#vhagar

You were born in the shadow of Dragonstone’s smoking cliffs, the daughter of Rhaenyra and Daemon, though half the realm whispered otherwise. Your father was far across the Narrow Sea with Laena when you came screaming into the world, and by the time he returned, the truth had already been wrapped in layers of courtly half‑truths and political convenience.

So you grew up as Rhaenyra’s quiet, sharp‑eyed daughter, the one who preferred the company of scrolls and dragonkeepers to the court’s endless, poisonous chatter. And from the moment you could walk, you walked toward Vermithor.

The Bronze Fury had not taken a rider in generations. He was older than the halls of the Red Keep, older than the songs sung about him. Yet when you approached him—small, unafraid, your hand outstretched—he lowered his massive head and breathed you in like a long‑forgotten memory.

And he chose you.

The court never forgot that.

---

Aemond was twelve when he first saw you truly—standing in the training yard, your hair wind‑tangled, your cheeks flushed from a morning flight. Vermithor circled overhead, a bronze shadow blotting out the sun.

Aemond stared at you with something too intense for a boy his age.

Not admiration.

Not envy.

Something deeper.

Something hungry.

You laughed at something Jace said, and Aemond’s jaw tightened. He didn’t understand why it bothered him. He only knew that it did.

He watched you everywhere after that.

In the library, where you read Valyrian histories with your lips moving silently.

In the courtyard, where you practiced High Valyrian with your mother.

In the stables, where you fed Vermithor charred goat meat with gentle, steady hands.

He memorised you the way other boys memorised battle tales.

---

When he loses his eye, you are the only one who doesn’t look at him with pity or horror.

You look at him like he is still whole.

“Does it hurt?” you ask quietly when you visit him, your voice soft as ash.

“Yes,” he answers, because lying to you feels impossible.

You sit beside him, close enough that he can feel the warmth of you.

“Then let it hurt,” you say. “Pain is a forge. It makes us stronger.”

Aemond never forgets that.

He never forgets you.

---

You spend two years away—training, studying, learning the old ways of Valyria from the keepers who still remember them. When you return to King’s Landing at sixteen, you are no longer the quiet girl with ink‑stained fingers.

You are a dragonrider in truth.

Vermithor lands in the Dragonpit with a roar that shakes the stone, and you dismount with the confidence of someone who knows exactly who she is.

Aemond is waiting.

He shouldn’t be—he has no reason to be—but he is.

And when he sees you, something inside him snaps taut.

You are taller.

Stronger.

Your eyes burn like molten gold.

Your hair whips around you like a banner.

You look like fire made flesh.

And Aemond feels the heat of you like a physical thing.

“Cousin,” he says, bowing his head slightly.

“Aemond,” you answer, your voice steady, your gaze unwavering.

He feels seen.

He feels chosen.

He feels undone.

---

He seeks you out constantly

In the library.

In the training yard.

In the godswood.

On the ramparts overlooking Blackwater Bay.

He asks questions he never asks anyone else.

“What do you read?”

“What do you dream of?”

“What do you fear?”

And you answer him.

Because with Aemond, you never feel the need to hide.

---

During a late‑evening flight—Vermithor restless, Vhagar ancient and irritable. The two dragons spiral around each other above the cliffs, their roars echoing like thunder.

Aemond lands first, sliding off Vhagar with practiced ease. You land moments later, Vermithor’s wings kicking up a storm of dust and heat.

Aemond approaches you, breathless, exhilarated.

“They respect each other,” you say, watching the dragons settle. “Old power recognises old power.”

His gaze flicks to you.

“Is that what this is?” he asks softly. “Recognition?”

You meet his eye—his one remaining eye, sharp and bright and burning.

“Perhaps,” you say.

The wind whips your hair across your face. Aemond reaches out—hesitates—then gently tucks the strand behind your ear.

His fingers linger.

You don’t pull away.

---

It happens in the library, late at night, candles burning low.

You’re reading. He’s pretending to read.

“You are the only one who ever looked at me without seeing a monster,” he says suddenly, voice low.

You close your book.

“You are not a monster, Aemond.”

He swallows hard.

“You make me believe that.”

You step closer.

“You should believe it.”

He looks at you like you are the only light in a world full of shadows.

“I think of you,” he says, voice trembling with honesty he cannot stop. “More than I should.”

Your breath catches.

“Aemond…”

“I know,” he whispers. “But I cannot help it.”

---

The revelation happens during a council meeting—whispers, accusations, a slip of the tongue from someone who should have known better.

Daemon is your father.

Aemond hears it.

Aemond freezes.

You find him later in the training yard, sword abandoned, chest heaving.

“You lied,” he says, not angry—hurt.

“I didn’t know,” you answer. “Not until recently.”

He looks at you, searching your face for something—betrayal, distance, regret.

He finds none.

“You are still you,” he says finally, voice rough. “And I am still… whatever I am to you.”

You step closer.

“You are Aemond,” you say. “And that has always been enough.”

His breath shudders out of him.

---

You stand together on the cliffs above the sea, Vermithor and Vhagar curled below like sleeping mountains.

Aemond turns to you, the wind tugging at his cloak.

“Tell me,” he says quietly, “that I am not alone in this.”

You look at him—truly look—and realise you have been walking toward this moment for years.

“You are not alone,” you say.

Aemond exhales like he’s been holding his breath for half his life.

He steps closer.

You don’t move away.

His forehead rests gently against yours, a gesture intimate in its simplicity.

“Good,” he whispers. “Because I would burn the world before I lost you.”

You close your eyes, letting the warmth of him settle into your bones.

“You won’t lose me,” you say. “Not now. Not ever.”

Below, the dragons rumble in their sleep—ancient, knowing, approving.

And above them, two Targaryens stand together, bound by fire, forged by fate, and finally—finally—no longer afraid to choose each other.

ᴀʟʟ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇꜱᴇ ᴡᴏʀᴋꜱ ᴀʀᴇ ᴍʏ ᴏᴡɴ - ɪ ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴀʟʟᴏᴡ ᴀɴʏᴏɴᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴄᴏᴘʏ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋ.