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Themes and Warnings: slow burn, enemies to lovers, blood, violence, explicit language, sexual violence, period-typical misogyny, sexual themes, smut, tension, marriage, jealousy, pregnancy, childbirth, miscarriage, attempted sexual assault, breastfeeding, major character death, divergent timelines
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire & Blood/Game of Thrones characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used nor do I claim to own them.
Chapter 114
Wake. Eat. Train. Pray. Patrol. Council. Correspondence. Exhaustion. Sleep. Repeat.
It had been weeks now, and the days had fallen into a relentless rhythm of activity. The castle no longer felt like a place to linger in stillness but a structure to move through efficiently, purposefully. She preferred it that way. Busyness gave her something to hold onto, something to be of use for again. And if there was even the smallest excuse to leave the stone confines of the castle walls, she took it without hesitation.
Her body had healed from the birth, because she gave it no other choice. It bore the evidence of what she had endured; the physical toll of childbirth layered over older wounds, older betrayals, older survivals that had never quite left her. She was, in every sense, a battlefield, scarred in ways both seen and unseen, marked by pain that had shaped itself into permanence. She wondered, sometimes absently, if any queen before her had been carved into quite so many pieces and still been expected to sit a throne. The thought never lingered long. It did not need to.
The Queen believed she was holding herself together. She spoke when she was expected to speak, steady and deliberate in meetings. She tracked frontline movements with sharp attention, as if precision alone could keep chaos at bay. She extinguished small crises before they could grow, like sparks snuffed out in dry grass, and trained harder than she ever had, pushing Ēbrion and herself with a discipline that bordered on punishment.
It felt, increasingly, as though the woman she had been before the childbed had not simply changed but died there entirely. Perhaps that was what was required of her. Perhaps she needed to remain this way. Hardened, controlled, almost detached from herself. Anything to make it through the day. Anything to be seen as strong. Anything, above all, to avoid the nursery.
She sat at the dark wooden table, the surface worn smooth by years of use, the faint grain catching what little light the room allowed. Her quill moved with steady precision, scratching softly against the parchment in a rhythm that bordered on mechanical. Ink pooled and dried in careful lines beneath her hand, forming words she barely needed to think about anymore.
She was focused in a way that was almost predatory. Like a hawk locked onto distant movement, refusing to blink, refusing to be distracted. It was only her, the flickering candlelight, the inkpot at her side, and the message unfolding beneath her quill. Nothing else existed beyond the edge of that small, controlled world.
A voice came from across the room, breaking the silence without truly disturbing it. Hesitant in nature, it carried a tone that did not suit the man it belonged to.
“You’re different with them.” The one-eyed King murmured from the hearth in their shared apartments.
Maera did not lift her head, though her attention shifted just enough to acknowledge his presence. Across the room, she could see him seated on a rug near the fire, the warm glow of the hearth casting shifting light over him and the scattered toys around his hands. Two nursemaids hovered nearby, attentive but unobtrusive, as the smaller Targaryens occupied themselves in their own world of movement and noise.
Aemara’s small feet pattered against the stone floor as she moved between scattered toys, gathering them with determined enthusiasm before bringing them back to her father. Each return was met with quiet approval, a smile from Aemond as he accepted whatever she offered, his gaze occasionally lifting toward his wife even as he remained seated among them.
“I’m not sure what you mean.” The reply came automatically, her eyes never leaving the page before her. The quill continued its steady movement across the parchment.
She could not bear it. The sounds from across the room pressed against the walls she had spent weeks constructing around herself. Soft gurgles drifted through the chamber, innocent and content. Maenar, she assumed. He had always been the more spirited of the twins. Then came the gentle jingle of a rattle. Gaelon. She knew it without looking. By his left arm, of course.
As far as Maera knew, the Grand Maester’s diagnosis remained unchanged. The babe still showed no movement in his right arm. The assurances had come readily enough, that he was young, that time might bring improvement, that such things were not always certain, but they had rung hollow in her ears from the very beginning. Empty comforts offered to grieving parents who wished desperately to believe them.
