one looked a bit different, though. “I made some personal modifications to it, so you can listen more easily.”

“An Isaac Night original then?” He laughed at that.

“I guess so…” His face turned sincere, “I… didn’t see you today. Everything okay?”

You looked him in the eye.

What on earth were you thinking? You can’t leave him; he’s not even allowed in here, especially not now, yet here he was. Bearing comfort and gifts, despite it being out of his nature.

It seemed silly, but in that moment, everything snapped into focus. Isaac, with his nervous smile and awkward kindness, was the one you wanted, no matter the consequences. If the pack couldn’t accept it, you’d find a new way to belong. Loving him was worth any risk. “I love it, Isaac, thank you.” You reached between the bars and placed your hand on his wrist. You gently guided him closer and tilted his head to the side slightly before placing a soft kiss on the apple of his cheek. Color rushed to his face, and he stuttered out a ‘goodnight’ and a ‘see you tomorrow,’ both causing you to giggle.

You loved that man. He was the only one for you.

----------

1989 - Late October, Nevermore - Jericho, Vermont

3 Days before the 1989 Rave’N

Isaac had never felt this way before; his clockwork heart was ticking faster than normal, and his palms were so sweaty they were making the papers in his hand soak. He had been carefully watching you from across the Quad. He wiped his hands on his pants and shoved his stuff into his messenger bag.

This was so stupid.

You two had basically gone on a date already; it had been a few weeks since then, and you two continued to hang out, granted, not by yourselves but within a larger friend group. That counted, right? Maybe not, but it certainly was enough to warrant him asking you to the Rave’N. If you had asked him a month ago if he was going to attend this year's Rave’N, he would’ve laughed, genuinely laughed, and said absolutely not. But here he was about to ask a girl he liked to go to a dance.

“Isaac!” Gomez brought him out of his spiraling. “Here’s the rubric for Orloff’s class. Thank you for letting me borrow it.”

“If you paid attention, you wouldn’t have to borrow it in the first place.”

“That’s what friends are for, though, no?” He laughed. Gomez’s eyebrows knitted together when Isaac didn’t even crack a slight smirk at that. Gomez used his finger to follow Isaac’s line of sight and saw that it landed right on you. You were sitting on a stone bench just across from the fountain in the middle. You were dramatically attacking out a script, must’ve been a very dramatic and violent role as you threw your arms around and threw the paper onto the ground. “Ohhhh…” He gave a slight huff of laughter. “My friend, are you going to talk to her or are you going to stare a hole into her head?”

“W-well, I was thinking of… I don’t know.” Gomez was able to put two and two together before gasping and clapping a hand on his shoulder, causing him to stumble a bit.

“Are you going to ask her to the Rave’N?” He asked excitedly.

“I-I mean I was considering it…”

“Yes, yes, yeah! She’s really cool! I approve, now go!” Gomez shoved Isaac forward, the whole situation becoming far too familiar.

“I-I don’t..”

“Go!”

“Would you stop it!” Isaac raised his voice slightly, becoming more panicked, and let out a yell far higher in pitch than his normal speaking voice. “I’ve still yet,” He paused, his voice lowering once more. “I’ve still yet to ask a girl out.”

“What?”

“You knew this, Gomez.”

“Yes, I did, but I assumed you had asked her on a date already… did you not at the Harvest Festival?” Isaac pondered for a minute before answering.

“Not really… it was more ‘hanging out’ than that… and it certainly wasn’t this formal…”

“True… but you have been on a date before.”

“Double dates… ones that you set up for me, or the occasional girl has asked me out, but I have yet to, personally, ask a girl out before, and especially not one that I…” Isaac gulped. Gomez leaned forward with a smug grin on his face.

“Love…?” Gomez drew out in a teasing way.

“Tolerate…” Isaac corrected. Gomez hummed clearly, not buying the stone-hearted act, or perhaps bronze-hearted.

Gomez sighed; he genuinely didn’t understand why his friend was nervous. It’s been established that you like him, he’s an attractive man, and usually a confident one. He has to admit, though, seeing his usually cool, composed, logical roommate become puddy when faced with you was quite amusing and endearing.

“Like I said before,” He smoothed out Isaac’s uniform before gently guiding him in your direction. “Just be calm and confident… You do that all the time!” He was right… Isaac was able to compact a car into a cube in a matter of seconds; he was able to extend Doctor Orloff’s life… he could absolutely ask you to a dance.

“You’re right.”

“Of course I am.”

“I can do this.”

“Absolutely!”

Gomez let go of Isaac and watched as he made his way to you. When Isaac stopped and addressed you, you looked up from your script. In that moment, all the confidence Isaac had been building up completely and utterly disintegrated the moment he saw your beautiful eyes. God, those eyes would be the end of him. So full of life, passion, and determination. It made his knees buckle and his tongue limp.

“Oh, hey, Isaac! What’s up?” You sounded a little sultry and yet teasing, hoping the reason for his appearance was what you'd hoped for: you already had a dress for the Rave’N, you just needed a date now.

“I was wondering.” A cough. “M-me and Go-Gomez were talking…”

NO, WHY ARE YOU BRINGING ME UP! Gomez was internally screaming as his eyes started bulging out of his head. All the preparation, down the toilet.

Your face turned to one of confusion as you tried to work out Isaac’s ramblings. He awkwardly laughed and sputtered out how you looked ‘very pleasant’ before making a quick U-turn back to Gomez.

“That was pathetic.” Gomez stated bluntly.

“That’s why you’re… helping… me.” Isaac hated to admit it, but he did indeed need help once again.

-

The next day, Isaac and Gomez hatched a new plan to ask you out. They decided simple was best and drew up a cue card for Gomez to hold. This way, Isaac wouldn’t blank and forget what to say, which cannot possibly go wrong.

You were sitting just outside the fencing hall, waiting for Morticia and Francoise to finish up practice. In the bushes behind you were Isaac and Gomez.

“Okay,” Gomez whispered. “She already likes you, so all you have to do is say,” He pulled up the cue card that read, “Will you go to the Rave’N with me?” In bright red lettering. Isaac nodded and stood up. He just stood there breathing for a second before Gomez pushed him to move in front of you.

