No One

Chapter 1: Before

A very long time ago

Some children are born of love, and others of duty; Shaera was born of spite, and she felt the cold chill of it since her very first breath. What had begun as a single, loveless choice had spiraled into a lifetime of consequences, until Shaera finally understood just how grave a mistake her parents had made by bringing her into the world.

Shaera had never truly cared for her chamber. Yet as she watched the maids pack all her belongings into small travel bags, she found herself loving it all of a sudden.

It was not a grand chamber like the ones the princes and princesses occupied. It had only a tiny solar and an even smaller bedchamber, with a single narrow window that let in a thin blade of light. Still, for years it had been her home.

She had fallen asleep beneath the canopy bed counting the painted dragons stitched into the fabric above her. She had taken her first tumble down the narrow staircase that led to the sleeping chamber. And once, when her maids were not looking, she had carved her name into one of the stones near the hearth. She had made it her home, even though it belonged to another.

Home was a funny word to Shaera. It seemed to change whenever someone decided it should. First she had been told her home was Runestone, a distant place made of grey rock and bitter wind. Her father used to say even the sheep there were dull. Shaera had laughed at that as she followed him through the halls of Dragonstone, her hand clutching the edge of his cloak.

She had been five when he told her she must leave Dragonstone. She cried then. Begged him not to send her away but It made no difference.

This time her uncle had assured her this would be the last move. He had promised she would never have to leave King’s Landing unless she wished it.

Her hands clenched in her lap as she tried to remember what she had done wrong. The first thing that came to mind was Driftmark. The accident there had changed her entire life; though she hadn't known it that day, she had somehow felt it.

It had been the first time she met her half-sisters, and she wanted so desperately to make a good impression. She liked to think she was as fierce as her father—a rogue, just like him. She wore that mask in the Red Keep, and it had always worked for her. However, playing that part had ultimately led to Aemond losing an eye. And it had been done with Shaera’s own knife.

Of course, Luke had been nice enough not to tell anyone it was hers. He was as stupidly noble as his brothers, and she might have gotten away with it if it were not for Aemond. He knew exactly whose blade had sliced his face, and he undoubtedly blamed her. Yet, in the hall that night, he hadn’t spoken a word of it, either. That had been a surprise. Aemond despised her, and she despised him in return.

But when they finally returned to King's Landing, she understood his silence. He had told his mother and the Queen absolutely refused to have Shaera in the castle anymore. Her uncle Viserys was always weak, especially when it came to his wife's demands. Just half a moon later, Shaera was informed she was to leave.

The chamber door creaked open, and Shaera stopped swinging her feet on the stool she sat upon. Her uncle Viserys smiled as he walked towards her.

He looked worse than before, with only one hand left and half of a face, but when he placed his hand on her shoulder, Shaera found herself wishing he would never let go.

“It is time,” he said softly. They had spoken of this before. Shaera made no argument now, just as she had not the last time the matter was raised.

The Keep had been her home for five years, but she had no family here. No matter how much she tried to deny it, Shaera was a stranger and would always be one.

How could you do this to me? She bit the inside of her cheek as she walked beside her uncle through the corridors. By now she had convinced herself it was all her mother’s fault.

Rhea Royce was a woman Shaera knew only by name. She had disappeared on Shaera's first name day to go hunting. The hunting party returned, but Rhea didn’t. Not a bone or scrap of cloth had ever been found.

When she was little, Shaera believed her mother had simply gotten lost while hunting and would come back if Shaera behaved well enough. Later she came to hate her instead. If her mother had stayed, perhaps Shaera would have had a home. Perhaps someone would have stood for her when she needed it, as the queen did for her own children.

“You know, you can always visit,” her uncle said as they reached the main yard. A simple carriage waited there, with servants helping to lift her belongings inside. “You have a dragon, Shaera. Grey Ghost would gladly bring you here whenever you feel like it.”

“Grey Ghost does not like flying,” Shaera replied.

Shaera had not been given an egg in her cradle as other Targaryen children were. Her father had refused it outright, if only to spite her mother. For years she believed that meant she would never have a dragon at all. But during the short time she lived on Dragonstone, she had found Grey Ghost or he had found her.

At the time she did not understand what it meant. Not until the day she was sent away again and the pale dragon followed her into the sky as the ship carried her from the island. And though he did not care much for flying, nor for riders, nor for any of the things dragons were meant to enjoy, he was a good dragon all the same…and he and Shaera understood each other.

Her uncle laughed. “Even so, he will feel it when you need to go home.” He knelt beside her. “Child, I promised you many things once, but I find myself failing again to keep any of my words. I want you to know my greatest mistake is sending you away, but you must understand, you cannot stay here after what happened.” He huffed a labored breath. “The world is cruel, Shaera. You don’t need me to say it, for I know you have not lived long to experience just how cruel life can be. But when the time comes, you must stand with your family. You are a Targaryen. You must not forget that.”

Tears gathered in her eyes, but she pushed them away. She had promised herself she would never cry again in her life, and unlike her uncle, Shaera kept her promises.

“I remember, uncle,” she said. “Fire and blood.”

That earned her a small ruffle of her hair. She watched as her uncle struggled to stand, eventually guided back inside the Keep by two guards.

“It is time, my lady,” one of the maids said.

Shaera wanted one last look at the castle before she left. She had already promised herself she would never return here again. But as she lifted her eyes toward the Red Keep, something caught her attention.

Aemond stood upon one of the balconies overlooking the yard. They were the same age; they could have been friends if Aemond didn’t hate her so much, or if she had not called him every cruel name a child could invent.