She reached the end of the document and signed her name with a practiced flourish. Maera Targaryen, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. A title she loathed, but wielded as a weapon nonetheless.
The parchment was folded deftly. Without hesitation, she reached for the small bowl suspended over the candle flame, the wax within softened to a crimson liquid. She poured it carefully over the fold, watching it pool and settle before pressing the official seal of House Targaryen firmly into its centre.
When she lifted the seal away, the three-headed dragon stared back at her. She set the letter aside. Another parchment was immediately pulled before her, another task, another distraction. The quill scratched against the page once more.
“You do not interact with them the way you did with Aemara.”
This time, her head snapped up. Her gaze found Aemond seated before the hearth, their children gathered around him as though drawn into his orbit. Aemara climbed over cushions and rugs in determined pursuit of her father’s attention, while the twins occupied the nursemaids nearby.
For a moment, the sight felt strangely unfamiliar. How thoroughly the roles had reversed. Once, she had been certain it would be the opposite. She had imagined herself seated amongst their children while Aemond buried himself in duty, war, councils, and responsibilities. She had always assumed she would be the one coaxing him away from work, reminding him that his family waited for him beyond the council chamber doors.
Instead, it was Aemond sitting amongst their children, and Maera who avoided them.
“The Realm needs me.” Maera huffed softly, leaning back in her chair as though the answer should have been obvious. The words were matter-of-fact, delivered with the certainty of someone reciting a simple truth.
“The children have wet nurses, nursery maids, and the other children of my Ladies and your Lords to keep them company.” Her fingers tapped once against the edge of the desk. “I am not of much use to them.”
“You are their mother.” Aemond’s response came without hesitation.
The words struck with far greater force than they should have. A tiny crack splintered through her heart. For the briefest moment, she felt it. The guilt and the grief and the shame.
Then, just as she had done countless times before, she forced it down. Down into the depths of herself where she kept every feeling she could not afford to examine. She buried it beneath duty and routine and endless work until it became distant enough to ignore.
Clearing her throat, she finally allowed her gaze to drift toward the family gathered upon the rug. Her sons were so much bigger now. The realization came suddenly.
Weeks ago they had seemed impossibly small, fragile little creatures who fit against a person’s chest. Now their faces had grown fuller, soft cheeks rounding beneath bright violet eyes. Their limbs had thickened with healthy baby fat, their bodies sturdy where they had once seemed delicate.
Gaelon and Maenar sat contentedly in the laps of their nursemaids, captivated by lengths of coloured ribbon twirling through the air above their heads. Tiny hands reached eagerly for the dancing strands as they floated and twisted through the firelit room.
Maenar kicked his legs with restless enthusiasm, issuing an excited babble whenever the ribbons passed within reach. Beside him, Gaelon watched with quieter fascination, his gaze following every movement as the ribbons spun and fluttered.
She had forgotten how quickly the time went when a babe was growing. They looked happy. Healthy. Loved. And somehow that made it harder for her to look at them for long. So she resolved it was better not to look at them at all, to keep her distance and shield her heart from further heartbreak that she was sure she could not take.
Her husband, however, appeared to not be happy with this arrangement. With a quiet murmur, Aemond dismissed the nursemaids. Neither woman questioned the order. They rose immediately, gathering the twins into their arms.
Before Aemara could be coaxed away, Aemond bent forward and pressed a kiss to her brow. The toddler accepted it with a delighted grin that quickly transformed into indignation when she realised she was being led from the room.
Her protests echoed through the chamber as she reached for her father, tiny hands grasping at the air. The King remained unmoved, though his expression softened as he watched her go.
A moment later, the heavy doors of their apartments swung shut behind them with a dull thud. Silence followed. For the first time all evening, husband and wife were alone.
The room should have felt warm. The great fire crackled steadily within the hearth, casting amber light across stone walls and rich furnishings. Yet an unmistakable chill lingered all the same. Perhaps it was the winter winds that battered Dragonstone’s cliffs, finding their way through ancient cracks in the fortress. Or perhaps it was something else entirely. Perhaps it was the Queen herself.