“Hello, (Y/N)…”

“Isaac…” You set the book you were reading down to look at him. He did his best to tear his eyes away from yours to look up at Gomez holding the card. He took a breath before saying,

“Will you… go… to the dance… with me?” He did it!

You hummed briefly before picking your book up again and flinging it behind you, hitting Gomez square in the forehead, resulting in a sharp ‘OW’ behind you. You knew he would be fine. Isaac gave a slight whimper, one that you strangely liked.

“Isaac,” You addressed while standing up. “You might not believe this, but I’ve never been asked out before.”

“…No, I-I believe it…”

“This is my first dance, and I would like to be asked in a way that I will remember forever… not with cue cards…” You pointed over your shoulder.

“Wha- how did you know…?”

“Wolf hearing, boy genius.” Oh… of course, how could he have overlooked that obvious factor? “And smell, I can recognize Gomez’s cologne from five miles away, literally, I’ve tested it.”

“I’m sorry… are you going to throw a book at me too?” Isaac braced himself for a flying projectile or perhaps even a slap to the face.

“No,” You said incredulously. “Look, I’m not asking for a prince to ride up on a horse and whisk me away, but you should try something with a little more…flair… it's missing that je ne sais quoi… the ‘it factor’!”

“Okay, okay, I get your meaning…”

“Good!” You piped up and saw your friends exiting the Fencing Hall. You gave Isaac a gentle pat on the cheek before retrieving your book and joining your girl friends.

-

Isaac listened to what you said and came up with an idea. You wanted flair, he could do that. That night, he stayed up and built a miniature clockwork plane to fly the message to you. He didn’t have time to properly test it, but he was confident he could get the message across.

When he showed Gomez, he was impressed. “I’m afraid you might’ve outdone me, my friend!”

They found you listening to music on your Walkman, reading yet another script, down by Jericho River. This time, Gomez specifically did not put on his cologne, and they rubbed themselves in earth to mask their smell. He attached the note to the plane and used his DaVinci abilities to start it up. The plane flew towards you at a quick speed, perhaps a little too quickly. In that span of time, you also decided to stand up, and Isaac and Gomez watched in horror as the plane flew right into your head and knocked you into the river. You were fine, but your Walkman wasn’t. You let your wolf rage take over and screamed, “Who did that!” Isaac and Gomez decided it would be best to scurry back to their dorm room as quickly as they could. Isaac promptly flopped onto his bed and groaned.

He was beginning to lose hope. “Do you have any other ideas?”

“Have we ruled out just giving her some flowers?”

“No, but she said she wanted flair… that’s as textbook as they come…”

“But what if they were special flowers? You heard her, you don’t have to ride up on a horse for her, but maybe…” Isaac sat up. An idea.

“I know what to do… and you’re gonna help me.”

The two of them made their way to the top of Iago Tower and stayed there all night.

-

Night of the Rave’N

You, Morticia, and Francoise were waiting outside in the Link. Francoise already had her date with her, a normie named Donovan, a strange choice, but who were you to judge? Morticia was waiting for Gomez, who told her he’d meet her there, a strange occurrence; they usually didn’t go many places without one another.

“(Y/N), sweetling, I cannot believe you are here without a date.” Morticia gave you a sympathetic look, especially since you looked so lovely tonight. You were wearing a black-and-gold crushed-velvet gown. It had a sweetheart neckline and a black-and-gold rose choker with ribbons flowing down the back with thin black straps.

“It’s okay… Isaac tried asking me, but he’s really terrible at it.” At that moment, Gomez peeled around the corner and whisked Morticia off her feet. She laughed and gave him a large kiss. You sighed a bit, nothing too noticeable, which was out of character for you. Perhaps you should’ve lowered your expectations and just said yes when Isaac asked you? Or maybe you should’ve asked him? Supposedly, this could be a life lesson for you: manage your expectations.

“Okay! Is everyone ready to go?” Francoise piped up.

“Not quite…” Gomez responded, and on cue, you heard a trotting sound. Trotting around the corner was Isaac on a… horse? It was a clockwork horse that mirrored the ticking of his heart. It matched your black-and-gold dress and shimmered in the moonlight, thankfully not a full moon. Isaac was also matching, he must’ve been told what you were wearing cause there was no way he just guessed this. He was wearing black trousers, a black button-up, and a gold waistcoat with black detailing and buttons. He had a gold-and-black ascot as well, and black gloves, which you would have to ask him to wear more often. Your eyes were blown wide and your mouth even wider. Francoise, Morticia, and Donovan had similar expressions. How could you blame them? This was just the right balance of cool but also a little ridiculous for you.

“Hello, my dear,” He gestured to you with a steady, gloved hand. “Would you like to accompany me to this year's Rave'N?”

You squealed with excitement, “Fuck yeah, I will!” You hopped up onto the horse with no help at all; you didn’t need it, wolf powers. You sat saddleside and wrapped your arms around him. You waved goodbye to your friends as he rode off. You gave the horse a slap on its backside.

“Hey, hey, be careful, you’re gonna loosen the calibration…” You just giggled and squeezed him harder. He exhaled slowly through his nose, but he didn’t pull away.

----------

You were born at dawn on a beautiful spring morning. It had rained the night before, so everything was coated with dew. The air was chilly, but not the kind that burned; it felt fresh. It was ironic considering the circumstances of your conception.

Your mother was Lady Rhea Royce, heir to Runestone, and your father was Prince Daemon Targaryen, the Rogue Prince.

In cruel terms, you were an accident born from a mistake. Your parents' marriage had stayed unconsummated for a long time; one night was all it took, aided by drink and the particular misery of two people who despised each other, having nothing left to lose. Prince Daemon had been kicked from King's Landing yet again by his brother, King Viserys, and by all accounts had been livid and deep in his cups within the walls of Runestone. Your lady mother was having an exceptionally bad day of her own, and so she joined her husband in consuming a considerable amount of wine. One thing led to another, you were conceived, and the Targaryen prince fled the very next day.

You only ever saw glimpses of your mother and father. Your mother, while around, was never present. She knew she was supposed to care for you and love you, but how could she when you had his hair? You were born with bright white hair and dark purple eyes. A close image of the man she despised. The man she was forced to marry and regrettably slept with one time. So while she was never cruel to you, she was never much of a mother either. Perhaps if she spent the time with you, she would notice the dark brown hair at the base of your neck and at your roots, or the brown in your eyes that muddied the purple.

Your father, on the other hand… You saw even less of him. You were born the same year as Aegon II, and your father's response to the news was silence and then absence. He flew to the Stepstones without acknowledgment, leaving you to grow up in the Vale with only your mother and the quiet understanding that you had not been wanted. He returned sometimes, when the King willed it; punishment, usually, or something beneath him. Those days still excited you. There really was no reason why you wanted your father’s attention as much as you did. Perhaps it was the idea of it all, the dragons, the adventures you’d hoped to go on with him. It never happened, but maybe that was because he had deemed you unready? Yes, that had to be it; he was just looking out for you.

----------

You woke one morning to the sun blinding you. You sat up, slightly delirious, hair knotted. Your daze was broken at the recognizable whine of Caraxes from the distance. Your heart swelled with excitement. You had been training with the Master at Arms and wanted to show what you had learned to your father, who was known for his combat skills. You threw on the easiest dress you had, a brown one that required no assistance from handmaidens. You ran quickly down the steps, and outside, you might as well not have brushed your hair, seeing as it became messy once again. You knew that your father wouldn’t be around for long, so you couldn’t afford to waste time.

He was dismounting Caraxes when you saw him.

“Da! You… you back!” he heard in a breathless little voice. He closed his eyes and let out a huff, bracing himself to turn around and face you. He put on a slight smile to appease you.

“Hello, daughter…”

“I been learnin’… a lot…! I show you? Later? You watch me?”

“Perhaps, now I have some matters to attend to. I should be seeing you later…” he walked away before you could say anything else, already out of breath.

Daemon wasn’t sure why he did that to you. He knew that it devastated you, and you were always so elated to see him. He didn’t hate you, despite what some rumors said; he never called you his “Bronze Bastard,” although that was a popular rumor in the Vale. However, he couldn’t bring himself to pretend to want to be your father either… The truth was that you were a child he did not want from a woman he did not want either. While you looked like him in many ways, when he saw you, all he could see was the brown hair sprouting from the top of your head as he looked down at you, and he tried to focus on the violet color in your eyes, but that would require him to look you in the eyes more than he did. All of it reminded him of a life that was forced upon him.

It didn’t help that he was already in a foul mood after the King banished him to the Vale once again after proposing that he marry Rhaenyra, pointing out that he had a wife already, one he had a child with. Daemon knew why he was in the Vale this time; he knew he was going to commit an act that would change your life forever, for better or worse, he could not tell.

You were three name days old when Lady Rhea passed away in what was called a hunting accident. People of the Vale did not believe that story and were spreading rumors that it was her husband who murdered her in cold blood. The rumors never reached your ears, not yet at least.

Daemon knew he owed it to you to take you with him back to King’s Landing; there was nothing left for you in the Vale, and at least you’d be with your cousins in King’s Landing. He arrived much sooner than you, traveling on dragonback, whereas you were moved via carriage. By the time you arrived, about a month after your mother died, Rhaenyra had been wed to Laenor Velaryon, much to your father’s chagrin. It all happened too fast for your little mind to keep up with. Your father married another woman, Laena Velaryon, and he was gone from your life once again. He didn’t say goodbye, and you didn’t get to show him anything… but he’d be back shortly, he had to, you’d show him then.

----------

You were raised alongside the queen's children and Rhaenyra's boys. Of all of them, Helaena became your closest friend. Being the only other princess in the castle was reason enough at first, and genuine affection shortly after. She was the only one to comfort you when you expressed your discomfort with the news of Daemon’s two girls being born, Baela and Rhaena, across the Narrow Sea. You were afraid he would forget all about you… You were still upset with him for leaving you behind… again… but if you were being honest, you weren’t angry, just sad.

You avoided Aegon as much as possible; he unnerved you quite a bit and was too loud and reckless for your liking. Then there was Aemond… You quite liked him, well, you liked watching him. You’d never admit it, but as you grew up, you started developing quite the crush on the King’s second son. You watched him train with the Master at Arms. You still practiced in the dark of the night and at the crack of dawn, but you never trained with the Master at Arms in King’s Landing; it was deemed “unsuitable” for a lady here. So, you settled for watching from afar and taking notes. Aemond was very skilled, you had to admit, and perhaps that was what piqued your interest from the beginning. You listened to him talk from a distance and liked his cadence; you liked his hair, his clothing. If Aemond was a part of it, you liked it too.

Aemond noticed you, though he pretended not to. One day, he decided to confront you on your stalkerish behavior.

“You. Bronze girl. What do you want?”

You looked around, wondering who he was talking to, only to realize his eyes were staring into your own.

“Me? Oh! I was just admiring your skills with a sword, my prince.”

“Oh? And what about in the library?”

“...library?”

“Do you not watch me study as well?”

You thought you were stealthier than you actually were.

“Do you want the truth, my prince?” you murmured, embarrassed at being confronted.

“I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t,” he replied sharply.

You took a long pause before speaking again. Aemond watched you closely as your eyebrows knit together, “I admire you greatly, part of me wishes to become your friend, but I did not believe you to be interested... so I settled for watching from afar.”

He didn’t say anything right away, just looked down at you. His posture seemed to slacken a bit out of relaxation. “We can be friends...” he murmured.

Your ears perked up, your face breaking into a wide smile, “Truly?” you beamed.

Aemond was taken aback by the joy emanating from you; he nodded.

“Do you think, perhaps, I could practice swords with you?” You knew it was a bit of a risk to ask this as soon as you did, but Aemond didn’t seem all that bothered by it.

“I’m sure I can convince mother to allow it,” he shrugged, “but I am finished with this for the day, so it won’t be today.” He noticed your shoulders fall slightly before you picked yourself up again.

“Of course, my prince.” You stepped back, not wanting to disrupt his daily schedule any further.

“Wait!” he spoke louder than he meant to, “I-um, I am finished with swords for the day, but perhaps you’d like to join me in the library? Do you know any Valyrian?”