She took a step forward, and Aemond took one backward. Perhaps this was how things would always be: him looking down at her, and she... leaving.

“My lady,” the maid called again. “Please.”

She turned to answer. “In a minute.” But when she looked back up, Aemond was gone.

Not my home, she told herself as she climbed into the carriage and then the ship. Until she reached the mountain stronghold of Runestone, she kept telling herself she had no home that she had only Grey Ghost and herself.

Never did she know that life had a way of changing when one least expected it.

When Shaera finally arrived at Runestone, she realized something strange: she understood her father. Standing there, she could see exactly why he had always spoken so poorly of this place, finding it dull and lifeless.

Runestone was not beautiful or grand like the Red Keep but rather it was old. The castle was made of thick, plain gray stone, built right by the sea to and there were no bright colors, golden decorations, or delicate windows here. As she stood in the chilly courtyard, a guard walked up to her. He gestured toward the wooden doors of the keep.

“This way, my lady," the guard said. "Ser Gunthor will meet you inside."

The wait was not long, though in the vast, echoing silence of the hall, it felt like an eternity. Heavy footsteps eventually broke the quiet, and Ser Gunthor Royce emerged from the shadows.

He had a thick beard and a weathered face and wore the runic bronze armor of his house. He looked at her silver hair and saw the Rogue Prince who had scorned his kin and brought only misery to their house.

For the first few moons, Gunthor was distant. He spoke to her only when necessary, his words clipped and formal, treating her more like a burdensome captive than a ward. He hated Targaryens, and he made no secret of it.

But Shaera was used to being unwanted. She did not demand affection or complain about the cold, nor did she act like the spoiled princess he had clearly expected.

The ice between them began to thaw the day he found her in the armory tracing the runes on a rusted shield. Gunthor had known his own share of emptiness; he had buried two wives, both taken by the birthing bed, leaving him with grief and no children of his own. In Shaera's silent nature, he slowly stopped seeing Daemon’s arrogance and finally recognized the lingering sorrow of a lonely child.

More importantly, he began to see Rhea.

Their bond grew in the untamed lands of the Vale. Gunthor took her out of the gloomy keep and taught her how to hunt. He showed her how to track snow bears in the high passes, how to loose an arrow with precision, and, eventually, how to sit at the head of a table and rule. He was a harsh teacher, but a loyal one, and under his hand, Shaera began to flourish.

She was not alone in the keep, either. Runestone was alive with cousins she had never known existed. There was Willam, who had a booming laugh and a quick sword; Alyssa, who braided Shaera's hair and told her wicked stories; and others like Robar, Elys, and young Anya.

“We loved your mother," Gunthor told her one evening by the hearth. "She was fierce."

Even Grey Ghost thrived in the Vale. The mountain air seemed to invigorate him. He grew larger, bolder, and one crisp morning, he finally lowered his pale wing, allowing Shaera to climb onto his back.

When they took to the skies, soaring through the clouds above the Eyrie, Shaera felt a sense of freedom she had never dared to dream of.

She was Shaera Targaryen, daughter of Rhea Royce, and as she looked down at the ancient stone bridges and her waiting family, she finally knew the truth.

Runestone was home.

One year later

Grey Ghost’s pale claws scraped against the frosted earth of the high courtyard, kicking up a flurry of snow as he settled his weight. Shaera slid from his back, her cheeks flushed with the biting wind and the thrill of the flight.

She landed in the snow with a heavy thud, immediately turning to point a finger at the dragon.

“I swear to the gods," she told him, "if you clip the western tower with your wing one more time, I will have the maester paint you pink. Do you hear me? Bright, humiliating pink."

Grey Ghost merely blinked his pale eyes, unbothered by the threat, and let out a huff of distinctly fish-scented air right into her face.

Shaera wrinkled her nose, coughing. "Ugh. Alright, point taken.“

“Are you quite finished playing with your hound, my lady?" a gruff voice called out.

Shaera spun around to see Gunthor standing at the edge of the courtyard, his arms crossed over his bronze breastplate. His breath plumed in the cold air, and his dark eyes held that familiar, weary fondness he reserved only for her.

“He is not a hound, Gunthor," Shaera retorted, marching over to him with a grin. "And we were discussing strategy."

Gunthor raised an eyebrow. "Strategy for what? Avoiding your lessons with the maester? Because if so, your strategy is reckless, stupid, and currently failing. You have ledgers to review."

“Ledgers are for old men who like the smell of dust," she dismissed with a wave of her hand, entirely unbothered by his scolding. "No, we were discussing the strategy for a hunt."

Gunthor sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Shaera, winter is setting in. The snow bears are denning, and the shadowcats have moved to the lower valleys. There is nothing left to hunt in the high passes right now."

“I am going to find my mother."

The wind seemed to howl a little louder around them as the old knight stared at her, the deep lines around his eyes tightening.

“Shaera," he began. "Do not do this to yourself. Rhea has been missing for ten years. The trail is gone. We searched every ravine, every cave, every treacherous path in the Vale. There is nothing left to find."

Shaera turned her head, looking back at Grey Ghost resting against the stones of her home.

Ever since the new leaks came out yesterday, I have seen tons of posts saying, "Well, incest is already a thing in this family, so why do you think it is wrong in this situation (Aemond kissing Alicent)?"

I am a long-time fan of GRRM's work. I’ve read and reread most of his books, interviews, and lore. I usually do not post my opinions online (I am an introvert), but this time I decided otherwise. And please, if you are going to comment that "the show doesn't follow the books," save it. We all know this isn't George's exact story anymore, but it is his world, his creation, and his fantasy and not just about following the events of Fire & Blood.