Maera remained trapped in that strange, automatic state she had inhabited for weeks now. Detached, removed, existing without truly participating in the world around her. The days blurred together into duties, councils, reports, patrols, correspondence.
Duty. That was all she understood anymore.Duty was simple and asked nothing of her heart. And there was always more of it to be done.
Without another word, she set her quill aside. The chair scraped softly against the floor as she rose. She crossed the chamber with measured steps, gliding through the firelight like a spectre haunting her own life. Her skirts whispered across the stone as she passed, dark green and black fabric trailing behind her.
Reaching the bed, she stopped beside one of the carved posts and lifted her hands to the intricate lacing at the back of her gown. Her fingers worked mechanically at the knots. One, then another, as much as she could manage on her own. Behind her, from the other side of the room, came the voice of her husband, low yet dangerously attentive.
“What are you doing?”
She did not answer. Instead, ger fingers continued their methodical work upon the laces of her gown, loosening knot after knot with the same detached efficiency she brought to every other task that filled her days.
If duty was all that remained of her, then this too could be counted amongst her duties. The Realm required its Queen. The council required her insight. The dragons required their rider. And her husband…Her husband required a wife.
Perhaps that was all she was now. A collection of obligations wrapped in flesh and bone, moving from one responsibility to the next without pause, or feeling.
“Is this not why you wished to spend the evening together?” The question emerged coldly, flatly, as though she were discussing troop movements rather than her marriage.
At last, she glanced over her shoulder, meeting the single violet eye fixed upon her from across the room.
“I had best get on with it.”
For a moment, silence reigned. Then Aemond moved, not with desire or passion, and certainly not with want.
He crossed the room like a storm breaking against the shore, swift and furious. The force of his movement seemed to tear through the stagnant air that had settled between them over the past weeks.
“Stop.” His voice cracked through the chamber.
Maera ignored him once more, her attention remaining fixed upon the final laces, and she would not until the last of the intricate ties had been undone and the tension left the back of the gown entirely. Only then did her hands fall away.
Without haste, she turned and lowered herself onto the edge of the bed.She sat perfectly still and composed. No anger or embarrassment. No anticipation, no emotion at all. It was that absence that seemed to infuriate him most.
Before she could look away, Aemond was standing over her. His hands closed around her upper arms. Not enough to injure, but enough to stop her, to force her attention onto him. His fingers tightened, frustration radiating from every rigid line of his body.
“Stop.” The command came again. Lower this time. Sharper. As though he was no longer asking her to cease undressing, but begging her to stop whatever it was she had been doing to herself ever since the day the twins were born.
The look upon his face caused something to tighten painfully in her throat. It was not anger, not truly. She had seen Aemond angry countless times throughout their lives. She knew the sharp edge of his temper, and the burning fury he wielded against enemies and allies alike.
This was something far worse. Hurt. Frustration. As though he were watching something precious slip through his fingers and had no idea how to stop it. The lump in her throat swelled. Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry, she thought.
Without releasing her arms, Aemond gently pulled her to her feet, and she offered no resistance. The loosened gown shifted as she stood, exposing the skin of her back to the chill air of the chamber. The sudden cold raised goosebumps along her spine, yet she barely noticed it.
Her attention remained fixed upon her husband. His hands stayed firm upon her upper arms, grounding her in a way she had not realised she needed.
Aemond’s jaw tightened, a facial muscle below his leather eyepatch flickered. For a moment, he seemed to struggle for the words. Then they came.
“I do not know what in the Seven Hells has possessed you these months, but I want my wife back.”
Maera took a shaky breath, the air catching somewhere in her chest. She wanted to answer him. Truly answer him. Yet every explanation felt wrong before it could even form.
How was she meant to describe something she scarcely understood herself? How was she meant to explain the emptiness, the numbness, the strange sensation of standing still whilst the world moved around her?
“I do not know what to do,” she admitted quietly. The confession felt foreign upon her tongue. Vulnerable. “I feel…” Her brow furrowed as she searched for the right words. “Stuck, somehow.”
It sounded inadequate, pathetic, but it was the closest thing to the truth she possessed.
Aemond let out a short scoff, not in cruelty or mocking, merely disbelieving, as though he could not fathom how she had failed to see what had become obvious to everyone around her.
“You do not sleep. You barely eat. You avoid those who care for you and limit your interactions with others whenever possible. You spend every waking hour buried in duties that would exhaust anyone.” Aemond shook his head, the frustration in him was no longer directed at her, but at the situation itself. “Of course that would take its toll.”
The words were spoken plainly. Yet hearing them aloud made something shift uncomfortably within her. A small, humourless chuckle escaped her, the sound surprising even herself.
“Perhaps I have finally succumbed to the Targaryen madness everyone speaks of.”
It was meant to be light-hearted. A poor attempt at easing the heaviness that had settled between them. Aemond did not smile, nor did he appear remotely amused.
“You are not mad,” he responded gruffly, yet something flickered across his face afterwards. A hesitation, as though he were weighing words he knew would wound her no matter how gently they were spoken. His single-eyed gaze remained fixed upon hers.
“But I cannot deny that you are changed.”
A sting bloomed somewhere deep within her chest. Not because she disagreed, because she did not. Slowly, she lowered her gaze. She had built walls around herself these past weeks. Great towering walls of stone and duty and exhaustion, designed to keep grief out and strength in…at least that what she called it. Strength.
Most days, they worked, and she could move through the world untouched by anything at all. Yet somewhere beyond those walls, buried deep within the bitter darkness she had retreated into, a small piece of herself still remained. She could feel it sometimes, like a voice calling from the other side of a storm.
That part of her remembered laughter and joy, and what it felt like to wake each morning with something other than dread sitting in her chest. Gods, she longed for it to surface once more and take hold of her. Because despite everything she told herself, despite the endless duties and responsibilities she buried herself beneath, she knew a truth she rarely allowed herself to acknowledge.
This version of her was surviving… but she was far from happy. Perhaps she had not been happy in a very long time.
Silence settled between them. Tentatively, she lifted a hand.
Her fingers pressed against the leather of Aemond’s doublet, feeling the familiar texture beneath her touch, the material solid and real beneath her fingertips. Her hand drifted higher until silver strands slipped between her fingers. His hair was as immaculate as ever, long and straight and impossibly smooth, catching the firelight like spun moonlight.
Maera lingered there for a moment. Then she stepped closer. Close enough to breathe him in. Smoke. Leather. She closed her eyes briefly, drawing in another breath as though it were some medicinal vapour capable of sustaining her. As though, if she stayed close enough to him, she might remember how to be herself again.
Then, slowly, she lifted her gaze to his. Her forest-green eyes seemed impossibly wide in the torchlight, every carefully constructed wall within them fractured just enough for the hurt beneath to show through. It swirled there openly now, raw and aching in a way she had spent weeks trying to conceal.
“Aemond.” His name escaped her as little more than a whisper.
She tilted her face upwards, the distance between them vanishing until they were separated by little more than a breath. She could feel the warmth of him, the steady rise and fall of his chest, the faint brush of his breath against her skin.
“I need to feel something.” The confession trembled between them. Her hand rose to his face, fingertips tracing the sharp line of his jaw.“Please.” Her voice cracked. “Anything.”
For a moment, neither of them moved. Then Aemond closed the distance. His lips crashed against hers, the kiss immediate and fierce, born not of tenderness alone but of weeks of frustration, fear, longing, and helplessness. His hand came to the back of her neck as though anchoring her to him, while hers gripped at his shoulders.
It was desperate, a collision rather than a meeting, a plea disguised as a kiss. Maera kissed him back with equal intensity, chasing the feeling she had begged for, trying to lose herself in the warmth of him, in the familiarity of him, in anything that could silence the emptiness for even a moment.
For the first time in months, something broke through the numbness. Not joy, or peace. But feeling, sharp and overwhelming and real. Her pulse thundered in her ears. The world narrowed until there was only him. Only Aemond. Only this. Driven by instinct more than thought, her hands moved towards the buckles of his doublet.
Then she stopped, though not by choice. Her wrists were suddenly caught, held firmly. The grip was not cruel, but it was unyielding. Maera’s eyes opened. She found Aemond staring back at her. His single violet eye burned with an intensity that stole the breath from her lungs.