You shook your head no, “I do not, but I’d like to...” You stepped closer to him, “Perhaps you could teach me some?”

Aemond swallowed before nodding quickly.

It stayed this way for years, quite possibly the best years of your life. It was the most at peace and the most loved you had ever felt in your entire life. You and Aemond bonded over learning Valyrian and in the shared fact that you were the two Targaryen children without dragons. You made a promise to one another that you would both eventually claim a dragon and travel the world together, maybe even see what’s west of Westeros.

However, eventually word traveled home of the death of Laena Velaryon, and with that, the return of your father to Westeros. The moment you heard the whine of Caraxes, you suddenly felt like you were three years old again, begging for his attention. It was almost suffocating, the thought of seeing his disappointed face over and over again, but it was also exciting. The idea that he might be staying in King’s Landing for good, giving him a reason to stay, and you a chance to finally make him proud.

---------

You were older now, ten and three name days old, so when you went to greet your father upon arrival, you were more composed than you had been the last time.

“Father! You’re back!” However, your version of composition would be “improper” by many others' standards.

Daemon dismounted Caraxes, a sight that felt all too familiar, “Daughter, how are you? I trust King’s Landing has treated you well?”

“I am very glad to see you returned!” Your gaze shifted to the two smaller girls not too far behind him. “Oh! You must be Baela and Rhaena!” You stepped forward with a wide grin, time had squandered your worries about your father, and instead had been replaced with the excitement of having siblings, sisters in fact.

“I’m so happy to finally meet you! I’ve always wanted siblings!”

They seemed a little reserved. Perhaps you came on too strong? You didn’t know it, but they knew very little about you, only that you existed. Your father didn’t mention you that much, hardly ever, so when you greeted them with such enthusiasm, they were a bit perplexed as to why their father seemed to shun in such a way.

“It... is a pleasure to meet you as well!” Baela eventually replied. Rhaena was quieter; maybe she was just overwhelmed with her new environment.

You asked him in Valyrian, hoping to impress him — whether he might spare the day for you, now that you had so much more to show him than the last time he left.

Daemon’s eyes flashed to yours briefly in surprise before looking down again, away from you. “Maybe another day, as you said, I have just arrived, and I have important things to do.”

You felt discouraged; he seemed to refuse to speak Valyrian to you, and your shoulders slumped a bit as your wide smile slimmed into a flat line, only slightly curved at the edges.

“Of course... Father.” You nodded your head and watched as he walked away, again. You did your very best to conceal the devastation you felt. Did he not care that it had been ten years since you’d last seen each other? If you hadn’t addressed him as such, would he even have recognized you?

You felt a slight ringing in your ears, your vision becoming unfocused as you felt crushed by a mix of feelings you had not felt in a while…

It had been ten years, and he couldn’t even spare you more than a few minutes before running off again. You felt a hand come up to your back, making you seize up a bit, draw your shoulders up towards your neck, jump slightly, and catch your breath in your throat.

It was just Aemond, thankfully. He looked at you; you didn’t have to say anything to him for him to understand what you were thinking or feeling. That was something very special about the bond you both shared.

You relaxed into him a bit. He moved closer to you and let you lean against him slightly. His other hand moved to your arm, and you placed your hand over his in appreciation.

“Kirimvose.” Thank you. You murmured to him as you leaned your head on his shoulder.

“Biarvose.” You're welcome.

----------

The bond between you and Aemond did not go unnoticed, particularly by King Viserys himself. He felt rather charmed by it, a union of his “old” and his “new” family. He proposed the betrothal to his wife, Alicent Hightower, who had also noted the bond between the two of you and supported it fully. To be frank, she was just happy to see her son smile for once. The part they both dreaded was telling Daemon of it, for neither of them could determine how he would respond.

“Brother. You wished to see me? What for?” Daemon addressed his elder brother while strolling casually into the room. The King and Queen decided it would be best for him to break the news to his brother alone.

“You’ve returned from a long stint of us being apart, again, can’t I just see you again?” Viserys tried his best to conceal the formality of the setting and the stiffness of the room. However, they both knew that Daemon was too well-versed in court and his brother to buy a single sentence of it.

“Let’s not play this game, dear brother. What is it you’d like to discuss that is so important that you felt the need to tell me before I have even retired for the night?”

Viserys sighed and hobbled in front of the fireplace. “It’s about your daughter.”

“Which one?” Daemon already knew which one.

“Your eldest, I hope you’ll share my enthusiasm for this decision.” Daemon tilted his head slightly, not quite sure where this was going, refusing to believe it was what he briefly thought it was. “The Queen and I have decided that a betrothal of your daughter and my son Aemond would be a suitable pairing.”

Daemon didn’t respond right away, only offering a small ‘hm’; his mouth was slightly ajar, and his eyes shifted from his brother to the fireplace. It was one of the few times Daemon had been speechless in his life. Not from shock but more from a lack of knowing what to say. In truth, he had no idea whether it was a good pairing. He knew he was an absent father; he’d be a fool to deny it, but it never quite hit him how little he knew about you... He knew your name, your mother; unfortunately, he knew you were... persistent, a happy child, he assumed... He knew even less about your betrothed... but he didn’t think for a moment that his brother would put you in harm's way, so that must mean that it truly was a good match.

You had written a few letters to him while he was gone; he only ever skimmed through them, they were quite long, and he had only ever sent a short reply. He wondered if you ever mentioned Aemond in them.  

“What brought about this... proposal?” he thought he should at least get an idea of the nature of your relationship. Viserys turned to his brother with a small smile.

“They spend almost all their days together,” he huffed a small laugh, “Always in the library, the training grounds, oftentimes in each other's rooms, but not without supervision, I assure you.”

Daemon gave a few small nods, “What...” he huffed, “What is she like?” Viserys debated answering.

“She’s a good girl, but I think it would be best for you to find out for yourself. If you find the time to do so...” Daemon decided to ignore the small dig.

“Maybe... Regardless, I give my consent to move forward with the betrothal.”

Viserys gave a sigh and smiled, “I can assure you, brother, this is a well-matched pair; they will both be very pleased. I encourage you to see them interacting. I think you will find yourself as charmed as the rest of us.”