First of all, George is a very smart writer, mostly because he deeply understands his characters, even if those characters are... odd, to say the least. Incest is one of his dangerous choices he had made. A wild card that, if not played right, might have killed his books. But it worked. The reason it worked is that even though it is disgusting (and it is), it made sense. Like everything in his work, it wasn't random.

Targaryens are special because of their ability to bond with dragons, an advantage that no one else has, which eventually allowed Aegon to conquer six kingdoms and declare himself king . This special bond sets them high above other houses. If dragons became available to every other house, rebellions would rise. We saw this exact thing happen during the Dance, where Hugh Hammer saw himself as worthy of being king simply because he claimed a dragon.

This reality led to the Targaryens keeping the blood of the dragon as rare as possible: marrying inside the family and keeping the blood pure in order to remain in power. In a way, this also weakened them; they had no true army and no allied houses to call upon, relying solely on their dragons. That became evident in the later years when they lost the throne. After the dragons died out, the incest practice became useless. There was no point in keeping the blood of the dragon pure when there were no dragons left, so they started to wed for alliances.

So, to argue that just because a brother married a sister, it is perfectly fine to do the same with a mother and son "because the show is about incest," shows a lack of understanding of the world and Martin's writing. It highlights how modern Hollywood writers often fail to grasp the deeper mechanics of world-building and fantasy. Instead, they—and parts of the audience—rely on trends, shipping, and shock value.

I just hope that if someone else ever picks up the story of the Dance again, they have a little more respect for the author's lore. That said, I will probably continue to watch the show, mostly as a way to show support for the cast, as they do incredible work and don't deserve the backlash for writing choices.

I leave you with this quote from the man himself.

their traditional incest… keeping the bloodlines pure so that they could better control the dragons

He also specifically mentions pairings like:

brother marrying sister, and nephews and aunts

Another interview he said:

Then

The old library of the Red Keep was hidden in a narrow tower wedged between Maegor’s Holdfast and the old sept. To reach it, one had to climb a winding spiral stair or what remained of one. Most of the steps had been worn crooked with age, and more than one seemed determined to pitch an unwary foot into the dark.

It was always dim there. No one used the library anymore, and there were no proper windows, only a long-barricaded arch where one had once looked out over the godswood.

The first few minutes were always the worst; the air clung thickly in my throat until the coughing passed. It was a place where forgotten things were left to die, which usually made it perfect for me.

Or it would have been, if I were not currently trapped there by my own inadequacy.

I stared down at the sheet of parchment before me with my stolen candle lighting the small space. A thick bead of black ink gathered at the tip of my quill, trembling there for a heartbeat before it dropped and splattered across the page. I groaned, flung the feather aside, and pressed my ink-stained fingers to my temples.

Write your history, our teacher had instructed the week before, pacing before us with his hands clasped behind his back. A simple exercise to test your command of your ancestral tongue. To know where you are going, you must first be able to articulate where you began.

It had sounded simple enough when he said it in the Common Tongue. He had, of course, demanded the entire thing be written in High Valyrian, a language I loathed.

It was severe, full of twisted vowels and harsh, rolling consonants that felt like swallowing sharp stones. It felt unnatural on my tongue, and I was even worse at writing it than I was at speaking it.

With a sigh, I snatched up the quill again and dipped it into the inkwell with more force than was necessary.

“I was born in the year one hundred and ten after the Conquest,” I muttered under my breath, trying to untangle the sentence in my head before attempting to wrestle it into Valyrian.

My handwriting was jagged and uneven, an insult beside the flowing elegance expected of royal children. And when it came to the numbers—the cursed Valyrian numbers, with their shifting grammar and confounding prefixes—my mind went blank.

Frustrated, I dragged the quill across the wet line I had just written, scoring it through with a violent black slash. The parchment tore beneath the pressure. I let out a sharp breath and slumped forward until my forehead rested against the cool oak of the table.

I was supposed to have been born speaking this language. At least, that was what I had heard often enough. Yet I was so bad at it that the queen had ordered private lessons for me and Aegon. Aegon, who spent most of those lessons laughing, throwing rolled parchment at the servants, or whispering nonsense to whoever sat nearest him, rather than paying attention to the lessons. Yet, somehow, even he had gotten the better of it, and soon it was only me left attending the tutor's tedious lectures.

I jolted upright, when the library door groaned on its hinges, so fast my elbow struck the inkwell. I caught it just before it spilled, my heart leaping into my throat. No one was supposed to come there.

I looked to the right to find it was Aemond who walked in. We were the same age, though he carried himself with the stiff, severe bearing of an old man trapped in a boy’s body. His silver hair was combed neatly back, every strand exactly where it ought to be. He stopped when he saw me. His eyes narrowed slightly as they took in my ink-stained fingers, the ruined parchment, the candle guttering beside me.

“I did not know anyone else came here,” he said, in that clipped, haughty tone of his that always made my teeth grind.

"I could say the same to you," I shot back, quickly sliding a blank piece of paper over my disastrous attempt at High Valyrian to hide my shame.

He walked closer, his quiet footsteps barely disturbing the dust, and stopped right beside my table. Before I could stop him, he reached out and flicked the blank paper away. Heat rushed up my neck and into my cheeks. I was already opening my mouth to tell him to leave when he reached for the quill instead.

“You are using the wrong prefix for the year,” Aemond said, not looking at me. He dipped the quill into the ink and wrote. “It is jēda, not jēdar, when you are writing of a specific birth year. And the sentence is backward. The subject comes first.”