Not desire, not anymore. Something else. Something deeply troubled. Confused, she leaned forward, seeking his lips once more, attempting to recapture the connection that had existed only moments before. But Aemond pulled back.
“We should not do this,” he uttered.
Maera stared at him, her breathing uneven from everything that had passed between them.
“But I want to.” The reply came quickly, almost desperately. For a moment, she thought she saw hesitation flicker across his face.
Then Aemond shook his head, his hands falling away from her wrists.
“No.” The single word carried more certainty than any command he had given that evening.
A heavy sigh escaped him. Not one of irritation, but of resignation. Without another word, he turned away. The distance he put between them felt greater than the breadth of the room.
Maera remained standing exactly where he left her; dishevelled, the laces of her gown undone, her dark brown and silver curls disturbed from his hands. No longer looking like a Queen. Merely a woman standing amidst the ruins of herself.
The door opened. Then shut. And she was alone once more.
For several moments, she did not move, the silence seeming to swallow the chamber whole. Eventually, she forced herself into motion.The gown slipped from her shoulders with little ceremony. She stepped free of it and left it pooled upon the floor where it fell.
She crossed the room slowly, moving from candle to candle. One by one, she extinguished them, until only the faint glow of dying embers remained within the hearth. As the flames diminished, the warmth seemed to retreat with them.
The winter cold of Dragonstone seeped back into the room, creeping through ancient stone and beneath heavy curtains. And with it came the familiar shadow that had settled over her. The numbness. The emptiness. The ache. It had waited patiently for her whenever the distractions ended.
When the final candle had been extinguished, she made her way towards the bed. The sheets were thick and dark, the blankets piled high against the winter chill.
Yet as she climbed beneath them, she knew she was cold, not merely from the season, but from something deeper. She supposed she ought to ring for servants. They would prepare the bed properly, bring warming stones, brush her hair, and help her settle for the night as befitted a Queen.
The thought exhausted her. She did not want servants. She did not want blankets. She did not want warmth borrowed from a fire. The only warmth she wanted belonged to her husband. Closing her eyes, she buried herself deeper beneath the covers.
Deep down, she knew why Aemond had refused. He had seen something she could not. He had understood that she was reaching for relief rather than comfort, for escape rather than connection. Perhaps he knew she would regret it come morning. Perhaps he had been protecting her. Yet understanding did little to lessen the sting. Rejection still hurt, even when it came from love.
She turned onto one side. Then the other. The sheets tangled around her legs as she tossed restlessly through the darkness. Minutes became hours.
Hours became something indistinguishable. Eventually, exhaustion claimed her as it always did. Not gently. Not kindly. Simply dragging her beneath the surface. The sleep that followed would not be peaceful.
It never was.
“She’s growing fast, Your Grace. Her hunting skills are starting to sharpen as well.”
The wind tore across the cliffs with little mercy, howling through the jagged rocks and battered grasses of Dragonstone’s shoreline. It carried with it the familiar scents of the island.
Salt from the restless sea below, smoke from countless hearths and forges, and the ever-present tang of sulphur drifting from the Dragonmont. The great volcano loomed in the distance, its dark silhouette a constant reminder of the ancient power that slept beneath the island’s surface.
Winter had stripped the landscape of much of its colour. The grass clinging stubbornly to the cliff tops was short and pale, bent low by endless winds and cold air. Little chose to make its home in such an unforgiving place.
Only the mountain goats seemed truly suited to it, picking their way across impossible inclines with enviable confidence, their thick coats protecting them from conditions that would drive most creatures elsewhere.
Maera found herself grateful for the biting wind and the cold. Grateful for anything that took her away from the suffocating stillness of her chambers and the memories that lingered there. Anything that distracted her from the previous evening with her husband.
From Aemond’s expression, the hurt in his voice and the way he had looked at her as though he could see every crack she had tried so desperately to conceal.