----------

You were alone in your quarters, stitching a pattern into a tunic you had been making yourself for Aemond’s name day. It was a base of black, obviously, with red dragon stitchings around the borders and down the middle. On the back, you decided to embroider a pattern resembling a map of Old Valyria in the same shade of crimson red as the rest of the accents. Inside the collar, you carefully stitched High Valyrian into it, Naejot ñuha nēdenka zaldrīzes, Avy jorrāelan. To my brave dragon, I love you. It would be the first time you’d ever put it to writing. Part of you was nervous, even though you felt confident that he felt the same towards you. The thought of Aemond in general filled you with nerves, both good and bad. Good in that he made you feel like a silly girl you used to read stories about. The kind that blushed and kicked their feet, that wasn’t supposed to be you, you were supposed to be a dragon, fierce and fiery. Bad in the sense that the idea of anything bad happening to him made your chest tight and your throat constrict so tightly that you might never speak again.

A knock at the door broke you out of your trance-like state. You quickly put away all your sewing materials and hid the tunic in a chest under your bed.

“Daughter, it's me. Might I enter?”

Your back straightened, your father was here? To see you? You almost fell over running to the door and flinging it open, “Kepa!”

Daemon gave you a slight smile at your use of Valyrian. You moved out of the way to let him in. You took a breath to relax and not be too overbearing.

“I am happy to see you again. I was worried that... um...,” you trailed off, not wanting to mention your fear of him leaving again, you’d hate to make him feel guilty and cause him to flee once more. “Never mind me, what is it that you wished to see me for?”

Daemon listened to you while taking in your bed chambers, the tapestries on the wall, all with dragons on them, the black and brown couches, a mixture of Targaryen black and Royce brown, the bedpost with markings on it, most likely used for combat practice in your spare time. Daemon always had prided himself on being observant; it felt like he learned more about you simply by being in your room for a few seconds than he had learned in all thirteen years you’d been alive. The white of your hair caught the candlelight, so purely Targaryen, so purely from him. He wondered, not for the first time, what you might have been had you come from another woman. His fingers moved toward your white hair before he caught himself. You could have been his, fully and without complication, if only things had been different. But they weren’t. The brown was always there. It always would be.

“I have some news to share with you, my dear. Two moons ago, the King summoned me to a private council, concerning you...” Your eyes widened a bit. Daemon gave a slight chuckle at your expression, “You did not do anything wrong, do not fret.” He lowered himself onto a chair in the lounge, and he gestured for you to take a seat opposite him. As you settled, he spoke again, “I think it is something you’ll be quite joyful to hear. The King has decided it is time you are betrothed...”

Your mouth fell agape before closing; you knew this was coming sooner or later, and you just hoped it would be to someone you liked... “To whom?” you asked softly.

“Uh... some Lannister brat whose name escapes me currently...”

Your face screwed up in disgust, lip curling, eyes squinting. Daemon gave a bark of laughter at your instinctual reaction.

“I kid, daughter.” Your eyes widened in relief, and you took a deep breath and let out a breathy laugh. Your father had joked with you. “You’re to marry Aemond. From what I hear, you two are quite close.”

Your eyes brightened and sparkled with excitement, and you stood up from your seat. “Truly?!” he nodded, “Father, thank you so much, I can’t- I’m-” You were so exuberant you found it hard to formulate words. You took some deep breaths to calm yourself once more, “Thank you, father, I-I love Aemond...” You fought back the urge to move and hug your father, settling for a nod of gratitude, one he returned.

Daemon rose and placed his hands on your shoulders. “It’s late, daughter, I think it best you retire for the night.”

“Of course, kepa. Sȳz bantis.” Good night.

He was in the doorframe when he responded, turning slightly, “Sȳz bantis, ñuha brāedāzma zaldrīzes...” Good night, my bronze dragon...

----------

The Queen had summoned you to tea a few days later in hopes of discussing the betrothal.

“Sweet Dragon, how are you?” Alicent smiled. She had come to think of you as another daughter in the years you knew each other. “I trust your father has told you the good news?”

“Yes! I am thrilled to hear it.” Your voice was loud with excitement before quieting down and tacking on ‘your grace’ at the end.

“I am happy, as well, to hear of it. It seemed the obvious choice when the King pitched the idea to me.” Your step faltered slightly. Was it the King’s idea? You thought your father had suggested it, assuming he knew of your relationship with Aemond from your letters. He read them, right? He sent replies back. Why would he send replies to letters he hadn’t read? You shook your head clear, of course he did... he probably just didn’t want to marry you off so soon... He probably just wasn’t sure, and the King’s suggestion probably just put his worries to ease. You took a few deep breaths, your eyes refocused to see Alicent looking at you, mildly concerned. “Is everything alright, dear?”

“Perfectly fine, your grace. Just a tad overwhelmed, but happy all the same.”

“That’s good. Now, I figured you and I could discuss some of the general details of the betrothal, with the main question being when it will happen.” Your private audience with the queen was interrupted by Helaena, “Oh! I had almost forgotten. I hope you don't mind my asking Helaena to join us as well?”

“Of course not! I love spending time with my soon-to-be sister!” Helaena jumped a bit at that and shared your excitement.

The three of you enjoyed your tea and biscuits, the conversation pleasant and easy. That was, until Helaena went quiet mid-sentence, her eyes drifting somewhere far away. "They do not mean to," she said suddenly. "The ones with hooves. They simply do not stop." You found it odd but not unexpected for the dreamer princess.

Time passed into the afternoon when a Kingsguard entered, dragging along a soot-covered Aemond.

“Aemond!” You stood up quickly and moved to him, “What has happened?” You heard Helaena say something, but it didn’t fully register; you were focused on Aemond. Aemond looked down, not wishing you to see him in such a state. Alicent gently moved you aside to scold her son about trying to claim an adult dragon.

“They gave me a pig!” Aemond lashed out. A pig? Who did? Humiliated, Aemond explained that the other boys, most likely Aegon and the two Velaryon boys , wouldn’t be the first to joke about Aemond not having a dragon; they teased you about it once or twice as well. They had given him a pig dressed up as a dragon, and they all laughed at him... oh, your poor dragon.

