Chapter 1: I
Notes:
HIIII :)
think of this as the epilogue since the other chapters will be written in the other Characters' POV.
mainly Aemond and Lucera though since they are the main characters
anyway, have a blessed rest of your day or night, remember to eat, drink, sleep and piss!
HAPPY READING!!EDIT: Hey so im from the future and I just came here to put the link to the playlist that I created for lucera and aemond on spotify on here. you can listen to it while reading if you want!
https://open.spotify.com/playlist/277X2qNjvUhJzr0ZMTGJrA?si=T8U6ChH7RC2UGW9beuNZHw
Chapter Text
Her name was Lucera.
The girl who did not hunger for crowns or power, and for that, many found her strange. In a court where ambition bred like wildfire, where every glance carried the weight of lineage and every word was a chess move—Lucera Velaryon stood apart. Quiet. Watchful. Uninterested.
She was not born with the hunger to rule. Not like her mother. Not like her brother. Not like the men who watched thrones as if they were lovers.
She did not reach for power.
And yet, the realm noticed her. Because she wasn't reaching. And somehow, that made her dangerous.
When King Viserys first laid eyes on her—his second grandchild, his daughter Rhaenyra’s second child—he had smiled through his sickness. He had reached for her with trembling hands and held her longer than he should have. His face, sallow and lined with years of rot, had softened as he cradled her to his chest. He kissed her brow and whispered something only she had heard. Perhaps a blessing. Perhaps a secret.
He had done the same with Jacaerys a year before, when Rhaenyra had brought her firstborn son to court. The king had been elated then. Declaring him the future King, heir to the iron throne after Rhaenyra with no question in his tone. With Lucera, his joy had been quieter, more fragile. But no less sincere.
To the king, they were his blood. His grandchildren. His legacy.
To others… they were something else entirely.
Alicent had not smiled when she first saw Lucera.
The queen had said nothing aloud—she had learned long ago the art of silence—but the thoughts burned behind her eyes like wildfire. Her gaze had drifted immediately to the child’s dark hair, her brown eyes, the soft curl in her cheek that mirrored another face entirely. Not Laenor’s.
She remembered how she had questioned her husband the year before, when Jacaerys was born. His hair had been dark too. His eyes were not sea-blue, not silver, not even a paler shade that might excuse the difference. They were brown. Earth-brown. Strong.
Viserys had waved her concerns away with the same indifference he gave his own ailments. “The Baratheons had black hair,” he’d said. “Jocelyn was Rhaenys’s mother. Traits skip generations.”
Alicent had not argued. Not then. Not when Rhaenyra was glowing with triumph, sitting beside her pale husband like the perfect picture of wedded bliss. Laenor had beamed too, laughing, pouring wine, proud as any father.
But Alicent had seen the way Harwin Strong stood guard at the princess’s door. The way his hand brushed hers when he thought no one was looking. The way he looked at the children.
Now there were two. Two children with the same brown curls. The same dimpled smiles. The same bastard blood running through their veins like poison.
And still, Viserys refused to see it.
He held Lucera close, softer now with age, more desperate to believe in peace. “She has Rhaenyra’s mouth,” he had said once, stroking the baby’s cheek. “And her mother’s fire. I see it.”
Alicent had nodded, but she had felt her hands curl into fists beneath her cloak.
What fire? What mouth?
Lucera barely cried. She barely fussed. Even as a babe, she had been quiet—eerily so. She watched with eyes too old for her years. She studied faces, tracked voices, and when she did speak, it was with simple curiosity, never fear. The midwives had said she was strange. That she blinked too slowly. That she made others nervous.
“She sees things,” one of the septas whispered once, clutching her prayer beads like they could shield her. “Things no child should see.”
By the time Lucera was old enough to walk the halls on her own, the castle was already whispering. Not only of her origin, but of her presence. She would disappear during feasts, sneak into the rookery to ask maesters questions too advanced for her age. She preferred the dragonpit to court, stone corridors to silken parlors, the company of her brother Jacaerys to all else when he wasn't teasing her—except, on rare occasions, someone else.
Aemond.
The queen had noticed it early. Noticed the way her quiet, bookish son began to drift toward the girl he should’ve resented most. At first it was small—a glance at supper, a moment in the yard where their eyes met, a shared silence in the library. He didn’t speak to her. But he watched her.
Alicent had told herself it was nothing. Children looked. Children noticed.
But the looks became longer. He stopped laughing at Aegon’s jests when they were aimed at her. He began to linger near her when she came to the dragonpit, though he never said a word.
Lucera never seemed to notice. Or if she did, she said nothing. That was her way.
And Alicent hated her for it.
Hated her silence. Hated her stillness. Hated the way she made herself small and was still impossible to ignore. Hated that her son—her Aemond, the quiet one, the overlooked one—saw her.
Because Lucera didn’t want to be seen. And yet she was.
She didn’t try to be loved, and yet Viserys adored her. Her mother trusted her. Her brother followed her like a shadow. Even the courtiers whispered in awe. Prinncess Lucera. The clever one. The still one. The strange one.
Alicent watched as her own children grew up in Lucera’s shadow. Aegon, ever lost in wine and women. Helaena, lost in dreams. Aemond, burning with want—and it was Lucera he watched when the dragons flew.
Not the throne. Not Rhaenyra. Her.
And Alicent knew then what she had always feared.
The war would not begin with swords.
It would begin with longing.
...
Lucera Velaryon never said much about her uncles and aunt. She was not the sort to gossip or complain. She did not tattle like children were expected to do. But she remembered things.
She remembered how Aegon had once pulled her braid when she was five, just because she had corrected a maester in front of him. She had blinked, turned her head slowly, and stared at him until he laughed awkwardly and walked away. She remembered how he’d called her “creepy” to his friends in the Red Keep courtyard, but fell silent whenever she entered a room. Not out of respect. Out of unease.
Aegon was always louder when Lucera wasn’t around.
She did not dislike him. She simply saw through him.
He was not cruel, not truly. Just spoiled. Restless. Drifting through the world like a boy trying on costumes, none of which ever seemed to fit. She thought he was sad, deep down. A little lost. But she didn’t pity him. Pity was not something she gave easily.
She understood Helaena even less.
Her aunt would sometimes take Lucera’s hand during their shared lessons with the septa and murmur things beneath her breath—riddles, warnings, strange poetry with no clear meaning. Lucera never pulled away. She simply listened. Once, when Lucera was seven, Helaena had touched her wrist and said, “He sees you even in dreams. The one-eyed boy. He’ll want and want and want, and still you won’t break.”
Lucera had not asked what it meant.
And then there was her other uncle.
Aemond.
He was different from the others. And she had known it from the beginning.
When they were younger, he never spoke to her directly. Never mocked her like Jacaerys did, or ignored her like Aegon. He only watched. Quietly. Intensely. As if he was trying to puzzle her out.
There was something about him that made her uneasy—but not in the same way Aegon did. Not the kind of unease that made you want to leave the room. The opposite, in fact. It made her stay. Look back. Think twice.
When he looked at her, it felt like he was asking a question he didn’t yet have the words for.
She wasn’t sure she wanted to know the answer.
Lucera didn’t trust easily. Not even her family—not really. She adored her mother, but she knew Rhaenyra was not like other mothers. Rhaenyra loved fiercely but ruled first. She depended on Lucera to be clever, not innocent. To understand the game without needing it explained.
And Lucera did. She always had.
She trusted Jacaerys more than anyone. He was a storm, and she was his calm. He argued loudly with guards, chased stablehands with wooden swords, made bold declarations about honor and justice, but he always circled back to her. Asked what she thought. Shared his food with her even when he was starving. Listened, even when she said nothing at all.
He called her his twin in spirit. And sometimes, that was true.
But Lucera’s truest bond was not with her brother. Not even with her mother.
It was with Arrax.
The dragon had hatched in her cradle—her egg placed beside her as was tradition. No one expected it to hatch quickly. Some waited years. Others never saw their egg crack at all.
But Arrax came screaming into the world when Lucera was no older than three moons.
She had not cried at the sound. The wet squelch of shell breaking, the wailing, the smoke—it had made the maids panic, had sent a septa screaming for the dragonkeepers.
But Lucera had only stared. Her tiny hand had reached forward, fingers twitching, and the hatchling had pressed its snout to her palm.
It was the only time she had ever truly cried—when they tried to take him away.
She screamed and kicked and bit until they gave up and left the creature curled beside her in the cradle. Arrax had slept pressed against her side that night, warm and shivering, his tiny wings twitching in dream.
From that moment on, they had grown together.
He was never far. He nestled at her feet when she read in the library. He curled on the window ledge outside her bedchamber, wings tucked in neatly like a watchful cat. When she learned to walk, he followed. When she climbed the battlements, he flew just above her, screeching if she leaned too far over the edge.
They shared a bond deeper than any words could explain. No commands were needed. No whips, no bridles. Arrax knew her moods before she did. He snapped at anyone who frightened her, flared his wings when she was angry, whined low in his throat when she was sad.
The first time she rode him, it had not been planned. She was only six.
He had grown large enough to fly short distances, and she had crept into the pit before dawn, barefoot and furious after overhearing two noblewomen whispering about “the bastard girl with the haunted eyes.”
Arrax had let her climb onto his back with no saddle, no reins, no instruction.
They had soared together into the dawn, and when they landed, her cheeks had been wet—but not from fear. Although she did almost fall off several times and Arrax struggled a little, carrying her weight.
Chapter Text
Lucera
Dragonpit, King's Landing
The dragonpit was hot and heavy with smoke. It always smelled like ash and old bones in here, like a place where secrets slept. I liked it. Even if it made my hair stick to my neck and my dress cling to my legs.
I heard the dragons before I saw the boys.
Vermax was shrieking, wings stretched wide as Jacaerys stepped closer to him, voice sharp and echoing through the pit.
“Dracarys!”
The young dragon huffed smoke and flared his nostrils—but nothing else.
I stopped near the stone archway, watching them from the shadows. Aegon stood back a little, grinning like an idiot. He always looked like he was on the edge of laughing at something, usually someone else’s expense. Aemond was next to him, hands clasped behind his back, head tilted slightly like he was studying a lesson. He was quiet. He always was.
Vermax stomped one foot, snorting again. Jace tried again—louder this time. “Dracarys!”
Still nothing.
“Mayhaps he thinks you’re scolding him,” Aegon muttered. “Or begging.” Then he turned and barked a laugh, catching sight of me. “Gods, she followed us.”
Jace turned sharply, and I stepped out of the shadowed edge of the pit, arms crossed, watching them. I kept my chin up.
“I wanted to see Vermax,” I said.
“You’ve seen him before,” Jace said with a frown. “Go back to your sewing needles.”
I narrowed my eyes. “I finished my stitches two days ago.”
“Well, good. Then you can start them again.”
“I’d rather not.”
“You’re always underfoot,” he muttered. “You already have Arrax, must you come and bother Vermax too?”
My mouth curled up a little at that. “I don’t want Vermax. I want to see if he’ll finally listen to you.”
Aegon nearly choked. “Seven hells.”
Jace flushed. “He listens.”
“No,” I said plainly, “he doesn’t. You shout too much. You’re like a barking dog. He doesn’t understand you.”
Jace stepped toward me, chest puffed out. “You think you’re clever because you have Arrax?”
“I don’t think I am,” I said. “I know I am.”
Aemond’s shoulders twitched slightly. It might’ve been a laugh, or maybe just a breath caught in his throat. He was watching me now—really watching—not like the others. Not like someone ready to tease. He just looked… curious.
I liked that he didn’t speak.
Jace scowled harder, but I looked past him, toward Vermax. His wings were twitching, like he wanted to be anywhere but here. I understood that, too.
“Arrax doesn’t like shouting either,” I said, voice softer now. “He listens when I whisper. When I sing.”
Jace rolled his eyes. “You sing to your dragon?”
“He likes it.”
Aegon was shaking his head. “What sort of girl sings lullabies to a beast that could bite her in half?”
I shrugged. “The kind that he won’t bite.”
Jacaerys stomped away from me like a child denied a sweet, muttering under his breath as he returned to Vermax.
“Dracarys!” he shouted again.
Vermax blinked. Tilted his head. But gave only a spark, not even smoke.
I smirked a little and leaned against the stone rail of the pit, watching. Aegon cackled like he’d never seen a dragon before in his life. He wasn’t even paying attention to what Vermax was doing. He just liked the noise of it all.
I didn’t.
It smelled too much like piss and smoke down here. All the straw and dung and fire. I liked the air better above the cliffs, where the wind wrapped around me and Arrax could stretch his wings without bumping into walls. He didn’t like the pit either. He only came when I called him—and only because he trusted me.
“He’s not listening to him,” a voice beside me said, quieter than the rest.
I turned my head.
Aemond Targaryen stood nearby, half-hidden in the shadows, his hands clenched behind his back like he was pretending to be someone important. I’d seen him like that before. Still. Watching. Like he was always thinking something and never saying it.
“Vermax?” I asked.
He nodded.
“He never listens to Jace,” I said. “He only listens to fire.” I shrugged. “And meat.”
Aemond didn’t laugh like Aegon would’ve. He just looked out over the railing again, jaw tight. I saw the way his eyes followed the dragon. The way he didn’t blink.
He wanted one. Wanted it bad.
I knew that look. I’d had it the first time I felt Arrax breathing under my hand, when he was no bigger than a cat. I didn’t remember the hatching—only the warmth. The way it wrapped around me like a blanket, even when he couldn’t fly.
“You’ve never touched one,” I said, not unkindly.
He didn’t look at me. “No.”
“Why?”
He glanced at me, brow furrowed like it was a stupid question. “I haven’t got one.”
I shook my head. “That’s not what I asked.”
He blinked, surprised. Then frowned again.
“I come down here,” he said. “To learn. Watch the way they move. Hear how they breathe.”
“Does it help?” I asked.
“Sometimes.”
I watched Vermax swat his tail toward Jace. The boy nearly fell over trying to dodge it, and Aegon roared with laughter again, full of glee and wine he wasn’t supposed to have yet.
“Arrax doesn’t like this place,” I said softly. “Too many cages.”
Aemond looked at me again. “Does he speak to you?”
“Not in words.” I paused. “But I know what he means.”
He didn’t laugh at me. That made me like him more than the others.
“If I had a dragon,” he said slowly, “I’d never leave his side.”
I looked up at him. His face was made of stone, but his hands kept fidgeting behind his back, like they had too much to say.
“He’s out there somewhere,” I told him. “Maybe waiting for you to be ready.”
Aemond shook his head once. “I’ve been ready since I was five.”
I didn’t know what to say to that. So I said nothing.
Instead, I stood beside him, quiet, both of us watching the flames flicker and die in Vermax’s throat.
And for once, none of the boys said a word to me. Not even Jace.
Just Aemond, who stood near enough to feel the heat but far enough to keep his loneliness all to himself.
As the dragon keepers coaxed Vermax away with raw lamb meat and iron hooks, I caught it—
A flicker in the corner of my eye.
Jace and Aegon, shoulder to shoulder, heads bowed together like they were plotting the fall of a kingdom. Only it wasn’t a kingdom—it was Aemond.
They were whispering. Snickering. Aegon had that look he wore when he was about to be wicked. And Jace… Jace looked proud. Too proud. The kind of proud that came right before something cruel.
A keeper passed between us, and then I saw it.
A wooden cart.
Wheels creaking.
And atop it…
A pig.
Clumsily dressed in scraps of armor. A set of crooked wings—badly cut leather sewn with thick twine—strapped to its pink back. Someone had even painted fire across its snout. Red streaks, still dripping. It snorted, confused, and wagged its tail.
“Oh gods,” Aegon said, doubling over. “Look, Aemond, your dragon awaits!”
Jacaerys shoved the cart forward, beaming. “We found you one at last! The mighty beast of House Targaryen!”
“Pink dread,” Aegon wheezed between laughs. “Lord of bacon!”
Aemond froze.
He didn’t speak.
Didn’t move.
Just stood there, pale as bone, his lips pressed thin like he’d swallowed something sharp.
And then Aegon started oinking.
It was the ugliest sound I’d ever heard. Loud and stupid and cruel. Even some of the keepers turned their heads. Jace clapped his hands, doubled over in laughter, delighted with himself.
I didn’t laugh.
I looked at Aemond.
He wasn’t blinking.
His hands were trembling, and I hated it—hated how quiet he went, how he stood there and let them treat him like a joke. Like he wasn’t a prince. Like he wasn’t anything at all.
“Stop it,” I said, sharply.
Neither of them did. They just kept snorting like pigs and barking out fake dragon names.
“I said stop it!”
I didn’t wait.
I stormed forward and kicked Aegon right in the shin. Hard.
He yelped like the pig, stumbling back with a curse.
“You little—!”
“Say it and I’ll bite you,” I snapped.
Aegon blinked like he wasn’t sure if I meant it. I did.
Jace looked at me, startled, the grin wiped off his face like I’d poured ice water down his back.
“You’re not funny,” I said. “You’re not clever. And if you ever do that again—” I pointed to the pig, still oinking confusedly “—I’ll have Arrax chase you up the highest tower and leave you there.”
Jace tried to protest. “Lucera, we were only—”
“No.” I turned to Aemond, who still hadn’t moved. “Come on.”
I grabbed his hand.
He didn’t pull away.
We ran.
Through the winding halls of the old stone, breathless from the climb, from the laughter chasing our heels like smoke. I didn’t stop until we reached the library—my favorite place in the whole of the Red Keep. Quiet. Cool. Endless.
I pulled open the heavy oak door, tugged Aemond inside, and let it thud shut behind us. Only the rustle of parchment and distant footfalls remained.
Aemond was still quiet.
His hand was warm in mine.
Shaking.
I pulled him between two shelves, into one of the corners where the sunlight fell soft and golden through a high, narrow window. There were books stacked on the floor. I sat down beside them. He did, too, after a moment.
I looked at him as we were both still out of breath.
“They’re stupid,” I said. “Both of them.”
Aemond said nothing.
“They’re not real dragonriders. Just because they have dragons doesn’t make them better than you.” I paused. “Arrax listens to me because I listen to him. It’s not about being loud. It’s about being loyal.”
Aemond looked down at our hands, still tangled.
He finally spoke, voice low. “You didn’t have to do that.”
I tilted my head. “I did.”
“Why?”
“Because you looked sad,” I said simply. “And I hate when people feel sad and small when they’re meant to be something big.”
He looked up at me then. Really looked.
“I’m not big,” he said, almost bitter. “I’m the smallest one.”
“Then grow,” I said. “Outsmart them. Outride them. Burn brighter.”
The corners of his mouth twitched.
Not a smile. Not yet.
But something like it.
Notes:
awwww aren't they the cutesttttttt?
I feel bad for aemond but it had to be done lol.
why is young aemond never talked about? like he looked so cute in season 1 when they were all kids, and they all bullied him :(i mean i did enjoy it when it made alicent sad. we DON'T like alicent here. and otoo. and criston.
also please don't be a silent reader! comment what you think about this story so far and your theorys about what happens next, it will give me motivation to write!anyways, have a blessed rest of your day and night, remember mental health matters and so do YOU so take care of yourself please!
HAPPY READING!!
Chapter Text
Lucera
The red keep, King's Landing
My mother looked worn, but proud.
She was propped up on silken pillows, damp hair clinging to her temples, cheeks flushed from the effort of birth. In her arms lay the babe—my new brother—swaddled in crimson cloth and smelling of milk and blood.
Jace reached the bed first.
“Is that him?” he asked, breathless and wide-eyed.
Mother smiled tiredly. “Come meet him, Jacaerys.”
I followed more slowly, arms crossed, still not speaking to him. I hadn't since the pig. He didn’t seem to mind. He’d been strutting about ever since like nothing had happened. Like he hadn’t humiliated someone.
Still, I was curious. I leaned close and peered at the infant.
He was small. Reddish. His little nose was scrunched up like he didn’t like the light.
Jace looked between the babe and our mother. “I’ve already picked out an egg for him,” he said quickly. “A bronze one. From the lower cavern. It’s cracked down the side, but Maester Gerardys says it’s still good.”
Mother chuckled, “So eager already, are you?”
“I want him to have a strong mount. Like Vermax.”
Harwin Strong stood near the hearth, arms folded, beaming with pride like the babe had tumbled from his spine. He said nothing, just smiled. His eyes were soft.
Laenor was at Mother’s side too, brushing sweat-damp hair from her forehead. “Joffrey Velaryon,” he announced as though he’d just named a king. “He’ll ride that bronze dragon like a prince of the realm.”
I reached forward. “Can I hold him?”
Harwin stepped forward at once. “He’s just been born, my lady,” he said gently, too gently, as if I were a kitten about to paw something delicate. “Best to let him rest.”
I turned my head slowly and glared at him.
His smile faltered.
“I said I want to hold him.”
“Lucera,” Mother warned, her voice sharper now. “He is not a toy.”
“I didn’t say he was,” I muttered, standing straighter. “I just want to hold him. He’s my brother.”
“He needs rest,” Harwin repeated, more firmly this time. “Another day.”
I turned away from him without a word, jaw tight. My hands clenched into fists at my sides.
I didn’t look at Jace. Didn’t need to. I could feel him watching me, like he always did when he thought I was being difficult.
Let him think it.
Mother’s eyes narrowed, but she didn’t press me further. She just shifted the babe higher on her chest and whispered something only Joffrey could hear.
I watched the flickering firelight dance along the cradle they had already prepared. A dragonless cradle, for now. But not for long.
And when he hatches his egg, I thought, let no one tell him he cannot ride. Let no one laugh at him.
Not while I live.
...
The sun felt nice today. It warmed the stone beneath me and made the gold sugar on the lemon cakes sparkle like little bits of treasure. I’d stolen them off the kitchens when the cooks weren’t looking — not really stolen, just... taken without asking. They always baked too many anyway. I picked the plumpest one from the tray I’d carried out wrapped in a cloth and took a slow bite. The lemon burst on my tongue, sharp and sweet all at once.
I liked this spot. It was quiet here — a crumbling corner tucked between the edge of the Red Keep gardens and one of the lesser towers, shaded by a tall olive tree. You could see the city if you climbed up far enough, but I didn’t want to today. I just wanted my cakes, the sun, and maybe a nap.
I was trying to forget Jacaerys, to be honest. He still hadn’t apologized for that horrid pig joke, and I wasn’t ready to forgive him yet.
I licked sugar off my fingers and leaned back against the warm stone. The air smelled of sun-warmed herbs and baked brick, and for once, no one was telling me what to do. I might’ve fallen asleep if it weren’t for the voice that broke the peace.
“Hiding here again, are you?”
I didn’t even need to look up. Aegon.
I sighed and took another bite, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reply.
“Eating more of those cakes?” he said. I could hear the grin in his voice — that smug, drawling one he always used when he was about to say something awful. “You’ll get fat, you know. Then what man will want to marry you? You’ll be as round as Helaena’s beetles.”
I turned my head slowly to look at him. He was standing with his thumbs tucked into his belt, silver hair falling into his eyes like he thought it made him dashing. It didn’t. He looked like a lazy goat.
“Better fat than brainless,” I said, lifting a brow. “And at least I don’t smell like sour wine.”
His face twitched.
I went on, sweetly. “They say if you keep acting like a fool, the gods might just forget to give you a name day next year.”
“Watch your tongue, niece.”
“Or what? You’ll tell Mother?” I stood, brushing crumbs off my skirts. “Oh wait. You’d have to be sober to string more than five words together.”
He reached out and grabbed my wrist.
I gasped — not because I was scared, but because it hurt. His fingers dug in hard, twisting just enough to send a jolt up my arm. I tried to pull away.
“Let me go!”
“You little cun—”
Thud.
Aegon yelped.
He fell to the side like a sack of flour, curling with a groan as his elbow hit the stones. I blinked. For a moment, I didn’t understand what had happened.
Then I saw him.
Aemond.
Standing just behind where his brother had been, his face white with fury, jaw clenched so tightly it trembled. His foot was still half-lifted from the kick.
“If you touch her again,” Aemond said, voice low but shaking with anger, “I will cut your arm off and feed it to the crows.”
Aegon coughed from the ground, still wheezing.
I clutched my wrist, the ache still blooming under the skin, but I was more surprised than anything. No one had ever kicked Aegon like that. Not even Jacaerys.
Aemond turned to me — and then he froze.
He looked… embarrassed. His mouth opened slightly, like he might say something, but he didn’t. Just stared.
I stared back. And then, without thinking, I leaned up and kissed him quickly on the cheek.
Just a soft peck — sweet, like the cakes.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
His ears turned bright pink.
Then I ran — not because I was afraid, but because if I stayed any longer, I’d have to talk, and I didn’t want to ruin it. The sun lit the path as I fled back toward the Red Keep, my steps light, my heart beating fast.
I didn’t see Aemond’s face when he reached up to touch the place where I’d kissed him.
But I imagined it for days.
...
The sun was slipping low over the towers of the Red Keep, casting everything in honey and fire. The air smelled like hot stone and dust and lemon trees. My favorite hour. The one where everything felt quieter—like the whole world had stopped to hold its breath.
I had stolen away from my chambers with a lemon cake still in one hand and a practice sword in the other. It was too big for me, the sword. The hilt was rough against my palm, and I had to hold it with both hands to keep it from tipping forward.
But I liked the weight of it.
Mother always said I should be reading, and Septa Marlow said a proper lady didn’t run about with weapons like a sellsword. But I wasn’t a lady. Not really. I was something else. I just didn’t know what yet.
I crept out into the training yard behind the rookery tower, where the light turned everything gold. That’s when I saw him.
Aemond.
He was already there, alone, as usual. Pale hair tucked behind his ears, practice blade slicing through the air like it meant something. He didn’t look clumsy like some of the other boys. Every move he made had purpose.
I stopped walking when he noticed me.
His face did that thing it always did when I showed up—like he didn’t know whether to frown or not. But he didn’t tell me to leave.
So I walked closer.
“Have you come to train?” he asked finally, sword resting against his shoulder.
“I might have,” I said. I took another bite of my lemon cake and watched him. “It’s not like you own the yard.”
His mouth twitched. Not a smile. Not exactly. “You’re holding that sword wrong.”
“Then show me how to hold it.”
He stepped toward me, slower than needed, like I might spook. I didn’t. I never did. But I noticed how his cheeks had gone a bit pink under the sunlight. Not from the heat.
It was still because of that kiss.
The one I’d given him on the cheek after he kicked Aegon. After he said he’d cut off Aegon’s arm if he ever touched me again. He hadn’t spoken much after that. Barely looked at me in the halls.
But now here we were.
“I wasn’t expecting you,” he said as he adjusted my grip, his fingers brushing mine. “Don’t you have lessons?”
“I told Septa Marlow my stomach hurt,” I said simply. “It didn’t, but she always believes me.”
That made him snort, just barely. I liked when he did that. It made him seem less like he carried the whole world in his bones.
We trained. Or… tried to.
He showed me where to place my feet, corrected my grip, told me I needed to stop swinging like I was trying to kill a bee. I listened. I always did when it was him.
“You’re too stiff,” he murmured. “Like someone shoved a stick down your spine.”
I scowled. “Maybe I’ll shove one down yours.”
He gave me that half-look again. Not quite laughter. Not quite a scold. “Try again.”
I swung wide. Missed. Swore under my breath.
“Language,” he muttered.
“You swear all the time,” I shot back.
“I’m older.”
“You’re barely older.”
He said nothing to that.
The sun kept dropping lower, our shadows stretching across the stone. I hit his sword once. Then twice. My arms were sore and my cake was gone and my hair kept falling into my eyes, but I didn’t want to leave.
Not yet.
He reached to fix the angle of my arm again, his hand warm where it closed around my wrist. His face was close. I could see the faint freckle on his jaw, just beneath his ear.
“Why do you keep helping me?” I asked before I could stop myself.
He blinked. “Because you asked.”
That wasn’t true. Boys didn’t help girls in the yard. Not unless they wanted something.
But Aemond never wanted anything from me.
I lowered the sword.
“Thank you,” I whispered, brushing the dirt off my skirts.
He gave a short nod, looking away quickly.
His face was pink again.
I smiled, just a little. Not a big one. Just enough.
I didn’t leave.
I only pretended to. Took a few steps across the stones like I was very, very done with everything — especially boys — but I still felt his hand from before, how tightly it had gripped mine, how warm it was when he pulled me away. The way he’d kicked Aegon like he meant it, like he’d do worse if no one stopped him.
No one had ever done that for me.
So instead of leaving, I spun on my heel and sat back down on the low stone ledge. I picked up a lemon cake I hadn’t finished earlier and took a big bite, chewing while staring at Aemond like I hadn’t just fake-stormed off.
He was standing awkwardly nearby, eyes shifting from me to the broken crumbs on the floor. His hands were behind his back, like a boy caught doing something wrong. Or something right and unsure if it was allowed.
“You’re a good kicker,” I said, mouth full.
He blinked at me. “Thank you.”
I nodded. “If I ever get married, it’ll be to a knight.”
His brow furrowed. “Why?”
“So he can protect me,” I said simply. “From rude princes who say nasty things. Or from dragons if one ever tries to eat me. Or just... because.”
I took another bite. Aemond looked down, like he was thinking very hard about something that annoyed him.
“What?” I asked.
He scuffed the toe of his boot into the dirt. “If you married me,” he said quietly, “I’d protect you too.”
I blinked at him.
Then I shrugged. “Alright. I’ll marry you, then.”
He went still.
Like someone had frozen him with a spell. His ears turned pink first, then his cheeks, then the tip of his nose. He stared at me like I’d just said I had three heads.
“What?” I said, frowning. “Do you not want me to?”
“No! I mean—yes—I mean—” He cleared his throat and tried to stand straighter, but the red wasn’t going anywhere. “You really mean it?”
“Of course I do,” I said like it was the most boring fact in the world. “You already kicked Aegon for me. And I like your hair.”
He looked like he was going to faint.
I went back to eating my lemon cake like nothing happened.
Notes:
as you can see i wrote the pig scene first and the kids meeting joff after so expect some changes in the story, maybe they say something different or do something that isnt there in the series!
i hope this isn't a problem since i'm too lazy to rewrite now, lol.have a good good day!
HAPPY READING!!
Chapter Text
Aemond
The red keep, King's Landing
I didn’t knock.
The doors to Mother’s chambers were already open, sunlight cutting through the windows in sharp lines, golden dust hanging in the air. She sat by the vanity, next to helaena who softly hummed to herself — something about spiders and blood, but I didn’t listen. I had something important to say.
“Mother,” I said, stepping into the room with all the purpose of a knight announcing war.
She turned her head slightly. “Aemond? What is it?”
I stood tall. Taller than usual. I’d rehearsed this.
“I’ve come to tell you I’m to marry Lucera Velaryon.”
Mother froze.
Even Helaena blinked. Her humming paused.
I felt proud of myself. My words came out clear and sure, just like I’d practiced. “She said yes. We agreed yesterday in the gardens. I kicked Aegon and she kissed me and then she told me she’d marry me, and I said I’d protect her forever.”
Mother turned fully then.
There was a look on her face that I didn’t recognize — not quite angry, but something close to it. Like when the Septa says she isn’t disappointed, just concerned.
“Aemond…” she began, slowly. “You… what?”
I lifted my chin. “I asked Lucera to marry me. And she said yes. So it should be prepared, shouldn’t it? The wedding, I mean.”
She stood. Helaena, who resumed her humming like this was all very boring to her.
“You’re ten years old,” Mother said softly, though her voice had that edge to it — like a blade hidden in silk. “You don’t understand what marriage is.”
I frowned. “I do. It’s when you love someone and protect them. That’s what father said once.”
Mother’s lips thinned. “Marriage is… complicated, Aemond. And it is not something you promise a Strong girl—”
“She’s not a Strong!” I snapped, heat flaring up in my chest. “She’s Rhaenyra’s daughter!”
“Exactly,” she said, stepping closer, her voice tighter now. “Rhaenyra’s daughter. That black-hearted woman raised her to lie and scheme, just like her. Do you not see what she’s doing?”
My fists clenched. “She’s not doing anything.”
“She’s clever,” Mother said. “Too clever. She has you wrapped around her little finger and you’re too young to see it.”
“No, I’m not!” I nearly shouted. “Lucera is kind. She shares her lemon cakes with me. She listens. She believes in me.”
“Believes in you?” Mother whispered, like the words made her ache. “She is Rhaenyra’s child, Aemond. The daughter of a traitor. And her blood…” Her voice trailed off, then hardened. “Her father is Ser Harwin Strong, no matter what her mother claims. And that makes her a Strong bastard just like her brothers.”
I looked away, jaw tight.
“She’ll twist your heart to get what she wants,” Mother said, softer now, but just as firm. “That’s what her mother did. That’s what all of them do.”
“That’s not true,” I mumbled. “Her father is laenor velaryon.”
A long silence.
Mother stared at me for a while, searching for something in my face. “Aemond,” she said at last, gently. “You are a prince. You must be careful who you trust. Do you understand?”
I didn’t answer.
“Stay away from her.”
“I won’t,” I said.
She blinked, caught off guard by the finality in my voice.
“I won’t,” I repeated. “You don’t know her like I do.”
And I turned and walked away, heart beating far too fast, cheeks hot.
I found her where I knew she’d be — tucked behind the tall shelves of the library, where the light barely reached and the air smelled of dust and old stories.
She was sitting on the floor with her back against the stone wall, a book open in her lap and a half-eaten lemon cake balanced on the edge of a wooden stool she’d dragged over. Her legs were crossed like a Septa’s, her hair falling over one shoulder in a long dark braid, and when she looked up and saw me, her eyes lit up just a little.
“You came,” she said simply, as if she’d been waiting for me.
“I always do.”
I sat down beside her, not quite touching, but close enough that I could feel the warmth of her arm. She pushed the book aside — some tale about Nymeria and the Rhoynar — and reached for the lemon cake.
“Do you want it?” she asked.
I shook my head. My stomach was still twisted from what Mother said. But I didn’t want to talk about that yet. I just wanted to sit here, where it was quiet, where it smelled like parchment and lilacs — the scent that always seemed to follow her.
Lucera glanced at me, chewing thoughtfully. “You look upset.”
I frowned. “I spoke to my mother.”
“About the wedding?” she asked, like it was the most normal thing in the world. She tilted her head, a little smile on her face. “Did she start planning it yet? I want a pink cloak.”
“She said no,” I muttered. “She said we’re too young.”
Lucera blinked. “Oh.”
“She said I don’t understand what marriage is.”
“Do you?”
I nodded. “I think I do.”
She stared at me for a moment, quiet. Then, to my surprise, she leaned in, quick as a shadow, and pressed a kiss to my lips.
Soft. Brief. Like brushing wings.
I froze.
My whole face went hot.
She sat back like nothing happened and popped the rest of the lemon cake into her mouth. “Then we’ll just marry in secret,” she said with a shrug, licking sugar from her thumb. “That way no one can say no.”
I stared at her. “Really?”
She nodded, very seriously. “Really. Like in the songs. Secret weddings are always more romantic anyway.”
“But how do we do it?”
Lucera tilted her head in thought. “We could say vows. Now. Here. And then it’ll be done.”
I swallowed hard. “Vows?”
She took my hand in hers. “I promise to always share my lemon cakes with you.”
I blinked. “Even the last one?”
“The very last.”
That felt like a big promise. I looked at her fingers wrapped around mine. “Then I promise… I’ll always protect you. Even from Aegon. Especially from Aegon.”
Lucera grinned. “Then we’re married.”
I nodded. My heart felt too big for my chest.
The library was quiet except for the scratching of rats somewhere in the beams and the soft flutter of a page as Lucera flipped back through her book. We were still sitting on the floor, side by side, married now — at least to each other, and I supposed that was what mattered.
Lucera leaned her head against the wall, arms folded behind it, and said, “I think I want… twelve.”
I blinked. “Twelve what?”
“Children,” she said, as if it were obvious. “Six girls, six boys. Or maybe more girls. Girls are smarter.”
“Twelve?” I echoed, horrified.
She turned her head to look at me. “Yes. I want a big family. Big enough to fill all the chairs at a feast and then some. Big enough to never be alone.”
That made sense, in a way only she could make it. Still—
“That’s… a lot of children.”
She shrugged. “I shall name the first girl Nyra, after Mother. And the first boy… something Targaryen-sounding. Like Aelyx.”
“Aelyx sounds like a goat,” I muttered.
She giggled. “Then you can name the boys.”
“I don’t know how to name children.”
“You’ll learn,” she said confidently. “If we’re married, then we’re going to have them. That’s how it works. Right?”
I opened my mouth. Closed it.
Lucera narrowed her eyes. “How does it work? You know, don’t you?”
I cleared my throat and looked very hard at the spine of the book next to me. “Aegon told me. Once.”
She leaned in, eager. “Tell me!”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s… improper,” I mumbled, suddenly hot all over. “And disgusting. Probably lies, too.”
Her brow furrowed. “How can it be both disgusting and a lie?”
“It just is.”
She huffed and sat back with a pout. “Well. If it’s disgusting, I’m not doing it. I’ll have my babies some other way.”
I didn’t say anything.
Twelve children. Twelve little Luceras and Aemonds running around the Red Keep — or wherever we’d be when we were older. Maybe Dragonstone, or Driftmark, or something better. Somewhere far from Aegon, at least.
The idea didn’t scare me the way it should’ve. In fact… it felt warm. Loud, yes. But warm.
I glanced over at her, her cheeks still dusted with sugar, a smudge of ink on her wrist where she’d been flipping pages. Her braid had come a little undone.
“What if we only had… three?” I offered. “One of each kind. A boy, a girl, and a dragon.”
Lucera snorted. “A dragon isn’t a child.”
“It is to us.”
She considered that, then nodded. “All right. Three. But if I change my mind, you can’t say no.”
I smiled faintly. “I won’t.”
She leaned her head against my shoulder, soft and light like a bird’s wing. “Good.”
And in that still, hidden corner of the world, wrapped in shadows and books and childhood dreams, I decided — if she wanted twelve, I’d give her twelve.
Whatever she asked of me, I’d give it. Even if I had to burn the world for it.
suddenly the doors creaked open.
I looked up, already dreading the sound of that voice.
“Oi! What’s this?”
Aegon’s smirk arrived before the rest of him, swaggering into the light with Jacaerys trailing behind, looking more curious than angry.
Lucera groaned under her breath. “Oh gods. Do they ever go away?”
I shifted beside her, but she didn’t move. Her shoulder was still brushing mine, and I didn’t want to pull away.
Aegon sauntered forward like he owned the library. “Aemond, are you hiding in corners with girls now? Bold of you.”
I opened my mouth, but Lucera spoke first. “He’s not hiding. We’re having a very important conversation.”
Jacaerys stepped closer, squinting at us. “About what? Books? Why are you even talking to him?”
Lucera rolled her eyes. “Because he’s nice, unlike you.”
Jace blinked. “I’m nice!”
“You made a pig a dragon,” she deadpanned.
He had the decency to look guilty for half a second. “That was… different.”
Aegon laughed. “Are we interrupting a secret wedding? Should we come back with flowers and a septon?”
I stood, fists clenched. “Leave her alone.”
Aegon grinned wider. “What, are you going to duel me for her honor?”
Lucera stood too, stepping in front of me. “You’re just mad because I didn’t pick you to marry.”
Aegon gasped, hand to his chest in mock hurt. “She wounds me.”
Jacaerys was clearly trying not to laugh now. “You two are weird.”
Lucera just shrugged. “Then go away.”
They both lingered for a moment longer before Aegon waved it off. “Come on, Jace. Let the lovers plan their ten babies in peace.”
Lucera perked up. “It was twelve, actually.”
Aemond’s face went hot.
Jace snorted. “Have fun, weirdos.”
And then they were gone, the doors swinging shut behind them.
Lucera looked up at me, completely unfazed. “Boys are so dramatic.”
I nodded slowly. “Yes. Yes, they are.”
Notes:
dw guys older jace will be nicer, hopefully, i think..
idk i haven't planned what i'll write in the future yet.should i write the chapters longer? idk.
imagine gordon ramsey eating you out and complaining "it's too raw"
haven't slept in 24 hours and my schizophrenia and autism aren't helping!remember to takw care of yourself
HAPPY READING!!
Chapter Text
Lucera
The red keep, King's Landing
I was supposed to be stitching flowers onto a bit of linen. Instead, I was stitching nothing but trouble.
The moment the Septa looked away, I slipped from my seat, set my embroidery hoop down like it was diseased, and crept toward the heavy door. My slippers made no sound as I walked, which made me very proud of myself — until I accidentally bumped into a guard just beyond the corridor and had to pretend I was fetching something for Lady Hightower. He didn’t believe me, but he let me go.
I wandered the halls of the Red Keep with purpose, even if I had none. I just wanted to find Aemond.
And somehow, as if the gods were still listening to my wishes, I turned the corner and there he was — walking the opposite way, nose almost buried in a book again, the leather cover worn down from his reading.
“Aemond!”
He jumped, just a little, and blinked at me.
“Lucera? You’re meant to be at your lessons.”
“I’m practicing escape instead,” I grinned, standing proudly like I’d done something grand. “And I had to find you.”
He closed his book, raising an eyebrow. “Why?”
I hesitated. I didn’t want to say it. But I couldn’t keep it either. It had been bubbling in me ever since Mother told me last night, in that low, secret voice she used when something serious was about to happen.
“We’re leaving soon,” I said at last. “For Dragonstone.”
Aemond’s face changed. He didn’t blink, but I could tell from the way his mouth tightened that he was angry.
“When?”
“I don’t know. She wouldn’t tell me. Only said it would be ‘soon.’”
He looked away from me, jaw clenched. I reached out and took his sleeve gently.
“But it’s not forever,” I added quickly. “We’ll still write to each other. I’ll send you letters by raven. Every week. Maybe every day.”
“I don’t want letters, Lucera,” he muttered.
I frowned. “But I’ll write them myself. With a proper wax seal and everything.”
He didn’t say anything. Just stood there looking at the stones beneath our feet like they’d offended him. The silence between us felt heavy, like the time my governess told me my kitten had run away but wouldn’t say where.
I stepped closer. “I don’t want to leave you either,” I whispered.
His eyes flicked up to mine — blue and sharp, like the sea before a storm. “Then don’t.”
“If I had a choice, I’d stay,” I said truthfully. “But Mother’s mind is made. I think she’s worried about something. Maybe the Queen.”
His lips pressed together in a hard line. “She doesn’t want you around me.”
“Maybe.” I shrugged. “But you’re my betrothed, remember?”
He finally, finally smiled — a tiny one, but it was there.
“I’m not breaking our secret marriage,” I said, lifting my chin. “You’ll just have to wait for your wife to return.”
His cheeks turned a little red. That made me smile too.
“Besides,” I added, “I'm a dragonrider. I can fly to you whenever I want.”
“You’re not supposed to fly alone yet,” he said.
“I wasn’t supposed to leave sewing lessons either.”
That got a huff of laughter from him, before i gave him a peck on the lips.
Driftmark
The sea never stopped moving on Driftmark. It roared and whispered and wept all at once. Even the wind seemed to mourn.
Everyone was dressed in black. Even me, though I hated how itchy the fabric was. I stood beside my mother with my hands folded like she told me, trying to keep still while Lord Vaemond spoke in High Valyrian. His voice was deep and sharp, like he wanted it to cut. I didn’t understand every word, but I understood the way he looked at us.
When he said the blood of Old Valyria runs thick, through salt and fire, he looked right at me and Jace. Maybe he thought we wouldn’t notice.
But I did. I just didn’t care.
Jace stiffened beside me. Mother’s jaw tightened.
I kept quiet and stared at the stone floor. The pyre was already lit. The smoke made my eyes sting, but I didn’t cry. I didn’t know Laena. She was supposed to be my aunt, but she had never held me, or braided my hair, or told me stories. Still, I felt bad for Baela and Rhaena. I wouldn’t want to lose my mother.
Jace had already gone to sit with them, trying to make them smile. He was good like that.
After the speeches ended, everyone began moving—whispers and footsteps, the rustle of cloaks and the sound of cups being passed around. I slipped away when no one was looking, ducking past a row of guards and around a corner. My feet knew where they wanted to go before I did.
And I found him there. Aemond. Standing alone beside a pillar, half-hidden in the shadows like he always was.
We didn’t say anything at first.
He looked taller than I remembered. Older somehow.
“I heard about Ser Harwin,” he said quietly, not looking at me.
I looked at the ground. “Everyone’s been whispering about it.”
“I’m sorry.”
I shrugged. “I’m not. He was annoying. Always around. Always talking to Mother like we weren’t even there.”
Aemond blinked, surprised. I wasn’t sure why. I meant it. “I’m only sad because it makes her sad,” I added.
That, he seemed to understand. He nodded slowly.
“And I didn’t know Laena,” I said, softer now. “But Baela and Rhaena look… broken.”
“They lost their mother.”
“And we lost Ser Harwin,” I replied. “Even if I didn’t like him much, it still feels… strange. He was a friend of my mother”
We stood side by side, pressed against the cold stone wall where no one could see us. The wind tugged at my skirts and at his silver hair. From up above, I heard Aegon laughing—probably already drunk. I heard Jace murmuring something to Baela, his voice kind.
“I wanted to talk to you,” I said.
“I was looking for you,” he said at the same time.
I glanced up. He was already watching me. His eyes were softer than they usually were.
“Do you still mean it?” he asked.
“Mean what?”
“Our… promise. In the library.”
“As if I would forget,” I replied plainly.
That made him smile, just a little. His shoulder bumped against mine.
I looked back out at the sea. “Mother says we’re staying on Dragonstone longer after this.”
“Will you come back?”
“I don’t know.”
The wind whistled between us, and he was quiet for so long I thought maybe I’d upset him.
“But I’ll write to you,” I said quickly. “Even if you don’t write back.”
“I will,” he said. “I’ll write.”
Something brushed my hand. I looked down. His pinky was hooked against mine.
I didn’t move it.
We stayed like that until the sky darkened and someone called our names.
No one saw us. Not Vaemond. Not the Queen. Not even our mothers.
Only the sea. And the sea never tells.
...
The halls of High Tide were colder at night, wrapped in silence except for the occasional clink of goblets and the hushed grief murmuring through its stone bones. Mother’s hand was firm when it gripped my shoulder.
“You and your brother should be abed.”
Jace gave a small sigh and obeyed, walking ahead without question. But I lingered.
“I’m not tired,” I tried, but Mother gave me a look—the kind that left no room for argument.
So I nodded, then turned the wrong way once her back was to me.
I slipped back down the hall, barefoot now to stay quiet, my skirts clutched in my fists. I knew where he’d be.
Aemond stood near one of the side doors, half-hidden in shadows like he always was when he didn’t want to be found.
“You didn’t go to bed,” I whispered.
“You didn’t either.”
We smiled—barely—and that was all it took. We crept out together, past sleeping guards and the cooling pyres, toward the open cliffs where the sea sang below and the sky was full of stars.
And dragons.
Vhagar’s roar cracked the night wide open. Distant, ancient, angry.
“There,” Aemond pointed. “That way.”
We ran.
He was faster, but I didn’t let him get too far ahead. We crossed the black sands, ducked under the ruined archways, and climbed a rocky path until we reached a wide ledge that looked like it had been carved by giants.
And there she was.
Vhagar.
Even curled in sleep, she was enormous. Her sides rose and fell like thunderclouds, and when she moved, the ground seemed to tremble.
“I’m going to try,” Aemond whispered, jaw clenched.
“Are you sure?” I asked, eyes wide. “She’s… she’s huge.”
“I’m sure.”
He stepped forward, raising a hand. “Dohaeris!” he shouted. “Dohaeris!”
Vhagar stirred. Her head lifted—slowly, like a mountain waking. Her eyes burned gold in the dark.
Aemond didn’t flinch.
Neither did I.
I stepped forward too, heart hammering in my chest. “It’s okay,” I said softly to her. “We won’t hurt you.”
Vhagar huffed, smoke curling from her nostrils.
I reached out, my fingers brushing her nose.
And for a moment, everything was still.
Then I stepped back as Aemond climbed the ropes, his hands steady, movements sure. He mounted her with the ease of someone born to ride. I stood below, holding my breath.
Vhagar spread her wings and let out a roar that shook my bones.
Then she took flight.
I screamed—not from fear, but excitement—as they soared into the sky like a shadow beneath the moon.
Two minutes passed.
And then, Vhagar returned—graceful and terrible—landing beside me with a gust of wind that knocked my hair from its braid.
Aemond jumped down, chest heaving, eyes wild with triumph.
“I did it!” he grinned, stepping closer. “I tamed her. Me.”
“You did,” I smiled, still breathless. “You really did. That was amazing.”
He beamed—giddy and proud. “I’m a dragonrider now. I could fly to Essos if I wanted to. Or fight in wars. Or—”
“Be more careful,” I interrupted, frowning. “She’s old. She’s fought wars. She could’ve burned you.”
“She didn’t.”
“She could’ve.” I glanced at Vhagar again. “And… she wasn’t yours to claim.”
He blinked, confused. “What?”
“Rhaena wanted her,” I said softly. “She told me. She wanted to wait until after the funeral.”
Aemond’s smile vanished.
“She had years,” he muttered. “I took my chance. That’s what dragonriders do.”
“She’s grieving!”
“She should’ve acted faster!”
I flinched at his tone, and when I turned to walk away, his hand snapped out.
“Don’t walk away from me.”
I yelped as he pushed me, harder than he meant to. I stumbled back, eyes wide. My chest tightened with the sudden sting of tears.
“I didn’t mean—” he began.
But I ran.
Back into the castle, into the glow of torches, into the waiting disaster.
Rhaena was crying. Baela’s hands were clenched. Jace stood beside them, lips pressed tight. They’d heard. They’d seen.
"it's him." Rhaena retorted
"it's me" he answered.
He glanced at me as i stood on the side, my head still hurting from when I just fell. I felt dizzy.
"Vhagar is my mother's dragon. She was mine to claim!"
"Then you should've claimed her." Aemond snapped back. "maybe your cousin could find you a pig to ride," he tilted his head, "it'd suit you."
Rhaena lunged at him but he pushed her aside as then Baela stepped forward, punching him.
"stop, guys!" I yelled, scared.
Aemond immediately recovered and punched Baela back even harder. so hard that she fell on the ground.
"come at me again, and i'll feed you to my dragon." he threatened.
"Aemond please!" I begged. he didn't even look at me.
jace started punching Aemond, till Aemond kicked him back, jace landing on the floor next to baela, who was scrambling away.
jace got back up, pushing Aemond, who fell down as all three of them started beating Aemond up.
"Stop!!" i screamed as I ran towards them, only to get punched in my face. I fell back, as i somewhere in the distance heard Aemond yelling my name. Or maybe it's jace? I struggled to keep my eyes open as I suddenly got lifted up.
i managed to open my eyes again, seeing Aemond in front of me, holding me by my throat. But he didn#t restrict my air supply. i could still breathe, but barely as i was already panicking. He glanced at me, giving me a look which said "I won't hurt you" or maybe not, i couldnt see right. tears were streaming down my eyes as my vision blurred. He lifted a rock with his other hand.
"You will die screaming in flames just as your father did, bastard!" He yelled at Jace, not me. He didn't look at me. I wasn't a bastard. my brother wasn't one either. what was he talking about? And why did he only call jace a bastard? why not me, too? If Jace is a bastard, wouldn't I be a bastard too? I look like him.
"my father is still alive!" i cried back, even though he wasn't talking to me.
Aemond still didn't look at me. "she doesn't know, does she? lord strong." He snarled at Jace as he pulled out a dagger.
"Jace!" I heard Baela yell as jace lunged at Aemond and Aemond immediatly pushed me away, as if he did not want me getting hurt, stabbed.
He kept on avoiding my brother's attempts at slicing him as aemond then managed to punch jace, making him fall and drop the dagger.
Jace threw the dagger at me, signaling at me to grab it, as Aemond still held the rock in his hand. over our heads. jace scooped up some sand and dirt from the ground and threw it at Aemond's face, blinding him temporarily.
Vhagar. The fight. The shouting. Jace. The rock.
I moved.
The blade slashed.
Aemond screamed.
Blood. Everywhere.
The rock fell.
I dropped the dagger, horrified.
He clutched his face, blood pouring from between his fingers. Everyone was screaming now.
I couldn’t breathe.
I hadn’t meant to.
But I’d done it.
I had taken Aemond’s eye.
...
Aemond
The red keep, King's Landing
Notes:
whoa what a rollercoaster, huh?
my heart is literally pounding rn.this is the first time i've written something like that and tbh i'm not proud. i feel like i frogot something but idk what :(
i really hope i didnt and you enjoyed this!
HAPPY HAPPY READINGdouble happy this chapter because i've come so far! YAAYYYY
Chapter Text
Six years later
Lucera
Dragonstone
I sat in the reading nook by an arched window, the damp sea air mixing with the scent of old books. Six-year-old Joffrey leaned against me, his curls tickling my arm as he tried to sound out a line from Tales of Valyrian Dragons.
“Syy‑va‑dar... no, sȳz vāedar. Good fire,” I said gently, pointing to the word. His smile lit the room more than any torch. I tucked a loose curl behind his ear and dropped my finger to the next line.
My chest trembled when my mother’s voice came through the doorway. Soft, urgent.
“Lucera,” she said. She rested a hand on her round belly, her profile somehow softer, fiercer. “Come to the throne room. At once.”
Joffrey blew out a candle and slipped away with a sleepy mutter. I stood and followed Mother through torchlit corridors of black volcanic stone, the sea echoing in my ears as if reminding me whose child I was. My heart trembled; I didn’t know why, only that it felt like change.
In the throne room we assembled before Mother: Daemon at one side, Jace beside me, Rhaena pale and silent, Aegon clustered near Viserys the Younger. I swallowed against the hollow in my throat.
Mother cleared her throat. “Vaemond Velaryon challenges your right to Driftmark.”
My lungs still.
Jace’s hand tightened on mine. Daemon’s jaw clenched. Rhaena blinked once, lost in shock. I swallowed again.
“Why?” I croaked.
“Because I am not pure Velaryon,” I said it before he did. The word stuck like salt on a wound.
Mother answered me. “We will go to King Viserys in King’s Landing. He will confirm you as rightful heir.”
It felt like the tide turned beneath my feet. Anxiety gnawed at me, but I didn’t cry. I wouldn’t yet.
The red keep, King's Landing
The air was heavier, colder, even in summer. The salt sea seemed distant here. The walls of the Red Keep swallowed sound like a bad memory.
Jace and I slipped away from the bustle of the court to explore the outer courtyard. I trailed behind him, shivering in my dark dress, hugging my arms against the chill. It felt so far from home.
We turned a corner and heard steel strike steel. The clang drew us to the fighting yard. I peered through a gap and stopped dead.
Ser Criston faced off with a tall, lean man in black. That silver hair. That silent fury. My heart lurched.
Aemond. He looked bigger. Sharper. One eye hidden by a patch—dark as a valve shut forever.
He moved in controlled arcs, striking crisply. Criston faltered. The sword rang.
The duel ended. Aemond stared us down as he sheathed his blade. Then he spoke:
“Niece. Nephew. Have you come to train?”
His voice was deeper, colder—less the boy I remembered.
Jace instantly stepped between us. His firm grip caught my wrist.
I didn’t speak. My throat closed.
Aemond’s remaining eye flicked to me, and I felt dizzy beneath its weight. Years fell between us.
Jace pulled me away. My feet dragged. I stole a glance back. Aemond still watched, steeled expression intact.
A spark of something—recognition? Regret?—flared in his eye before his face settled.
I let Jace lead.
But I looked back again.
He had never faltered.
And so I walked on.
The red keep, King's Landing
The throne room of the Red Keep was colder than I remembered. Not in temperature, but in feeling. In silence. In stares.
One side of the room gleamed in green and gold. Cold jewels, high collars, heavy crowns. The other side, ours—black and red like fire trapped under stone.
And there I stood beside my mother, Rhaenyra, with Jace just behind me, tall and tense. Daemon to her other side, unmoving as a statue. I could feel little Joffrey fidgeting, barely tall enough to see past the sleeves of my gown. He shouldn't have been here, but Mother said we must all be present. “All of us,” she said, her hand resting protectively on her pregnant belly.
Across the hall, Queen Alicent sat near the base of the Iron Throne. She didn’t look at us. Not once. Aegon lounged in his seat like he couldn’t be bothered. Helaena blinked slowly, like she wasn’t fully here. And Aemond—
My gaze darted to him.
He was already staring at me. Sharp and unblinking. The patch over his left eye made the other look colder, brighter. There was no softness in it. No kindness. Just study. Calculation.
I looked away.
Up on the Iron Throne sat Otto Hightower, not my grandfather. Not the King.
His voice rang across the stone floor.
“Though it is the great hope of this court that Lord Corlys Velaryon survive his wounds,
We gather here with a grim task of dealing with the succession of Driftmark.
As Hand, I speak with the King’s voice on this—and all other matters.
The Crown will now hear the petitions.
Ser Vaemond of House Velaryon.”
I turned my head as Vaemond stepped forward. His boots echoed. Slow, proud steps. He looked right at me as he passed, narrowing his eyes. I didn’t flinch, but I felt Jace shift behind me.
Vaemond took his place in the center of the room. His voice was loud, steady, too confident.
“My Queen.
My Lord Hand.
The history of our noble houses extends beyond the Seven Kingdoms to the days of Old Valyria.
For as long as House Targaryen has ruled the skies, House Velaryon has ruled the seas.
When the Doom fell on Valyria, our houses became the last of their kind.
Our forebearers came to this new land knowing that were they to fail, it would mean the end of their bloodlines and their names.”
He glanced at my mother when he said bloodlines, but his eyes flicked back to me—lingering.
“I have spent my entire life on Driftmark, defending my brother’s seat.
I am Lord Corlys’s closest kin—his own blood.
The true and unimpeachable blood of House Velaryon runs through my veins.”
I heard Mother’s breath shift before she spoke.
“As it does in my sons—the offspring of Laenor Velaryon.
If you cared so much about your House’s blood, Ser Vaemond,
You would not be so bold as to supplant its rightful heir.”
Her voice was strong. Fierce. But she didn’t shout. Not like she used to. She didn’t need to.
Queen Alicent leaned forward, interrupting before the heat could rise.
“You’ll have a chance to make your own petition, Princess Rhaenyra.
Do Ser Vaemond the courtesy of allowing his to be heard.”
Mother didn’t reply. But I could feel her tension like a thread pulled tight.
Vaemond continued, voice rising now with righteous fury.
“What do you know of Valyrian blood, Princess?
I could cut my veins and show it to you, and you still wouldn’t recognize it.
This is about the future and survival of my House—not yours.”
I felt something tighten in my chest.
“My Queen. My Lord Hand.This is a matter of blood, not ambition.
I place the continuation of the survival of my House and my line above all.
I humbly put myself before you as my brother’s successor—
The Lord of Driftmark. The Lord of the Tides.”
He finished. His chin lifted as if he had already won.
There was silence for a breath, then Otto’s voice again “Thank you, Ser Vaemond.”
My hands were shaking slightly, hidden in the folds of my gown. I didn’t know if anyone could tell.
I dared another glance toward Aemond.
He hadn’t looked away. Still watching me. Still unreadable.
And I—I felt like my blood might turn to ice.
then the hand speaked up again.
"princess rhaenyra, you may now speak for your daughter, princess lucera velaryon." The hand said slowly as my mother stepped in the center of the room.
"might i remind you that about a decade ago, in this very room-" everyone turned to look as the doors creaked open.
"king viserys targaryen, first of his name, king of the andals, the rhoynar, of first men, Lord of the seven kingdoms and protector of the realm! all hail his grace!" The king walked slow, cane in hand, grunting and groaning with every move. The hand stood slowly, looking shocked, like actual shock was on his face as he descented the throne and let the king sit atop it. King viserys wore a royal attire, ropes of black and red embroidered with the targaryen sigil.
"I must admit my confusion." The king panted with every word like it pained him to simply talk.
"I do not understand why petitions are being heard over a settled succesion." The king continued speaking as i noticed the queen roll her eyes, from the corner of my eyes.
"The only one present
who might offer Keener insight into lord Corlys's wishes,
is the princess rhaenys." Viserys finished with a pant. Everyone's heads turned to Rhaenys.
"indeed, your grace." She glanced at Vaemond before stepping in the middle, in front of the throne.
It was quiet until Rhaenys spoke up. "It was ever my husband's will that driftmark pass through ser Laenor, to his trueborn son, Lucerys Velaryon. His mind never changed, nor did my support of him."
The room was quiet again. The only thing we heard was the king's quiet breathing.
"As a matter of fact," Rhaenys spoke up again. "The princess Rhaenyra jas just informed me of her desire to marry her son Jace, to Lord Corlys's granddaughter, Baela. A proposal to which I heartily agree." The princess finished.
I looked to mother who was looking down, then to Jace who glanced at Baela with a proud look on his face. Baela smiled at him. Lovebirds.
I looked to the other side of my..family. The hand looked horrified, like he just realised something. The queen looked down, shaking her head discreetly. Aegon's self righteous smile only grew. the same smirk he always had as a child.
Aemond..he was looking at the wall behind my family, no emotion on his face.
Helaena also seemed not to care about this betrothal.
"Well," The king panted atop the iron throne. "The matter is settled." Everyone was quiet.
"Again, I hereby reaffirm, princess Lucera of house velaryon, is heir to driftmark, the driftwood throne, and the next lady of the tides." Viserys finally finished with a wheeze.
Rhaenys silently walked back to the place next to Baela.
Ser Vaemond genuanely looked shocked as Mother looked proud, giving me a little smile and taking my hand.
"you break law," Vaemond started again. gods. I had to keep from rolling my eyes.
I was lost in thought when Vaemond suddenly pointed at me. I flinched.
"That!" His voice echoed. "Is no true Velaryon." He looked at me as if I were a pest. Then he turned to look at the king again. "and certainly, no nephew of mine."
"go to your chambers," mother muttered to me and Jace, or maybe just me. I don't know, since she only looked to me.
"You have said enough." She said, this time looking at Ser Vaemond.
"Lucera, is my trueborn granddaughter." The king spoke now. "and you, no more, than the second son of Driftmark."
Mother let go of my hand to touch her rings, clearly nervous, even if she does not say it.
"you, may run your house as you see fit," He spat. "But you will not decide the future of mine. My house survived the doom
"and she," he turned to the king again. "is...a whore." he seethed. several gasps were being let out by the court, filling the mostly quiet room.
This reminded me of the day I..took Aemonds eye, how he called my brother a bastard, but strangely not me. I glanced at him again to find him staring at me again, but this time with a smile. but the smile wasn't kind. He did no smile at me like he used to, he smiled at me like he enjoyed me getting called a bastard. Like he enjoyed my mother being called a whore.
The queen looked stressed, but not surprised. Helaena blinked several times and narrowed her eyes at the floor. The hand was looking down too.
The king stood slowly. "i," He unsheathed his dagger with a quiet hiss. "will have your tongue for that."
I flinched, stepping back as suddenly daemon stood behind Ser Vaemond, beheading him. cwelsch. Wet sounds were heard as his body, headless body, lay there. gasps filled the room again. Jace seemed eerily calm and mother did too. I looked to the other side of the room. Helaena's hands were covering her ear, her eyes wide. Alicent had taken hold of Helaena's arm as Aemond had taken a step back, shock on his face as he finally showed some emotion. Aegon stared at the headless corpse like it was the shit of a horse.
"He can keep his tongue." Daemon said calmly, staring down at the body.
"disarm him!" The hand.
"no need." Daemon chimed in, cleaning the blood from dark sister with the skirt of his tunic.
A sharp gasp broke the silence — the king was groaning, writhing in pain as he fell back down on his seat.
"call the maesters!" The queen ordered as she rushed up the steps of the throne
"father" Mother stepped towards the throne, her voice worried.
"please, my love, you must take something for the pain." Queen Alicent helped her husband up, who continued panting and groaning in pain.
"I will not cloud my mind." The king responded, holding onto the queen, leaning against her. "i must, put things right." The king added, low, but enough for the court to hear.The maester and a guard gently lifted the king from Queen Alicent's side, supporting his frail form as they led him down the steps and out of the throne room.
...
The Red Keep was colder than I remembered.
Not by wind or snow, but in the silence of its stone, in the wary stares of the servants, in the echo of footsteps that once danced in its halls. It had once been my home. Ours. But now it felt like wandering the carcass of something long dead.
We were meant to return to Dragonstone after the petitions.
But Mother—moved by the sight of the King dragging his half-decayed body to the throne for my sake—declared we would stay a while longer. "To spend time with him, while he still breathes."
So we remained.
And I wandered.
I had walked the length of the royal wing, past the chambers that had once held laughter, through a corridor where the tapestries had changed—less Targaryen fire now, more Hightower green—and down into the gardens.
There, the sun was soft and golden, and the orange trees bowed heavy with fruit.
I nearly smiled. Not for the trees—but for the long stone table beneath the arbor, laid with silver platters, some still full.
And there they were.
Lemon cakes. Just like before. Small and sugared and golden.
I plucked one without thinking, sat on the low bench beside the fountain, and bit into it.
For a moment, the taste silenced the ache in my chest.
But then—
“Well, well.”
My shoulders tensed before I turned.
Prince Aegon stood just beyond the hedges, stumbling a little as he swaggered forward. A goblet sloshed red in his hand, half of it spilled down his sleeve.
“My sweet niece, devouring sweets like the little court mouse she used to be.”
I set the lemon cake down, brushing crumbs from my fingers. “Uncle.”
“You don’t sound pleased to see me.”
“I am not.”
He grinned, teeth wine-stained. “Seven hells. The little Velaryon Strong has grown claws.”
I said nothing.
He circled the table slowly, peering at the platters. “Lemon cakes, is it? What a fine little treat for a bastard girl playing at being lady of the tides.”
“I am no bastard,” I said coldly.
I stood. “Your quarrel is not with me, Uncle. It is with my mother.”
“My quarrel is with anyone who thinks this farce of yours will hold. The moment the King coughs his last breath, you’ll be back on Dragonstone with your little books and your little dragon, clutching that false title like a doll.”
“You overstep—”
“Oh, spare me, niece,” he cut in, slouching onto the bench beside the tray. “You think your precious Aemond’s going to defend your honour? Will he draw his sword when they call you what you are? Or will he stand there like he always does, grim and glaring, saying nothing while you prattle on like a lovesick maid?”
I flinched despite myself.
Aegon laughed, cruel and delighted. “Gods, it’s true. He still keeps you in his eyes, doesn’t he? or rather, eye. He follows you like some brooding shadow. Do you think that makes you special?”
“You're drunk.”
“Of course I’m drunk!” he snapped, raising the goblet high. “It’s the only way to suffer your lot while my mother parades around like she’s won something. While bastards take seats meant for kings.”
I turned to leave.
He leaned back lazily. “Run along then, little niece. Go cry into your lemon cakes and dream of dragonfire. But know this—when the old man dies, there’ll be no one left to save you.”
I didn’t look back.
Not even when he laughed again.
The clang of steel rang sharp through the halls — not the dull thud of wooden sparring swords, but iron. Real blades. Serious.
I froze.
That sound didn’t belong in the Red Keep unless something was wrong.
Then I heard voices echo from the training yard. Distant but growing louder. Angry.
“Come, nephew. Show me all you’ve learned.”
Aemond.
The blood drained from my face. I gathered my skirts and ran.
By the time I stepped into the sun-drenched yard, a small circle had formed — stablehands, a few knights loitering at the edges, not daring to intervene. And in the center: Aemond and Jace, swords drawn, circling like hounds.
Aemond looked untouched — collected, sharp, cruel as ever. Jace, on the other hand, was flushed and breathing hard, the knuckles on his sword hand white.
I stepped closer, slow and silent, careful not to draw attention. My presence would only make things worse. That much I knew.
But I couldn't look away.
Jace lunged — high, eager, all emotion and no patience — and Aemond parried without so much as a flinch.
“Is that it?” Aemond asked, circling. “Six years, and you still lead with your shoulder.”
Jace said nothing, only gritted his teeth and swung again — harder this time. The sound of clashing steel cracked across the yard.
“The training yard on Dragonstone must be very small,” Aemond went on. “Or do you just hit the rocks for practice?”
More strikes — faster now. But Aemond was faster still. He dodged, twisted, and landed a clean slice across Jace’s cheek. Blood sprang up, thin and bright.
I took a step forward.
Jace stumbled.
Aemond kicked him.
Jace hit the dirt hard, the breath knocked from him.
Aemond didn’t stop.
He raised his blade again, striking down. Jace lifted his sword to block, but he was slow, unbalanced. Another blow landed. Then another.
“Aemond—!” I shouted, voice ringing out across the yard. “Stop!”
He didn’t.
I ran.
My feet barely touched the ground as I crossed the distance. I didn’t think, didn’t speak, didn’t hesitate. I threw myself between them, hands slamming into his chest. Aemond staggered back a step, his eye flashing with surprise and something darker.
“He’s finished!” I snapped, panting. “You made your point!”
He looked at me like I was a puzzle he’d already solved. Not anger — not yet — but something colder. Contempt.
“Stay out of it.”
“You’ve spilled his blood. You’ll not spill more.”
A muscle twitched in his jaw, but he stepped back, lowering his blade. Not out of mercy — but boredom.
I turned my back to him, kneeling beside Jace. He had dirt on his face and blood on his lip, but he was breathing. Furious. Ashamed.
“Fool,” I muttered, checking the cut on his cheek. “Stupid, stubborn fool.”
He moved to sit up, but I stood first, grabbed his arm, and yanked him upright before he could protest.
“Up. You’ve embarrassed yourself enough.”
“Lucera—”
“No. Inside. Now.”
I dragged him from the yard without another word, without even glancing back at Aemond. Let him stand there like a shadow, watching us go.
Let him stew.
Let him wonder.
But gods help me… I could still feel the heat of his gaze on my back.
Notes:
it was sooo difficult to write the throne room scene in kingslanding cuz I had to search for the scene in youtube to copy what they say so it'll be the same conversation, but i couldnt find the whole scene so i had to piece the scene together somehow.
but atleast it worked in the end.
idk the faceclaim for lucera yet, so if yall want, you can put suggestions in the comments. she has brown curly hair, basically like harwin's. her eyes are dark brown too. her face is round and she has natural big eyes. im not sure how to describe her body, only that she has like helaena's body type yk?
anyway,
HAPPY READING!!
Chapter Text
Lucera
The red keep, King's Landing
The Red Keep never slept, but tonight, it felt as though it mourned.
Its corridors were hushed and cold, the stones echoing with the ghosts of my own footsteps as I wandered them. My cloak hung loose around my shoulders, my hair unbraided. I should have stayed in my chambers. I should have tried to sleep. But the weight of the day—Vaemond’s venom, the clash of steel, Aemond’s fury—lingered beneath my skin like thorns.
The library welcomed me like a forgotten song. Dust clung to the high shelves, and candlelight flickered low in the sconces. I remembered this place from my childhood. Aemond had once brought me here when we were small—he used to sit with books too large for his lap, and I would fall asleep listening to him read aloud in High Valyrian.
I stepped inside, letting the door whisper shut behind me.
Then I saw him.
He sat at the long oak table, half-shrouded in shadow, his face lit only by the flame beside him. His silver hair spilled over his shoulders, and the leather of his coat creaked softly as he turned a page. He did not look up.
Aemond.
My breath caught. I stood there for a heartbeat too long, unsure if I should turn back. But my legs would not move.
He spoke first, voice low and dry.
“Couldn’t sleep, niece?”
“No.”
A pause. Then, turning another page without looking at me—
“Pity. I was enjoying the silence.” It was quiet again.
“You should not walk the halls alone,” Aemond said at last.
I glanced up. “You do.”
“I am not a girl of fourteen summers.”
“No,” I murmured, “you are not.”
He looked at me then, his one eye sharp beneath the pale fringe of his hair. “That tone does not suit you, niece.”
I ignored him, crossed the room, and settled at a table the furthest away from him, dragging a worn book toward me. My fingers trembled slightly as I opened it. I hadn’t even checked the title.
“Still sulking?” he asked after a moment. “Over the boy?”
My gaze stayed on the page. “You nearly beat him unconscious.”
“He had a blade in his hand. I merely reminded him how little good it did him.”
“You reminded everyone,” I said coolly. “That you’ve no restraint.”
Aemond let out a quiet huff. “You didn’t seem quite so bothered when I defended your honor at Driftmark. Though I suppose back then, you had the sense to stay out of my way.”
“I was a child,” I muttered.
“You still are.”
I looked up at that. “You forget yourself.”
“No,” he said, finally meeting my eyes, “I remember too well.”
The candlelight played off the line of his jaw, the smooth curve of his eyepatch. He studied me as one might study a crack in the wall—something unsightly, but not unexpected.
“You humiliated him,” I said. “That was all it was to you.”
“And?”
“He’s your blood.”
“So are you,” Aemond said. “And yet I imagine you’d have struck me if I hadn’t moved.”
“I still might.”
He smiled faintly at that. “You’ve grown bold, niece. Dragonstone’s done something to your spine.”
“Or perhaps King’s Landing has rotted yours.”
That made the smile vanish. His gaze narrowed, sharp as the steel he wore earlier.
“You ought to be careful,” he said softly.
“I am,” I replied. “You’re the reckless one.”
Aemond leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. “You may posture in front of your mother and your brother, but don’t pretend you know the game being played here.”
“I know enough. Enough to see you’re playing it poorly.”
“Then keep watching,” he said, “and pray you don’t find yourself on the board.”
I stood, closing the book with more force than was needed. “You’ve made yourself a monster in their eyes.”
“In yours, too?”
I didn’t answer.
Aemond watched me, unmoving. “Careful who you scold in front of the court. You may wake one day to find your mother’s head on a spike.”
My fists clenched at my sides. “Say that again.”
He blinked, slowly. “I said—”
I stepped forward. “Say it again and I swear I’ll make you bleed, prince or not.”
The smirk returned, faint and hollow. “There she is.”
I turned without another word and walked toward the door.
As I reached it, his voice followed me.
“Sleep well, niece.”
I didn’t.
Jacaerys
The red keep, King's Landing
The sun filtered in through the high windows of Maegor’s Holdfast, but it did little to warm the room. The stone walls remained cold, like the air in my chest.
I sat stiffly at the long table, opposite my mother and Daemon, between Lucera and Rhaena. My cheek still throbbed from the cut Aemond had given me, though the maester had cleaned it well enough. It had stopped bleeding, but not aching. Every time I chewed, the pain flared anew. Not that I’d let anyone see it.
Joffrey sat near the end, swinging his legs as he picked at a plate of stewed plums and soft bread, face drawn in a small, sulky frown. Baela was quiet beside him, her head bowed slightly as she cut her fruit. Across from her, Lucera barely touched her food.
The scent of honeyed ham and smallfish lingered in the air, but none of it seemed appetizing.
Daemon, of course, was the first to speak.
“Well,” he said, casually stabbing a grape with his dagger and popping it into his mouth, “at least the boy’s not dead.”
Mother shot him a sharp look. “Jace is fortunate it was only his cheek.”
Daemon shrugged, unbothered. “Better to learn that lesson now. You don’t spar with someone who’s twice your height and only half in his right mind.”
“He challenged me,” I muttered.
“He baited you,” Mother corrected, her tone crisp. “And you were foolish enough to take it.”
I winced more from her words than the cut.
“He insulted Lucera,” I said. “I wasn’t going to stand there and let him—”
“She does not need you to fight her battles,” Mother cut in. Her eyes slid to Lucera, who was unusually still, lips pale and pressed into a line. “Your sister had the sense to walk away yesterday. You should have done the same.”
“Why should he?” Daemon interjected, glancing at Lucera with a crooked smirk. “Aemond’s always been a smug little shit. Good to bloody him, even if only a little.”
“He bloodied Jace,” Rhaena muttered, not looking up.
Daemon grinned wider. “Aye, well. Let us call it a mutual exchange.”
Daemon leaned back, elbow resting lazily on the chair. “maybe next time you'll take the other eye too, lucera. Then that one-eyed mongrel would not have the balls to challenge you, jacaerys." He said with a smile as Lucera rolled her eyes.
“That’s not very nice,” Joffrey said. “I liked him better before.”
Lucera let out a breath, almost a scoff. “Before he tried to kill Jace?”
“I mean before he had a hole where his eye should be,” Joffrey said solemnly. “He’s scary now.”
“He always was,” I muttered, reaching for my cup.
“He wasn’t scary when I was little,” Joffrey said. “He used to give me warm tarts from the kitchens, the ones with the blueberry's inside.” He was lying, visibly. he wasn't even a year old, six years ago, but no one said anything. It's normal for children to fantasize.
The silence that followed was awkward and thick.
“Well,” Daemon said at last, breaking it with a shrug, “perhaps next time you can all sit together and braid each other’s hair. Provided no one loses another eye in the process.”
Mother glared at him again.
“Joff,” she said gently, “finish your plums. Then go to your lessons.”
Joffrey sighed and scooped the rest of the stewed fruit into his mouth, cheeks bulging. Then he slid from his chair and padded off, muttering something about wanting to see his “real best friend” back on Dragonstone.
Baela finally looked up. “How long are we to remain here?”
“A few more days,” Mother replied. “Your grandsire wishes us near. I would not deny him that.”
Daemon gave a nod, softer this time. “He’s fading.”
I looked up at him. “Do you think he’ll—?”
“Don’t,” Lucera cut in suddenly. “Don’t speak of it. Not here.”
Her voice was cold, sharper than it had been all morning.
I studied her face, saw the tightness in her jaw. She hadn’t spoken to me since the training yard. Not really. She’d dragged me inside, called me a fool, then vanished into her chambers and hadn’t emerged until this morning.
“I was only trying to defend you,” I said to her, quieter.
“I did not ask you to,” she replied without looking at me.
“And I didn’t need to be asked.”
Daemon raised a brow. “Seven Hells, the pair of you could do with less pride.”
Mother’s sigh was soft but weary. “Enough. You are siblings. Act it.”
“We are acting like it,” Rhaena murmured. “Targaryens bicker. It’s what we do best.”
Lucera stood then, her chair scraping softly across the stone. “May I be excused?”
Mother gave a tired nod. “Go on.”
She left without another word.
I watched her go, a bitter taste settling in my mouth that had nothing to do with the tea. She hadn't even glanced at me.
Daemon chewed on a bit of bread. “You know, boy,” he said, “next time you want to impress her, try not bleeding on the training ground. Doesn’t look heroic when you fall on your arse.”
I didn’t answer. I just reached for another slice of bread and bit down hard, even as my cheek throbbed.
Let Aemond smirk. Let Lucera scold me. I’d do it again, given the chance.
And next time, I’d not lose.
...
The Godswood of the Red Keep was smaller than the one at Dragonstone, more stone than soil, its sacred heart tree caged within high red walls and shadowed by towers. Yet it still breathed of old things — sap and blood, wind and ash.
I came here to be alone.
After my mother’s scolding and Daemon’s japes — after the bite of Aemond’s blade and my own bruised pride — I needed silence. Not the court’s kind, thick with eyes and whispers, but the kind the gods might still honor. If they were listening.
I sat beneath the weirwood, arms resting on my knees, sword gone, cloak muddied, my thoughts sour. The white bark peeled in strange, bleeding lines. The face carved into its trunk did not blink.
I did not know what to ask the gods. For strength? For vengeance? For peace?
I heard the footsteps before I saw her.
Light but unhurried. Measured. I looked up.
Lucera.
Her hair was brushed but loose, her riding cloak half fastened at the collar, boots leaving prints in the fallen red leaves. she looked like she just finished flying with Arrax. She paused when she saw me, eyes unreadable.
Neither of us spoke.
She didn’t turn back. Just crossed the small garden and sat across from me, a little to the side, beneath the same tree. Not too near. Not far.
She pulled a book from beneath her arm, the sort of heavy, leather-bound tome she liked, and opened it. But I knew she wasn’t reading. Her eyes didn’t move.
The silence stretched.
Then she said, without looking at me, “You should not have accepted the challenge.”
I turned my head toward her. “You think I had a choice?”
“I think you had pride,” she answered, voice quiet. “And little sense.”
That stung. “He called me out before half the court. What would you have had me do? Bow and beg off?”
“Live,” she said flatly, still not looking at me.
That silenced me for a moment.
I muttered, “And you should not have stepped between us.”
She shut the book with a soft thud.
“If I had not, you’d be pissing blood right now,” she said coldly. “Or worse.”
“You think I cannot hold my own?” I snapped.
“I think you fought a boy who is no longer a boy,” she answered. “You train with Ser Harwin’s style, with measured strikes and clean form. Aemond fights like he wants to kill.”
I looked down at my scraped hands. My cheek still throbbed where the edge of his blade had kissed it.
“Perhaps he does,” I muttered.
She looked at me then. “He nearly maimed you, Jace. For sport.”
I wanted to argue. I wanted to say something sharp — that she didn’t understand, that she shouldn’t have interfered, that she and Aemond had their own history, twisted and tangled — but none of it came.
She rose, brushing the leaves from her cloak.
“Don’t give him what he wants,” she said.
I frowned. “Which is?”
Lucera looked past me, toward the red leaves overhead. “To make you lose your temper. To prove that you are not your father’s son.”
That struck deeper than I liked.
I stood as well, slower. “And what of you? You ran between us like a knight from the stories. Why?”
She hesitated.
Then, voice low, she said, “Because he scares me sometimes.”
And with that, she turned and left me there, beneath the bleeding tree, with nothing but the sound of rustling leaves and my own wounded thoughts.
...
The Red Keep was vast, but it never truly offered quiet. Not the kind one could think in. Every corridor echoed with some distant muttering—boots on stone, whispers behind carved doors, the wind sighing between pillars like ghosts.
And yet I walked it still, aimless.
Now, I found myself in the Painted Gallery, its long spine stretching endlessly ahead. The murals of Targaryen glory loomed on either side—Aegon astride Balerion, Visenya wielding Dark Sister, Daemon above the Stepstones with Caraxes beneath him like flame made flesh.
It was foolish, maybe, but I’d always liked this place. It made me feel small in the right way. As if I were a thread in something vast and bloody and worth remembering.
The quiet footsteps behind me, though—that kind of small I did not enjoy.
I turned.
Aemond stood at the far end of the corridor, framed in the golden light of a narrow window. One eye shadowed, the other bright with some unreadable thing. He walked slowly, hands folded behind his back, as though we had agreed to meet here. As though this were a lesson.
When he drew near enough, he stopped. Tilted his head. Smiled.
“You wander,” he said, “as if chased by ghosts.”
I straightened. “Uncle.”
He hummed. “That’s all I get? After such a spirited display yesterday?”
I said nothing.
“I’m sure your mother said her piece. Rhaenyra never did suffer fools gladly.” He looked past me at the mural of Aegon’s Conquest. “But my sweet niece—Lucera—she said her piece as well, didn’t she?”
I stepped forward before I could think better of it. “Mind your tongue.”
Aemond’s eye flicked back to mine, sharp as glass.
“I speak plainly, nephew. That is all. One must, when the world wraps itself in silk and lies.”
His boots echoed on the stone as he began to circle me, slow, methodical, like a hawk watching for the twitch of a rabbit’s foot. “She leapt between us like a maiden in a tale, didn’t she? Just shy of tears. Such fire. I thought perhaps you’d proposed and not told your kin.”
“She’s my sister,” I snapped.
That drew a dry chuckle from him.
He turned fully toward me, closer now. The sunlight carved gold across the ridge of his cheekbone, the gleam of his sword hilt.
“I wonder,” he murmured, “does she see you as a brother… or a shield?”
I stiffened.
“She protected you, not the other way around.” His voice lowered to a purr. “Strange, that. A boy meant to be king, hiding behind a girl’s skirts.”
It struck harder than it should have.
“I need not prove myself to you,” I muttered.
“No,” he said, “only to everyone else.”
We stood in silence then. Just the breath of wind through the slits in the stone, the creak of old paint upon the walls.
Then, soft as mist, he added, “You should be careful, nephew. With whom you let close. With whom you bleed for.”
I stepped back, enough to let the air widen between us again.
“And you,” I said, “should remember your place.”
He only smiled, too calm, too knowing.
“I know my place.”
Then he turned and walked away, the sound of his boots trailing behind him like the tail of a serpent.
I stayed a long while after he vanished, staring at the painted dragons overhead, wondering which of us they’d burn first.
Lucera
The red keep, King's Landing
The Red Keep had a way of holding its breath.
It lingered in the silence between steps, in the long, winding corridors where tapestries hung like whispers of history. I walked them slowly that morning, idling when I had no reason to, pausing to gaze out arched windows or trace the worn patterns in the stone. My mother had gone to speak with the king. Rhaena and Baela had taken Joffrey to the nursery. Jace had said naught to me after he left when I left him in the godswood after our conversation.
I did not ask. I knew he wouldn’t answer.
But I had my suspicions.
It wasn’t difficult to guess where he might’ve gone after the godswood. And there were few souls in this keep with the power to dull Jace’s light. One of them wore an eyepatch and carried his silence like a blade.
I turned down a familiar hall, letting my feet guide me without command. The scent of old vellum and smoke was thick before I even reached the door.
The library.
He was there. Of course he was.
Aemond sat at a long table, back straight, head bowed over some ancient tome. His hair fell forward, catching the light, and the candle beside him cast long shadows across the sharp lines of his face. He looked carved from the same stone the Red Keep was built of.
He did not look up when I entered.
"Did you hurt him?" I asked. No greeting. No curtsy. My voice was quiet, but it carried.
He did not so much as flinch.
"You will need to be more specific."
I stepped further inside, letting the door click shut behind me. "Jace."
Aemond finally raised his eye. Cool. Measuring. "Is that what he told you?"
"He told me naught," I replied. "He wouldn’t. But I saw it in him. Something happened."
He closed his book with slow precision. "Then you might consider asking him."
I crossed my arms. "You’re not denying it."
"What need have I to deny a thing I am not ashamed of?" he said, rising to his full height.
"What did you say to him?"
He stepped around the table, slow and deliberate. "Truth, niece. You and your kin are ever so delicate when faced with it."
"You push and you push until all that’s left is hurt."
He was before me now, closer than comfort allowed. "Would you rather I lied?"
"I’d rather you left him be."
"As he left me be?"
There was venom in his tone. Old. Coiled. Waiting. I saw it then—the wound still open beneath the years. His eye. His pride. The gallery. The yard.
He said nothing.
His jaw twitched.
Then he said, low and sharp, "Your brother is a fool. Still believes in honour, as though it will save him."
I slapped him before I could think better of it.
His head snapped to the side, the sound echoing off the stone and books like a clap of thunder.
He did not flinch. Did not move.
I stared up at him, my palm tingling.
"If you ever speak of him that way again," I said, my voice shaking not with fear but fury, "I will do far worse."
He looked at me slowly, a flicker of something unreadable in his eye.
But he said nothing more.
And I turned and walked away before I said something I would regret.
The Red Keep did not breathe.
It watched. It remembered.
Aemond
The red keep, King's Landing
The sound of her hand against my cheek rang louder than the bells of the Sept.
I did not move. I would not give her the satisfaction.
Her palm trembled where it hung between us. Mine did not. I kept them at my sides, fists curled against the surge of fire beneath my skin.
She turned and left—back straight, chin high, fury in every step.
I watched her go.
And then I turned back to the table, to the book I had not been reading.
My cheek stung. Not from pain, but from insult.
She had struck me.
Lucera.
The little girl with flowers in her hair and ink-stained fingers. The little girl who used to fall asleep with her head against my shoulder while I read aloud in a language she could barely understand.
Now she raised a hand against me.
And for what? For him? For that fool of a brother who still clung to some child’s notion of honour and fair play? He’d looked at me in the gallery like he meant to fix what could never be undone. He thought himself a man.
But men do not flinch when met with truth. Men do not sulk like wounded pups.
My hands rested on the table’s edge, the knuckles white. The candle’s flame shook with my breath.
She thought she could shame me. Humble me. But I had lived through worse than her anger.
I had bled for less.
Let her slap me. Let her walk away.
There would be a time when she would understand. When she would see them for what they were. When she would curse the name Strong as bitterly as I had.
I would wait.
And if waiting was not enough, I would make her see.
The flame steadied. I picked up the book, not to read, but to still my hands. My jaw ached from how tightly I clenched it.
I did not regret what I said.
I only regretted letting her walk away.
Notes:
sooo many POV's this chapter, huh?
i hope it's not too short!
who should I make suffer next??i'd love to hear your suggestions, but for now, have a GREAT day and remember that you are important.
HAPPY READING!!
Chapter 8: VIII
Summary:
A not so enjoyable last dinner
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Rhaenyra
The red keep, King's Landing
The fire had burned low in the hearth, casting long shadows across the stone walls of our chamber. The Red Keep groaned softly in its bones, wind slipping through the crevices like whispers of old kings. I sat before the mirror, brushing out my hair as Daemon moved behind me, unfastening the clasps of his black tunic. His reflection met mine in the glass: quiet, sharp-eyed, always watching.
"You should come to bed," he murmured, voice low, intimate.
"In a moment," I said, though I set the brush down.
He stepped closer, one hand on my shoulder, the other resting on my stomach, where his babe grew. I leaned into his touch, eyes closing briefly as he pressed a kiss to the side of my neck. Warmth, familiar and steady. It had been a long day, and yet sleep would not find me easily.
We climbed beneath the sheets not long after, the candlelight flickering against the canopy above. He kissed me again, slow and unhurried. There was no urgency between us tonight, only the comfort of a bond long forged.
"You're quiet," Daemon said against my skin. "And not just now. All evening."
I sighed. "I'm thinking."
"Of the king?"
"Of Lucera. And Jace." I turned slightly to face him, fingers tracing the line of his collarbone. "Something weighs on them both. Jace has always been serious, too serious for his years. But now there's a tightness to him. A shadow. And Lucera—"
"She is a Targaryen," Daemon said. "Shadows follow us all."
"But she is still a girl," I said, more sharply than intended. "And I see it in her eyes—she carries too much. More than she lets on."
Daemon studied me. "You think Aemond has something to do with it."
I nodded. "I cannot be certain. But I know his temper. I saw the way he looked at her when we arrived. That boy bleeds ice and fire in equal measure, and neither makes him kind."
Daemon gave a soft snort, pulling me closer to him. "Let them play their little games. They're of age now. If Lucera wants to dance with fire, she'll learn how to keep from burning."
I frowned, resting my head against his chest. "They shouldn't have to play these games at all. We came to King's Landing to secure Lucera's claim, not to reopen old wounds. And yet every corridor I walk, every face I see—it feels like war already."
Daemon was quiet a long moment.
"Then be ready for it," he said. "But don’t underestimate your children, Rhaenyra. They are yours. They will endure."
I closed my eyes.
But I did not sleep.
Not yet.
Lucera
The red keep, King's Landing
Night cloaked the Red Keep like a shroud, and the wind howled beyond the battlements like the voices of restless ghosts. I stood before the hearth in my chamber, staring at the dying embers until the last of their warmth surrendered to ash.
Then I moved.
The cloak I chose was thick and dark, swallowing the shape of me. I pulled the hood low over my brow, hiding my face in the folds of shadow. The dress beneath was simple, unadorned. Soft-soled boots, no jewels. Nothing to catch the light, nothing to betray me.
My hands trembled only once—at the stone in the wall. The old passageway was hidden behind a tapestry, and the brick I pressed shifted with a soft groan. The door opened, and the cold air of the tunnels spilled out to greet me like an old friend.
I stepped inside.
Darkness welcomed me, as it always did.
The torch I carried barely lit the path ahead. The tunnels twisted and turned like the guts of a beast, ancient and narrow, lined with damp stones and dripping ceilings. I moved without thought. These ways had been etched into my memory from the days I’d wandered them as a child, long before Dragonstone and duty and war.
I counted the turns. Left. Right. Down the stairs with the broken step. Past the wall with the Targaryen sigil carved into the stone. And then—there it was. The door. Old, iron-bound, heavy.
It groaned open at my touch.
Cool night air rushed over me, brushing the sweat from my neck. The sounds of the city breathed into my bones. Far-off dogs barking. Laughter from taverns. The hush of waves against Blackwater Bay.
I was out.
I kept to the shadows as I made my way through the lower parts of the city. The air smelled of smoke and salt, of frying fish and wet stone. The streets here were narrow, crooked, and lived-in. Not like the keep. Here, the smallfolk bustled even at night. Children darted between legs. Vendors shouted. A woman sang near a well.
And then I saw him.
Alaric.
He stood outside a modest wooden house, oil lantern in hand, as if he’d been waiting.
His face lit up when he saw me.
"Luce?"
I ran to him.
We collided like old memories, arms wrapping tight, laughter catching in our throats. It had been six years. We had written, but ink was not flesh.
"Seven hells, look at you," he said, pulling back to take me in. "You look like—like a ghost and a queen all at once."
"You haven’t changed," I smiled. "Still the same scruffy boy who climbed roofs and stole sweetbread."
"I’m fifteen now, mind you," he puffed his chest. "A man grown."
I laughed, and he offered his arm.
We walked.
The city was quieter as we wandered deeper into the heart of it. He told me about his apprenticeship with a blacksmith, his brothers, the stray dog they’d taken in. I spoke of Dragonstone, of books and windswept cliffs, of how I missed the way the streets here sang with life.
We stopped at a baker’s stall still open despite the hour. He bought me a honeycake, and I licked sugar from my fingers as we strolled.
Then the mood shifted. Gently. Subtly.
Our steps slowed.
Our hands brushed.
He looked at me, and I looked back.
And he leaned in.
His breath was warm on my cheek, and I did not pull away.
Then a hand clamped around my arm.
Rough. Familiar.
I gasped as I was yanked back, stumbling.
"What in the—"
"Luce!" Alaric cried out, stepping forward.
I twisted to look, already knowing.
Aemond.
His hood shadowed his face, but there was no mistaking the grip, the height, the fury simmering beneath his silence. He didn’t even glance at Alaric.
"I’ll come back tomorrow!" I shouted as Aemond dragged me backward.
Alaric stared, frozen, unsure whether to follow or flee.
I stumbled, cursed, yanked at his hand. "Let me go, you godsdamned one-eyed—"
He said nothing. Just hauled me through the streets like a sack of stolen gold. We moved fast, darting through alleys and cutting across empty lanes until the city fell behind us and the door in the hill yawned open once more.
Back into the passageways.
The torchlight flickered around us as we descended. The walls closed in. My fury grew with every step.