Out here, it was easier to breathe. The Queen wore her riding leathers, dark and practical, to fight against the elements as she walked. Thick leather protected her arms and torso, while fur lined the collar against the worst of the winter chill. Her hair, a striking blend of dark brown and silver, had been braided tightly away from her face, leaving no loose strands for the wind to claim.
She looked less a Queen this morning and more what she had always been at heart. A Targaryen. Just a Targaryen.
Beside her walked one of Dragonstone’s eldest dragonkeepers. The old man leaned heavily upon a carved wooden staff, his pace measured but steady despite his years. Time had bent his back and silvered what remained of his hair, yet there remained a quiet dignity about him.
His weathered face bore the marks of decades spent tending the dragons of House Targaryen, his eyes still sharp despite the wrinkles surrounding them. Together they followed the winding path along the cliffs, the sea crashing far below.
Their conversation revolved around a much younger dragon, a black she-dragon. Sȳndor.
Though still young by dragon standards, the beast had begun to grow rapidly in recent months. Her appetite had increased, her confidence along with it, and reports from the dragonkeepers suggested she was becoming increasingly independent.
The old dragonkeeper spoke at length about her development, recounting observations from those tasked with her care. Maera listened intently, and tried to ignore the familiar voice in the back of her mind; one that whispered sharp, ugly truths and crueller accusations.
It chastised her for the ease with which she could speak of dragons, for the way her attention sharpened when the subject was beasts rather than her own children. Her jaw tightened and she shook the thought away almost as quickly as it came, refusing to let it settle. If she allowed herself to linger there, she would drown in it.
Instead, she kept her eyes upon the path ahead and asked, “And how is the youngling taking instruction?”
The old dragonkeeper let out a scoff, the sound half amusement and half long-suffering resignation. “Stubborn creature,” he muttered, adjusting his grip upon his staff. “Much like the dragons that sired her.”
Maera gave a quiet hum of acknowledgement, the faintest smile touching her mouth. That did not surprise her in the slightest.
The old man continued, his weathered expression turning wry. “She listens when it suits her. Which is to say, rarely.” He cast the Queen a sidelong glance. “Though I confess I am surprised the beast has not killed anyone yet. She has, however, attempted to set a fair number of the younger acolytes alight.”
Maera rolled her eyes and shook her head, though the motion was accompanied by the ghost of amusement. Poor fools. She did, in truth, pity the dragonkeepers.
At least the Targaryens possessed the bond. However dangerous dragons remained, there was still something ancient and instinctive tying rider to beast, some thread of recognition that afforded them a measure of protection.
The dragonkeepers had no such comfort. They lived, quite literally, at the mercy of creatures large enough to swallow them whole and temperamental enough to burn them for a single wrong move. It was a profession Maera respected immensely, though she had never once envied it.
For a moment, her mind wandered as she walked, her fingers finding the sleeves of her riding leathers, tugging absently at the dark material near her wrists. There was something nervous in it, as though she needed the distraction of movement before voicing the question that had risen to the forefront of her mind.
“And… her bond with the Princess?”
The old dragonkeeper brightened at once, nodding eagerly enough that the ends of his weathered braids shifted against his shoulders.
“Stronger by the day.” There was unmistakable warmth in his voice now, the kind reserved for speaking of dragons and the children who claimed them. “The Princess and Syndor spend ample time together.” He paused then, only for a beat, but it was enough for Maera to catch the hesitation.
“Even when they are not supposed to,” he added at last, his mouth twitching as though he were fighting the urge to smile.
The Queen raised a brow, turning her head towards him. “Elaborate.”
He let out a sigh through his nose, though the expression on his face made it clear he was not nearly as disapproving as he pretended to be.
“On several occasions, I have been summoned to the royal nursery,” he said, shifting his staff as they walked, “because Syndor took it upon herself to enter through the balcony.”
This time, he did smile, small and quickly hidden, but there all the same. “It terrified the nursemaids and wet nurses, of course.”
Maera froze. Not outwardly enough to halt their progress, but enough that something within her seemed to lock into place. It was not the fact the dragon was bursting into the nursery unannounced. For some reason, that actually brought comfort.
It was the nursemaids, the wet nurses, women caring for her children, women doing what she could not bring herself to do.