Alicent stormed out of the room, Helaena and the Kingsguard following close behind, leaving you and Aemond alone in the room. You gently grabbed his arm and led him over to the wash basin, wetting a cloth and wiping his face clean. Sighing, you spoke again, “Oh, Aemond... why did you go with them?” He flinched away,

“It’s not like I knew! They told me they wanted to show me something in the dragon pits!”

“What did you think it was going to be?”

“Why are you defending them? Whose side are you on?” You stopped for a moment, bewildered. Aemond saw the incredulous look in your eyes. “I’m sorry...” You’d always been on his side, always there for him; he knew it was wrong to question it.

“It’s okay... it’s just... You could’ve been seriously hurt today... and not long after I received the good news.” Aemond looked confused,

“What news?”

They hadn’t told him yet. You got the pleasure of telling him yourself. You gently set the cloth down before taking his hands in yours. “My father has given consent for us to be betrothed to one another.”

Aemond was silent as his eyes met yours again, wide as saucers. “We are to be wed?” You giggled,

“Well, not yet, but in the future, yes.” He was silent once more. Surely, he was happy? Your nerves quelled instantly when he huffed a laugh and gave you a big, toothy grin. You could not remember him ever smiling so widely. He quickly leaned forward and placed a kiss on your lips. Your entire body seized up in shock, and you stumbled back a bit. Aemond pulled away slightly.

“I-I’m sorry,” It was your turn for your eyes to be as big as the moon. “I shouldn’t-”

“Don’t ever apologize.” You grabbed his cheeks and pressed your face into his. It wasn’t a very “good” kiss, but neither of you cared very much. You two kept giving each other clumsy little kisses before resting your foreheads against each other.

“You will have a dragon, Ñuha nēdenka zaldrīzes.” You bumped your nose against his. “It will be the biggest dragon to ever live, and men will then know how great you are.”

-----------

You had not seen much of your father since your betrothal was announced. You had mistakenly thought you had reached a turning point in your relationship, one where you would finally become the father-daughter duo you had always hoped to be. Every time you sought him out, something else took precedence. You wondered if this was how he treated your half-sisters. It was partially true, but at least he was more involved in their lives. He had been particularly involved in whatever events were occurring in the life of Princess Rhaenyra and her sons. She already had multiple children, and with Baela and Rhaena, you would surely be lost among the pack.

You had carefully calculated your plan of attack and had been watching your father’s daily schedule. He woke up just before dawn, took a spin on Caraxes, stopped by for breakfast briefly, and so on. You were determined to see him; you had spent ten long years mastering crafts, as well as a girl your age could, and you were going to show him. Perhaps it was less out of wanting to please him now and more in spite of him. You knew as a father he should’ve been more involved; deep down, you knew at least, it was a major part of you. Making excuses for him, telling yourself it was somehow for your own good or that you had done something. It was the part you refused to acknowledge, even now as you waited outside his door, the sun not having risen yet. You wanted to show him what he had missed all these years, that you were worth staying for, and that it was a mistake on his part.

You were broken out of your sleepy daze when your father’s door flew open. He was startled by your presence. “Gods, Daughter, what are you doing here?”

You clumsily stood, “I want to show you what I can do. I am not taking no for an answer this time. You’re the king's brother, surely you can postpone your plans for today...” Your confidence slowly teetered off as you continued. Regardless, you stood firm in your place in front of him; you were a dragon, and you intended to prove it.

Daemon raised his eyebrows; in a way, he was proud of you for standing your ground, but mostly he was exasperated. All you ever spoke of was what you had to show him. He was fairly certain you could tell him you had claimed a dragon, and he still would not be particularly moved; he had long since assumed you could fight, that you knew Valyrian, that you could sew. He never quite understood why you felt the need to prove it.

He had also looked forward to the plans he had made for today; he was going to spend it with Baela and Rhaenyra, as well as her two sons, Jacaerys and Lucerys. He would’ve included Rhaena, but she had not yet claimed Vhagar as expected. You also did not have a dragon, so he figured it would be best to make you happy quickly before continuing on with his day.

“Alright, what is it you’d like to do?”

You stared at him, mouth agape. It worked? “Oh! Um- well I’d like to show you how good I am in the training yard and-and I have this piece of clothing I have stitched that I am proud of... so I’d like to show you that, I think you’d appreciate the details... not many people would understand the reference, I think...” You rambled on a bit longer; you had a list of things you wanted to do with him, but all of a sudden, it was like your mind had been wiped clean. Daemon eventually cut you off,

“Yes, yes, we would do all of those things right after,” here we go again, “we take a flight on Caraxes.”

“R-really?” The closest you had ever gotten to a dragon was when Aegon scared you with Sunfyre one time, not for lack of trying, as you and Aemond often attempted to claim a dragon before, but your nerves always got the best of you. Daemon slowly nodded,

“So you'd best collect your things in a travel bag, and I will take you where I like to go when I practice my skills.” He would hear a faint ‘wow’ from you as he brushed past you. “Go on then.”

You scurried off to your room and started filling a sack with your things. You went back and forth on whether to take the tunic you were making for Aemond with you, but decided against it. You wanted it to remain as pristine as possible, settling instead on an embroidery of a three-headed dragon, a take on your house sigil come to life.

Your father was waiting next to Caraxes in the dragon pit. The sun had risen, marking it as a later start to his day than he would have liked. He sighed. He was going to take you to a gorge somewhere in the Reach; he had visited it a handful of times over the years, though never made a habit of training in it. Perhaps it would suit you better. He caught sight of you entering the pit, and you seemed hesitant. You hadn’t seen Caraxes in years, and even then, you never got all that close to him; you didn’t know if he would recognize you at all.

Daemon beckoned you towards the Blood Wyrm. You took tepid steps towards the massive beast. Caraxes shifted slightly at the new presence. Daemon took your hand and lifted your arm. You jerked back a bit when the dragon jolted forward, shoving his head into you. You fought against your father briefly before he spoke,

“Are you a dragon or not?”

It sent a chill throughout your body. Of course you were... but dragons were still fearsome creatures who should be respected... and feared. Daemon dropped your arm, “Perhaps you are not ready.”

“NO! I am.” You had never raised your voice at him before. “Just- just let me do it myself...” You took a deep breath before slowly raising your hand. Your fingers were curled into a fist; you felt as though you had to pry them open to present an open palm to Caraxes’ nose.

He took some sniffs before enthusiastically pushing his nose into your hand. You moved your hand to pet him while giving a breathless laugh.

“Hey, big guy, do you remember me at all?” Caraxes gave a small whine. He did. Your scent resembled his rider’s quite a bit, but with another hint of something that could only come from the Vale.

Daemon was happy for you, though part of him had hoped your nerves would get the better of you and cut the day short. He helped you onto Caraxes before jumping on himself in front of you. You held onto him extremely tightly. He wasn’t going to take you on a joyride; that might be too much of a shock to your system. He patted Caraxes to let him know to take it easy.

You felt the dragon move beneath you, and then, all of a sudden, it felt as though you were light as a feather. You felt yourself lift off the saddle slightly, and you grabbed your father's back. It was the kind of weightlessness that made you feel as though you were falling, the empty feeling in your stomach. It was terrifying, yet the scare factor only fed into your excitement.

It was incredible, you saw Westeros in a whole new light. It was actually quite beautiful from this height. You were flying towards the Reach, and you could see bits of Highgarden from afar when you felt yourself starting to descend. You looked down to see a large, barren gorge. Seemed good for a private spot to train. You could swing all day and barely hit anything. The ground was covered in dry dirt; it hadn’t rained in a few weeks, which was becoming concerning for many lords in the Reach.

You almost slid off when Caraxes landed, shaking you. You did your best to dismount, but your knees gave out when you landed, causing you to stumble slightly. You heard your father chuckle a bit when you popped back up.

“I’m okay!” you called. Your father descended with ease and made his way around to you.

“Now, you see that rock over there?” You turned around and spotted the large sloped boulder sitting in the middle of the gorge. “I want you to go over there and start warming up for whatever it was you wished for me to see.” You nodded eagerly and bounded over. Your enthusiasm was extinguished when you noticed your father not following you.

“Where are you going?” Daemon nearly considered changing his mind when he heard your voice. You sounded so little, your voice cracking slightly towards the end.

“I have something to attend to, but rest assured, I will be back, and by then you’ll be ready.” You had never heard your father so soft-spoken before. Perhaps he was being truthful, and he would only be gone for a moment? You did have to practice quite a bit; you hadn’t in a few days, being caught up in the betrothal and other Aemond activities. You wanted to make a good impression, so maybe it was best he did not see you warming up.

“Okay... but you promise you’ll be back?”

“I promise...” He thought about placing a kiss on your forehead, right where your hairline was, but he settled for a simple caress of the cheek when he saw the brown once again. You watched him mount Caraxes once more. He took one last look at you, and a small smile graced his face before taking off again.

You ran back to the rock and began practicing. You practiced your swing and even started jumping off the rock for an aerial attack. You felt better after that; you had knocked Aemond down a few times, so you were confident you had the talent to back up the amount of pestering you had done to your father. It had been about an hour or so by the height of the sun... where was he? You started to worry that something might’ve gone wrong. You heard a dragon cry from aways away, definitely not Caraxes’ signature whine. You heard a higher-pitched one as well... what was going on?

----------

Daemon waited with Caraxes upon a cliff, a decent way away from you. He was lost in thought about you.

This is wrong... it is heartless, even by your standards...

She is waiting for you... down there in that gorge, just as you promised her.

Why are you doing this to her... again?

His guilt-ridden thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Syrax. All of a sudden, those bad thoughts went away.

She can wait... she always did.

Not too far behind was Jacaerys on Vermax, who had grown just big enough to ride. On top of Syrax was little Lucerys, and next to Syrax was even littler Arrax, still too small to be ridden but big enough to fly on his own. Joining them was Baela on Moondancer as well.

The riders and dragons spent the day flying and feeling as free as, well, as dragons. The thoughts of you in the gorge swiftly left Daemon’s mind as soon as he and Caraxes flew side by side with Rhaenyra and Syrax.

----------

Hours passed, the sun moved closer and closer to the West, and still no sign of your father. Thankfully, you had packed some rations in case of an emergency. The dark thoughts you had always suppressed started seeping through the cracks of your mind like venom spreading through veins.

Your father loved you, didn’t he?

Fathers don’t leave their children alone...

They aren’t supposed to do that.

This is not how it's supposed to be!

In the distance, you heard Caraxes, and you snapped out of it. He came back. You could hear multiple dragons now, could feel their roars rumbling through the earth beneath you, and yet you saw nothing. You looked higher, toward the entrance of the gorge, scanning the sky... no wings, no scales. Something else crested the top of the gorge instead.

At the top of the gorge was the source of the rumbling... horses?

----------

Daemon and Rhaenyra had long since dismounted their dragons. They settled in the grass and watched the children playing. Jacaerys and Baela, encouraging their dragons to roar as loud as possible, were determined to prove their dragon was superior to the others. It made the two laugh... Perhaps Jacaerys would wed Baela? And Lucerys to Rhaena, when they came of age?

That seemed like a nice future...

All of a sudden, Lucerys could be heard yelling excitedly from afar. “A STAMPEDE! You guys started a stampede, look!” He laughed, finding it amusing to see the wild horses fleeing in fear of being dragon dinner. “They are heading for the gorge!”

Daemon found it amusing how excited he got about the horses filling the gorge. The gorge... 

THE GORGE

Daemon felt the world slow around him... You were still there, presumably... and the horses were headed right towards you... Daemon sprung up, startling Rhaenyra. He called Caraxes without a word and mounted him faster than he had ever done before, urging the dragon into the sky.

The Blood Wyrm tore through the sky toward the gorge, the horses having kicked up so much dirt that Daemon could see nothing from above. Caraxes landed hard. Daemon was off the dragon before it had fully stilled, running to where he had left you. You weren’t there. Your bag was. You must have tried to run.

----------

You had never felt so cold when you saw what looked like horses descending from the sky. Frozen in fear, you watched the wild beasts hurrying towards you, clearly frightened. You knew nothing would stop them; horses were formidable creatures, and when running for their lives, nothing would slow them... especially not you. You discarded your bag and anything that might weigh you down and took off running. You ran and ran, your lungs burning. You managed a look back and nothing you could do would widen the gap between you and your death. The horses were closing in and your legs were starting to give out. Then your eyes cast up and you saw the tree; it was small and clearly not meant for climbing, but it wasn’t as though you had any choices. You used what little energy you had left to push towards it and scramble up. Your arms and legs felt boneless. You were out of the horses’ way just barely when they came barreling through, shaking everything around them.

Fear had never gripped you so completely. Tears started clouding your vision; you had always prided yourself on almost never crying, always being the happy child, the one grateful for having anything. But you couldn’t stop the sobs from ripping  through you.

Kepa, please save me... please, please please...

Please don't forget about me again...

In some strange way, your life had never seemed so clear to you before. If he had cared, he would have taken you to Pentos all those years ago... if he had cared, he would not have killed your mother... That just made you sob harder, the cracking of the branches not registering in your ears.

“Father... please...” You choked out the words, dust filled your lungs, causing your body to convulse.

The branch snapped, and you fell to the ground into the horses.

----------

Daemon didn’t think when he took off; he just ran down the gorge looking for any signs of you. His eyes burned from the dust, which created a thick atmosphere, making the already breathless man even more short of breath. Daemon slowed slightly at the sight of... something... underneath a broken tree.

The tree was shattered, its branches littered across the ground. In the middle of it all was something Daemon could not quite identify; it looked like little more than a shadow from where he stood. He stepped slowly towards it, each step feeling like wading through muddy water. Daemon knew what it was deep down... his mind only registering it once he caught a glimpse of white hair. He stopped.

No... gods no...

“Dau-?” his voice gave out before trying again, “Daughter?” he called weakly, hoping for the shadow to begin stirring with life. Daemon’s eyes were burning, but he couldn’t bring himself to look away; even for a second it would take to blink. He took a few more heavy steps until he was close enough to just barely see the brown roots of your hair. It was you, but you didn’t look like yourself.

Your white hair was stained shades of pink and red. Your body had become contorted and broken. Your legs were in unnatural positions; your one arm was beneath you, the other out in front, bent the wrong way.

Daemon’s eyes finally made their way to your face, an image that would haunt him the rest of his life. The side of your head was smashed in from multiple hooves, and the contents of your mind peeked out. He could only make out one eye, the one closest to the dirt; it was wide with a shadow of fear still sitting within. The dark purple of your eyes was being drowned out by blood red. Your mouth was agape, jaw broken. You had died by suffocation before the horses brutalized you… the thought did not bring him any comfort.

Daemon's legs gave out. He was not aware of hitting the ground. There was nothing in his chest; just a hollow where something should have been. He found himself staring at your hair. Mostly white, the way it always was, but the brown roots were still there at the base. They were always there. He thought about the night in your chambers, his fingers moving toward you before he pulled away. He thought about the moment just a few hours ago, his lips almost finding your forehead before the brown caught his eye again. He had pulled away. He always pulled away.

He hesitantly moved to touch you, then gathered you toward him as carefully as he could. It felt as though you were going to shatter under the slightest movement. He carefully supported your head, noticing the way it lolled about when he moved you. Your neck was snapped, only being held together by a few muscles.

Daemon gave a small whimper at this. Part of your spine had also been snapped, as your hips did not follow your upper body. He moved his hand from your head to your back, then to your legs, in an effort to bring you closer, but was startled by the sudden drop of your head when he did. He shifted his legs to bring you into his lap and let your head rest against his chest. Daemon’s stomach started turning; he felt his throat burn. He refused to spill the contents of his stomach on you; he couldn’t bear disrespecting you further.

His eyebrows started to ache from being knitted together; his eyes, which had been burning, began to feel relief as tears welled up. He was crying.

“Ñuha brāedāzma zaldrīzes... I am here... I’m not going anywhere.” His voice was cracked. He kissed your head, unbothered by the bloodiness of the marred side of your head. He kissed your hair, both white and brown, your forehead, and looked into your eyes, wishing they would look up at him once more with the excitement and adoration he took for granted. “Māzigon arlī.” Come back.

His breathing had become strangely regular, producing only a huff every few seconds. Home. He had to bring you home. You deserved that, you deserved a lot, but this was the very least he could do. Make sure you were sent off with respect. When he attempted to move you further, he heard the sound of bones shifting beneath your skin. How could you possibly make it back to King’s Landing? You couldn’t.

Daemon did his best to set you down gently. He felt the ground rumble when a familiar golden dragon landed to his left. Caraxes came up on his right. Rhaenyra slowly descended from Syrax.

“Daemon... what has happened?” She sounded as if she were underwater to him.

A long silence fell along the cavity of the earth. Caraxes let out a small whine, then Daemon spoke softly once more, “Ñuha tala...  iksis morghe.” My daughter... is dead.

“She won’t make it to King’s Landing...” Daemon sucked in a shaky breath. “We have to burn her here... she's a Targaryen...”

Rhaenyra was shaken to her core; she had never seen her uncle in such a state before. She had only ever known the confident man from her youth. Now she saw someone she barely recognized.

“Of course...” She spoke and began gathering wood for a funeral pyre. Daemon did his very best to straighten you out; he lay you on your back, closed the eye that was still intact, and brushed your hair out with his fingers. The hardest part was coaxing your broken limbs back into something resembling peace. His hands shook the whole time; it took everything in him not to unravel.

Oh, his poor sweet daughter... how could he have let this happen...

She had done nothing wrong... not a single thing...

He had told himself there would be more time. There was always supposed to be more time.

"I'm so sorry..." It was then that he properly cracked, sobbing as he had not since Laena. He felt Rhaenyra's hands at his back, and after a long moment, he let her help him.

Together they lifted you carefully, supporting your head, and laid you on the pyre. Daemon stood there for a long moment, his mind offering him the mercy of imagining you at peace — face undamaged, body whole. But reality broke through, as it always does. He closed his eyes.

"Dracarys."

(END OF PART ONE)

----------

A/N: This is the longest thing I've ever written holy crap... I have no idea if this is good or not but either way I'm pretty proud I actually finished something. Also I wanna make a part 2, kinda a follow up but I have no clue when I would put that out, it's a miracle this came out.