Finally, at the base of the tunnel, I tore my arm free.
"What in seven bloody hells do you think you’re doing?!"
He turned, silent, shadowed.
"How did you even find me?! Were you following me like some skulking hound?"
He said nothing.
"I swear to the gods, if you lay a hand on Alaric, I’ll—"
"Alaric?" he said finally, low and sharp. "Is that the name of the boy you were about to kiss in the street like some whore from the Flea Bottom brothels?"
"Do not speak of him like that. He’s my friend."
"He is nothing."
"He is more than you, at least!"
The silence that followed was heavy, burning.
"How did you find me?" I demanded again.
His eye glinted in the dim.
"I was in the city."
"Doing what?"
He didn’t answer.
Which meant I had my answer.
My mouth curled with disgust. "How noble of you, prince."
He took a step toward me.
I didn’t move.
"You have no right to drag me anywhere."
"You’re lucky it was me who found you."
"Lucky?!"
"Had it been someone else—"
"I can protect myself!"
He looked at me then, long and slow.
"Clearly."
His voice was all ice.
I wanted to scream. To slap him again. To cry.
I did not leave.
My breath heaved from my chest, sharp with fury, but my feet would not carry me away. The echo of my own voice still hung in the air, harsh and alive in the passageway's damp silence. Aemond stood where he had dragged me, shadowed and still, his cloak dripping with the city’s night fog. The torchlight flickered between us, throwing strange shapes against the stone walls. I could not see his eye beneath the hood, but I felt it. Watching. Burning.
I straightened my shoulders and yanked the hood down from my head, letting it fall back. My hair clung to my cheeks, damp with sweat. "Well?" I asked, voice sharp. "Have you nothing to say? No sly quip or lesson wrapped in cruelty?"
He didn’t speak.
Not at first.
Then his hand came up slowly, and he peeled the hood back from his face. His silver hair fell loose in the low light, half-shadowing the harsh lines of his jaw, the sharp cheekbones, the eyepatch. That one eye gleamed.
"I ought to haul you straight to your mother," he said, voice low, tightly wound. "Let her see what the heir of driftmark does in the dark."
I scoffed. "How noble of you. Was that before or after your visit to whatever tavern or brothel you crawled out of?"
A muscle in his jaw jumped. "You don’t belong down there."
"Neither do you."
He took a step closer, the passage tightening between us. "I can handle it. You can barely hold a blade."
"You think I need a blade to walk among my people?"
"I think you’re a Targaryen girl in a silk shift playing at being a shadow. I think you would’ve been dead before dawn if someone else saw you."
"But it was you," I snapped. "How fortunate I am."
His mouth pulled into something thin. "I saw you. That was enough."
"You had no right."
"And yet, here we are."
My hand curled at my side. "What gives you the right to drag me from my friend, from someone who has done me no harm, and speak to me like I am a child who needs scolding?"
His gaze darkened. "Because you’re foolish enough to think you’re safe simply because you remember a boy who once gave you sweets."
"You don't know him."
"I know what men become when they are hungry. And poor. And full of want."
"So now I am not only foolish but stupid? Blind to danger?"
"You are soft," he said bluntly. "Soft and highborn. That softness will be your undoing."
"And you think your cruelty makes you better?"
"It keeps me alive."
My voice lowered. "Living is not the same as being alive."
Something flickered in his eye at that. Not emotion. Not regret. But recognition. Then it was gone.
"Next time you sneak out, I won’t come after you," he said.
"Good."
"You can rot in the gutter if you wish."
"good" I repeated.
He said nothing.
The silence stretched long between us, torchlight flickering over stone and bone.
Then Aemond turned. "Stay out of the tunnels. You’re not as clever as you think."
He left without waiting for an answer.
And though my heart still pounded with fury, I did not call him back.
...
The next morning
The Red Keep's great hall was gilded with firelight, and yet, for all its warmth, the air was cold as the Vale in winter. The long dining table stretched like a battlefield between the warring lines of House Targaryen — Mother and her kin seated on one side, Alicent and her brood on the other. Between them: decades of mistrust, secrets, and the ghosts of dead dragons.
The doors opened.
Viserys I Targaryen, once King, now wraith, was borne into the hall on a litter of velvet and suffering. His crown weighed heavy on his sunken brow; a golden mask cloaked half his face, hiding what disease had stolen. The room fell silent as tombs. Even Daemon, who had laughed at kings, grew still.
“I will sit,” said the king, voice a rasp of wind through autumn leaves. He refused the litter, waved away his guards. He would walk to his chair unaided — not as king, but as father.
Each step was a war. He staggered, groaned, faltered. A crown slipped and fell. A hand caught it — Daemon’s hand — and gently set it back upon his brother’s brow.
Viserys sat. But then as if he changed his mind, he stood again, panting and wheezing.
He looked around the table "It both gladdens my heart and fills me with sorrow, to see these faces, around the table. The faces most dear to me in all the world. You've grown so distant from eachother, in the years passed." the room fell quiet again as the king started taking off the golden mask that covered half of his face. It was like his face was rotting, from the inside.
The king's right eye was missing. There was a hole where his eye should be.
"My own face, is no longer a handsome one." he looked at everyone with a low, dry sounding chuckle.
"If indeed it ever was. But tonight, I wish you to see me as who I am. Not just the king, but your father," aegon looked up at last. Then Viserys turned to Daemon "your brother," Then to the queen, "your husband," Now he was looking at jace, then towards me.
"who may not, it seems, walk for much longer among you. Let us no longer hold our feelings in our hearts. The crown cannot stand strong, if the house of the dragon remains divided. So set aside your grievencess. If not for the sake of the crown, then for the sake of this old man, who loves you all so dearly" The king fell back in his seat as Alicent helped him put back on his mask.
Mother stood. Her voice was steady, though her hands were clenched around the cup she was holding
"I wish to raise my cup to her grace, the queen. I love my father, but I must admit that no one has stood more loyally by his side than his good wife." She broke eye contact with the queen to look around the table.
"she has tended to him with unfailing devotion. Love, and honor. And for that, she has my gratitude. And my apology." She sat again.
Alicent blinked. She seemed to be lost in thought.
"your graciousness moves me deeply, princess." she finally responded, making Mother look at her
"We're both mothers. And we both love our children. We have more in common than we sometimes allow." The quen then stood too. "I raise my cup to you, and to your house. You will make a fine queen." she sat again.
Goblets moved as everyone drank. The tension eased, like a knot loosening.
Helaena, her mind in some distant dream, raised her cup.
"I would like to toast to Baela and Rhaena. Baela will be married soon, Rhaena no doubt soon too. It isn't so bad, mostly he just ignores you, except sometime's when he is drunk." She sat back down with a nervous smile as small chuckles were heard. Daemon's was the loudest of course,
"Let us have some music." The king ordered the musicians, who began playing their instruments, soft tunes filled the room.
Jace stood up then. "excuse me." he spoke to Baela in a low voice. He strut over to Helaena, offering her his hand as she took it with a little smile. He led her towards the center of the room as they started jumping, dancing and laughing to the music.
I leaned back in my seat, my fork stabbing some meat on my plate before i brought it up to my mouth, chewing on it.
The king's chair was eventually carried away with him in it, after he started groaning in pain again, as Jace and Helaena continued dancing.
I looked in front of me to see a roasted pig on a platter be placed in front of Aemond. The Pink Dread. A memory born of mockery. He laughed when my mother was called a whore and I, a bastard by ser Vaemond. I could play the game too.
I huffed like I meant to laugh but had tried covering it up. He immediatly turned his head to look at me. I looked down, still chewing, not wanting to give him the satisfaction. I looked up again, now smirking at him. He had ruined my almost-kiss last night, and though I am thankful he did not tell my mother, I was still angry about him snatching me out of Alaric's arms.
The music abruptly stopped when Aemond slammed his fist against the table and stood, holding up his goblet, holding eye contact.
"Final tribute." Helaena and Jace stopped dancing, now focused on Aemond.
"To the health of my nephews and niece." everyone was quiet. "Jace," he looked to my brother. "Luce," then to me as i put my cup of wine down, onto the table. "and joffrey." He was still looking at me
"each of them handsome, wise..." He stopped, thinking. Then tilted his head a little. "hm, strong."
"Aemond-" The queen was interrupted by Aemond.
"Come, let us drain our cups, to these three strong children." Aegon also raised his cup with a proud smile.
"I dare you say that again." Jace warned, making Aemond turn to him, eyes narrowed. "why? T'was only a compliment." Jace was already walking towards our uncle.
"Do you not think yourself strong?" I stood before Jace could throw the first punch, and was about to go help my brother, when suddenly Aegon grabbed me and pinned me down to the table, a glass shattering, as I started feeling a little dizzy. I felt warm liquid run down the side of my face.
“Enough!” Alicent cried.
Everyone was standing now as Jace was on the floor, staggering to get back up, but the guards grabbed him, holding him back. I pushed back Aegon as he laughed and got pulled back too as I was about to strike him.
The queen grabbed Aemond, seething. "why would you say such a thing before these people?"
"I was merely expressing how proud I am of my family, mother. mh, though it seems my niece and nephew aren't quite proud of theirs." He responded, turning to us again. His gaze darkened when he noticed the already half dried blood on the side of my face. He glared at Aegon, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.
Jace managed to get out of the guard's grasp, but Daemon stopped him. "wait, wait!"
Mother glanced at the blood on my face too, her expression getting more worried. "go to your quarters, all of you, go now. Lucera go see a maester please, i'll come see after you later."
she ordered and we complied, leaving this tense room.
The halls of the Red Keep were quieter now. Hollow with the weight of what had just transpired. I walked in a daze, not from fear, but from the pounding in my skull and the warmth of blood I hadn’t yet wiped from my temple. The maester came and went in silence, his hands brisk but not cruel. He cleaned the cut with sour-smelling water, pressed a cloth to it, and told me it would scar if I picked at it. As if that was what I cared for.
When he left, I sat on the edge of my bed, back straight, hands clasped so tight my knuckles ached. My gown was stained with wine and blood, and my chest rose and fell in tight, short bursts. I stared at the stone floor, trying to will my heart to slow, trying not to think of Aegon’s laughter or the weight of his hands pinning me to the table.
The door creaked open.
"Lucera," Mother’s voice was low, strained.
I did not turn to her. "I told you I’m fine."
She stepped inside anyway. Her steps were slow, deliberate. The door shut softly behind her. "The maester said you did not need stitches. It may scar
I heard the rustle of her skirts before she sat beside me. I stiffened as her fingers brushed the side of my head, gentle as a whisper, brushing back damp curls.
"There is no blame for you to carry in this," she said. Her voice wavered, just slightly. "But the blood on your face—it was more than I could stomach."
I blinked hard. "It always comes to blood with us, doesn’t it?"
She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she placed a hand on mine, warm and solid. "You are brave. Too brave, sometimes. You carry more than I ever meant for you to bear."
"Then why do I feel so weak?"
She looked at me then, and in her eyes I saw no queen, no heir. Just my mother. "You are not weak, Lucera. But you are young. And these walls are full of vipers."
I swallowed hard. "I hate it here."
She closed her eyes briefly. "I know."
"They speak of us like bastards in all but name," I said. "They laugh behind their cups and call it jest. I can see it in their faces, in their smirks. Even Aemond—"
My voice caught in my throat. His name felt like a stone.
Mother opened her eyes again. "Even him?"
I nodded.
She didn’t ask why I thought he would. Didn’t press. Just held my hand tighter.
"Your brother is resting now," she said. "Daemon saw to it. I nearly went to the king myself, but he was too unwell. I will speak to him when he wakes. This cannot go unanswered."
"It never ends," I whispered. "We smile and raise our cups and pretend, but it never ends."
Mother drew me in, pulled me close until my head rested against her shoulder, just as it had when I was small and scared of the thunder. I let her. I let the silence settle around us. Her hand moved through my hair slowly.
"You don’t need to be steel all the time," she said. "You already are."
For a long while, neither of us spoke. I did not cry. I didn’t think I could. But I closed my eyes and let myself be still. Let her hold me in that quiet, heavy way only a mother could. And somewhere deep inside, the fury eased. Just a little.
"Will it truly scar?" I asked at last.
She pulled back enough to look me in the eye, her lips tugging into a faint smile. "Only if you pick at it."
I huffed a laugh.
"Rest, sweet girl," she said, rising. "I’ll send word when the king wakes."
And with that, she left. The door shut gently behind her.
I stared at it for a long time. And when I finally lay down, I did not sleep.
Not yet.
...
The next day
The red keep, King's landing
The morning sun rose soft and gold over the Red Keep, but it brought no joy to me. I had forgotten the date, or perhaps ignored it altogether—until I stepped into the solar, drawn by the scent of fresh bread and the warmth of voices.
"There she is," Mother said with a radiant smile, rising to her feet. She cupped my face, kissed both my cheeks. "Fifteen years today, my heart. Gods, how swiftly time runs."
I blinked. "I thought—"
"That we would let the day pass unnoticed?" Daemon cut in, lounging in his chair as he bit into a fig. "Not even death could keep your mother from making a fuss."
Before I could answer, Joffrey flung himself at my legs, clutching me tight. "Luce! Nameday!"
I knelt and embraced him, brushing back his dark curls.
He nodded proudly, then tugged at my sleeve to pull me toward the table.
Baela and Rhaena were already seated, the latter handing me a small wrapped parcel. Jace sat opposite, a faint smile on his lips for the first time since the feast. He looked rested, at least.
"Sit," Mother urged. "You must eat. And accept your gifts, though you scowl at the thought."
I did as told, nestling between Jace and Rhaena. I hadn't celebrated in years. Not since the year I cut Aemond’s face open and fled to Dragonstone. We had shared a nameday, he and I. A cruel jest of fate. Ever since, the day had tasted bitter.
"She still sulks," Daemon muttered around a bite of cheese. "Let her. Brooding is a Targaryen birthright."
"You sulk more than all of us combined," Baela said, smirking.
He pointed a fork at her. "Watch your tongue, girl."
Laughter stirred around the table. For a moment, it was easy to forget the tension of days past—the shattered cup, the blood, Aegon's leering grin. The memory lingered, but I pushed it aside.
Mother poured me a goblet of watered wine. "You are of age now, Lucera. Not a child, not yet grown. But close."
"Closer than some would have me be," I muttered.
She looked at me carefully. "And what would you have today be? A celebration or a silence?"
I hesitated. "I do not know."
Jace nudged me. "Then let it be a quiet joy. For our sake, at least."
I met his gaze. He was trying. I nodded.
Daemon raised his cup. "To the shadow of the dragon. May her fire never be dimmed."
The others echoed, and I drank.
The day had begun.
And though I had tried to cast it aside, it would not go ignored.
The mountain's, King's Landing
The sun had barely lifted above the towers of the Red Keep when I took my leave.
Mother had pressed kisses to both cheeks, smiled as if the world had not gone sour. Daemon had muttered something half-amused about poison in the wine being too weak to kill a Hightower, and Jace, for once, had not sulked. Rhaena and Baela sat across from me, still in their night robes, sleep tangled in their curls. Joffrey had thrown his arms around my legs before I left, clinging like a boy half his age. Even he had remembered what day it was.
I had smiled. I had accepted the honeyed bread, the cup of watered wine, the polite japes about turning fifteen and not having grown an inch. I had endured the candles, the laughter, the feeling that something inside me itched to be far away.
So I left.
The dragonpit stank of smoke and blood. Familiar. Comforting.
"He is not here," one of the keepers said as I entered. He was old, half-blind, with a voice like gravel. "Has not been since dawn."
"Did he fly west again?"
"Nay, princess. Took to the mountains. He hunts there now."
I thanked him with a nod and walked past the rusting chains, the echoes of other wings. The air outside was sharp, clear. I pulled my cloak tighter and made for the path I knew too well.
The mountain was not steep, but the stones were loose underfoot. My boots kicked dust from the trail as I climbed, the sky growing broader with every step. When I reached the ridge where the winds always howled the loudest, I paused.
There. Nestled in the crag where the cliff met the sky.
But it wasn’t just Arrax.
Vhagar lay atop the nest like a great mountain of molten bronze and green, wings tucked, head resting between clawed forelegs. She looked as though she could swallow Arrax whole and still have room for a second course.
And there was Arrax, my bright-eyed fury, curled beside her like some half-grown pup beside his dam. He chirped low as I stepped closer, tail flicking lazily against the stone. Then, as if roused by instinct, he rose and padded toward me, letting out a pleased groan that rumbled through the rocks.
"Greedy thing," I murmured, scratching beneath his jaw. "What have you gotten yourself into, hm?"
He nudged me with his snout, then turned back toward Vhagar, who had cracked one massive eye open and yawned wide enough to show fangs the length of spears. She made no move. Only let Arrax lick at her cheek, like a cat grooming another.
My brow furrowed. "Are you… courting her? Gods."
I wasn’t sure how dragons did such things. I'd never asked. And now, looking at Arrax nuzzling a beast large enough to crush him by accident, I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.
A sound behind me.
Boots on gravel. Steady. Purposeful.
I didn’t need to turn.
"Come to keep her from eating him whole?" I asked.
"She’d only do it if she were bored," came Aemond's voice. Smooth as ever. "Which she, apparently, is not."
I turned then. He was dressed in black again, as if the color suited only him. A sword at his hip, an eyebrow arched.We stood there a moment, the wind tugging at our cloaks, the dragons huffing steam in the background.
"So," he said finally, with a mock-solemn tilt of his head, "ten and five today. Gods help the realm."
"Ten and seven suits you poorly," I replied, eyes narrowing. "Too old to be coddled. Too young to be wise."
He laughed. It was short, but real. "Still sharp as ever, niece."
"Still smug as ever, uncle."
He walked past me, toward the edge where the stone dipped down to the nesting spot. Arrax growled faintly but did not rise. Vhagar shifted, tail twitching like a sleeping cat.
"They’re not fighting," I noted.
"No."
"Not even snarling."
"No."
"So then. Are they…?"
He glanced at me. Smirked. "Do you truly wish to know what it looks like when dragons fuck, niece?"
I flushed despite myself. "You’re vile."
"You asked."
I crossed my arms. "I was making an observation."
"Then observe quietly."
I let silence stretch between us, the only sound that of wings shifting, claws scraping stone.
"They don’t usually behave like this," I said.
"They’re not usual dragons."
"Nor are we usual people."
We stood a while longer, watching our beasts lounge like old friends. Perhaps they were. Perhaps dragons understood more than we did. Or perhaps they simply didn’t care.
"Enjoy your nameday, Aemond," I said finally, getting ready to leave.
He looked at me, that crooked smirk still lingering. "I shall. And you, Lucera?"
"I already have."
His gaze lingered on my face, searching for something.
"Careful with that smile," he said softly. "Some poor knight might fall on his sword trying to win it. Or worse—you might give it to the wrong man."
I snorted. "Better that than give it to no one at all."
"That depends on the man," he murmured. "Some wouldn’t know what to do with a woman like you. They’d break themselves trying."
"And you suppose you would not?"
He stepped closer. Not enough to touch, but enough that the air felt thinner between us.
"I’d do more than know," he said. "I’d ruin you."
I held his gaze. My throat felt dry. But I did not flinch.
"Then you’d best try," I whispered. "See who ruins whom first."
The wind caught between us. Our dragons stirred.
He only smiled.
And this time, it wasn’t crooked.
Notes:
yall i could not find the whole last dinner scene with viserys so I forgot to write them praying in, im sorry.
do yall think I should write longer chapters? and whose POV do you want to see next?
i mean, i have some ideas, but you can offer suggestions!
HAPPY READING!!
Chapter Text
Aemond
The red keep, King's Landing
I heard her before I saw her.
The lightest scuff of a boot against stone, the scrape of a hinge eased too slowly, the hush of breath held like a prayer. I had learned the language of secrets in this keep. They spoke to me more clearly than most men dared.
Lucera.
I did not call her name. I waited. Let her come deeper into the tower, into the place she did not belong. When she passed beneath the arch, I stepped from the shadows, and she stilled as if I'd struck her.
She wore no cloak, only a dark riding jacket buttoned high at the throat. Her curls were damp from the sea air, eyes wide, skin flushed with whatever mischief had drawn her into the Tower of the Hand.
"Planning treason before supper?" I asked.
She did not smile. "Get out of my way."
"You shouldn't be here."
"Neither should you."
We stood close. The hall was narrow, torchlit, too quiet. My eye flicked past her shoulder to the corridor beyond, empty for now.
"You first, then," I murmured.
She stepped forward. I did not.
Our bodies met with a softness that belied the fury between us. Her hands came up—whether to push or claw, I couldn’t say. I caught her wrist before she could try. She twisted. I moved faster, my other hand finding the curve of her throat. Not to hurt her. To stop her. To hold.
She went still as I kept her pressed against the cold wall. Her glare could’ve cut stone.
"You have no idea what you’re doing," I said.
"And you do?" she hissed.
Her pulse beat against my palm. Not frantic. Measured. She wasn’t afraid.
Not of me.
It would’ve looked romantic to any fool who stumbled upon us. My hand around her wrist, the other at her neck, her face tilted up to mine. But the room was carved from tension, not longing.
And that’s when we heard it.
Footsteps. The shuffle of silks. A cough—wet, rattling. Then the unmistakable voice of Queen Alicent, clipped and curt.
"My king, you cannot walk the stairs alone."
Too late.
They came around the corner all at once—My mother, Rhaenyra, and between them, my dying king. Viserys looked more specter than man, hunched and panting, his good eye wild with strain.
Lucera tensed beneath my hands. I let go before they could accuse me of dragging her down.
Rhaenyra surged forward.
"Unhand my daughter."
"What in the name of the Seven were you doing here?" Rhaenyra demanded. "Why are you alone in this part of the keep—at this hour—"
Lucera lifted her chin but said nothing.
Mother's eyes burned. "You know what this looks like. Gods, she planned it. Girls like her—"
"Enough," Rhaenyra snapped, rounding on her. "You’d paint her a whore because your son can’t keep his hands to himself?"
"Perhaps if your daughter had a shred of propriety—"
"Perhaps if your house had a shred of decency—"
"Enough," Viserys rasped. No one heard.
The women bared teeth, spat words like blades.
"Enough of this," he said louder. Still ignored.
Then he roared. It was a sound from the grave.
"That is ENOUGH of you two!"
Silence crashed down. Alicent fell back a step. Rhaenyra clenched her jaw. Lucera looked between them all, face drawn and pale.
The king straightened, though I saw his spine bow with the effort. His voice shook, but the words were iron.
"If fire and blood must mend what fire and blood has torn, then so be it."
He looked at Lucera. Then at me.
"They will be wed."
Rhaenyra’s face went white.
"Father—"
"My love—" Mother said, voice trembling.
"Grandsire—" Lucera began.
Viserys cut through them all. "No. No more words. No more poison. No more sides. They will be wed. By law and by tradition. And by the will of their king. No more whispers. No more knives in the dark. If they want to destroy each other, then they shall do so with rings on their fingers and fire in their bellies, In their wedding bed."
Lucera looked as though someone had struck her across the face.
Mother opened her mouth. Closed it.
Rhaenyra’s hands curled into fists at her side.
I said nothing.
The king swayed. The maester at his side reached for him, and they began their descent back down the stairs. Slowly. Painfully.
The women remained. The queen’s cheeks were blotched red, Rhaenyra’s nostrils flared with fury. Lucera stared after her grandfather as if she did not believe what had just happened.
No one spoke.
No one moved.
I watched them.
I watched her.
The pulse at her throat still beat steady.
She didn’t look at me, not once.
But I felt something in my chest tighten. Not anger. Not disdain. It wasn’t even desire, though that coiled in me too.
It was something like satisfaction.
I did not plan this. I did not want it.
But I would not fight it.
Because part of me—dark, cold, unspoken—was glad.
Glad that fate had finally twisted the knife in both our ribs. Glad that the court would wake tomorrow with the taste of scandal in their mouths. Glad that she would belong to me, not by choice, but by the will of fire and crown.
If this was a trap, then it was one I would not mind bleeding in.
Let them make their war.
She would be mine by the time it began.
Lucera
The red keep, King's Landing
The hall was loud.
I sat still.
The thrum of drums and strings wound around the pillars of the throne room, weaving through laughter and goblets raised too often. Voices layered, blurred, blunted. I heard none of it.
My hands sat folded in my lap, stiff and cold as polished bone. The dress itched beneath my arms. Not because it was poorly made—gods no, the fabric was fine, spun silver and pearl with threadwork I dared not touch. It itched because I couldn’t breathe.
Because this wasn’t a dress. It was armor. And I was marching to my own funeral in it.
"Straighten your shoulders," one of the handmaidens had whispered as she tightened the last braid. "Valyrian women do not cower."
I had straightened. I had blinked at the mirror until my own face looked like a stranger’s. Painted lips. Braided hair. A string of rubies at my throat. My eyes, too wide.
Now I sat beside him. My soon-to-be husband. My uncle.
Aemond said nothing.
He had barely looked at me since I stepped into the room. Which was fine. I hadn’t looked at him either.
The table curved like a crescent moon, all the Targaryens arranged in a mockery of unity. My mother sat beside Queen Alicent, their bodies turned subtly away from each other. Daemon lounged with a goblet in hand, watching the hall as if waiting for something to catch fire. Jace sat rigid beside Baela. Rhaena whispered to Joffrey, who looked only mildly bored.
King Viserys sat at the head.
Alive, somehow. Though barely. They’d wheeled him in with more grace than I expected. The crown sat heavy on his head. His voice had shaken when he lifted his cup.
"To House Targaryen. Whole and unbroken."
That had been his toast.
The lords and ladies drank.
Then the line began.
One by one, they approached the dais. Painted smiles, elegant bows. Congratulations. Gold and velvet boxes placed before me. I smiled, or tried to. My cheeks hurt from it.
"A token of our admiration, Princess Lucera," said Lord Staunton. "And a little something for the future prince or princess."
He winked.
My fingers twitched. I did not ask what was inside. I did not want to know.
Aemond remained still.
He had drunk once, early. Now his goblet sat untouched. He watched the lords with the same expression he wore in the training yard. Detached. Measured.
Another lady approached. She curtsied, offered a box with a carved mother-of-pearl rattle nestled in blue silk.
I wanted to disappear.
They thought we were eager for this. They thought we were plotting already.
"When is the bedding?" I heard someone whisper as they stepped away.
My face burned.
I did not know. I didn’t even know how a babe was made.
My mother was supposed to tell me. One day. When it mattered.
Apparently, that day had passed.
Another lord. Another gift. Another blessing.
"To the dragons," he said. "And their future hatchlings."
Aemond took a sip of wine.
I glanced at him. It was a mistake.
His profile was carved marble, sharp and calm. He met my gaze. Just for a moment.
He did not smile. He said nothing. But he looked.
And I felt, stupidly, that he knew.
Knew how I wanted to flee. Knew how I itched beneath this silk and thread. Knew I did not know what came next.
And yet I also knew—
He would not touch me. Not until I asked.
I don’t know how I knew it. Maybe it was the way he drank. Slow. Controlled. Maybe it was the way his hands rested, fingers splayed on the table as though he could crush it if he chose. Maybe it was that he had not spoken a word since we sat.
He would wait. Even if it killed him. Even if it killed me.
The music changed. Dancers filled the floor. The feast began properly. Wine spilled, laughter rose, but the gifts kept coming.
And I kept smiling.
Like a good dragon bride.
Then I noticed Baela and Rhaena.
Across the curved table, past the dancing silhouettes and flickering torches, they were watching me. Rhaena dipped her chin, a subtle nod toward my goblet. Baela followed with an arched brow and the hint of a smirk.
I knew what they meant.
With a breath that barely made it past my ribs, I picked up my cup. The red wine inside sloshed like blood. My hand hovered, then turned—toward him.
Aemond.
He didn't flinch when I brought the goblet to his lips. Didn't even glance at me. I leaned in just enough for him to hear, my voice quieter than a whisper.
"They're watching."
His eye flicked once—perhaps toward Baela and Rhaena, perhaps not. Then, without a word, he let me hold the cup steady as he drank. Just a sip. Just enough.
My fingers trembled slightly as I lowered the goblet.
Then he took my hand.
Not with force. Not with affection either. Simply possession.
He lifted it to his lips and kissed my knuckles, slow and deliberate.
The room did not erupt, but I felt the air shift. People noticed.
It would have looked tender, perhaps, if not for the chill in his eye. If not for the distant press of his mouth. As though he were tasting ash.
I stared at him, unmoving.
Then Aegon let out a low chuckle beside him.
"Seven hells," he muttered, voice thick with wine. "Look at you two. Like a pair of statues at a tomb."
He grinned, teeth gleaming, and tipped his goblet toward me. Wine sloshed down his wrist. He didn’t care.
Aemond didn’t respond. He sat back, his eye still on mine, as if daring me to flinch.
I didn’t.
The music swelled around us, bright and terrible.
It changed again. Livelier now, something that made feet tap against the stone. Couples swirled around the floor, silk and laughter and candlelight blending in dizzying circles.
Then a shadow fell across me.
"Princess Lucera," came a voice. Deep, pleasant. Too pleasant. "Might I have this dance?"
I turned and found a young lord standing before me, hand outstretched. I recognized him faintly—Lord Massey, perhaps? It didn’t matter. His smile was wide, practiced. Too many teeth.
I hesitated.
But the eyes watching—the court, my mother, Alicent—demanded civility.
So I stood.
His fingers curled around mine with more pressure than necessary, and before I could blink, I was pulled into the current of dancers. He placed a hand too high on my back, held my waist too tight.
We moved. I tried to follow. I wasn’t good at this. My slippers slid across the polished floor, tripping over memory and fabric.
"You look beautiful tonight," the lord said, too close. His breath brushed my ear. "Worthy of your namesake."
I offered a tight smile. "You're kind, my lord."
"And gracious," he added. "A rare thing."
His hand tightened. My back ached from how stiffly I held myself.
"I think I should sit now," I said, stepping back. "I grow tired easily." I lied. I was always restless, but tonight, I really was tired.
He chuckled. "One more song. Come now, Princess, you cannot already be weary."
His arm tugged again. I stumbled.
Then his face changed.
He looked over my shoulder—and paled.
He dropped my hand.
And vanished.
I didn’t even have time to turn before I was pulled again, this time into a much colder orbit.
Aemond.
His arm wrapped around my waist with a confidence that didn’t ask permission. His other hand found mine. His grip was iron.
He didn’t speak.
He just moved.
And I followed.
Badly.
My foot caught the hem of my dress. I stepped on his boot once, then again. I winced, whispered, "Sorry," but he said nothing.
He guided us through the dance with the ease of someone who had done this too many times. Who didn’t care if I crushed his toes or fell into his chest.
My fingers trembled where they rested against his shoulder. His palm at my back was a brand.
I hated how warm he felt.
I hated how my chest tightened.
"You're shaking," he said finally, voice low.
"I'm not."
He didn’t push. Just spun me, caught me again, held me in that same unyielding silence.
I didn’t dare look up at his face.
I didn’t dare look anywhere at all.
a little while later
The throne room was silent.
Not empty, not lifeless, but reverent. The gold and red of Targaryen banners stirred faintly in the still air, heavy with candle smoke and old power. Shadows clung to every corner, tall and watching. The great fire in the brazier burned low. And in the center of it all—beneath the carved eyes of dragons and thrones of conquerors—I stood.
The lords and ladies left a while ago as the feast had finished.
I had never worn white before. Not like this. My gown was sheer in places, weighted in others, embroidered with fire and wings, trailing behind me like smoke. My hair, once wild, had been twisted and coiled into braids that marked my blood—Valyrian, old and unbroken. I felt the pins pressing into my scalp like a crown. This dress and attire was different from the one at the feast.