It should not have wounded her; the arrangement was not unusual for royal children, nor had anyone accused her outright. Yet still it cut. Deeply. Because there was a difference between knowing those women tended her children and hearing it spoken aloud in such casual terms, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.As though the nursery belonged more to them than it did to her.
The dragonkeeper noticed, his gaze flickering towards her for only a moment before he cleared his throat rather pointedly and moved the conversation onward, giving her no opportunity to dwell upon it openly.
They continued along the cliffs in silence for a few paces. The farther they walked, the more the ground beneath their feet changed. The pale winter grass gave way to patches of blackened earth, charred and brittle underfoot, as though dragonfire had licked greedily across the land not long before. Burnt tufts crumbled beneath their boots, and the scent of sulphur in the air grew stronger.
The land beneath their feet began to slope, the cliffs gradually giving way to a broad crater carved deep into Dragonstone’s rugged spine. The path dipped steadily downward, the grass thinning until it became little more than scattered tufts clinging to ash-dark soil.
Smoke drifted lazily through the hollow, and the air grew warmer the farther they descended, touched by the heat of dragonfire and the restless breath of the Dragonmont.
“It will not be much longer before the young dragon is too large to fit through the doors,” the dragonkeeper remarked, leaning slightly upon his staff as he looked ahead.
Maera followed the line of his gaze. And there she was. Syndor.
The young she-dragon stood amidst smoke and blackened grass, hunched over the torn carcass of a mountain goat. Her teeth sank into flesh with casual brutality, great jaws ripping through hide and sinew as though it were nothing at all. Blood stained the ground around her kill, stark against the charred earth, while steam rose faintly from the fresh ruin of it in the cold air.
Even at a distance, she was beautiful. Her black scales gleamed beneath the pale winter sun, each one catching the light with an oily, iridescent sheen. Smoke curled lazily around her as she fed, framing her like something dragged from old Valyrian legend rather than born of flesh and blood.
Maera studied her in silence. The frantic speed of growth had slowed, but there was no denying her size now. She was no longer a creature that could be dismissed as small. Her limbs had lengthened, her chest broadened, and there was a new strength to the line of her neck and shoulders. Maera gave a small nod to herself. Yes. A war machine in the making.
Beside her, the dragonkeeper spoke again.
“When the young Princess is old enough to take proper instruction, she shall be upon her dragon’s back in no time.” The old man glanced at her and added, with quiet certainty, “I am sure she shall be a natural. Just as her mother and father before her.”
Maera smiled at that, though there was sadness woven through it all the same. She could picture it with ease; Aemara astride Syndor, silver hair flying wild in the wind, stubborn and fearless and far too delighted with herself. The image warmed something in her, however briefly.
Syndor’s head lifted sharply from the carcass. A strand of torn flesh hung briefly from her jaws before she swallowed it down, smoke curling from her nostrils as her molten gaze fixed upon the Queen and dragonkeeper watching from above.
At once, a low growl rumbled from deep within her chest, warning and possessive. She shifted over the remains of the goat, baring bloodied teeth as though daring either of them to come closer and test her claim.
Maera, rather than shrinking from the display, found herself quietly admiring it. The she-dragon had spirit.
Vhagar and Ēbrion were giants, creatures so vast and terrible that their very shadows could unman armies, but Syndor did not seem remotely troubled by the fact that she did not yet possess their size or strength. What she lacked in scale, she made up for in confidence.
There was not a hint of uncertainty in the way she held herself over her kill, only boldness and instinctive authority, as though she already believed herself capable of challenging anything foolish enough to approach.
The dragonkeeper gave a soft grunt of approval as he watched her. “Even now, she would be of use in the battles to come,” he said, his voice carrying easily over the wind. “Rider or no rider.”
Maera glanced at him.
“A dragon is still a war machine, no matter how small,” the old man continued grimly. “They can still set cities and infantries ablaze.”
The words settled heavily between them, a stark reminder that even youth did not strip a dragon of its purpose in wartime. Maera’s gaze drifted away from Syndor then, drawn instead across the wide stretch of cliffside beyond the crater.
At first it was only a glint, a brief flash of metal beneath the pale winter sun. Then came the sound, faint at first, little more than a distant rhythm swallowed by the wind, before slowly resolving into the unmistakable clank of armour and the steady tread of booted feet over frozen ground.
A band of men was making its way towards them. Her men. She straightened instinctively as they came closer, their shapes sharpening against the bleak landscape. And at their head rode her brother, Faran. His helmet concealed most of his face, but she would have known him anywhere. The white cloak of the Kingsguard streamed behind him in the harsh winter wind, snapping against his armour like a banner as he advanced across the plains.
“I shall remind the council of Syndor’s usefulness at our meeting.”
The dragonkeeper inclined his head at once, the gesture respectful and solemn. “As you say, Your Grace.”
Maera gave him a brief nod in return before turning on her heel, the tails of her riding leathers shifting with the movement. Leaving behind the smoke-scented crater and the danger of dragonkind, she made her way across the blackened grass towards the approaching party of men.
They halted the moment she reached them and as one, they bowed. It was a sight so familiar it scarcely registered anymore. Armoured men lowering themselves before her, heads bent in deference to their Queen. Yet Maera acknowledged it with the same cool composure she offered all such formalities.
At their head, Faran removed his helmet. Mouse-brown hair, dampened slightly by the wind, fell untidily against his brow. His green eyes, so like her own that it still startled her on occasion, met hers with the same irreverent steadiness they always had. Unlike the others, he did not bow so deeply, though he offered her a respectful incline of the head befitting both his station and their blood.
Maera just arched a brow at him.
“I was under the impression that my morning was free,” she said coolly. “And I specifically requested not to be disturbed unless the matter was urgent.”
Faran’s mouth twitched. “You are fortunate, then,” he replied in that maddeningly dry, sarcastic tone of his, “that it is urgent.”
She merely blinked at him, unamused, but his expression sobered only slightly. “An emergency meeting has been called around the Painted Table.”
Notes: hello, yes, sorry, I did mean what I said when I said “slow uploads.” Different proofread either, fuck it, BUT just in time for S3 Ep1. I’m sure it’ll be an absolute disaster yet I cannot stop watching 👀
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"Little Luke Strong, the bastard. You are wet, bastard. Is it raining, or did you piss yourself in fear? (...) Hold, Strong. First pay the debt you owe me. You have a knife, just as you did then. Put out your eye, and I will let you leave. One will serve. I would not blind you (...) You came here as a craven and a traitor. I will have your eye or your life, Strong."
Book's Aemond simply hits differently.
I love the character so deeply that i adore both versions, but the HBO version is somehow sugar coated, the novel one is as harsh and black as his heart.
I was giggling the entire time when i first read the passage in the novel, as i imagined Ewan as book Aemond.
Inspired by the SCREAM franchise, this collection features six ASOIAF bots reimagined as modern slasher killers — each one stalking, manipulating, and terrorizing in their own twisted way. Enter if you dare… 👻
🔗 Alicent Hightower – Elite university dean with a chilling obsession for “purity”… who’s watching you after curfew.
🔗 Aegon II Targaryen – Party host, influencer, and manipulative mastermind — the livestream ends when you least expect it.
🔗 Aemond Targaryen – Coastal historian with a silver dragon mask… and secrets buried as deep as the cliffs.
🔗 Criston Cole – Brooding ex-cop enforcing his own “justice” in a gated community hosting a true crime docuseries where no one is safe.
🔗 Jacaerys Velaryon – Your perfect boyfriend is hiding a terrifying secret...
🔗 Daenerys Stormborn Targaryen – Visionary CEO with a messianic crusade… are you her successor, or her next victim? My first Dany bot!
Each bot contains a slasher killer, dark twists, and psychological terror — perfect for your browsing this spooky szn! ⚡
Find these bots on this blog with the hashtag #ghostface au or #halloween 2025 in addition to the character sheets!
{{user}} is gender neutral in each of these. tws are included but expect general horror movie themes and mentions of (offscreen) murder(s).
Have a happy and safe halloween! Add this song to your playlist for Final Survivor vibes!