I stared at his perfectly formed Valyrian script. I was intensely annoyed that it was so effortless for him, yet unable to deny that he had just solved the problem I had been agonizing over for an hour. After a long moment, I swallowed my pride and muttered, “Thank you.”

Aemond gave a small, indifferent shrug. His gaze drifted around the library. “I come here to read in peace,” he said. Then his eyes returned to me, sharpening once more. “I have no desire to spend my morning sharing the air with you.”

He turned on his heel and began walking back toward the door.

Let him go, a voice in my head whispered. Shut up. Just this once, keep your mouth shut.

We were all meant to go to the Dragonpit after the morning meal on the same day every week, but today I had claimed a stomach illness and made enough retching noises for the maids to report to Her Grace that I ought to be left abed.

Shut up. Shut up. Shut up, I told myself, gripping the edge of the table until my knuckles whitened.

I knew what was waiting for him there. Aegon had been whispering and laughing about it for days. Jace and Luke had laughed too. I did not know every detail, only enough to know it would be cruel, and public, and meant to cut him where it hurt most. If I warned him, I would be choosing a side. And I could not afford that. I needed them—even their scraps of kindness. I needed to belong somewhere, if only at the edge of their circle.

And Aemond was not kind to me either. He called me Bronzy with the rest of them. He looked down on me. He always had.

But it is wrong, some quiet part of me argued. It is wrong and cruel, and you have the power to stop it.

My chair scraped harshly against the stone as I stood. “Aemond,” I called.

He stopped, though he did not turn immediately. “What?”

“It… it might be wise not to go to the Dragonpit today.”

Now he did turn. Suspicion settled over his face at once, darkening his eyes. “Why?”

“Just don’t go,” I said weakly. “Stay here. Find a book. I can leave, if that is what you want.”

Aemond stared at me across the room for a long moment. Then, his lip curled into a bitter sneer. “Bronzy,” he spat. “Keep to your dusty papers.”

He yanked the door open and disappeared through it. The wood slammed shut behind him with a resounding crack that sent a shudder through the shelves.

I sank slowly back into my chair, my hands trembling slightly in the candlelight as I reached up to my chest, my fingers finding the chain hidden beneath the high collar of my dress. I pulled it free, tracing the intricate metal of the locket resting at the end of it.

My eyes flicked toward the door. I could still run after him. I could catch him in the courtyard, drag him into an alcove, and tell him the truth about the pig. I could save him the humiliation.

I closed my eyes and shook my head, fighting back a hot sting of tears. I couldn't. I was a coward.

I lifted the locket to my lips and pressed a kiss to the metal. My thumbnail found the tiny hidden catch at its side. It clicked softly open.

Nestled inside the small cavity was a tiny, neatly folded piece of parchment. It was the only thing that was left of my mother.

“I do not wish to disappoint you," I whispered to the empty room.

But she was gone.

Now

The sounds of chewing and swallowing were beginning to wear at my nerves. I did not know the hour exactly, only that it was far too late for supper—not that such things seemed to matter to Aemond. He took another long sip of wine, his leg bouncing over his knee as though he had not a care in the world.

“Are you certain you are not hungry?” he asked after setting his cup down.

His chambers were larger than mine, grand enough to contain a dining room of their own, complete with a wide round table polished to a dark sheen. Yet Aemond had insisted he preferred to eat in the solar.

“I am not,” I said. The solar was richly furnished, though colder than mine somehow, despite the brazier glowing in the corner. A table stood between us, and to the left a narrow stair curved upward into darkness. I could not see where it led, only the faint spill of light along the stone and the suggestion of some hidden space below.

Aemond caught the direction of my gaze and said, “It leads to a smaller inner chamber. There is another stair beyond it that goes down into the courtyard.” He smiled then and looked back at me. “It makes reaching Vhagar easier.”

I gave a hum, hoping it would be enough to silence him. He had promised me the truth, and instead of speaking it, he had summoned servants, ordered meat and wine, and settled into supper as though this were any ordinary evening.

My hands tightened into fists in my lap. I had agreed to come with him only because of that promise. We had walked together down the corridor outside my chambers, but instead of continuing along the path I knew, Aemond had turned at a narrow angle in the wall I had never once noticed before, revealing a passage that led directly here. When I had asked how such a turn existed without my ever seeing it, he had only smiled. Perhaps he did not trust me as I had hoped.

“What are you doing, Aemond?” I asked at last, when several more minutes passed in silence and I could bear it no longer.

He did not even look up from his plate. “What does it look like?”

“Wasting time.”

That only made him chuckle. “I am more focused when I am full.”

My knee began to bounce beneath my skirts, faster and faster. “The truth hardly requires this kind of devotion. Unless…” I narrowed my eyes at him. “You are planning something else.”

“No,” he said. “I gave you my word.” He studied me for a moment, then lifted his cup and leaned back in his chair. “May I ask—”

“You may not.” I glared at him. Just tell me.

He smiled around the rim of his cup. "But I need to ask this question before I proceed."

I rolled my eyes. "Just be done with it, then."

He turned the cup slowly between his fingers. “After I tell you the truth… what will you do?”

“Well, I need—”

“I meant,” he cut in, “do you have a plan? A real one. An ally. Something prepared?”

I frowned. “the truth truly this... demanding?”

He watched me over the rim of his cup but did not answer immediately. “Some things are kinder left buried, knowing them often costs more than the lie ever did.”

“I would rather bleed from the truth,” I said coldly, “than live on my knees before a lie.”

Aemond threw his head back and laughed. It was a sharp, startling sound; rarely did I ever hear him laugh with true amusement. If ever. He set the silver cup down onto the table with a loud clatter and rose from his chair, closing the distance between us to sit on the edge of the couch to my left. “I gave you my word,” he said again, more quietly this time. “Ask me anything.”

I opened my mouth, but before I could speak, he added, “In exchange, you will answer me as well.”

“I have nothing of value,” I said quickly.

“I will be the judge of that.” He gestured lazily with his hand for me to begin, crossing his arms over his chest.

I had so many questions in my mind. But asking only for personal reasons would corner me too quickly, and Aemond was far more cunning than I was. So instead I asked, “How did the war begin?”

He shifted on the couch, the heavy leather creaking beneath his weight. "I started it," he said, his eye locking onto mine. "I killed Luke."

He said it so simply that at first I thought I had heard him wrong. I thought the rushing blood in my ears had distorted his words. I made him confirm it. Once. Twice. Three times. By the fourth, he looked mildly bored by my disbelief.

“We met at Shipbreaker Bay,” he said. “Our dragons fought. It did not take long to…” He did not finish, but he did not have to. I understood him well enough.

"That makes you twice a kinslayer," I breathed. A part of me wished I had the breath to say something kinder, to take a moment to mourn sweet Luke. But there was no time for grief. Something in the detached way Aemond spoke of the murder made my blood run cold.

"Thrice," he corrected, the corners of his mouth lifting into a smile that didn't reach his eye.

I frowned, my stomach plunging. "Thrice?"

“Rhaenys,” he said. “With her dragon. And your father when he—”

“Just—” I cut him off as I stood so abruptly the edge of my skirts tangled at my ankles. “I need a moment.”

I crossed to the smaller hearth, one hand pressing against the carved stone of the mantel as I drew in a long, unsteady breath. The flames there were lower than the main fire, only embers licking at blackened wood, but the heat still struck my face. I welcomed it. It gave me something to bear besides the sound of his voice.

The soft scuff of Aemond’s boots sounded against the stone floor. He stopped right behind me, so close I could feel his chest against my back.

"I told you," his voice was a low murmur near my ear. "You were better off not knowing the truth."

“How do you sleep at night?" I spun around to face him.

"By closing my one eye and lying on my bed," he waited for a moment, watching the horror bloom on my face. When I couldn't find the words to respond to such casual cruelty, the coldness in his expression shifted into something else. "I love my family, Shaera," he added. "I will do everything and anything to protect them. I would burn the realm to ash for them."

"But they were your family, Luke. Princess Rhaenys. My father. They shared the same blood.”

Aemond shook his head. "No. You know they weren't. You, most of all people, should know."

"Those were old grudges," I argued, desperate to make him see reason, to find some shred of light left in him. "We were children, Aemond. We were supposed to grow out of them."

His jaw clenched, a muscle feathering in his cheek. "How do I grow out of losing an eye?"

I swallowed hard, the lump in my throat feeling the size of a fist. I had no answer for that.

He took a step back, giving me room to breathe, though his gaze never left mine. "My father let him take my eye, and then Rhaenyra demanded I be questioned for speaking the truth of his bastardy. Luke faced no justice and certainly no consequence."

"He was only a boy," I argued, my voice trembling but finding its footing. "You struck down a boy."

"We were at war," Aemond continued, pacing slowly. "The war began the moment my father took his last breath. Luke was an enemy combatant riding a dragon. If I had let him fly away, if I had let him return to Dragonstone to rally the banners, how many of my men would Arrax have burned a moon's turn later? How many of my family would have died because I showed mercy to a boy who never once showed me any?"

"But you didn't do it just for the tactical advantage," I whispered, seeing right through the cold arithmetic he was trying to hide behind. "You did it because you wanted to. You wanted to hear him scream."

Aemond stopped pacing. He turned his head, the blue of his remaining eye glinting in the dim light. “I asked him for his eye," Aemond said. "I offered him the chance to pay his debt like a man. I threw my dagger at his feet and told him to carve it out. He refused. He hid behind his mother's skirts and the protection of Lord Baratheon's roof, just as he had hidden behind Viserys's decree for years." Aemond closed the distance between us again, looming over me. "The world is a brutal, unforgiving place. Viserys tried to pretend it wasn't, and his weakness bled the realm dry. I do not pretend. I took the payment I was owed, and I eliminated a threat to my brother's crown in a single stroke."

My chest ached. “It is a dark way to look at the world, Aemond," I said softly.

"It is the only way to survive it," he replied. He reached out, his hand hesitating for a second before his knuckles gently brushed against the side of my neck. "And it is the only way I can ensure the people I love survive it, too."

He was looking at me as if I were one of those people. As if his bloodshed was a shield he had raised to cover me as well. But my father's blood was on that shield.

I took a step away from him. "Do not touch me," I said.

His hand hovered in the empty air between us before he lowered it and offered me a tight smile. "I apologize," he said, sounding as if he genuinely meant it. But it was hard to trust the sincerity of anything he said right now.

"You know what that makes you, Aemond. There are lines... once you cross them, it is just... you are no longer…No man is so accursed as the kinslayer. And to do it three times... it seems you were absolutely determined to be one."

He laughed and turned back toward the table. He picked up his cup of wine and sank back into his chair. He acted as though my words meant nothing, as though the judgment of the gods and the realm washed right off his back. But when his eye finally met mine again, I knew he was hurt. I could see the rigid tension in his jaw, the slight narrowing of his gaze. He wanted me to say something different. He wanted me to react differently. I even briefly considered that he wanted me to reach out and touch him, to tell him that I understood his reasons.

And I felt like I did. I knew we had spoken about this in another life, a life I could no longer touch, and somehow my fractured mind knew exactly what he wanted to hear. But it was such a strange, forgiving instinct that I immediately pushed it away, disgusted with myself.

He didn't speak or look at me afterward, taking slow sips from his cup instead. And I found I didn't have the courage to keep asking the hard questions. I was, for a certainty, a coward—perhaps an even greater one than him.

I slipped my right hand inside the deep pocket of my robe, my fingers brushing against the cold, sharp edge of the small eating knife I had stolen from my breakfast tray days ago.

I didn't even remember what Daemon looked like. Growing up in the Vale, I had assumed I bore his face, until Gunthor had corrected me. He claimed I was entirely my mother, cursed only with my absent father’s silver hair. I had a heart-shaped face with large, dark brown eyes and naturally thick eyebrows. My straight, narrow nose and the sharp curve of my Cupid’s bow perfectly mirrored the faces of my Royce cousins at Runestone. Perhaps the Bronze Giant had been telling the truth about that, at least.

Yet, even if I didn't know the man, even if I hadn't truly cared for him, I felt an overwhelming obligation to do something. Aemond had tricked me. He had murdered my blood, kept me completely in the dark, and imprisoned me in the Red Keep under the guise of protection. Why else was I constantly under his strict watch, isolated from the rest of the court? For that alone, for the sheer arrogance of his control over my life, he deserved what I was contemplating doing to him.

"Does it repel you?" he asked suddenly, breaking the silence just as I was debating whether it would be wiser to try and cut his throat or stab him directly in the heart.

I blinked, startled by the question. "What?"

“The idea of me being a kinslayer," Aemond clarified, his voice dropping low, his eye fixed on my face. "Does it disgust you, Shaera?"

"Does it matter what I think?" I asked carefully, keeping my hand hidden in my pocket. He certainly did not need my validation to rule, and I highly doubted he actually cared about the moral judgments of his captive cousin.

"Yes and no," he answered cryptically, resting his elbows on the arms of his chair.

"Then you are wasting your breath, cousin," I replied. "Because I do not care about you."

Once again, that brief flash of anger and hurt crossed his face, a raw nerve I had managed to strike.

“But if you were this..." I swallowed hard. "Was I any different?"

He took another slow sip from his cup and said, "You were always a good person, Shaera. You fought fiercely for what you believed was right, even when it cost you dearly. Though, I must admit, at times you were foolishly reckless."

"What else was I?" I asked, the grip on the hidden knife loosening as my curiosity overpowered my thirst for revenge.

He tilted his head, his eye catching the firelight as he appraised me with a slow gaze. "You were obstinate," he murmured. “You were maddeningly loyal as well, and beautiful when you were angry."

"But I had a dragon," I countered, desperate to steer the conversation back to the facts of the war. "I must have hurt someone.”

"Grey Ghost did not possess the temper for a vanguard, and you did not force him into one." Aemond leaned forward slightly. "Your role was primarily that of an envoy. You used the mere shadow of your dragon to keep the Vale neutral for as long as you could."

I pulled my hand from my pocket and held it up between us, the line of the scar catching the light. "Then what of this?" I demanded. "If I was only an envoy, Aemond, who gave me a cut of Valyrian steel?"

His jaw tightened instantly. "That is a tale for another time."

“No," I insisted, taking a bold step toward him. "You promised me the truth tonight. You cannot simply parcel it out when it suits you. Who cut me?"

"I said, enough for tonight, Shaera."

"I want to know—"

My words were cut off by sharp rapping on his doors.

"Prince Aemond," the muffled voice of a Kingsguard called from the corridor. "His Grace, the King, is here to see you."

Aemond swore under his breath and abandoned his wine cup on the table, crossing the room towards me and wrapping his hand tightly around my upper arm.

"What are you doing?" I hissed as he dragged me away from the hearth, steering me toward the wooden door at the far end of the solar.

"You need to hide," he ordered.

"Hide? Why?" I dug my heels into the thick carpet, resisting his pull. "It is only Aegon.”

"He does not know you are in my chambers in the dead of night," Aemond snapped, his grip tightening. "And Aegon is... he is not in a predictable state of mind. I will explain later."

Before I could argue further or demand a better answer, he shoved me roughly into the confines of his private bedchamber and pulled door shut right in my face.

I was going to kill him. Not with the pathetic, blunt little eating knife still clutched in my pocket, but with my bare hands. I would slowly strangle him, or perhaps find a heavy iron candlestick and beat him over the head until I was absolutely certain he was dead.

I pressed my ear flat against the door. I could hear the deep rumble of both their voices, but the thick wood muffled the sound, making the conversation seem far away and distorted.

I knew it was hardly ideal for the King to find me locked in his brother's private chambers at this late hour, but this was Aegon. He probably had five different whores waiting for him in his own bed right now, and he had never been a stickler for courtly propriety. Besides, Aegon and I had always been relatively nice to each other growing up, or at the very least, we never went out of our way to trouble one another.

Their voices were rising now, the cadence growing sharp and argumentative, but I still could not make out the actual words. Driven by a reckless habit, I curled my fingers around the cold latch. Very slowly, holding my breath to keep the hinges from creaking, I slightly pushed the door open. With the small space that I created, I peeked inside the solar.

I pressed my face to the cold wood of the door, bringing my eye to the narrow, vertical sliver of light I had dared to create. The first thing I saw was Aemond. He stood center in front of the table, his posture rigidly straight, his hands clasped firmly behind his back.