Aemond stood opposite me.
He was dressed like death and ceremony: black robes stitched with silver threads, his pale hair unbound for once, falling past his shoulders.
He did not smile.
Neither did I.
Behind him stood his mother, her hands clasped tight. Helaena, the king's hand and Aegon, who barely managed to stay upright, though his swaying and snickering ruined whatever solemnity was left, stood beside her.
Behind me, my mother—Rhaenyra—eyes shining with something between pride and mourning. Daemon stood behind her, unreadable. Jace, Baela, Rhaena and Joffrey.
He stepped forward in his robes, carrying an old Valyrian tome in his liver-spotted hands. His voice was like dust and stone.
The lip-cut came first. Aemond tilted my chin up, gently, and drew the blade across his mouth, then mine. I tasted metal. Salt.
"Hen lantoti ānogar" ("Blood of two")
He then took my hand.
"Va sȳndroti vāedroma" ("Joined as one")
Our hands trembled between us. I could feel the callouses on his fingers. The Septon handed us the blade. It was small, ceremonial, thin as a whisper. Valyrian steel.
"Mēro perzot gīhoti" ("Ghostly flame")
Aemond sliced his palm without hesitation. I flinched when I did mine, but only just. Our blood mingled as we pressed our hands together again. Warm. Real.
"Elēdroma iārza sīr" ("And song of shadows")
Viserys sat slumped on his throne, but his eyes were open, fixated on me and Aemond.
"Izulī ampā perzī" ("Two hearts as embers")
The septon handed me a goblet filled with wine.
"Prūmī lanti sēteksi" ("Forged in fourteen fires")
When I finished likely half of the goblet, I handed it to Aemond, as was custom.
"Hen jenȳ māzīlarion" ("A future promised in glass")
He drank slow, as the septon continued with the valyrian vows.
"Qēlossa ozūndesi" ("The stars stand witness")
When Aemond finished, he handed the cup back to the septon, not breaking eye contact with me. Our cut hands were still clasped together, and they had to stay that way for now. 
"Sȳndroro ōñō jēdo" ("The vow spoken through time")
It was time to kiss, so naturally, I leaned in.
The kiss was not very gentle.
"Rȳ kīvia mazvestraksi" ("Of darkness and light")
His free hand gripped the back of my neck. My free hand simply rested on his shoulder.
His mouth was warm, insistant, stained red. It was not a kiss of affection—it was claim, tradition, finality.
Then we parted
And just like that, it was done.
I was Lucera Targaryen now. And I was wed.
To my uncle.
To a man I feared, and yet did not hate.
To a future I had not chosen, but now must shape with my own hands.
There would be no bedding nor a bedding ceremony. I had made sure of it. Grandsire, the king, in his fading strength, had granted me that much mercy. So when the kiss ended and the torches blazed, no one shouted, no one lifted me or laughed. There were no torn sheets to be paraded through the halls.
Only silence.
Only firelight.
Only the weight of a dark gaze still fixed upon me.
...
The fire still burned in the throne room, but it felt colder now. Quieter. The smell of ash and old incense followed me like a shadow.
My hand was still sticky with blood. His, too.
Aemond hadn’t let go of it.
We walked slowly through the Red Keep. I didn't know where I was going, not really. But I didn’t ask. I knew it was expected of us now. A shared chamber. A shared bed. A shared life. Every stone we passed felt heavier than the last.
The corridor stretched ahead of us like some endless tunnel. The torches flickered in their sconces. I heard the sound of our footsteps echoing against the stone, mine lighter, his a steady rhythm beside me.
I didn’t look at him.
I didn’t want to meet that one eye in this silence.
He spoke first.
"We should discuss arrangements," he said.
His voice was calm, composed, as if we were speaking of curtains or guest lists. Not the fact that I would now wake up next to him. Rest next to him. Sometimes eat beside him. Read, bathe, breathe—with him there.
"What arrangements?" I muttered.
He looked ahead. "Space. Boundaries. Sleeping habits."
I scoffed under my breath. "That sounds so polite. I think you're forgetting we married in blood, not courtesy."
He stopped walking. So did I. I didn’t look up, not until I had to.
"I know you didn’t want this," he said.
I clenched my jaw. "Oh, how perceptive."
His expression didn’t change. Not even slightly. "But it’s done. You can scowl and step on my boots all you like. We are bound now."
I turned and resumed walking.
"You act like I chose to be born into a family that solves everything with swords and marriages."
"You act like you’re the only one who didn’t choose."
I blinked. That stopped me again. But I didn’t give him the satisfaction of a response. I kept walking. The chamber doors weren’t far now.
"You grind your teeth in your sleep," he said after a long silence. "It’s loud."
I turned sharply. "What?"
He shrugged, utterly composed. "You always did in the library when you fell asleep on the cushions as a child. I couldn’t concentrate on reading."
I gaped at him. "You—that was once. I was exhausted. You watched me sleep?"
He looked down at me then, that cold eye catching the torchlight. "Only long enough to learn the things I needed."
I wanted to scream. Instead, I picked up my skirts and walked faster. He followed without hurrying. Always calm. Always composed. Always smug in that infuriatingly quiet way.
We reached the chamber doors.
Aegon had once told me that he slept with his boots on after his wedding. Just to remind himself that freedom hadn’t entirely died. I wondered if I should do the same.
Inside, the fire had been lit. Our things had already been moved. Two sides of a room that now belonged to neither of us.
I walked in first. I did not wait for him. I did not look back.
"I want the left side," I said.
"Take it."
I sat on the edge of the bed. I didn’t want to lie down. Didn’t want to sleep next to him, or near him. But I would. Because now there was no next to. No near.
Now, there was only with.
And that terrified me more than anything.
normally, my hand-maidens would help me out of my clothes and the braids atop my head, but I did not have enough strenght to call them right now. I sat on some cushions in the corner of the room, taking out the pins from out of my hair. I let them sit atop the cushions. I would take care of that later. I looked up to see what he was doin-
"Seven hells!" I immediately turned away again, giving him my back. He was naked. in a water filled basinet.
"warn me next time you decide on stripping naked and..doing that.." My voice got quieter.
"hm, so you bathe with your skirts on?"
silence.
"And doing what exactly? bathing, in my own chambers?" He said casually.
"yeah the chambers that you now share with me." I seethed.
I slowly turned again, facing him, full on staring at him.
“I don’t like being looked at,” he added
A pause.
“Then perhaps you should stop parading around half-naked.”
“Perhaps you should avert your eyes.”
I turned back to the hearth, jaw tight.
This was marriage.
This was my husband.
The boy who once read beside me in silence now lounged across the room like a dragon in water, coiled and still, saying things that twisted in the air like smoke. He made me want to scream. He made me want to understand.
I hated that.
Aemond
The red keep, King's Landing
Sleep did not come easily. Not that I expected it to.
The fire had died down to a pale glow, casting long, crooked shadows across the stone ceiling above our bed. The room was too warm by half, even in its silence. She lay beside me, sound asleep, breathing steady and loud, snoring like a kitten that thought itself a lion.
Lucera.
She wore silk. Some pale shade that shimmered faintly in the light. It clung to her shape, delicate as a breath, and did little to keep her limbs in check. She had fallen asleep as soon as her head touched the pillow. Typical. As if none of this mattered to her. As if it hadn’t been our blood on the stone, our lips pressed before gods and family and ghosts alike.
I hadn’t even removed my eyepatch.
The socket ached. A slow, pulsing thing. The emerald settled there throbbed with the weight of memory. My mother had commissioned it, of course. A gem in place of a wound. A beautiful lie.
I kept it on, even now. If she woke in the night, I did not want her to see what was beneath it. I wasn’t sure what she’d do. Stare? Pity? Flinch?
I preferred not to find out.
I lay still. Staring upward. One arm behind my head, the other at my side, clenched. The sheets rustled beside me.
Then came the blow.
Soft, but firm—a slap against the side of my face.
I blinked.
Her arm.
Lucera’s arm had somehow swung across my chest and smacked me across the jaw with all the grace of a drunken squire. She shifted in her sleep, mumbling something unintelligible. One leg—bare, warm—draped itself across mine. Possessive. Heavy. Her fingers threaded into my hair like roots, gripping a few strands as if to anchor herself to this world.
I did not breathe.
Gods.
She was halfway atop me now. Her cheek against my shoulder. Her nightgown had ridden up her thigh, and I saw far more of her than I had prepared myself to endure. But it wasn’t that which kept me frozen.
It was the absurdity.
Lucera, snarling spitfire of Dragonstone, heir of fire and fury, clawing her way into my hair with her mouth slightly open, snoring like she had no one to impress.
I should have pushed her off.
I didn’t.
Instead, I closed my eye. Let her warmth bleed into mine. Let her soft, ridiculous presence settle over me like the weight of a chain I no longer had the strength to shake off.
She had taken my eye.
Now she took my sleep.
And somehow, gods help me, I let her.
Lucera
The red keep, King's Landing
The fire had dulled to embers when I opened my eyes again.
The scent of roasted chestnuts clung faintly to the air, and figs, and fresh bread, still warm on a tray laid near the window. The hearth had been stoked again. My robe had been folded at the edge of the bed.
He was already awake.
Aemond stood near the window, dark green tunic on, silver clasps catching the morning light. Sword belt fastened. Hair tied neatly.
He looked as if he hadn’t slept.
I pushed myself up slowly, my silk nightgown twisted around me. "Did you have that brought?"
He didn’t look away from the window. "No. The rats laid it out lovingly."
I scowled. "You think you’re clever."
"I think you’re hungry," he said simply. "And I think your appetite is as stubborn as your temper."
I didn’t move.
He turned then, eyes cool. "You faint when you don’t eat. I’d rather not have my wife collapse during court."
The word wife tasted foul. Hearing it from him made it worse.
I threw on the robe and padded across the floor. I eyed the food—bread, fruit, cheese, even a cup of milk.
The fig on my plate was already peeled.
"Thank you," I muttered.
"I wasn’t being kind," he replied.
"Of course not."
We sat across from one another, in silence.
I ate. I hated how much I ate. I hadn’t realized how hungry I was. When I finally looked up, I found him watching me. Not with smugness, or cruelty. Just… watching.
"What?"
"You eat like Joffrey."
"Is that an insult?"
"It’s a memory."
I looked away. My throat tightened, a strange ache spreading through my chest.
As tradition, I now always had to break morning fast with my lord husband or my lord husband's family. I wanted to do neither, but with Aemond I feel strangely more comfortable.
The door creaked open just as I finished the last piece of bread.
My head snapped up, startled—but it was only Lysa, with her bright eyes and flushed cheeks, slipping into the chamber with the caution of one who knew she might be walking in on something she’d regret. Behind her followed Sierella and Kola, both carrying trays—one with my combs and pins, the other with folded gowns of Targaryen red and silver.
I froze.
They looked at me. Then at him. Then quickly back to me again.
"Forgive us, princess," Lysa said, bowing low. "We thought—"
"It is morning," Aemond said simply, standing and crossing the room. "You thought rightly."
He had no need for hand maidens, not truly. His clothes were simple—dark tunics, high collars, silver buckles. He wore them with the ease of a man accustomed to moving quickly, and without aid. He slipped his sword belt over his shoulder and moved toward the far wall, giving us space—but not quite leaving.
I could not even ask him to turn away. Not without inviting questions. Not without giving the girls something to whisper about in the servants’ halls. To ask my own husband to turn his back while I undressed would be to announce something had gone unsaid. Something had not happened.
And that would be dangerous.
So I sat straight, spine like steel, and raised my arms. "Help me dress."
The silk nightgown fell away like water. My skin prickled in the cold air, but I did not flinch. I did not glance his way. I told myself I did not care whether he looked or not.
None of the handmaidens spoke. Not a giggle, not a murmur. Lysa buttoned my sleeves with steady fingers. Sierella laced my bodice in practiced silence. Kola drew the brush through my hair like she always had—but this time she didn’t hum. Didn’t ask me what I dreamt about. Didn’t tease me about tangles. Their eyes flicked, once or twice, to Aemond’s tall frame. But they never lingered.
He was not watching us. He stood facing the window, his good eye fixed on the sky.
When they braided my hair—twists of silver over black, woven with small rubies—they did so quietly. I hated the quiet.
I wanted to speak to them, to joke, to laugh. But I was not Lucera the girl this morning. I was Lucera Targaryen now, not Velaryon anymore, Heir to the driftwood throne, wife to Prince Aemond Targaryen. And princesses do not chatter like children while their husbands loom in the room like stone statues.
When it was done, I stood. The gown felt heavier today. My sleeves too stiff. The pins in my hair too sharp.
"You are ready, princess," Sierella murmured, stepping back.
I nodded once. "Thank you."
I did not wait for Aemond. I left the chamber without a word.
...
I found her in the solar.
Mother was alone, her hands clenched on a piece of embroidery she wasn’t sewing. Her hair was unbraided, her gown loose, as if she had not slept. When I stepped in, her head rose—and she was on her feet in a breath.
"Lucera."
She crossed the room quickly, and her arms were around me before I could speak.
I let her hold me. Her scent—jasmine and ink—wrapped around me like a memory of simpler days. I had not realized how tightly she would cling. She did not sob. But I felt the tremble in her shoulders.
"I worried," she whispered. "Gods help me, I feared… I feared what he might do to you."
I pulled back just enough to meet her eyes. "He did nothing, Mother."
Her brow furrowed. "Are you certain?"
"He did not touch me." I said.
Her lips parted, a sigh of relief escaping before she could contain it. She sat back down, pressing her hand to her chest. "You are sure."
"Aemond may be many things," I said, lowering myself to the seat beside her. "But he would not use my body for vengeance."
Rhaenyra studied me a moment longer, searching my face for any crack, any lie. Finding none, she nodded.
"Then thank the gods," she whispered. "Thank every bloody god in the sky."
And for once, I agreed.
Aemond
The red keep, King's Landing
The fire crackled in the corner of my mother's solar, but it gave little warmth. The stone walls drank the heat greedily, leaving the chamber colder than it ought to be. I sat beside it anyway, a goblet of watered wine in hand, though I had not touched it. The flames shifted and danced, casting my shadow across the flagstones like some long-limbed beast.
Mother paced. She had not stopped since I came. Her fingers twisted the edge of her sleeve in silent agitation, her lips pressed in a thin line. I could hear the rustle of her skirts every time she turned.
"What are we to do now?" she said at last, to no one and everyone. "The wedding was a spectacle. Rhaenyra will use it as proof that her bastards are legitimate. She parades them through court as if they were dragons reborn. Gods..."
She stopped, staring at the fire. Her eyes were tired. Red-rimmed. There were new lines on her face I did not recall seeing before.
Otto Hightower said nothing. He stood by the window, hands clasped behind his back, watching the fog roll over the city like a tide of ghosts. The hand of the king. The man who had taught me to read war from silence.
I remained still. I had not spoken since they summoned me. Not when she railed against the match. Not when she called Lucera by that name. Rhaenyra's bastard girl.
They did not ask my opinion. They never had.
Mother turned again, eyes cutting toward her father. "We had a plan. A careful one. Years in the making. Then the king goes and weds them together—without counsel, without leave."
She spoke like I wasn't present.
Otto did not look away from the window. "He will bleed for it, atleast"
I lifted the goblet, swirled the wine. Still did not drink.
"You think this is some jest?" my mother snapped. "Do you know what they call them now? The Blood Wedding. Like some tale out of Old Valyria. It will stir sympathy for her. For them."
I watched the flame lean toward the ash. It reminded me of her hair. How it slipped from the braids the moment her handmaidens left. Soft. Dark like the bark of driftwood after rain.
Mother drew a breath, one hand pressed to her chest. Then she spoke again, quieter this time.
"She will be heir to Driftmark. Heir to the Velaryons. And you... you are my second son. The sword. The rider. The prince they fear."
This time she spoke to me.
I said nothing. I did not need to. We had danced this waltz too many times before.
"You must get her with child," she said.
That made me look up. She had turned to face me fully now. Her voice was calm, but I knew that tone. It was the tone she used when she forced herself not to scream.
"A babe, Aemond. You must give her one."
I met her gaze. Not coldly. Not warmly either. Simply met it.
She stepped closer. "When the king dies—and he will, sooner than we are ready—there will be war. It cannot be avoided now. Rhaenyra will cling to her claim. But if Lucera is with child, perhaps Rhaenyra will hesitate. Perhaps she will not want her own grandchild slain in the blood."
Otto stirred at the window. "It is a possibility. The realm pities babes. Even bastards born of dragons."
Mother looked at me again. "She is your wife now. Do what is required."
I turned back to the fire. It hissed softly as a log split, a trail of smoke curling upward like a dragon’s sigh.
Lucera had snored in her sleep. That surprised me.
She had curled beside me without hesitation, her hand finding my hair, her arm flung across my chest like I were a cushion.
I had not moved. I had not slept.
I had thought of the way her body fit beside mine. Not with lust. With... inevitability. As if we had been shaped for war, and this was one of its casualties.
My mother waited. I knew she wanted me to speak. To agree. To promise her a child, a tool, a future sacrifice dressed in silk.
Instead I said, quietly, "She is young."
A pause. A breath held between all three of us.
"She is old enough," my mother replied.
"She is stubborn," I added, voice still low. "She will not be led easily."
"Then you must not lead. You must bind," Otto said, turning at last. His pale eyes caught mine like ice. "A chain is not always made of iron. Sometimes it is made of blood."
I looked down at the wine in my hand. Still untouched. A ghost of my father’s weakness staring back at me.
"And if she does not want it?" I asked.
Mother did not flinch. "Then convince her. Or do it regardless. It is your duty."
I stood. Slowly. Set the goblet down on the edge of the hearth.
"Duty," I echoed. "Yes."
Neither agreement. Nor refusal.
Then I left the room, and their expectations, behind.
Notes:
do yall like where this is going or?
i'm sorry if i write poorly, this is the first time I'm writing, plus english is my fourth language.also alicent is more book-based in this fic so she will be a little more evil than in the series!
anyway, have a good good day, stay healthy! :)HAPPY READING!!
is it annoying I say that in every author's note? tbh it's like my signature. idk.
I'm sorry if it annoys you!
Chapter Text
lucera
The red keep, King's Landing
The door creaked open before I could ask another question, and a guard stepped into my mother’s solar with a slight bow.
"Princess," he said, avoiding both our gazes, "the Queen requests your presence. She awaits you in the gardens."
My mother stiffened at once.
"Now?"
The guard nodded. "Aye, princess."
Rhaenyra turned to me, her jaw tight. “Be cautious, sweet girl.”
"She will not harm me," I said, though I felt my stomach twist. My fingers curled against the heavy skirts of my gown.
I gave her a smile and followed the guard through the winding halls of the Red Keep. The morning air had turned warm, cloying as a veil. Birds chirped among the hedges, but even they seemed to hush as I stepped into the Queen’s gardens.
Alicent Hightower stood amid the blooms, her hands folded neatly before her. She wore green, of course. Always green. The color of ambition. Of banners raised in rebellion. It suited her too well.
"Princess Lucera," she greeted me with a smile as thin as a blade. "I trust the night treated you kindly?"
I dipped into a shallow curtsy. “Your Grace.”
She gestured toward the stone bench beside her. "Come. Walk with me. The roses are in bloom. I find it settles the nerves."
I obeyed, though every instinct warned me to tread carefully. Her gaze flicked to me as we strolled past rows of blood-red flowers.
"Marriage changes a girl," she said lightly. "There is something... heavier in your eyes now."
"A new weight to carry," I replied. “Marriage is no small thing.”
She laughed gently. “How well said. And how fares my son, the prince? I hope he has not been too... cold. He can be rather silent when unsure. Like his father.”
"He has been... as one would expect," I said, treading softly. “We share no quarrel, your grace”
A breeze swept through the garden, stirring the petals. Alicent reached out to pluck a single bloom, careful not to mar her fingers on its thorns.
"I imagine there is much to... adjust to," she said, turning the flower between her fingers. "Sharing a bed. A room. A name."
I nodded. "It is all rather new."
"You are no stranger to duty," she continued, her tone honeyed but cool. "Your mother taught you well. A trueborn princess must always think of legacy."
She turned to me now, those green eyes bright. "And heirs."
There it was.
"You are heir to Driftmark now. The sea does not favor those who wait. Neither does the throne. A child would ensure your claim."
I swallowed. “It is early days, Your Grace.”
"Indeed," she said, though the word felt laced with disappointment. "Still. A young bride's womb is a fruitful garden. Best to plant while the soil is soft."
I kept my voice even. "My husband and I will fulfill our duties in time. As the gods will it."
She smiled again, and it made me feel colder than any northern wind. “Of course. You have your mother’s will. But I do hope you temper it with your father's sense. He was always more... pliable."
I did not rise to it. I would not give her the pleasure.
"Mayhaps it is my father’s blood I bear," I said instead. "Velaryons do not bend easily."
A flicker passed across her face. Displeasure, quickly buried beneath a veil of courtly grace.
"Well said," she murmured. "You are clever. But clever girls often forget they are watched most closely."
"Then I shall endeavor to give them a show worth watching."
She gave a small, polite smile and turned away, her fingers trailing along a hedge of dying blooms.
"That is all, Princess. You may return to your chambers."
I did not curtsy this time. I turned and walked away.
Behind me, the roses began to wilt.
Baela's chamber still smelled faintly of lemon cakes and lavender oil. The sun poured through the arched windows in long, warm streaks, dust dancing in the air like golden motes. I found them both where I expected—Baela sprawled across her cushions, braiding her own hair with little care, and Rhaena curled at the window seat, chin resting in her palm.
"There she is," Baela grinned, tossing a braid over her shoulder. "The blushing bride."
"I do not blush," I muttered as I entered, closing the door behind me.
"No?" Rhaena asked, lips twitching. "You certainly did yesterday. When Aemond took your hand before the septon, I thought you might faint."
I flopped down beside Baela, letting out a long breath. "That was because his grip was like iron. As if he feared I might run."
Baela laughed, delighted. "You might have. Gods, I would have paid in rubies to see it."
Rhaena gave me a more sympathetic look. "Was it so bad then? The wedding night?"
"No," I said quickly, then winced. "I mean—it was... fine. Nothing tragic. But everything's changed now. I have to share everything. The chambers, the bed, even the servants now ask what 'my husband' prefers before they ask me."
"You're married, Luce," Baela said, though her grin had softened. "You’re lucky you don’t have to live with Aegon or some dull Riverlands lord. At least Aemond is... interesting."
"Interesting like wildfire is interesting," I muttered. "Beautiful and likely to burn your eyebrows off."
Baela snorted. Rhaena smiled faintly but looked away. I knew that look. The one she gave when she felt left behind.
"I don’t envy you," Rhaena said softly. "Not yet. Not until I must wed some stiff lord or soft-handed knight."
"You have time," I told her. "Mother says no one will force you until you’re ready."
"Mmm," Baela murmured. "Ready or not, it comes all the same. The day they decide you’re of use."
"oooh now I remember!" Baela suddenly spoke up after a short silence, as if she remembered something that she had forgotten earlier. "I heard some rumors--well I don't know who spread them, but apparently the court and people think that your sudden wedding was so rushed because you had gotten pregnant by him and it had to be covered up by a marriage."
"You shouldn't listen to them, Lucera." Rhaena added. "They are only rumors."
"yeah rumors created by fools who have nothing better to do than spread hate." baela said.
That silenced us for a moment. The sun crawled a little further across the stone floor.
"Anyway," Baela said, breaking the stillness, "You owe us more detail than that. You promised, remember? 'I'll tell you everything once the wedding's over,' you said."
"That was before I knew how strange it would feel. Sharing the same air all night. Waking to someone else's breath."
"You didn’t kiss him?" Baela asked, eyes dancing.
I looked at her sidelong. "Only at the ceremony."
"Was it good?"
I paused, surprised by the memory. The brush of his mouth, hesitant at first. The faint tremble I thought I imagined.
"It wasn’t bad."
Baela whooped. Rhaena only shook her head.
"You’re a wife now," Rhaena said, sounding more awed than teasing. "And I... I’m still just the girl with no dragon and no husband."
"Then enjoy it while it lasts," I told her. "Because once you wear a ring, the whole realm has something to say about your belly."
Baela reached for a plum from the bowl beside her. "And your hair. And your hips. And your heirs."
"And your name," I added.
Rhaena laughed then. It was a small, sweet sound.
Baela leaned against me. "You’ll be fine, Lucera. You're stronger than you look."
I smiled at that, letting my head rest against hers for a breath. "I hope so."
"Tell us more," Rhaena urged softly, curiosity winning out over her shyness. "What does he say to you? When it’s just the two of you."
I hesitated. "He doesn't talk much."
"Men like him rarely do," Baela said. "They're used to silence and secrets."
"Still," I murmured, eyes drifting to the sunlit window, "sometimes he looks at me like he wants to say something. But the words die in his throat."
Baela tapped her chin. "Maybe he's afraid you'll mock him. Gods know you've mocked worse."
I threw a pillow at her. "I've never mocked anyone who didn’t deserve it."
"Oh, I'm sure Prince Aemond would agree," Rhaena said slyly.
We dissolved into laughter then, real and full, the kind that shook the bones and warmed the chest. For a moment, I forgot the weight of the ring on my finger, the scrutiny of the court, and the cold glances exchanged behind veils and goblets. Here, in this room with my cousins, I was only Lucera again.
But the moment passed. It always did.
"Do you think they'll expect me to have a child soon?" I asked quietly.
Neither answered at once.
Baela sobered. "You're heir to Driftmark. Of course they will."
"And he's... well, he's who he is," Rhaena added, more gently. "The greens will want an heir from the union, especially if they think it secures their claim."
I folded my hands together in my lap, twisting the edge of my sleeve. "I'm not ready."
"No one is," Baela said.
"But we learn," Rhaena added, reaching for my hand.
I squeezed her fingers, grateful.
"You're not alone, Luce," Baela said. "And you never will be."
For the first time since the wedding, I believed it.
Baela leaned against me, the taste of plum sweet on her breath as she chewed thoughtfully. The warmth between us, the easy tangle of limbs and familiarity, lulled me into a quiet spell. It was the kind of closeness I hadn’t known I needed until I felt it again. Safe. Simple. Untouched by politics or duty or the stares of a husband I barely knew.
"Baela, Rhaena?" I asked, glancing between them. Rhaena had moved from the window and now sat cross-legged on the edge of the bed, fiddling with the hem of her sleeve.
"Hmm?" they hummed.
"Do you... know how babes are made?"
Baela nearly choked on the plum.
Rhaena's face went pale, then pink. "Lucera!"
"What?" I said quickly, defensive now. "You both were talking about heirs and bellies and the rest of it. I thought I should know."
Baela was already grinning, wicked and delighted. She sat up straighter, brushing her curls from her face. "Oh, I know. Of course I do."
Rhaena gave her sister a warning look, brows pinched. "Don’t you dare."
"She asked!"
"Baela—"
"Rhaena, please," I said, exasperated. "If I am to be a wife, a mother, a future Lady of Driftmark, I should know how such things happen."
Rhaena groaned and looked away, muttering something about propriety and septas.
Baela scooted closer, clearly thrilled to be the one to unveil the dark truths of womanhood. "Alright, listen. It’s not some grand mystery. It’s... well, it starts with kissing. Then touching. Skin. You’ll know when it begins. Your body feels it."
I swallowed. My heart had begun to race.
"And then," Baela went on, voice lower now, almost conspiratorial, "the man puts his... well, his cock—"
"Baela!" Rhaena cried, scandalized.
Baela merely raised a brow and continued, unbothered. "Into you."
I blinked. "Into me?"
"Yes. There. And if the seed takes, then the babe begins to grow."
"That’s it?" I asked, stunned.
Baela laughed. "You sound disappointed."
"No, only... it seems so simple. And yet they make it sound like a holy rite."
Rhaena gave a soft sigh. "It is not simple when you are the one to carry it."
We sat in silence for a time, the weight of it all sinking into my skin. Baela lay back against the pillows, her mirth dimming.
"Do you think he wants one?" I asked them.
"Aemond?" Baela shrugged. "He wants something. Gods know what."
Rhaena only looked out the window again. "Men always want something."
I leaned forward. "What does it feel like?"
Baela raised a brow. "What?"
"When he puts it in. Is it painful? Or strange?"
Rhaena covered her face with her hands. "Please, Lucera."
But Baela had no shame. She tilted her head, thoughtful. "The first time, yes. There can be pain. But it doesn’t always last. Sometimes it can feel... good. Like heat rolling through you. Like your skin isn't just yours anymore."
"how do you know all that?" I asked. Mother and father both didn't allow me to read or know about such things.
"Father told us." Baela replied smugly.
I tried to imagine it, but all I could see was Aemond’s eye watching me in silence.
"And positions?" I asked, hesitantly. "Are there... ways?"
Baela grinned wide now. "Oh, there are ways."
"Don't encourage her!" Rhaena hissed.
"I’m educating her. Gods know Rhaenyra never did it properly."
Baela leaned forward too. "You can be either under or over him. Most men prefer to..ride you." She said with a smile.
"ride me?" I tried imagining it but immediatly dropped the thought as Aemond popped in my head.
"yeah like you lay on your stomach and he is on top of you. Or most women just lie on their back and let their husband's do the job." baela replied.
Rhaena groaned but didn’t stop her. I listened, cheeks burning, half horrified, half fascinated.
"Sometimes you ride the man. he just lays on his back with you on top of him. Then you just have to do the job." baela added with a shrug.
"The septas would drop dead if they heard you," Rhaena muttered.
"Good. Then they might stop lying to us."
Aemond
The mountain's, King's Landing
Dawn crept over the rooftops in streaks of dull gold, brushing the towers with half-light. Sleep had been brief, broken. My dreams had soured, though I could not say why. I found myself drawn—as I always was—to her.
Not Lucera.
To Vhagar.
The old she-dragon had been restless of late, shifting from her usual perch above the Dragonpit to the low, broken nests carved into the cliffs just beyond. She long does not fit inside of the dragonpit anymore. When she wandered, I followed.
My boots struck the path leading toward the cliffs, the dragonkeepers parting without words. They knew better than to stop me. The salt-wind stung my face as I neared the outcropping where Vhagar had last nested. I saw the flattened earth, the blackened rock where her belly had scorched the stone, but she was not there.
I paused, listening.
Then I heard her.
Not her roar—Vhagar did not roar unless angered. It was the deep, rolling breath of her lungs, a sound like thunder beneath the earth. I followed it, rounding a jutting shoulder of cliff until I saw her.
She was curled like a mountain in a nest that did not belong to her.
Arrax’s.
The little white dragon was curled beside her, his silver and light pink wings tucked like a babe at her side. again. Vhagar started nesting here, as of late, in arrax's nest. And before them, tiny against her vast bulk, was Lucera.
She was in her riding leathers, her braid half-loosened from wind or haste. I saw her boots planted in the soil, her palms flat against Vhagar’s side as she pushed with all the effort of a fly against a bear.
“Come on, Vhagar,” she grunted, shoving against the old dragon’s haunch. “Enough with laying in Arrax’s nest. You have your own.”
Vhagar did not move.
She blinked a slow, ancient blink and let out a breath like a furnace exhaling. Arrax stirred slightly but did not rise. The smaller dragon seemed content, almost amused, his long tail wrapped around one of Vhagar’s hindlegs as though he had claimed her.
Lucera stepped back, hands on her hips now. “Traitor,” she muttered at her dragon.
I remained still, half-shadowed behind a cluster of rocks, watching. She had not yet seen me, and I was in no hurry to announce myself.
It was a strange sight.
The lady of driftmark Who Would Be—Rhaenyra’s girl, my wife in name and politics only—grappling with the might of a creature as old as Old Valyria. And yet she stood unafraid. Even when Vhagar turned her massive head toward her and gave a low rumble, Lucera only shook her head and said, “Don’t give me that look. This is not your nest.”
Vhagar’s eyes, golden and vast, blinked again.
Not angry. Not even annoyed.
She was content.
Gods.
She liked her.
I felt the truth of it down to my marrow. Vhagar did not tolerate most dragons. She had mauled more than one who drew too near. But here she was, curled around a boy's-sized beast as if she had borne him from her own flame. And Lucera—
tiny, foul-mouthed, utterly ridiculous Lucera—was speaking to her as if she might scold a lazy cat from the hearth.
Something in my chest twisted.
It was not quite jealousy. But it was near enough.
Lucera moved toward Arrax now, stroking his neck. “You’re just letting her push you around, aren’t you?”
He let out a soft snort.
“Pathetic,” she murmured. “You're supposed to listen to me. Enough mating around with Vhagar and come fly with me. I'm bored."
I stepped forward then, letting my footfall crack the gravel beneath me.
Lucera turned, startled, then scowled when she saw me.
“Oh. It’s you.”
I said nothing. Just looked at her, standing next to the two dragons as if she belonged to both.
She brushed her hair from her face, frowning. “Your dragon is a thief.”
I glanced at Vhagar, who now stretched one claw lazily, as if to claim the entire mountainside.
“She goes where she pleases,” I said.
Lucera rolled her eyes. “Of course she does. Gods forbid she obey the laws of territory like the rest of us mortals.”
She looked tired beneath the bravado. Her braid was crooked. But she stood tall.
Vhagar let out another sigh, and Lucera turned back to her, muttering under her breath.
“You can have this nest today. But tomorrow, Arrax flies. Do you hear me? Tomorrow I ride.”
The dragon blinked again.
I remained silent. But inside me, a thought curled slow and serpentine:
Vhagar had chosen once. So had I. And maybe, just maybe, she had chosen again.
Vhagar huffed again, the sound like a bellows rolling from the deep. Lucera stepped back, dusting off her hands. She crossed her arms and glared at the ancient dragon as though sheer indignation might shift her.
I let the silence linger.
Lucera turned then, almost flinching to find me still there, still watching. She narrowed her eyes.
"What? Going to tell your dragon she ought to obey rules too? Or do you only reserve lectures for me?"
I did not rise to the bait. Instead, I studied her—the flush of exertion in her cheeks, the way her chest still rose with quickened breath, the smudge of soot on her sleeve.
"She likes you," I said at last.
Lucera blinked. "You mean Vhagar?"
I gave a single nod.
She scoffed, disbelieving. "She likes him. Arrax. She's got some odd grandmotherly attachment. I'm just the fool who owns the nest."
"Vhagar does not like easily," I said. "She crushed a younger male beneath her tail not three moons ago. Arrax is lucky."
Lucera stared at me. Then, slowly, her gaze softened. "Maybe she remembers what it’s like. To be little. To need a friend."
"She hasn’t been little since before the Doom."
She grinned, faint but real. "Then maybe she’s sentimental."
Another silence.
Lucera shifted her weight, glancing down at the dragons again. Then, without warning, she asked, "Do you want them?"
I tilted my head. "Want what?"
She didn’t look at me. Her eyes stayed fixed on Arrax’s tail twitching beside Vhagar’s enormous foot.
"Babes."
The wind moved through the pass behind us, a sigh through ancient stones.
My mother must have spoken to her.
"Does it matter if I do?" I said at last.
She looked at me then, really looked. Her expression unreadable.
"of course." she said.
I turned my eyes back to Vhagar and Arrax, still curled together like some ancient tale of fire and ice. Babes. Heirs. The word conjured images not of chubby hands and lullabies, but of lineage, of banners unfurled and swords raised. A child was never just a child in our world. It was a weapon. A shield. A promise.
"The realm expects it," I said. "An heir for Driftmark. A continuation of Velaryon blood"
Gods, but she was young. And already she spoke like she’d seen ten wars.
"I don't know if I want them," she admitted. "Children."
I nodded once. I understood. There was no room for babes in a world of whispers and blades.
"But I was told," she went on, "that it is my duty. That I need to make an heir soon. Or I risk someone else being placed in my stead."
"My mother said that."
She didn’t deny it. Instead, she reached down to scratch under Arrax's jaw. He made a pleased sound, low and content.
"She wants to secure the succession," I said. "Yours. Mine. Everyone’s."
Lucera sighed. "And she thinks babes are the glue to make it all stick."
We stood in silence again, not quite together but not apart either.
"Have you ever held a babe?" she asked suddenly.
"Yes," I said. "My nephews and niece, Aegon’s sons and daughter. They were smaller than Vhagar’s eye, it seemed."
She smiled faintly. "I held Joffrey once when he was just born. He pissed on me."
I wanted to smile, but didn't.
"When the time comes." I said.
Lucera nodded. The sun had moved down a little more, casting pale gold light across the dragons, across the stone.
"She still won’t move," Lucera muttered, glaring at Vhagar again.
I stepped forward, only slightly.
"Vhagar," I said quietly.
The dragon opened one lazy eye.
"Ivestragī se hāedar sōvegon" ("Let the girl fly.")
Vhagar grumbled, more amused than chastised, but began to shift. Arrax stirred, lifting his head.
Lucera looked back at me, an exited grin on her face.
"She listened."
"She always does," I said.
But I was no longer sure whether I meant the dragon.
Or her.
...
The red keep, King's Landing
The fire had long since burned down to coals when I returned to my chambers. The braziers still glowed faintly, casting shadows against stone walls heavy with silence.
I had not removed my boots yet. The scent of leather and ash clung to me, same as always.
The door creaked softly on its hinges. I did not turn, but I heard the sound of her steps. Light, careful. She was trying not to wake me, though I had not even attempted sleep. She thought I was in bed already.
Lucera.
She closed the door with a gentle push. For a moment, she remained by it, her back pressed to the wood as though she were gathering courage for something. Then, slowly, she stepped in.
She was still in her riding leathers, the supple black and grey fabric dusted with salt and soot. Her curls were wind-mussed, her cheeks still faintly pink from dragonflame and wind. She moved without speaking, but her eyes flicked toward the basin of steaming water that had been left for her. One of the servants must have brought it while I was gone. She lingered near it now, shifting her weight from foot to foot.
I watched her from the shadows, half-reclined on the long chair beside the hearth. I said nothing.
She tugged at her gloves. Undid the clasps of her belt. She was stalling.
"You may bathe," I said finally, my voice low.
She startled, surprised to see me in the chair and not in bed. Then she froze, shot me a look over her shoulder. "I'm aware."
I said nothing more.
Lucera turned back to the basin. She began to unlace her doublet, slowly, as if expecting me to mock her. I did not. I simply watched the firelight catch the curve of her cheek, the sliver of her collarbone as the fabric parted.
Still, she hesitated.
"Do you require privacy?" I asked.
She blinked at me. "Would you grant it if I said yes?"
I stood. "I can leave."
Her mouth opened slightly, then closed again. She looked down at the water.
"No. Stay. It's your chambers too."
She turned away and slipped behind the tall carved screen that half-hid the basin. I heard the soft rustle of clothing, the quiet splash of water. She did not hum, as some girls did. She did not speak. Only the faint sigh of steam rising filled the room.
I sat again, hands steepled beneath my chin. The fire crackled softly. My eyepatch itched where it always did at night. She bathed behind the screen, a girl with a crown on her head and dragons in her blood, but still just a girl.
A wife.
The word clung to me like a brand. My mother’s voice echoed in the silence: Impregnate her. Secure the line. Cement the union.
But Lucera had asked me if I wanted babes. That changed things.
Eventually, the water stilled. The sound of cloth resumed. She emerged, wrapped in one of the finer towels, her curls damp and clinging to her neck. Her cheeks were flushed again, this time not from the wind.
She glanced at the bed, then at me. "don't look" she ordered. I listened.
I stared ahead, not looking at her as she put on her night shift.
Soon she lay down in the bed. I joined her. She still kept her distance, laying at the other side of the bed.
The darkness settled between us like a third presence. A breath, a wall, a thread pulled taut.
She lay on her side, back to me, But I knew she wasn't asleep. Not yet.
The silence dragged like a sword being drawn. It was not unpleasant, but thick, expectant. She breathed quietly, steadily. I could see the shape of her shoulder under the thin linen, rising and falling. Her curls were still damp. I could smell the lavender soap.
I shifted slightly, enough to make the bed creak.
"Does your dragon always refuse you when Vhagar's near?" I asked into the dark.
Lucera made a small noise. "It seems that way. He gets... distracted."
"Or besotted," I said.
She gave a quiet snort. "Arrax is a boy. Vhagar is older than the Seven. That wouldn’t be a proper match."
"When has that ever stopped dragons?" I said.
Her silence held a grin, I could feel it. Then she spoke again, her voice softer now. "Did you mean what you said earlier? About babes?"
"Yes."
"You didn’t really answer though. Not fully."
I thought of my mother again, of duty, of bloodlines and names carved into tombstones. Then I thought of Lucera’s face in the nest, flushed with cold and wind and life. Her hands on Arrax’s scales. Her stubbornness.
"I meant that I would not want them unless you did."
She shifted at that. Slowly. Her voice was still quiet. "Would you be a good father, do you think?"
I did not answer immediately.
"I think I would try," I said.
We said nothing for a long while. The wind howled softly against the keep. Somewhere, a brazier clinked as its metal frame cooled.
Notes:
arrax chose hoes over bros ig..
but anyway, i really really enjoyed writing this chapter and i hope yall like it too :DI've been struggling to sleep so bad lately cuz i keep on seeing people, plus I keep on watching crime documentaries or whatever its called, idk im not american so I watch it on another language.
but atleast i finished another chapter! YAY
oh and I also created a playlist for aemond and Lucera so check it out if you want!
https://open.spotify.com/playlist/277X2qNjvUhJzr0ZMTGJrA?si=RjNsU53HTzGg7tHnFFyyBg
HAPPY READING!!
Chapter Text
Aemond
The red keep, King's Landing
I awoke to cold.
The kind that settles not on the skin, but beneath it—quiet and sharp. My arm reached, half-conscious, toward the place where her weight should’ve been. I touched only linens. Wrinkled and cool.
The fire had long since died. Only the red embers remained, and the shadows were thick.
I sat up. The covers rustled.
"Lucera," I called, my voice low, uncertain. There was no answer.
I rose at once, the cold forgotten. The chamber was dim, lit only by moonlight slipping through the high windows. Her side of the bed was empty, the pillows sunken where her head had lain. I crossed to the antechamber barefoot, ignoring the chill stone against my soles.
Nothing. No trace of her.
The door was still bolted. I checked it myself. That meant she had not passed this way.
A creak. I turned.
One of the wardrobes yawned open slightly. My eyes narrowed. I strode to it, pulled it wider.
Her riding cloak was gone.
Foolish girl.
She had done this before—snuck from the Keep like some errant page, cloaked and hooded, drawn to the stinking streets of Flea Bottom like a moth to flame. But that had been before she was wife to me. Before she bore my name.
And yet—she had gone again.
A heaviness filled my chest. Not quite anger. Not quite fear. I returned to the window and stared down at the city. King’s Landing glimmered in the dark, scattered lanterns flickering like stars fallen to earth. Somewhere down there she wandered.
I turned from the window, already moving to dress.
I pulled on my shirt with rough hands, laces uneven, and draped a black cloak across my shoulders. The dagger at my hip followed by instinct. My boots were silent on the stone. I moved toward the far corner of the chamber, where the hidden door was set flush into the wall—a thing known only to Targaryens and a few trusted keepers. It yielded under my touch with a soft groan, stone kissing stone as it swung open.
The passage beyond was narrow, winding, built not for comfort but escape. I walked it with practiced steps, head low beneath the arches, the smell of dust and ancient stone curling in my nose. 
She had gone out again. Foolish. Reckless. Braver than sense allowed. The blood of the dragon boiled hot in her, but she was still young—too young to know the weight her absence placed upon another.
The passage spilled out beneath the Red Keep, behind a stack of merchant stalls long closed. I emerged like a shade, pulling the hood low over my face. The city was asleep in parts, but never entirely. King's Landing had no curfew, only fear, and that waxed and waned depending on whose house held the power.
I walked fast at first, then slower, weaving between alleys and stone steps, keeping to shadow. The air tasted of smoke and damp leather, of salt from the bay and the filth that festered near the Dragonpit.
I did not call her name. That would be worse than useless. Lucera was not one to answer calls she did not expect. Instead, I looked.
For a flash of brown curls in torchlight. For the deep black of her cloak hem vanishing down a turning. For the high, proud way she carried herself, even when lost.
I passed a group of drunk men near the Street of Silk. One of them looked too long at me before averting his eyes. I said nothing. My hand rested on the dagger hilt.
Every heartbeat was heavier. Every street she was not in added weight to the next.
What did she seek out here? What hunger drove her to the city when she had a warm chamber, a husband who did not strike, and guards sworn to her name? Did she not know what could befall her? Or worse—did she know, and walk willingly into it?
I hated that I did not know the answer.
And still, I walked. Searching.
The smell of broth caught me before the light did.
A dim glow spilled out from a crooked doorway on a narrow street I had almost bypassed. Something in it snagged at me—the flicker of movement, the soft clang of wooden bowls. I crept closer, careful not to let the torchlight touch my face.
There she was.
Lucera. Hood down. Smiling.
She sat at a low table inside a humble home, lit by a single hanging lantern. An old woman hunched beside the hearth stirred something in a pot while a man—young, dark-haired, with eyes too kind—sat across from Lucera, speaking low, his face warm with familiarity.
I recognized him. Alaric.
The boy from days ago. The one she nearly kissed.
My stomach tightened like a drawn bowstring.
Lucera laughed at something he said. Her curls bounced with the motion, and she lifted a spoon to her lips, tasting whatever broth the old woman had made. 
Then I stepped in.
The door clattered as I shoved it open. The laughter died.
Lucera rose quickly, her mouth parted in surprise. For a breath, she looked afraid—then irritated. She placed a hand up in warning, her glare sharp as a blade. "Don’t. Just—don’t."
She turned to the others, her voice softening.
"This is my husband, Prince Aemond Targaryen," she said.
The boy, Alaric, looked between us. He stood too. He remembered me.
He bowed low, though his shoulders were stiff with unease. "My prince."
His mother—or grandmother, perhaps—only nodded from her place at the fire.
Lucera looked at her. "Thank you. For the food. For... not minding."
The old woman smiled without teeth. "You brought light into this room, my girl. That's thanks enough."
Lucera touched her arm, briefly. Then she turned and walked toward me, the broth still warm on her breath. I followed without a word.
Once outside, she marched ahead, boots biting into the damp earth. I matched her pace.
"You followed me again," she said without looking at me.
"You vanished. Again."
"I left a cloak. That should've been clue enough."
"It was."
We said nothing for a moment, only the city sounds filling the silence. A dog barked in the distance. Someone emptied a bucket onto the stones.
Lucera tugged her hood up roughly. "You act like I’m made of glass. Like I’ll break if I walk five feet outside the gate."
"No," I said. "I act like you’re a princess of Dragonstone. A target."
"A prisoner, you mean."
I turned sharply. "Is that what you think you are?"
She didn’t answer right away.
"Sometimes," she said at last, voice low. "Sometimes I think you want me locked away so no one else can breathe the same air as me."
"And you want to breathe Alaric’s?"
She stopped.
Her face turned toward mine, sharp and fierce in the moonlight. "I want to remember I’m a person. I want to speak to someone who doesn’t weigh every word like it’s a dagger."
"He tried to kiss you."
"And I didn’t let him."
The air buzzed between us.
I exhaled, long and slow. "You shouldn’t be down here. Not alone."
"And yet I was. And I was fine."
We started walking again, slower now.
"His mother made soup," she said, almost casually. "Chicken bones and rice. Had rosemary in it. I told her I liked rosemary once. Weeks ago."
"You’ve been to see them more than once."
She didn’t deny it.
I felt something burn in my chest—not quite jealousy, not quite fear, but something with teeth.
"I could have lost you," I said.
Lucera looked at me. Her eyes were dark and difficult to read.
"You didn’t."
We reached the edge of the Keep. The great walls loomed above like the ribs of a dead god. She looked up at them with tired defiance.
"Next time, leave a note," I said.
She didn’t respond.
We walked in silence, side by side, through the gate that led to the passageway which then led us back to our rooms.
I did not speak as we returned to the Keep.
We walked the familiar stone corridors with the hush of midnight pressing down, the flickering torches throwing our shadows long and wavering against the walls.
Back in our chambers, the tension clung like a damp cloak. She did not look at me as she undressed. Her fingers moved quickly, tugging at laces, shrugging off layers of street-worn wool. I had already changed, a simple black tunic drawn over my head, boots off, sword set beside the bed.
I turned my back to her.
She moved behind me, the sound of fabric rustling as she reached for her nightclothes. Then she paused. I had unfastened my eyepatch and set it aside.
"Gods," she muttered.
I heard her footsteps quicken behind me. She must have seen the raw skin around the sapphire. The flesh was red, slightly inflamed, the skin pulled tight where the jewel pressed into the scarred socket.
I did not turn.
"You haven’t treated it," she said.
Her voice wasn’t scolding. Not exactly. There was no shrillness, no weeping edge. It was flat. Disapproving. Familiar, like something a mother might say to a child who had returned home with bloodied knuckles.
"It was fine," I said.
"It isn’t fine. Sit."
I didn’t move.
She came around to face me, arms crossed, brow raised. "Aemond. Sit down."
I looked at her then. She stared up at me, unflinching. No fear. No pity. Just that same calm, infuriating certainty she always wielded like a blade.
So I sat.
She disappeared into the corner cabinet, the one she’d claimed as hers the day after we wed. I heard the soft clink of bottles. When she returned, she held a small jar of pale green salve and a clean cloth. She dipped her fingers in the cream without ceremony.
"Tilt your head."
I did.
Her fingers touched the skin around the sapphire, cool and careful. Her hands were small but steady. She moved with slow precision, dabbing the cream along the inflamed skin in light circles. I felt the sting fade, replaced by a soft burn that quickly dulled.
She said nothing as she worked. Neither did I. The silence between us wasn’t comfortable, but it wasn’t jagged either. It simply was.
She leaned in to inspect the edges of the socket, where old scar tissue met new irritation. Her breath was warm on my cheek.
"You know, you should not sleep with your eyepatch on. It badly irritates your skin." she said.
Her eyes flicked to mine. Not the sapphire—the real one. I watched her gaze move, study, then settle. She didn’t flinch.
"You shouldn’t punish yourself with it." She added.
"It is no punishment. It is mine."
She paused, then nodded once, as if that was enough for now.
"Still," she murmured. "You have to care for it."
Her fingers slowed. She reached for the cloth and dabbed gently along the edge of the socket. No more cream, just light pressure. My skin was tender there, but I didn’t wince. I wouldn’t give her that.
"You should have been a healer," I said quietly.
She smirked. "You would’ve hated that."
"I hate many things."
She stood back once she was done, wiping her hands on the cloth. Her gaze lingered on the sapphire, now cool and soothed beneath the layer of salve.
"Better?" she asked.
I nodded once.
"Then next time, don’t wait until it festers. I’m your wife, not your nurse."
"You’re both now."
She rolled her eyes and moved away to fold her cloak.
I sat there a moment longer, watching her.
The room was quiet again, but the air between us felt different. Not healed. Not whole. But less frayed at the edges.
"I didn't need your help." I eventually say.
She made a sound as she folded the cloak. A little breath through her nose, sharp and annoyed. Then she muttered something under her breath—too low for me to catch.
I turned. "What?"
She looked up, caught. "Nothing."
"No," I said, rising slowly, "you said something."
She straightened, arms crossed now over her chest. "I said it's no wonder the thing is infected. You treat your face the same way you treat everything else you claim to care for. Poorly."
The words stung. Not because they weren’t true. Because they were. Because she knew how to find the bruise beneath the armor and press.
"You know nothing of what I care for."
She scoffed. "You barely care for yourself. Gods know you don’t care for anyone else. Not unless they bleed for you. Or bend for you."
"And you?" My voice was cold now. "What are you doing, then? Running off in the dead of night to sip soup with some common boy who'd kiss you if I turned my back? Is that care?"
Her eyes flared. "At least he sees me."
"I see you."
"No, you see a wife. A duty. Something to be kept in the tower and trotted out when convenient."
"You forget yourself."
"No. I remember too well. I remember how it felt when you dragged me away like I was yours to leash. I remember every time you told me to stay silent because your pride couldn’t bear my tongue."
"You know nothing of my pride."
"I know enough. Enough to know it rules you more than your king does."
That did it.
The anger rose fast and sharp, hot behind my ribs, a fire unchecked. Before I realized, I had crossed the room, stepping in front of her. She tried to push past me. I didn’t move.
"Move," she hissed.
"Say it again."
"Go to the Seven Hells, Aemond. You and your godsdamned pride."
She shoved at me. Small hands against my chest.
"You think you scare me? You don’t. You never have."
Something snapped in me.
I caught her by the throat, not hard enough to hurt, not hard enough to bruise—just enough to still her. Just enough to make her stop throwing knives with her words. Her back hit the chamber door with a soft thud, and I stared down at her.
Her breath hitched. Her hands went to my wrist, not to pull me away, but to hold it. Her eyes were wide, fire and fury both.
I don’t know who moved first.
Perhaps it was me.
Perhaps it was her.
But my mouth was on hers, rough and angry and full of something I could not name. Not love. Not hate. Something older. Something like longing and loathing all at once.
Her fingers curled against the back of my neck.
And for a moment, there was no war, no throne, no duty.
Only this.
Only her.
Notes:
I'm sorry that this chapter is so short but I haven't slept in a really long time and if i dont sleep, i start writing shitty, which I already do so I dont want to add to that.
Also I lost my right sock.
I will start writing the next chapter once I wake up!
HAPPY READING!!
Chapter Text
Aemond
The red keep, King's Landing
Her mouth was warm beneath mine, the taste of her still laced with salt and defiance. She pushed back against me at first, as she always did—not truly resisting, but testing me, testing us, like the clash of two blades before the killing blow. Her hands pressed against my chest, balled into fists, and then unfurled like blooming flameflowers as her fingers curled into the fabric of my tunic.
When we pulled apart, it was only barely.
She was breathless. Her lips swollen and parted, her eyes wide and glinting in the low firelight like a cat that had prowled too close to danger. Her chest rose and fell in quick, shallow waves. One hand lingered against the base of my throat, uncertain now. Not out of fear. Out of tension, coiled like a string drawn taut.
And I watched her.
Gods, how I watched her.
It was hunger. Real and ravenous. Not only of the flesh, but of something deeper. Something that clawed behind my ribs and demanded she never leave me again. That she never vanish into shadowed alleyways, never slip through secret doors with her hood drawn low and a smirk on her lips. That she not make me search like a madman through the bowels of King’s Landing for a girl who burned brighter than any flame I had ever known.
My thumb traced the corner of her mouth, and she blinked up at me, dazed.
"Luce," I said, though I hadn’t meant to speak. Her name rasped from my throat, rougher than I intended. I leaned in again, slower this time, and she didn’t stop me.
Her mouth met mine again, and this time there was no testing.
Only heat.
Her lips moved with mine in a rhythm we knew well, practiced in stolen moments and tension-thick silences. I deepened the kiss, felt her sigh into me, her fingers gripping tighter. One of her hands slid into my hair, tangling there, tugging, guiding.
My own hands were no longer idle.
They moved on instinct—to her waist first, where the curve of her body fit beneath my palms like the hilt of a familiar sword. She shivered, and the sound she made in the back of her throat undid something in me.
I pressed her back, but not harshly this time. The door at her back was still warm from the fire. I kissed her again, rougher now, and she met me with equal force, her teeth catching my lower lip for a moment before she let go, breathless.
"You’re insufferable," she whispered.
"You ran from me," I breathed.
"You followed."
I pressed my forehead to hers. Our breaths mingled, fast and uneven. The air was thick, heavy, laced with the weight of everything we hadn’t said.
My hands gripped her thighs and lifted her, and she let out a quiet gasp as her legs wrapped around my waist. She didn’t resist. Her eyes searched mine as I held her there.
Not for permission.
For understanding.
And gods forgive me, I gave her none. Only the truth: that I would not be gentle tonight. That I had searched for her like a man possessed. That she had filled the city with her absence and left me drowning in it.
My lips found hers again, and this time, there was no pause.
She was still pressed between me and the door, her legs wrapped around my waist, and I could feel the weight of her, the heat, every breath she dragged in against my throat. Her fingers were in my hair again, tugging harder this time, and I let her. Let her pull, scratch, demand. It grounded me.
My hands gripped the back of her thighs. I wasn’t thinking. Not with my head, at least. I could feel the shape of her hips through the thin cloth of her nightclothes, and I didn’t care that we were still half-dressed, that the fire had burned low behind us. I only cared that she was here.
"You always do this," I muttered between kisses, teeth grazing her jaw. "You make everything harder than it needs to be."
"You don’t like easy," she hissed back. Her breath was hot on my ear.
She wasn’t wrong.
She shifted against me, and it took everything in me not to push harder. My hands were at her waist again, sliding up, finding bare skin. She is still sneaking off into the city with that bastard boy who looked at her like she was his to touch.
The thought of it turned my stomach.
"Did he touch you?" I asked before I could stop myself.
She stilled.
Her eyes flashed, sharp as any blade. "Would it matter if he had?"
I growled low in my throat. My grip tightened. "It would matter. To him. To me."
She stared at me for a long moment. Then, deliberately, she leaned in again, kissing me slow this time. Not soft. Not tender. But slow, like she meant for me to remember every second of it. When she pulled back, her voice was low.
"You're the one I'm here with. You're the one I came back to. Stop acting like you're owed more."
I didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Because she was right again, and I hated her for it.
Instead, I turned and carried her across the room. She clung to me the whole way, not out of fear, but with intent. Like she wanted me to know she wasn’t done. That neither of us were.
I laid her down on the edge of the bed, and for a moment, I just looked at her. Her hair was a mess, her lips red, her eyes wild. And still, she looked at me like she could tear me apart if she wanted to.
Maybe she could.
I shrugged off my tunic. The room was colder than before, but I didn’t feel it. All I felt was her, and the weight of everything between us.
"Tell me to stop," I said.
She didn’t.
So I leaned down again, bracing one hand beside her head, the other sliding beneath the hem of her nightshirt. Her breath caught as my palm found her stomach, warm and taut.
I didn’t speak. I just watched her, studied her face, the shift in her brows, the way her mouth parted like she wanted to say something but hadn’t decided if it was worth it.
I hated how much I wanted her. Hated that I cared enough to notice the small things—the faint freckle on her neck, the scar near her collarbone. I wasn’t made for softness. I wasn’t bred for it. But gods, I wanted her. Not like the whores Aegon ran to, not like a man seeking to empty lust and leave. I wanted her like something I couldn’t kill.
Her hand wrapped around my wrist. Not to stop me. Just to feel me. She looked up, jaw set, expression unreadable. "This changes nothing," she said.
I gave a sharp breath through my nose. "I know."
But it did. We both knew it did.
She shifted again, and I let my hand drift higher, testing. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t turn away. The heat of her body was rising. So was mine. My jaw clenched. I didn’t want to lose control. Not fully. But she made it hard.
She always made things hard.
Her thighs pressed together. Her eyes stayed locked on mine. I could feel her heart under my palm. Fast. Strong. Just like her.
My lips grazed hers again. A short kiss. Just that. Then another, slower. Her fingers slipped into my hair again, and I sank into it. The want came back fast. Ugly and honest. My hands tightened on her waist as I kissed her again, harder now.
She broke the kiss first, her forehead against mine, breath short. "Do you ever stop thinking?"
"No."
"Do you ever stop being so... wound up?"
I gave a dry laugh. "Not around you."
That made her smirk. Then she pushed my chest. "Off."
I blinked. "What?"
"Your weight. It’s crushing my lungs."
I rolled onto my side, arm still looped around her waist. "You were fine a moment ago."
She turned to face me fully, lying on her side now. Her hair had fallen into her face again. I reached up to move it, but she batted my hand away.
"You don’t get to be gentle now."
I raised an eyebrow. "Why not?"
"Because you’re not."
She wasn’t wrong. But still, I brushed the hair from her cheek when she let me.
We were quiet for a moment. Just the crackle of the fire and the rhythm of our breath.
I pulled her against me and kissed her again, hard enough to stop her words.
I was on top of her again.
She didn’t pull away this time. She pulled me closer.
This wasn’t soft. It wasn’t love. But it was something.
And I’d take it.
Gods help me, I’d take it.
She shifted beneath me, and I felt her legs wrap around my waist, the heat of her body pulling me in like gravity. My breath caught. My hand moved down to her thigh, anchoring us there.
I kissed her, but it was brutal this time, punishing. Her breath hitched as I pushed her back into the mattress. Her hands grabbed at my back, nails dragging lines down the skin. She didn’t want tenderness. Neither did I.
My mouth moved to her jaw, then her throat. I bit there, not enough to hurt her, but enough to make her gasp. Her hips lifted to meet mine. I let out a sound low in my chest.
My hand moved under her nightshirt again, fingers dragging over her stomach. Her skin was warm. She shivered under the touch. I didn’t rush it. I let my fingers wander, memorizing her, every inch.
"You keep doing this," I muttered against her skin. "Testing me."
She arched her back, hands in my hair. "You always pass."
I didn’t know if it was meant to be praise or mockery. Maybe both.
I didn’t care.
I hooked my hand behind her knee and pulled her leg higher around me. Her breath came fast now, chest rising and falling. I kissed her collarbone and her fingers clenched tighter in my hair.
"W-wait. I've never done this before. I don't know how." She spoke up.
"I can teach you." Is all I said, giving her a quick peck on her lips, lifting up her nightshift slowly. Her cunt was beautiful, her inner thighs wet. She was drenched.
She tried closing her legs so I couldn't look at her but I kept them open.
She smelt heavenly as I leaned down, licking her cunt once, tasting her. she inhaled but didn't say anything.
Then I kissed her again, pressing my fingers against her clit, making her gasp in my mouth.
She pulled away.
"I don't think that's how it works." She said.
"Trust me Luce, I know what I'm doing." I reassured her. "Just relax."
I unzipped my pants, removing my hand and instead pressing myself against her, letting out a low groan.
"This may hurt a little." I murmured, grabbing my cock and pressing my tip against her cunt, wanting to enter. She nodded, looking down where we met. Then I slowly pushed inside of her. I stopped when she hissed and waited till she accomedated herself to me.
When she relaxed again I pushed deeper inside of her.
Gods she was tight. So tight and warm.
Soon I was fully inside of her.
She was already panting a little.
"Aemond."
"shhh, i know."
Her legs wrapped around me again, pressing me closer to her. Her arms wrapped around me too, holding onto me.
i slowly pulled out of her, making her release a breath she was holding. Then I slammed back inside her.
"Aemond!" she cried out. Her legs were shaking a little but were clamped even tighter around me now, holding me against her.
I stopped, giving her a second to relax until I slowly started thrusting in and out of her. Soon she stopped wincing.
She clenched around my cock, making me let out a grunt, slamming harder inside of her.
"Please don't stop." I heard her speak, my face buried in the crook of her neck, breathing her in. She smelled like honeyed figs.
I kissed her neck, shoulder, collarbone, then grabbed the neckline of her nightshift and ripped it off her, tearing it to pieces.
"Hey!" She scolded, which then turned into a moan as I rolled my hips.
I latched onto her breast, sucking on her nipple as she tugged on my hair. Then I let moved to suck on her other breast, giving them both equal attention.
"Aemond, i can't!-" She whined. I already knew what she wanted.
"come on, baby." I rasped, stuffing my face back in the crook of her neck as she moaned and whined in my ear.
"Aemond!" She screamed out for the last time when I felt her clench around me again as she came.
I didn't stop moving.
Instead I thrust into her harder as she whined and cried my name until I finally came inside of her. My seed filled her as she shook in my arms.
I slowly pulled out when I felt her calm down again and when I had completely emptied myself inside of her.
Immediatly standing up, I grabbed some cloth and wet it before cleaning her up carefully, and myself then too. She must be sore. then afterwards I put the cloth away and laid down next to her, pulling the sheets over us. She immediately cuddled up closer to me, already half asleep.
I lay on my back, eyes open, staring at the dark wooden beams above. The fire had burned low. Only embers remained, casting a faint red glow across the chamber. Her skin was bathed in it. Pale, flushed, perfect. One arm was draped across my chest, though she shifted slightly now and then, murmuring nonsense in her sleep.
I didn’t sleep. Couldn’t. My body was sated, sure, but my mind refused to follow. It spun in circles, chasing itself. Her voice, her hands, her lips. The way she looked at me when she let me in. The sound she made when I touched her just right. I tried to push it aside. Useless.
I should have felt triumphant. Claimed, conquered. That’s what Aegon would say. That’s what men said. But I didn’t feel like I’d won anything.
I felt… fucked. Twisted. Like something had shifted in me and I couldn’t shift it back.
I turned my head to look at her. Her face was turned toward the pillow, hair a mess across it. Her lips were parted. Peaceful.
Why her?
Why was it always her?
There were others. Willing ones. Eager. But they never reached me. Never unsettled me like this. She got under my skin without trying. Into my head. Into my chest. I hated that she could make me feel.
I reached out, brushed a knuckle against her shoulder. She didn’t stir.
It wasn’t love. I knew that much. Or maybe I didn’t. I didn’t know what love felt like. I knew duty. Power. Violence. I knew what it meant to be used. What it meant to use others. This… this didn’t fit any of those boxes.
I hated her for it. And I wanted her more because of it.
She shifted again, curling closer, cheek brushing my shoulder. I went still. Every part of me stiffened at the contact. Not because I feared her. But because I feared what I’d let it mean.
The air in the room felt too heavy. Too thick. I turned my head and pressed a kiss to her hair before I could stop myself.
Stupid.
I laid there a while longer, eyes open, jaw clenched. Waiting for sleep that wouldn’t come.
It never did when she was near.
Lucera
The red keep, King's Landing
I woke before the sun.
The room was quiet, save for the slow, steady breathing pressed against my skin. I blinked a few times, trying to remember where I was, what had happened—and then I felt it.
His face was buried against my chest. His silver hair fell over his cheek, tickling my skin. His arms were wrapped tightly around my waist, holding me in place as though letting go would cost him something. I could hardly move. Not that I minded.
I let my head fall back against the pillow and stared at the ceiling for a long moment. My whole body ached in ways I didn't want to think too hard about. I shifted just slightly, and his grip tightened. He let out a slow breath against my skin, a sigh that sent a small shiver up my spine.
He was naked. I could feel the warmth of his skin against mine, all down the length of me. At some point in the night, he must have rid himself of what little clothing he'd had left. And now he was clinging to me like a man drowning.
I looked down at him.
His hair was a mess, strands falling over his brow, half hiding the scarred side of his face. The sapphire gleamed faintly in the low light. I reached up slowly and let my fingers trail through his hair, combing it back with care. He didn’t stir at first, only nuzzled closer.
But after a moment, I felt his lips shift.
He was awake.
His arms tightened further, a low sound escaping his throat—not quite a groan, not quite a sigh. Then I felt the press of his mouth against me. Not a kiss at first, just warmth. Then another. A real kiss this time, soft, then another just above it. And another.
"You're awake," I murmured, though it came out more amused than annoyed.
He didn’t lift his head. "Your hand in my hair woke me."
"I was being gentle."
"Doesn’t matter. I know your touch now."
I smirked and stroked his hair again, slower this time. He was still kissing me, mouth warm and insistent against my chest, like he was proving something to himself more than me.
Then—
The door opened.
It was barely a creak, but enough. I turned my head, and there stood Lysa.
Poor thing looked like she'd seen a ghost.
She froze in the doorway, wide-eyed, tray of morning wine and bread in her hands. Her mouth opened. Closed. Then she seemed to remember herself and gave a quick bow of her head.
"My princess—my prince—forgive me," she mumbled, voice small, before turning on her heel and all but fleeing from the room.
There was a beat of silence.
Then I started laughing.
Aemond lifted his head slightly, just enough to look up at me with that annoyed, sleepy glare he wore like armor.
"This isn’t funny."
"It’s a little funny," I said between laughs. "Lysa is going to tell every other handmaiden in the red keep, you know that, right?"
He grunted and dropped his head back down. "Let them."
"Let them? Gods, Aemond, they'll draw tapestries about it by next week."
"Then I hope they get the details right."
That shut me up.
I blinked down at him. "You’re insufferable."
"You didn’t seem to mind last night."
I swatted the back of his head, and he only grinned against my skin.
I should have felt embarrassed. Ashamed, even. But I didn’t. Not with him still holding me like this. Not with the weight of him grounding me to the bed.
We laid there for a long while after that, no words, just the closeness. I kept running my fingers through his hair. He kept kissing my chest every so often like he couldn't help it.
Soon I was the one who moved first, reluctant as I was to leave the warmth of the bed, the weight of him draped over me like a second blanket. But duty called, or something like it. Aemond made no move to stop me this time, only watched with that half-lidded, unreadable eye as I slid from under his arm.
He dressed with the quiet efficiency of a soldier, every motion precise. He pulled on his tunic and cloak without needing assistance, the sapphire glinting coldly from his brow as he fastened the leather straps across his chest. Then he clasped the eyepatch on his eye. I, on the other hand, was already regretting my decision to send the handmaidens away.
"I can manage," I had said with foolish confidence. And perhaps I could—if not for the gods-cursed corset.
The gown itself was fine. I slipped it over my shoulders and down to my waist, the fabric cool and smooth against my skin. But the corset... the corset was a beast of another kind.
I twisted awkwardly, trying to catch the laces behind me. They slipped through my fingers more than once, stubborn and unyielding. Each time I thought I'd managed to pull one tight, another loop loosened. My arms ached from reaching behind me. Sweat beaded along my brow.
Behind me, I heard the faintest sound. A breath. The soft thud of boots on stone.
"You're going to strangle yourself."
I turned—well, tried to, but the half-laced corset made it difficult. Aemond stood a few paces behind, fully dressed, his hair smoothed back and his expression entirely too smug.
"I said I could do it," I muttered.
He said nothing. Just walked over and turned me around by the shoulders like I was a child being positioned for a portrait.
"Lift your arms."
I obeyed. Perhaps it was the way he said it—soft, but expectant. Familiar. Like he had laced up a hundred corsets before. I heard the creak of leather as his gloved hands worked their way down the back of the bodice.
He didn’t pull hard at first, just tested the tension of the strings. Then, slowly, he began to tighten them. It was a strange thing, being laced into a garment by a man with hands that had beaten people half to death before. Yet he was careful, efficient, adjusting the fit with the same attention he gave to a sword belt.
"Breathe," he murmured.
I exhaled, and the corset tightened snugly around my ribs. He paused, waited for me to take another breath, then pulled again. Not too tight, but enough to make me straighten.
"You’ve done this before," I said.
"Once. My mother used to faint from how tight her corsets were laced. Helaena learned not to trust the maids."
His fingers brushed my spine as he tied off the ends. He didn’t linger, didn’t do anything improper. But I felt every movement like a brand against my skin.
When he was finished, I turned to face him. He didn’t look away.
"Thank you," I said.
He gave a small nod. "Next time, let the maids do it."
I almost smiled.
But instead, I adjusted the sleeves of my gown, took a breath, and forced myself to focus on the day ahead. The keep awaited. The whispers would follow. And Aemond, ever composed, was already reaching for his sword belt.
He was watching me still. Aemond always watched like that—like he was waiting for me to vanish. His face was unreadable, but his hands, still resting at his sides, looked as though they wanted to reach for me again.
I hesitated, chewing the inside of my cheek before speaking. "We shouldn’t tell anyone."
He tilted his head just slightly. "About what?"
I gave him a look. He wasn’t stupid.
"Last night," I said. "The marriage is known. But what we—" I paused. Gods, why was this harder now than it was hours ago, naked in bed. "What we did... we should keep it between us. For now."
He didn’t look pleased, but he didn’t protest. "Because of your mother."
I nodded. "She made it clear. She didn’t want it consummated so soon."
"And yet," he said dryly, one silver brow arching.
"And yet," I echoed, not hiding my guilt. "She doesn’t need to know. Nor anyone else. Not yet."
Aemond studied me. He could be infuriatingly silent when he wanted to be. But then, his expression softened. Just a little. Enough.
"Fine. I won’t say a word."
I felt myself exhale. A small weight lifted. Then he took a step closer, closing the distance between us. I felt the warmth of his body again, even though we were both fully dressed now.
He leaned down, and I thought for a moment he might kiss me again like he had last night—fierce, hungry, possessive. But instead, his lips brushed the corner of mine, barely a whisper of touch. Then another, on the other side. Then one on my chin.
Small, soft things.
I smiled against his mouth. "You're being careful."
"I’m being quiet," he murmured, kissing me once more, this time on the tip of my nose. "Your handmaidens could come in at any second"
I laughed under my breath. "They might die of shock this time."
"Let’s not kill your handmaidens. Yet."
I kissed his jaw. "Thank you. For not telling."
"It’s ours to keep," he said.
...
The corridor was still when I left our chambers. Morning light filtered in through the tall windows, streaking gold over the stone. I’d broken my fast beside Aemond, seated across the table as if we were any other married couple. He hadn't said much, but his eyes never left me. Every time I reached for my cup, I felt his gaze like the touch of a hand. Not demanding, not possessive. Just there. Watching. As if he needed to remind himself I was real.
My body ached. Gods, it ached.
Each step tugged at muscles I had never before been made aware of, and there was a sore, slow throb in my thighs that no shift or gown could ease. The ache was dull, but constant, and after two turns in the hall, I realized I was beginning to limp. Not severely—but enough. I slowed my steps to a graceful pace, trying to mask it. Let no one say a princess hobbled through the Red Keep like an old woman.
The embroidery room lay past the library, tucked behind a series of tall wooden doors that creaked even when carefully opened. The chamber was quiet when I entered, filled with the soft scratch of needles, the occasional cough, and the rustle of skirts.
Helaena sat in her usual spot near the window, bathed in morning light. Her embroidery hoop was already in hand, and a pale blue thread trailed through her fingers like a vein. Her eyes darted to mine when I entered, and a faint smile curled on her lips.
I gave her a nod and sat beside her, trying not to wince as I lowered myself onto the cushioned bench. Gods. Sitting was worse.
The other girls did not speak. They never did, not much. Septa Maeryn, a dried-up woman with a sharp tongue and knobbled fingers, presided at the front of the room with all the severity of a battle commander. She moved between us, correcting posture and thread tension with the tone of someone who expected nothing but disappointment.
"Today," she said, in a voice like cracked slate, "you will embroider scenes of piety. Doves. Stars. Maiden cloaks. You will keep your stitches even. You will not speak."
Helaena, of course, spoke anyway. Or nearly.
She leaned toward me slightly, her voice no louder than a breath. "The storm rages when the womb bleeds."
I blinked.
"What?"
Her fingers continued their work, delicate and fast, like a spider spinning silk. "The ocean is listening. You shouldn’t speak too loud."
"Helaena, what does that even—"
"Princess."
The word came sharp and cold. I turned to find Septa Maeryn glaring down her long nose at me, lips pinched. "Needlework is no place for chatter. Your mother would not approve."
I lowered my head, murmured, "Yes, Septa," and pretended to focus on the hoop in my lap, though I hadn’t even threaded the damn needle yet.
Across from us, two girls exchanged glances and then looked away quickly. I could already feel the heat creeping up my neck.
Beside me, Helaena only smiled faintly and hummed some soft tune under her breath, blissfully unaware—or uncaring—of the scolding. She was content in her world of riddles and thread.
My world, at least for the morning, would be knots and quiet judgment. And sore limbs.
Gods help me.
Notes:
Playlist:
https://open.spotify.com/playlist/277X2qNjvUhJzr0ZMTGJrA?si=CYqx946pRl-fipqnuSvZvwAnother short chapter but atleast they finally facked!!
This is my first time writing smut btw so im sorry if its corny or poorly written. i mean I read a lot of smut but I'm not sure if I also write good smut.I'm gonna go eat now and you remember to eat too!
HAPPY READING
Chapter 13: XIII
Summary:
remembered promises and duties
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Aemond
The red keep, King's Landing
The morning air in the Red Keep tasted of ash and wine.
I walked the halls to clear my head, though there was little clarity to be found in these walls. Too many shadows, too many whispers. My boots struck stone with steady weight, and every guard I passed straightened just slightly, as if afraid I might carve the air with my eye alone. Good. Let them.
The quiet was a balm.
Until Aegon found me.
He rounded the corner like a drunkard in search of a fight, which he often was. His doublet hung open, his boots half-laced, and there was a bottle clutched in his hand despite the early hour.
"Morning," he drawled. "Or is it afternoon? Gods, I can never tell in this bloody maze."
I did not answer.
He squinted at me, weaving slightly. "You look like you've been up all night, brother. Not that I blame you. Pretty little wife you've got now."
I stopped walking.
He grinned. That grin of his, all teeth and cruelty. "Don’t get your sword in a twist. I came by your door earlier. Thought to knock. Congratulate you, you know. But then I heard the sounds."
My jaw clenched.
"Gods," he said, drawing the word out. "You’re loud, Aemond. Or she is. I couldn’t tell which of you was doing the begging."
I said nothing. Not yet. Not until I could be sure I wouldn't take his head off in the middle of the corridor.
He laughed, stumbling closer. "I almost applauded. Sweet, shy little Lucera, wasn't she? Must’ve taken some convincing. Or maybe she has claws hidden under all that silk."
My hands curled into fists at my sides.
He noticed. Of course he did. Aegon lived to poke wounds. "Touchy, touchy," he murmured. "Is this where you threaten me? Or strike me? Come now, brother. You're a married man now. Surely you've learned some self-control."
I stared at him, letting the silence stretch. Letting him feel it.
Aegon tilted his head. His eyes were bloodshot. His breath stank of Arbor red and stale indulgence.
"Do not speak of her," I said quietly. "Not to me. Not in jest. Not ever."
He snorted. "Gods, you're serious."
"Say her name again and I will break your jaw."
That made him pause. Just for a moment. Then he grinned again, slower this time.
"You care for her. That's new."
I stepped forward once. Just one step. And even he, drunk and foolish, took a step back.
"I said nothing," he muttered.
"Remember that."
He lifted his hands in mock surrender, though the bottle nearly slipped from his grasp. "As you wish, dear brother. Lips sealed. For now."
I pushed past him, my temper smoldering beneath the surface. He was a fool, but not a harmless one. And if word of what he heard reached Mother—or Grandfather—or the court at large...
No. I would not let Aegon’s drunken mouth undo what had only just begun.
Lucera was mine. Not for gossip. Not for jests.
Just mine.
The training yard was half-shadowed when I arrived, the sun not yet high enough to burn away the chill. Damp clung to the flagstones. The air carried the tang of sweat and steel, the smell of men at work, of discipline and dust. Familiar.
Ser Criston Cole was already there. He trained alone, as he often did at this hour, his sword slicing the air with the ease of muscle taught by years. He turned at the sound of my boots, gave a short nod. No questions. No pleasantries. That was why I favored him.
"You look as though you might break someone," he said simply.
"I might," I replied.
He tossed me a practice blade. Oak, but heavy enough to bruise bone. I caught it, tested the weight in my hand. My knuckles were white around the grip. Good.
Cole struck first. I blocked without thinking.
The clatter of wood meeting wood rang out across the yard. My blood began to stir.
We moved without speaking. He came at me low, then high. I deflected, countered. His strength was steady, seasoned, but I was younger. Faster. My rage lent me an edge it had not before.
Again. Again. Again.
My arms ached, my breath shortened, but I did not stop. Every strike was Aegon's voice in my head. Every block was the memory of his grin. Every parry, the sound of Lucera’s soft sighs, twisted by his mocking tongue. I would drown it all in sweat if I could not drown it in blood.
Cole grunted as I forced him back, blade hammering against his guard. He said nothing. He understood. Rage needed no explanation.
He pivoted and caught me off guard with a low sweep. My knee buckled slightly, but I righted myself and came back harder. Our blades locked, close enough for me to see the glint in his eyes.
"Better," he muttered.
I pushed off him and circled. "Again."
We went until the sun crested the towers. Until the squire who brought us water dared not approach. Until my shirt clung to me, soaked through. Until Cole called an end, not with words, but by stepping back and lowering his blade.
I stood, chest heaving, sweat dripping down my spine. My hair stuck to my face. My body thrummed with exhaustion—but also calm. The storm in me had quieted, somewhat.
Cole wiped his brow with his sleeve. "You should bathe before the noon meal. You look half-mad."
"I am half-mad," I said.
He snorted. "Aren’t we all."
He left me there in the yard, blade in hand.
I stayed a while longer, staring out toward the empty castle walls, until the ache in my arms matched the ache behind my eye. Only then did I leave, and even then, I felt as if the fight had never truly ended.
Aegon would open his mouth again. He always did.
Next time, I would not walk away.
...
The water steamed when I stepped into it.
The handmaidens had carried in the basin moments before, eyes cast low, cheeks flushed with what they thought they weren’t supposed to know. One bowed deeper than necessary as she left, but I said nothing. Words were wasted on them. Their task was done, and the room was mine again.
I stripped, folding my tunic and laying it atop the carved chest beside the bed. My body ached from the morning's sparring—Cole had not held back, and I had not asked him to. Bruises lined my arms and ribs like the marks of a beast. Each one proof of discipline, of restraint. I welcomed them.
The water bit at first, hot as dragonflame, but I sank into it all the same. My hair floated at the surface, pale strands like ribbons in wine. I tilted my head back, closing my eye. For once, quiet.
Until the door creaked.
I opened my eye. Lucera stepped through the arch with a hand braced on the wall, her steps small, careful. Limping.
I sat forward. "You're sore."
"You did not think I would be?" she said with a faint smirk, but there was tiredness behind it. Her hair was braided loosely down her back, and her shift clung to her in the morning heat. She was beautiful, even when limping.
She shut the door behind her and came closer.
I gestured toward the basin. "Come in."
She gave me a look—half challenge, half amusement. "Are you ordering me?"
"If I were, you'd already be in."
She laughed, soft and low, and began undoing the knots of her shift. I watched her without shame. When she stepped out of it, she did so without hesitation. I shifted slightly in the basin, making space.
She sank into the water slowly with a breath through her teeth. "Gods, that's hot."
"You bruise easily."
"No more than you."
She slid into my lap, her chest resting against mine own, legs curling over mine. Her skin was soft against the ache of mine. She relaxed after a moment, a quiet sigh leaving her lips.
Her fingers reached for a cloth, soaking it in the water. She wrung it out, then began scrubbing gently at my arms, her touch light but firm. I let her.
"Cole hit you hard," she murmured.
"He always does."
"You let him."
"It keeps me sharp."
She hummed. The cloth passed over my chest, slow circles tracing old scars and fresh marks alike. Her thumb lingered on a welt under my ribs.
"This one looks painful."
"It's nothing."
"You always say that."
"Because it's always true."
The cloth drifted lower, over my ribs. She leaned back into me, the wet fabric forgotten in her hand now resting over my heart.
I held her close, my arms encircling her under the water.
"This is nice," she said after a while.
"It is."
She grinned. "You sound surprised."
"I’m not accustomed to peace."
"You'll get used to it."
I wasn’t so sure.
But with her warm in my arms, her breath slow and contented against my throat, I thought—perhaps.
Perhaps I might.
For a time.
She shifted against me again, the water sloshing softly against the sides of the basin. Her hand was still on my chest, fingers spread out like she was counting the thrum of my heart beneath them. Her eyes weren’t on me, though. She stared past my shoulder, at nothing in particular, lips pressed in a line of thought.
“Aemond,” she said.
I grunted low in my throat. That tone meant she was thinking something over, probably something I wouldn’t like.
“Would it be alright if I visited Alaric sometime?”
The name was like cold steel across the skin. My hand stilled on her back.
Alaric.
That fucking commoner with soft eyes and clever smiles. The one who watched her too long when she'd sneak out to go meet him. The one she used to walk with through the city before we were wed. The one who always bowed too low when she passed, like she was some seven-damned maiden in a song and he her bloody knight.
My jaw tightened.
“Why?”
She glanced up at me then, surprised by the flatness in my voice. “Because he’s my friend. I haven’t spoken to him in a long time.”
I looked away. “He’s not your friend.”
“Yes, he is.”
I scoffed. “No man who stares at you like that wants to be just your friend.”
She drew back a little in my lap, just enough to see my face better. Her brow furrowed. “You think I’d want someone else?”
“I think he wants you.”
“And do you think I care?” she asked sharply.
I said nothing. The water lapped gently against our skin. I didn’t want to argue with her—not now, not when her body was still warm against mine, not when her fingers had just moments ago been soft and gentle, like she was learning me with her hands.
But I did not like the thought of her with him. Even in the same room. Even if she swore it meant nothing.
She exhaled, irritated now. “Aemond. I married you. I lay with you. I sit in your lap with no clothes on, and still you think I care about some boy I haven’t seen since the wedding?”
I clenched my jaw. “You cared before.”
“Not like that.”
I didn’t answer. She sighed again, this time softer. Her fingers touched my cheek, forcing me to look at her.
“He was kind to me, that’s all. And I liked having someone to talk to when no one else did. He never touched me. Never tried. Never asked for anything.”
“Yet you ask to see him.”
“Because he was my friend,” she said firmly. “Not because I miss him like that.”
Her eyes didn’t waver. She wasn’t lying. I could always tell when she was.
I let out a slow breath. “Fine. See him.”
She smiled faintly. “Thank you.”
But I wasn’t smiling.
She leaned into me again, laying her head against my shoulder. My arms came back around her, automatic now. Her skin was wet and smooth, her breath brushing against my collarbone.
I said nothing more. But I would be having a word with Alaric soon. A quiet one.
Just to be sure.
...
The streets were quiet at this hour. King's Landing slept uneasy, its breath shallow in the heat of a lingering summer night. I moved through the shadows with purpose, my cloak drawn tight, hood low over my brow. The city knew my face, even half of it, and I had no taste for being recognized tonight. Not for this.
Lucera had fallen asleep beside me in our bed, her cheek against my chest, one hand curled like a kitten's claw on my ribs. She trusted me. She always had.
And I had waited.
When her breath slowed, when her limbs went still in the tender grip of sleep, I rose without a sound. I knew the passageways well. There were ways out of the Tower of the Hand that not even the rats remembered. I emerged on the Street of Sisters, boots silent on the cobbles, and began the descent into the lower alleys.
I found him in the Eel Alley, near Inn's and Tavern's. The stench of piss and blood hung in the air, but Alaric didn’t seem to mind it. He was leaning against a wall, one boot up, a half-eaten meat pie in hand.
He did not see me at first.
Until I reached him.
My hand slammed him into the stone before he could so much as choke on the crust. The pie fell to the dirt.
He gasped, trying to speak, but my fingers closed around his throat like iron.
"You know who I am," I said low, teeth bared. "So do not waste your breath pretending you don’t."
His eyes went wide, flicking from my eyepatch to the shadow of my hood. I let him see it all. Let him understand.
He rasped something—my name, maybe—but I didn't loosen my grip.
"You’ve been sniffing around her long enough," I said. "Before she was mine. Now you’re wondering if you still have a chance."
He shook his head, or tried to. My thumb pressed against his windpipe.
"She tells me you're just a friend. That you never touched her."
I leaned in, close enough that my breath touched his ear.
"Pray to whatever gods you keep that that’s the truth. Because if I ever think otherwise—"
He made a sound, some garbled denial. I eased my grip just a little.
"Say it."
"I never touched her," he croaked. "Never. She came to me to hang out, that’s all. She was kind. I swear it."
I looked at him for a long moment. He wasn’t lying. Cowards never did.
Still, I didn’t move.
"She may visit you," I said at last. "Once. If I hear you said anything you shouldn’t, looked at her for too long, asked her to meet you again—"
I pressed him harder into the wall, enough to rattle his teeth.
"—you won’t see the sun again. Not in this life."
I released him. He collapsed to the ground, wheezing, one hand clutching his throat.
I turned without another word, walking back to the passageways. The torch I carried cast flickering shadows on the walls, tall and spindly as wights. Behind me, the tunnel sealed itself in darkness. Ahead, the secret door to our chambers loomed.
I reached it, pressed my hand against the familiar stone, and it gave way with a soft groan. The hearth still burned low inside, throwing a red glow across the floorboards. The bed was in sight, the covers tossed about like a storm had passed through them.
Lucera sat up, rubbing her eyes. Her hair was a mess of curls and her nightdress slipped off one shoulder.
"Where were you?" she asked, voice thick with sleep.
I pulled the door shut behind me and let the torch sputter out in its sconce.
"Had something small to do," I said, shrugging off my cloak. "Couldn’t sleep."
She watched me, brow furrowed in a half-suspicious way, but too tired to press. I unlaced my tunic, peeled it off, then bent to unfasten my boots. My shirt followed. The night air had been cooler in the tunnels, but the city had clung to the heat like a dog to a bone.
Lucera sank back into the pillows, shifting onto her side to make room. She didn’t ask again. Perhaps she knew better. Or perhaps she trusted me still.
I changed quickly, tugging on a loose linen nightshirt and pants before climbing into bed behind her. Her body was warm from sleep, soft and pliant beneath the sheets. I curled my arm around her waist and pulled her close.
She sighed, content, and her fingers found my wrist where it rested on her belly.
"You’re cold," she mumbled.
"Only a little," I said, pressing a kiss behind her ear.
She didn’t reply.
Her breath steadied within moments, slow and deep. I watched the fire until it guttered, until the shadows swallowed the room again. Her back was pressed to my chest, her hand still holding mine.
Whatever she dreamt of, I hoped it wasn’t Alaric. But I didn’t speak his name. Not now. Instead, I lay still in the quiet, my arm wrapped firm around her, and waited for sleep to take me too.
Lucera
The red keep, King's Landing
The morning sun slanted through the high windows of our chamber, warm and golden, though not yet sharp. The warmth across my cheek coaxed me from sleep. I stirred beneath the coverlet, sluggish and tangled in Aemond's limbs. He had not stirred yet; his breath was slow and even, one arm heavy around my waist. I smiled faintly, then winced. My back ached in a new, persistent way. Not the usual soreness from training or riding. Something else.
My handmaiden's dressed me in silence. Aemond rose after me, wordless but watchful. Over breakfast, he watched me push my food about my plate. honeyed figs, boiled eggs, fruit compote. I stared at the food longer than I should have.
"You're not eating," he said at last, setting down his fork.
I blinked. "I am."
"You’ve cut your egg into four identical pieces and haven’t touched a single one."
I hesitated, then forced a piece into my mouth. "See? Eating."
Aemond didn’t press, but his eye lingered on me longer than usual.
we parted at the base of the tower stairs. He had sword drills with Cole. I had the godswood.
...
The air beyond the sept was crisp. A thin breeze stirred the autumn leaves in the Red Keep’s godswood, rustling beneath the boughs of the ancient weirwood. Septa Maeryn walked ahead, stiff-backed as ever, while the younger noble girls trailed behind her like obedient ducklings. I moved among them, my steps measured. Helaena hummed to herself, head tilted toward the trees, hands folded before her.
The sun filtered through red leaves, dappled and holy. Septa Maeryn began the morning prayers beneath the carved heart tree.
I bowed my head, as I and all the others kneeled, fingers laced loosely. The scent of the weirwood’s sap was cloying. My stomach twisted.
I pressed a hand to my abdomen.
The nausea came quick, like a wave I couldn’t fight. I stood, then stumbled two steps back, the prayers ringing in my ears.
Helaena turned, dreamy-eyed. "The waves crash loudest before the storm," she murmured.
I barely made it to the roots before I dropped to my knees and vomited.
Septa Maeryn gasped. One of the girls shrieked.
I wiped my mouth with the back of my sleeve, shame blooming hot across my cheeks. "It’s nothing," I croaked. "I must have eaten too fast."
Helaena knelt beside me, as gentle as mist.
"You dreamt of birds last night," she said, brushing hair from my face. "But the birds have teeth."
I just stared at her.
Helaena smiled faintly. "The cradle rocks when the sword is drawn. And blood sings louder than horns."
Septa Maeryn stepped forward, scandalized. "Princess Lucera, come. You must rest."
But Helaena’s eyes held me fast.
"The ocean is listening," she whispered, just as she had days ago. "You shouldn’t speak too loud."
Alicent
The red keep, King's Landing
My chambers smelled faintly of beeswax and rose oil. I sat beside the window, the light pouring through the lattice in narrow gold bars, watching the birds wheel above the gardens below. It was not peace I felt, only the echo of it, and I knew it would not last.
Aegon slouched in the chair across from me, nursing a cup of wine—his second before midday. His tunic was half-laced, his hair tangled like a boy’s, and he was laughing at nothing in particular.
"You're drunk," I said quietly, not looking at him.
"Better drunk than dull," he replied, swirling the cup lazily. "Even Father’s rotting body knowsmore joy than Aemond, and he was stone dead for half a day."
I did not dignify that with a response.
Aegon grinned, wicked now. "Speaking of my dutiful brother… He’s been busy, hasn’t he?"
I turned my head slowly. "What do you mean?"
"Oh, come now, Mother. Don’t pretend you don’t know." He leaned forward, voice low and conspiratorial. "I passed their chamber one nights past. Thought I’d have a jest—knock on the door, make the boy squirm."
I said nothing, watching him.
"But I heard it. Her. Little Lucera. Sounded like she was taming a dragon herself, and not with a sword."
"Enough." My voice was firm. Flat.
Aegon laughed, uncaring. "You told him to, didn’t you? Told Aemond to bed her. Gods, if you’d only said it to me years ago, maybe I'd have filled every cradle in the realm."
I rose without a word, crossing to the door and opening it. Ser arryk bowed. "Fetch Prince Aemond. At once."
Aegon smirked, rising with a careless shrug. "Well, don’t look at me when she starts swelling."
He was gone before Aemond arrived.
He came swiftly, of course. Always did, that one. There was no hesitation in his stride, only that same measured calm. He had a tunic thrown over his sparring clothes, boots dusty.
"Mother," he said simply, bowing his head.
I studied him. "You’ve laid with her."
He did not respond so I took it as a yes.
"Good."
Aemond blinked once. No pride. No shame. Merely acknowledgment.
I turned to the window, watching the leaves stir in the breeze. "It was necessary."
"You said it would be."
"Not only for the alliance," I said, softly. "But for the child. If there is to be one."
He said nothing.
"Rhaenyra’s grip on the throne rests on blood and belief," I continued. "Lucera’s womb may yet tip the scale. A son, or even a daughter, born of your seed—"
"I know," Aemond said.
I turned to face him again. He had not moved. Stiff, straight, silent.
"Did you force her?"
He looked up. "No."
I nodded once. "Good. It is better this way. Easier to shape truth from willingness."
For a moment, I saw it—the flicker of doubt in his eye. Not regret. But something close. It passed quickly.