Then, shifting into my limited field of vision, came the King. I barely recognized the man standing by the hearth. This was Aegon, my cousin, the boy who had chased servant girls through the Red Keep and laughed loudly at his own crude jests. I narrowed my eyes, struggling to reconcile my memory with the reality before me. The man standing there was a ruined, misshapen thing.

He was hunched heavily over a wooden cane, its head wrought into a snarling golden dragon. His posture was warped, his spine crooked as if the bones had melted and fused improperly beneath his skin. When he moved, he dragged his left leg with a sickening scrape against the stone, his breath whistling through his teeth in ragged wheezes.

He was also deeply, foully drunk. Even from behind the door, I could smell the sour reek of arbor gold mixed with the sweetness of milk of the poppy radiating from his skin. That, at least, had not changed.

"You think you rule them," Aegon hobbled awkwardly toward where Aemond stood, the golden dragon cane thudding unevenly against the floorboards. "I see the way they look at you in the hall. They... they don't look the same way toward me. The great Prince Regent.”

"I am holding your realm together, Your Grace," Aemond replied. "While you recover, someone must command the armies."

"Command?" Aegon let out a barking laugh that instantly dissolved into a chest-rattling cough. He raised his cane, the wood trembling in his unsteady grip. "You command nothing! You lost the Riverlands! You let the Sea Snake dictate terms in my own castle! And you left it to Daeron to actually win my wars! Daeron! Our sweet, little brother is the hero, and you... you are just a one-eyed butcher who stole my crown while I burned!"

"You know I did everything—" Aemond began but the king didn't let him finish.

He swung the cane, it cracked viciously against Aemond’s thigh with a thud. I gasped, pressing both hands over my mouth to stifle the sound, my heart leaping into my throat.

Aemond flinched, the muscles in his sharp jaw jumping wildly, but he did not step back or raise his hands to block the strike. Aegon, fueled by rage, hit him again. And again. And again. Finally, Aemond’s leg buckled, and he dropped to his knees.

I remembered watching both brothers in the training yard years ago; Aemond had always been the vastly superior swordsman—faster, more lethal, driven by discipline. He could have disarmed Aegon in a single, effortless heartbeat. But he absorbed the King's fury like a stone taking the surf.

"You look at me with pity," Aegon snarled, hobbling closer until the toes of his boots nearly touched Aemond’s knees. "You think you are the better man."

Aegon reached the table where Aemond’s abandoned supper lay, the King snatched up the goblet of wine.

"You are nothing, Aemond," Aegon spat, his face twisting into an ugly mask of pure spite.

He tilted the cup and poured the wine directly over Aemond’s head. The liquid ran in thick rivulets down his hair, soaking into the high collar of his doublet, dripping down his scarred cheek and over his eyepatch like fresh blood. Aemond slowly closed his remaining eye. His broad chest rose and fell in a slow controlled breath, but still, he did nothing to stop the humiliation.

Aegon hurled the empty cup against the far wall, where it dented the stone with a loud, ringing clatter. Then, using the hooked golden dragon of his cane, he swept the tray of roasted meat, the bread, and the silver plates entirely off the table.

The feast crashed to the floor in a chaotic din, shattering the fine porcelain into a hundred jagged pieces and sending hot grease and gravy splattering across the expensive carpet and Aemond's boots.

But the King wasn't finished, he bent down and leaned in close to whisper something directly into Aemond’s ear.

I couldn't hear the words, but the reaction was instantaneous and explosive. Aemond shot up from his knees, his hands instantly balled into fists at his sides. The veins in his neck bulged, and for a second, I was certain he was going to strike the King. He looked as though he wanted to tear Aegon's throat out with his bare teeth.

But Aegon didn't flinch, only smiled—a nasty smile. “Clean it up," Aegon commanded. "And remember your place, little brother."

I released the latch as gently as I could, letting the door click shut, sealing myself in the darkness of Aemond’s bedchamber. I pressed my back flat against the cold wood, my chest heaving with shallow breaths.

Even after the faint scraping of Aegon’s cane faded completely into the distant corridor, I did not move to open the door. I knew I should step out and pdemand the rest of the truths Aemond had promised me, or perhaps seize the moment to drive the stolen eating knife into his throat while he was distracted by his own humiliation. But I couldn't.

I needed to give him time. I was not entirely sure what to say, or even what to do with the weight of what I had just witnessed. I had grown up an only child in, separated by leagues and years from my half-siblings, yet even I understood the laws of blood. Siblings fought. They bickered and harbored jealousies. But this was a profound violation of everything a family was supposed to be.

Minutes bled into one another in the suffocating dark. Suddenly, the door at my back shuddered. The latch rattled sharply. I barely had time to stumble forward before the swung open.

Aemond stepped into the doorway, holding a brightly burning candle in his left hand. The flare of yellow light blinded me for a fraction of a second, we nearly collided, his broad chest stopping mere inches from my face.

"Hey," I gasped, startled, taking a clumsy step backward.

I looked up to offer a sharp reprimand, but the words died instantly on my tongue. He had stripped off the wine-soaked doublet and the ruined shirt beneath it. Naked from the waist up. His long hair was completely, combed slickly back from his face and dripping water onto his collarbones—he must have plunged his head into a basin to wash away the sticky stench of the wine.

I stared for a second too long, my eyes widening before I quickly snapped my gaze away, staring fixedly at the dark stone wall.

"You were reckless again," Aemond said. "Spying through doors. I told you to hide, Shaera"

He didn't wait for my apology or my defense. He stepped past me and began to light the other candles scattered around the room—one on the nightstand, two on the heavy ironwood chest, three upon the mantle.

As the room slowly filled with a warm glow, I couldn't help but look at him again. Divested of his leathers and dark velvet, Aemond looked different. Scattered across his ribs, his shoulders, and the expanse of his back were bruises. Some were fresh, angry welts of raised red and vivid purple—the marks of the golden dragon cane I had just heard cracking against his flesh. But others were older. They were mottled blooms of sickly yellow and fading green, blooming like dark clouds beneath his skin.

My stomach dropped. Aegon must have done this many times.

Aemond turned away from the mantle and caught me staring at his ruined torso. "Are you satisfied now?" he asked. "Did you see what you wanted to see?"

I blinked, forcing myself to meet his gaze. "I wanted to see what you were hiding," I answered.

He let out a short scoff that held no humor. He turned his back on me again and walked toward a narrow, arched doorway on the far side of the room that led into a small, adjoining wardrobe chamber.

As he disappeared into the deeper shadows of the closet, I finally moved further into the bedchamber. “Why does he visit you at such an hour?" I asked, raising my voice slightly so it would carry into the wardrobe. "It is the middle of the night."

I heard the rustle of linen and the clinking of buckles from the small room. "Because this is the hour His Grace usually wakes," Aemond answered. "The milk of the poppy wears off when the moon is highest. The pain in his legs and his chest becomes unbearable. He cannot sleep, and he cannot stand the silence of his own mind, so he wanders."

Aemond paused, the rustling stopping for a moment. "People change, Shaera. The war changed all of us, but Aegon most of all. His mind is a dark, crowded place. He needs an outlet for the poison."

I took a few slow, hesitant steps toward the arched doorway of the small room, baffled by the strange empathy in his tone. “Even so," I argued, my brow furrowing in confusion. "That is not acceptable. He struck you like you were a disobedient hound." I stopped just shy of the threshold, folding my arms tightly across my chest. "Do not get me wrong, Aemond, you are a pig and a kinslayer, and I despise you. But... he is your brother. Are not brothers supposed to love each other?"

The shadows in the archway shifted and Aemond emerged back

He had pulled on a fresh shirt of fine black linen, though he hadn't bothered to lace the collar, leaving the column of his throat bared to the cool air. His damp hair fell loosely around his shoulders.

He stopped a few feet away from me. “What is your idea of love, Shaera?" he asked quietly.

"It is certainly not getting beaten with a cane and having wine poured over your head.”

"Certainly not," Aemond agreed smoothly, his gaze tracing the lines of my face.

"Why did you not stop him? You could have if you wanted to but you…. Why do you just kneel there and take it?"

"Because he is my brother," he said simply.

"You are a fool, Aemond." I said after a minute.

He took a slow half-step closer. "I am."

"Tell me about the war, then," I blurted out, pivoting away from the heat of his stare. "Tell me about it. Tell me how I—"

"No." Aemond raised a hand, stopping the flood of my questions. He rubbed his temple. "It is too much for one night, Shaera."

"You gave me your word," I argued. "You swore to me. You said you would tell me everything tonight."

"I did," he agreed, his jaw tightening as he looked away from me, his gaze drifting toward the door that led back to the solar. "But there are other complications now."

"Complications," I repeated bitterly. "Will you ever actually keep your word to me?"

"I always have, Shaera," he said quietly.

I tossed and turned beneath the furs, the lingering scent of Aemond and the crack of Aegon’s cane replaying in my mind on an endless loop.

But beneath the chaos of the evening, something else was quietly gnawing at the edges of my mind.

It sat right on the tip of my tongue, heavy, but devoid of context. The Brazen Mermaid. Was it a ship? A person? A tavern? I squeezed my eyes shut, pressing the heels of my hands against my temples, trying to force the void in my mind to yield just a single scrap of truth. But there was only darkness.

Exhausted and thoroughly defeated, I rolled onto my side and let the darkness take me.

.

.

.

Two years ago

The latch of my door clicked with a soft snap.

I turned away from my vanity mirror with a smile spreading across my lips as Aemond slipped into my bedchamber, securing the lock behind him. He was dressed in his usual severe black leather, looking too serious for the late hour.

"Sneaking into my chambers long past the midnight bell?" I mused, leaning back against the polished wood of the vanity and crossing my arms. "Careful, my prince. If the Queen’s spies catch you, people might start to think you actually harbor a scandalous affection for me."

Aemond stopped in the center of the room. He opened his mouth to deliver a sharp retort, but his eye caught the way the firelight hit the thin fabric of my nightgown. A of a blush crept up from the high collar of his tunic, staining his pale cheeks a furious shade of red.

I let out a soft laugh, delighted by the rare sight of the prince losing his composure. “You are too easy to tease, Aemond."

He cleared his throat loudly, dragging his gaze up to fix rigidly on my face. "I did not come here for your foolish jests, Shaera."

"No?" I tilted my head, thoroughly enjoying the way his breath hitched just a fraction.

"I found him," Aemond stated. "He is at The Brazen Mermaid. Down by the River Row."

The playful heat in my veins vanished, replaced by a sudden rush of fear. I stood up straight and asked, “How did you… you actually find him?”

"I have my ways," Aemond said, already turning back toward the door. "But we should move now. I do not know how long he intends to stay there, or if he is booking passage on a ship by morning. Wear something… appropriate and join me.”

I took a step to follow him, but my feet felt suddenly nailed to the floorboards.

"Aemond," I said, my voice trembling slightly. I wrapped my arms around myself. "What if... what if he doesn't know anything? What if this is just another lie?"

Aemond turned back, the frustration in his posture melting away when he saw the genuine fear in my eyes. He closed the distance between us, his hands reaching out to firmly grip my shoulders.