"She may be with child already," I said. "The signs will show soon enough. When they do, we will be ready."
Aemond inclined his head, then turned to leave.
"One more thing," I said, just before he reached the door. "If she is not with child… you will try again."
He did not turn. "Yes, Mother."
And then he was gone.
I remained by the window long after. The wind tugged gently at the curtains. Somewhere below, bells rang faintly. The hour turned. And with it, so did the realm.
Lucera
The red keep, King's Landing
The chamber was warm, lit only by the dying embers in the hearth and the flicker of a single candle that had already melted halfway down its length. The velvet curtains stirred with the summer breeze, soft and aimless, brushing against the cold stone walls. My skin was still flushed, my limbs heavy with the weight of what we had done. I lay sprawled across the tangled sheets, chest rising and falling, and Aemond was beside me, quiet.
He had cleaned me with a cloth a few moments before, the kind of tenderness no one would ever believe of him. His touch had been firm but slow, careful in that silent way he always was. Now he lay with me, his bare chest pressed to my back, one arm curled under my head, the other wrapped tightly around my waist.
I could feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat against my spine.
The room smelled of sex and sweat and lavender water. My hair was damp against my neck. Neither of us had spoken since. The silence wasn't uncomfortable, but it lingered longer than it should have.
He usually whispered something—something dry, or biting, or teasing. But tonight, there was nothing.
I shifted slightly in his hold, just enough to glance over my shoulder. His eye was open, staring at the ceiling.
"You’re quiet," I said.
Aemond didn’t answer right away. I waited. Still nothing.
"Is something wrong?" I asked.
He blinked, once. Slowly. As though I'd pulled him from some deep place. His gaze dropped to mine, unreadable.
"No."
That was it. Just that.
I turned fully now, resting on my side, facing him. The sheets bunched at our hips. He didn’t try to cover himself. Neither did I. We were past modesty, at least in this room.
"You’re lying."
Aemond’s mouth twitched at the corner. "You’re imagining things."
"I know you," I said. "You go silent when you’re thinking too much."
He didn’t argue. Just looked at me for a long moment, then reached up to tuck a stray curl behind my ear.
"I’m only tired," he murmured. "It’s late."
It wasn’t a lie, not exactly. But it wasn’t the truth, either.
I leaned in and kissed the scar at his cheek—so familiar to me now I no longer noticed it. He exhaled softly, pulling me close again, tucking my head beneath his chin. He was too still. I could feel the tension in his shoulders, the heaviness in his breathing. Whatever it was he was keeping from me, it wasn’t small.
But I didn’t push.
Not yet.
Instead, I let my hand rest on his chest, fingers splayed over the faint rise and fall of him. I matched my breath to his.
Then, without thinking, I started to laugh. It came out soft at first, a small breath of sound against his collarbone, then grew into something fuller. I tried to stifle it, biting my lip, but it bubbled up anyway. Aemond shifted beneath me, pulling his head back just enough to look at me.
"What?" he asked, eyebrow raised.
I shook my head, still grinning. "Nothing. I just... I remembered something."
He narrowed his eye at me. "Tell me."
I bit down harder on my smile, rolling onto my back and staring at the carved ceiling above us. "Do you remember when we were children, and we got married in secret?" His face didn’t change, but I saw the flicker of memory in his eye.
"You were eight," he said.
"And you were ten," I added.
"And I told you I wanted twelve children."
That made him huff through his nose, which for Aemond might as well have been roaring laughter.
"Twelve," he repeated.
"Six boys and six girls," I said, counting them off with my fingers, "and we would name them all after dragons and conquerors and heroes from the old songs."
Aemond turned onto his side to look at me properly. His hair spilled over the pillow between us, and in the low light, he looked almost young again. Almost like that ten-year-old boy with too much weight in his eyes.
"And what would we have done with twelve children?"
"Raised them to be terrifying," I said at once. "They would have ruled every corner of the realm. The youngest would have had your eye."
He raised an eyebrow. "The sapphire or the real one?"
"Both," I said, grinning. "Just to confuse people."
Aemond shook his head slowly, but there was something gentler in his gaze now. Less guarded.
"You were a strange little girl," he said.
"And you were a very serious little boy. But you married me anyway."
"You made me," he replied.
"You didn’t say no."
His thumb brushed over the back of my hand, slow and thoughtful. "No," he said. "I didn’t."
The silence that followed was softer than before. Not heavy. Not full of unspoken truths or worries. Just full of us.
I let out a long breath and curled into him again, our legs tangled beneath the sheets.
"We don’t need twelve," I murmured. "But one would be nice."
He didn’t respond.
Not with words.
But he held me tighter.
Notes:
I'm sorry i did not write out the smex scene I was too lazy and I feel like my smut writing is bad. also im not sure if i'm allowed to say sex on these notes. I dont wanna get banned
but shoutout to @ShiranaiAtsune for commenting regularly everytime I post! If you see this, I wanted to tell you how greatful I am of your support!! :)
a round of applause for you!!!!!!!also thank you thank you thank you to everyone else taking their time to read my story!
Please remember to leave comments and kudos. :))))))
everyone have a good rest of your day and night and remember to eat, touch some grass and eat a lil bit more!
HAPPY READING!!
Chapter Text
Aemond
The red keep, King's Landing
The morning sun bled pale gold across the Tower of the Hand when Lucera stirred beside me, still curled beneath the furs like a cat reluctant to rise. Her hair was a dark, tangled mess on the pillow, her cheek pressed to my shoulder, breath warm against my neck. We had not slept much, but I felt rested nonetheless.
She stretched, yawned into my chest, then propped herself on one elbow and murmured, "Come. We’ll be late."
"Let us be late," I muttered, but she only smirked and rolled out of bed.
We took our morning meal in the solar adjoining our chambers, as we often did since our marriage. No servants save for the one who brought the tray and fled. Lucera liked it that way—quiet, private, ours. Bread still warm from the ovens, a dish of honeyed figs, fresh cream, and boiled eggs with coarse salt. She always stole the softest yolk before I could reach it, grinning like a thief.
She wore only my sleeping shirt then, draped past her knees, loose at the collar. When she poured the tea, I watched the steam curl around her wrist, and thought, as I often did, that I would burn the world to keep her safe.
After we ate, she kissed my cheek, murmured something about needing to speak with her maid, and disappeared from the chamber before I could question her. I waited, dressed myself in black riding leathers trimmed with silver, combed and tied my hair, and waited some more.
When she returned, she was radiant.
"What is it?" I asked, rising to meet her.
She only smiled wider and shook her head. "You’ll see."
I narrowed my eye. "Lucera—"
"You’ll see."
We rode in one of the royal carriages, drawn by four white horses, the targaryen crest emblazoned on the doors. The trail wound south through the city and into the Kingswood, where the hunting pavilion had been erected. Great banners flapped in the wind-- black, gold and red, the three headed dragon of House Targaryen 
Aegon’s twentieth nameday was not a quiet affair. Not when Viserys yet lived, though barely. He had arrived slumped in a litter, body swaddled in furs despite the heat, his face a ruin of sores and sagging skin. He would not ride with the men. The King could barely lift a goblet to his lips.
Still, the family had gathered: Rhaenyra in a gown too tight across the belly, Daemon beside her with that sly smirk he never shed. Jacaerys stood stiff and sour beside them, and Helaena flitted like a ghost among her twin children and maelor. Joffrey sulked near the wine casks, pretending to be older than he was. And Aegon, the nameday boy, drunk already before midday.
Lucera walked beside me, her hand looped neatly through my arm. She did not lean against me, nor tilt her face to mine, nor kiss me before others. But she smiled, her chin high, her gown a deep red silk I’d never seen before. I suspected it was new.
I noticed the glances. From Rhaenyra, from Daemon, from mother herself. But I kept my eye forward.
Lucera’s smile did not fade.
When it was time, the call went out for the hunters to gather—lords and knights and young fools eager to show their skill. I turned to her, brushing a curl from her brow.
"Will you stay here with the ladies?"
She nodded. "Joffrey, Helaena and the others will keep me company."
I was about to turn when she caught my hand. "Aemond. Wait."
I stepped closer, close enough to feel her breath on my cheek. "What is it?"
She glanced behind her once, then pulled me beneath the shade of one of the pavilion’s canopies, away from the others. Her voice dropped to a whisper.
"You’re not to die in the woods today."
I arched a brow. "Do you know something I do not?"
She smiled again—that same secret, glowing smile from earlier. "Only that you must come back to me. That’s all."
I studied her, tempted to ask more, but she only kissed my cheek quickly, almost chastely, and stepped back into the light.
"Go," she said. "And come back whole."
I was about to turn, when she stopped me
"oh and aemond?" she stood on her tippy toes as she leaned in to whisper in my ear. "I'm with child."
For a moment, I stood frozen.
Her words sank into me like a blade slowly drawn between the ribs. "I'm with child." I heard them again and again in my skull, each repetition louder than the last. Her grin burned behind my eyes. That wicked little smile, full of triumph and mischief and some fierce, ancient kind of joy. She ran off before I could say a word, her skirts swishing as she rejoined the ladies beneath the canopies.
My hand was still half-raised, as if I meant to reach for her.
Then Aegon's arm dropped heavy around my shoulders. The stink of wine clung to him like perfume, thick and sour.
"You look as if you've seen a bloody ghost," he said, half-laughing. "The horses are ready. Time to earn our meat, brother."
He hadn’t heard. Thank the gods, he hadn’t heard.
I said nothing, just nodded once and turned toward the horses. My legs carried me, though they felt made of water. Inside me, everything had changed. The world felt tilted, as if some deep stone had shifted beneath the earth. I was going to be a father. There was a child now. My child. Hers and mine.
I mounted Vharon, my dark stallion, and gripped the reins with more force than was necessary. The leather bit into my palms.
We rode into the forest, hooves drumming over the hardened trail. Daemon rode with Jacaerys, loud in their banter, steel glinting at their sides. Aegon went on his own. But I did not follow them long. At the first fork, I turned down a narrower path, alone.
The trees closed in overhead, tall and ancient, their shadows swallowing the sun. I rode in silence.
The joy had not left me. Not fully. It still burned somewhere in my chest, a tight little flame. I wanted to shout it, to scream it into the trees. She was with child. My child. There would be a babe with her dark curls and my blood. I saw it already—a swaddled infant in her arms, small and soft and new.
But the joy twisted, too. Became something sharper, colder.
I remembered Mother’s words.
I had not told Lucera. Gods, I couldn’t. Not now. Not ever. If she found out that my mother had urged it—that Alicent Hightower had spoken of babes like pieces on a cyvasse board—she would never forgive me.
But worse than that was the question that followed me like a hound in the dark:
Had I done this for her?
Or for the cause?
I told myself I loved her. I did love her. I had always loved her, from the time we were children, from the moment she defended me in that dragonpit. She was mine. She had always been mine.
But had I let her love me—truly love me—knowing this was what my mother wanted?
I clenched the reins tighter. Vharon snorted, sensing my tension.
A branch cracked nearby, but it was only a deer darting off, tail flashing through the undergrowth. I barely saw it.
A child. A father.
Could I be a father?
My own had wasted away like a candle burning to the wick. He had held me when I was a babe, I was told, but I remembered none of it. I remembered only the sickness, the missing teeth, the scent of rot.
And my grandsire? Otto Hightower had not held his children. He had ordered them.
What sort of father would I be?
Would I frighten the child with my silence? My eye? Would it cry when I entered the room? Would I know how to hold it, how to soothe it, how to make it laugh?
Would it ride Vhagar one day?
Would it love me?
I stopped my horse at the edge of a clearing, heart pounding in my chest. A hawk cried somewhere overhead, circling.
Luce had trusted me. Given herself to me, wholly. She had never asked for promises, never demanded anything but that I be hers. And now she carried our child. Not because of the war. Not because of Alicent. Because she loved me.
I would protect them both.
If the realm tore itself apart, so be it. If I had to burn every raven in the sky, I would. No one would use her. No one would touch what was mine. Not Mother. Not grandsire. Not the bloody realm.
I turned Vharon toward the deeper woods and spurred him on.
I had a stag to find.
And a family to return to.
...
The stag's head weighed heavy in the sack strapped behind my saddle. Its antlers jutted through the cloth, blood drying against the pale canvas as I rode back through the woods. My arms were streaked with red—some mine, most not. A few scratches marked my forearms where branches had caught at me. A bit of blood clung to my cheek, I knew, but I did not wipe it away.
The sun had dipped low by the time we returned to the camp. The tents stood like quiet sentinels against the trees, smoke curling up from the firepits. Laughter drifted on the wind—wine-soaked and lazy. Men with full bellies and the smell of meat already thick in the air.
I dismounted and handed the reins to a stableboy, then untied the sack and hefted the stag’s head in one arm. It hung limp, eyes wide and dull. A clean kill. The lords would nod, make the usual jests about precision and one-eyed aim.
But I wasn’t looking for their approval.
I scanned the encampment, eyes cutting past lords, ladies, knights and the serving women bustling between tents.
Then I saw her.
Lucera sat on a pile of cushions beside the royal canopy. Her gown had been changed—lavender silk with gold-threaded leaves. Her hair was braided back from her face, falling in loose curls down her back. She was smiling, speaking to Arya, her favorite lady-in-waiting, and to Helaena, who sat cross-legged beside her, a wreath of flowers tangled in her pale hair.
Jaehaera and Jaehaerys were playing at their mother's feet with a carved wooden dragon, chirping in high voices. But it was Maelor that caught my breath.
He was curled in Lucera’s lap, fast asleep. His tiny fists clutched a bit of her gown. Her arms wrapped around him loosely, her fingers absently stroking the child’s golden hair.
For a moment, I saw it—my son. My daughter. Our child. Small and soft and warm in her lap. A babe with dark hair and eyes like storms.
I walked toward her.
Lucera looked up when I neared, her eyes catching on the blood still drying on my face. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t scold. Her mouth curled at the corner like she was stifling a laugh.
"Forgive me," I said, voice low. "May I borrow my wife for a moment?"
Helaena looked up and blinked, dreamy as always. Arya gave a quick nod and stood to help. Lucera gently shifted Maelor from her lap into Helaena’s arms. The boy stirred but did not wake.
She stood, brushing her skirts smooth, and followed me without question. We walked beyond the tents, just far enough for privacy. The trees rustled overhead, and the air smelled of pine, smoke, and roasted meat.
"Congratulations, husband," she said lightly. "I hear you brought back the finest kill."
I studied her. That same grin from earlier still lingered at the edge of her lips.
She was teasing me. Purposefully avoiding the truth she had dropped on me like wildfire hours ago.
I arched a brow. "Is that all you have to say to me?"
Her eyes glittered.
"Well, I suppose I could also say you look terribly handsome covered in blood."
"Lucera."
"Yes, Aemond?"
Gods, she knew what she was doing. She knew exactly what I wanted to say—what I needed to say—and was savoring every moment of keeping me in suspense.
I stepped closer, lowering my voice. "You told me you were with child, and then ran off before I could breathe, let alone speak."
She shrugged, eyes wide and innocent. "Did I?"
I stared at her. And then—I laughed. Short, sharp, unbelieving.
"You find this amusing?"
"A little," she said, and then, softer, "I wanted to see your face."
I reached for her hand, curling her fingers in mine. "You should have waited. I would have—"
"You would have panicked."
"I am panicking."
She laughed then, full and bright.
And gods help me, I loved her for it.
Lucera
The Kingswood, King's Landing
The night was still.
Not silent—a camp never was—but still enough that I could hear the low, steady breath of Aemond beside me. The fire outside had long since burned low. My body felt heavy, tucked in furs and soft linen, but sleep had slipped from me, pulled away by a quiet shifting.
Something warm lay across my belly.
I blinked in the dark, then turned slightly, my hands moving down.
Aemond.
He lay beside me, not on his back as usual but turned toward me, his head resting gently against the slight curve of my stomach. His arm was folded beneath his chest, the other hand splayed wide, thumb grazing my hip. I stilled. I hadn’t yet grown large—not truly. I was only one moon along. A single month. The maester has told me so when I went to him yesterday morning after breaking my fast with Aemond. My belly showed barely more than the softest swell, and only in the evenings after meals. But he lay there like it was a mountain.
His hair spilled across my skin, silver and soft. I could feel the faintest whisper of his breath through the fabric of my nightdress. It tickled.
And then I heard it.
His voice.
Low. Careful. Speaking into my skin.
"You’ll be strong," he murmured. "Fierce. Like your mother. Gods help me, I hope you don’t have her temper. But I hope you laugh like her."
I froze.
He kept speaking. He thought I was asleep.
"I don't know if you're a boy or girl," he said. "It doesn't matter. I'll guard you either way. You'll have your own dragon. I'll fly you myself until you're old enough. Vhagar will be patient."
My chest ached.
His voice was hoarse now, softer.
"You won't ever know what it's like to grow up unloved. I promise you that."
I didn’t know I was crying until I felt the wetness at the corner of my eye. I reached down and brushed my fingers through his hair.
He flinched slightly, startled, and looked up. His eye found mine in the dark.
"You're awake," he said, embarrassed.
"Mmm," I hummed. "You talk a great deal for someone who's convinced the babe can hear him."
Aemond exhaled, almost a laugh, but his face stayed serious.
"He or she will. Soon."
I shook my head slightly and let my hand fall to the small curve just below my navel.
"The maester said I'm only one moon in, Aemond. The babe is no bigger than a plum. They cannot feel your hand. They cannot hear your voice."
"You don't know that."
"I do."
His brow furrowed. "Targaryen children are different."
"Not that different."
He grumbled something under his breath, then pressed a kiss to the bump. It startled me.
Gentle. Reverent.
"You're not supposed to fall in love with a thing that hasn’t even been born yet," I said, my voice quieter than I meant.
He looked up again. His hair had fallen across one side of his face.
"I already have."
I couldn’t look at him long. I stared at the tent ceiling instead, then closed my eyes.
It terrified me. How badly he wanted this. How much he already believed in it. Not because I doubted the babe—no. But because I knew the gods. And I knew what they took.
He rested his head back down.
I let him.
He said nothing. Only held me tighter.
i closed my eyes, hoping to fall asleep again.
The night crept on, quieter than before, though the wind had begun to shift the edges of the tent with soft groans. I lay there in the dark, feeling Aemond breathe against my skin. He hadn’t moved much since whispering to the babe. His hand stayed on my hip, his body curled just slightly toward me, protective even in rest.
But I could not rest. Not truly.
I kept thinking of her.
Mother.
I hadn’t told her.
She would know soon enough, of course. A belly does not stay hidden forever. Even if I swaddled myself in wool and cloaks and stayed by the fire, she would see. She would see it in my face. She always had.
Aemond must have felt me stiffen. He stirred, lifting his head just slightly to look up at me. His silver hair fell loose across his cheek, catching what little light there was.
"You're awake again."
I nodded.
He shifted to rest on his elbow, careful not to press too close. He watched me.
I swallowed. My throat was dry.
"I'm scared," I said.
His brow creased. "Of what?"
"Of telling her."
He didn't ask who. He knew.
"My mother has always said that love makes a woman foolish," I murmured. "That children tie you to a life you didn’t choose. That once you’ve given birth, your body is no longer your own."
Aemond said nothing.
I turned my head toward him. "She never wanted to be a mother."
His mouth twitched, not in a smile. Something smaller. Sadder.
"She had you," he said softly. "That must count for something."
I laughed, though there was no joy in it. "She raised me like a princess but taught me like a soldier. I never played with dolls. I was given histories, Valyrian poetry, and a dagger before I bled."
"And yet here you are," he said, one hand brushing lightly against my belly. "With my babe inside you."
The words struck something inside me.
My eyes burned. I looked away.
"She’ll think I’m weak," I whispered. "She’ll say I let myself be ruined. She won’t say it cruelly, not outright. But she’ll think it. She’ll see my stomach and see chains."
Aemond drew closer. "You’re not weak, Lucera. And you haven’t been ruined. You simply cannot. You're wed. You’ve been made more."
He said it with certainty, like a vow.
"She'll say I made a mistake," I said. "That I doomed myself to a future I can’t run from."
"And what do you believe?"
I hesitated.
Then: "I believe I chose this. Not blindly. Not foolishly. I knew what it meant the first time I lay with you. I knew what could come of it."
Aemond's fingers curled over my hand. "Then nothing else matters."
But it did. It always would.
I loved my mother, even when I didn't understand her. Even when I feared her sharp tongue or her silence. I wanted her pride. Her blessing. I wanted her to look at me and not see a mistake.
"I just wish I knew what she'd say."
Aemond kissed my temple, slow and sure. "Then let her say it. Whatever words she speaks, you'll still have me. And they'll never weigh more than that."
I closed my eyes.
His hand returned to my belly.
I let myself believe him, just for tonight.
Rhaenyra
The red keep, King's Landing
The hour was late, and the fire in the hearth had gone low, casting a warm, flickering glow across the stone walls of my chambers. We at last traveled back to the red keep today morning. Daemon was already half-nude, tugging at the laces of his breeches with an expression that was equal parts tired and annoyed. He muttered something about the endless courtly duties of the day.
I had begun to unbraid my hair when the knock came.
Three soft raps. Hesitant. Not a servant’s knock. Not a guard’s.
Daemon cursed beneath his breath. "At this hour?"
I turned to the door. "Come."
The door creaked open, and there she stood.
Lucera.
Her face was pale, her eyes wide and uncertain in the dim light. She looked younger than her seventeen years just then, standing in the threshold in a simple nightdress, her fingers twisting the edge of her sleeve.
"Mother," she said, her voice small. "May I speak with you? Alone."
Daemon let out a long sigh, already reaching for his robe. "Seven hells. Must it be now?"
"Please," Lucera said, not looking at him.
He glanced at me. I nodded. With an exaggerated groan, he fastened his robe and made for the door, brushing past Lucera with a faint scowl.
"Try not to take the whole night," he muttered.
Lucera stepped in once he was gone, and I closed the door behind her.
She didn’t speak at first. Just stood there, arms wrapped around herself. I gestured to the edge of the bed, but she didn’t sit. I watched her for a long moment before speaking.
"Has Aemond done something?"
Her eyes snapped up. "No. Not… not like that. It’s nothing bad. I mean—it is, but it isn’t. Gods."
Her voice cracked.
I stood slowly. "Come here."
She did, but barely made it three steps before the tears came.
She fell into me like a child, burying her face against my shoulder, her arms clinging tightly. She shook with the weight of it—silent sobs, no sound, just the tremble of her breath and the wetness soaking into my shift.
I held her. One hand in her hair, the other on her back, rocking slightly the way I used to when she was small.
"Tell me, sweetling," I murmured. "Tell me what troubles you so."
It took her time. She pulled back, sniffling, wiping at her face with both sleeves.
"I didn’t mean to," she said. "I didn’t plan it. I just… I love him, Mother. I do. I love Aemond. I know you don’t want to hear that, and I know it’s mad, but I do. And I—we lay together. More than once. And now…"
She touched her stomach, barely a whisper of a gesture.
"Now I am with child."
The world slowed. My breath caught in my throat. I could not speak. Not for a long moment.
Aemond.
The boy who she had taken an eye from. The boy who had grown into a man of sharp edges and cold silences. The boy who was now her husband by alliance, and more than that, apparently, by choice.
I should have felt rage. Or betrayal.
But I looked at her—my daughter, my brave, foolish girl, with tears streaking her cheeks and her lower lip trembling like it did when she was small and scraped her knee—and I could feel only love.
I took her face in my hands.
"Oh, Lucera."
She dropped her head again, ashamed.
"I’m sorry, I just—I didn’t know who else to tell. I can’t tell Helaena. I can’t tell Jace. Gods, I can’t even tell Rhaena or Baela. And I was so scared you’d hate me for it."
"Never," I said sharply. "Never say that. Never think it."
I pulled her into me again, cradling her as I had when she was a babe.
"How far along are you?"
She sniffed. "A moon. Maybe a little more. The maester said so."
A single moon.
So early. So fragile.
I looked down at her, brushing the hair from her brow.
"Then we will keep you safe," I said. "You and the babe."
Lucera looked up at me, eyes wide.
"You’re not angry?"
"No," I said. And I meant it.
Shocked, yes. Worried beyond reason, gods yes. But not angry.
"Your child is mine too, little dragon," I said. "And I will love them fiercely. As I love you."
And in her face, I saw a smile. Faint, fleeting, but real.
There would be blood still to come. Wars, perhaps. But in that moment, in the quiet of our chambers, I held my daughter and her unborn child, and I let myself believe—just for a time—that something good might yet come of it all.
Lucera
The red keep, King's Landing
Two moons passed.
The Red Keep no longer whispered of my secret—they sang of it. The Queen herself had sent letters throughout the realm, sealed in gold wax with the royal sigil, announcing the coming child of Prince Aemond and me. Now, lords and ladies crossed the narrow sea of roads and rivers just to bow and murmur congratulations. Some offered silver cups, others carved toys, and a few had the gall to ask when the bedding had occurred. I ignored them.
Jace did not.
His blue eye was proof enough. When he had found out that I was with child, he stormed through the halls like a storm god come to shore, and Aemond—never one to yield—had met him in the training yard, with bare fists. They did not speak. Jace struck first. Aemond struck last. Daemon had said, with a dry chuckle, that it was a long time coming.
As for me, I am with child three moons now, and it showed. My belly grew fast. Not large enough to burden my steps, but enough that the maids had begun sewing my new gowns in softer silks and wider cuts. I did not yet waddle, but I walked slower, and my feet ached after too long on the stone floors.
Aemond had changed.
The boy I once feared (for a time) had become my shadow. He never let me climb stairs alone. He held my arm when we crossed courtyards. At night, he rubbed salves into the sore spots at the small of my back and massaged my ankles with such care it made me cry once. Not from pain.
This morning, I broke my morning fast with him like always.
I devoured everything placed before me. Eggs, honeyed bread, a bowl of stewed plums, even slices of lemon cake meant for supper. I ate double what I had two moons ago. Aemond watched me the whole time, quietly refilling my cup of milk and sliding more food closer when I seemed to slow.
"You must eat more," he told me softly. "For you and the babe."
I smiled, chewing. "I’m already eating enough for three."
"Then eat for four."
I swallowed, then leaned back, brushing crumbs from my lap.
"Would you come with me into the city later?" I asked. "To see Alaric. And his grandmother. I haven’t since I began showing. I miss them."
Aemond’s eye flicked up. "Into the city? Now?"
I nodded. "We can just sneak out the passageways like always."
He was silent a moment. Then he gave a slow nod.
"We will go. But only after your nighttime meal."
I rolled my eyes, but smiled.
...
I sat on the edge of the bed, hands braced against the mattress as I tried again to tug the pale green gown over my hips. It had once been loose on me, but now the fabric caught halfway over my belly and refused to budge any higher. I let out a huff through my nose and gave it another pull, harder this time.
The seams stretched.
And then I heard it. A quiet, traitorous rip.
"Gods," I muttered.
The tears came fast, hotter than I could stop. My throat tightened, my cheeks burned, and before I could think better of it, I let the gown drop from my hands and folded in on myself, burying my face in my palms.
I didn’t weep pretty. Not like Helaena did, with silent tears and dainty sniffling. Mine came in gulps and hiccups, my shoulders shaking, my breath catching like I couldn’t pull enough air into my lungs. I hated crying. Especially over this.
I looked fat.
Fat and swollen and useless. I had grown out of my favorite gown, my feet ached after ten paces, and no one looked me in the eye anymore without first staring at my stomach. Even the servants smiled too kindly at me now, as if I might fall to pieces if they didn’t coddle me with every word.
The chamber door creaked open.
"Lucera?"
Aemond’s voice was soft. Cautious.
I turned away from him, wiping at my face quickly. "I'm fine."
Silence.
Then the sound of his boots on the stone floor, slow and measured, and a moment later I felt the mattress dip beside me. He said nothing at first. He just waited.
When I finally looked at him, his eye found mine and held it.
"You’re crying."
"I said I’m fine."
His brow furrowed, and his hand came to rest gently on my back. He didn’t push. Just sat with me, waiting.
I swallowed thickly and looked down at the discarded gown.
"It doesn’t fit."
Aemond followed my gaze.
"You’re growing," he said, like it was a good thing. "The babe is growing."
"I look horrid. I look like a stuffed goose."
"You do not."
"I do. My ankles look like sausages, my face is rounder, and I cannot wear anything without it clinging in the wrong places."
He shifted closer, his hand moving from my back to my arm, then gently down to my hand. He laced our fingers together, his thumb brushing against my knuckles.
"You are beautiful."
"You have to say that."
"I do not. And I never have before. Not to flatter."
I glanced at him from the corner of my eye. His face was as unreadable as ever, but his fingers squeezed mine.
"You carry my child, Lucera. Every part of you that has changed has done so for that reason. I do not look at you and see something wrong. I look at you and see my wife. My wife, who grows more radiant each day."
The tears welled again, damn them.
"I just feel… so emotional all the time," I whispered. "One moment I’m content, the next I’m weeping over a gown. I don’t know what’s wrong with me."
"There is nothing wrong with you."
He leaned down then, pressing a kiss to my temple, then another to the curve of my cheek, just where a tear had fallen. I leaned into him despite myself.
"We will have new gowns made. As many as you need. And you will wear whatever makes you feel best."
I sighed and wiped at my eyes again.
But even as Aemond's words tried to soothe me, even as I leaned against the comfort of his shoulder and let my breathing slow, the weight of another fear settled over me. One that I had kept buried, beneath talk of fabric and ankles and swelling.
I was going to have to birth this child.
The thought struck like a hammer to the chest. No longer vague or faraway. It loomed now, closer than ever. I was three moons along, and every morning my belly was firmer than the last. Soon, I would not be able to hide it with clever gowns or careful posture. Soon, I would be heavy with the life inside me. And when the time came, I would have to bring that life into the world.
"Aemond," I said quietly, barely above a whisper.
He looked down at me, hand still warm on mine. "hm?"
I stared ahead, at the empty hearth across the chamber. "It will hurt. Won't it?"
He did not answer at first, and I could feel him tense beside me. "Yes," he said at last. "It will."
I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat. "Women bleed. Some scream until their voices are gone. Some..."
I couldn't finish it.
He did not make me. His grip on my hand tightened, firm and sure.
"I’m scared," I admitted, the words cracking. "I’m terrified, Aemond. What if something happens? What if I can’t do it? What if the pain is too much, or I—"
He pulled me into him fully, one arm wrapped around my back, the other cradling my head against his chest. I heard the steady beat of his heart. I clung to it.
"You will not face it alone," he said, his voice rough. "I will be with you. Every moment. Every breath."
I wanted to believe that would be enough.
I wanted to believe that love could guard against blood and agony. That a husband’s hand in mine would make it bearable. But love did not undo the truths I had seen and heard. I remembered a wet nurse who once whispered to a maid that her first child nearly killed her. I remembered hearing of a noble lady who bled out in her birthing bed with her stillborn child clutched to her chest.
I remembered the way my mother looked the day after Joffrey was born, pale and weak and barely able to rise.
"I don't want to die," I said, my voice so low it barely made a sound.
Aemond pulled back just enough to cup my face in his hands. He made me look at him.
"You will not."
I wanted to believe him. Gods, I did. But fear clung to me like cold water.
"Promise me you won't leave me alone," I said.
"Never," he said. "I will be there. From the first pain to the last breath. I will be there."
I nodded and closed my eyes.
He pressed his lips to my forehead and held them there, whispering something I could not hear. I did not ask him to repeat it. I only let myself believe that maybe, just maybe, I would be strong enough.
For myself. For the babe. For him.
Notes:
The playlist:
https://open.spotify.com/playlist/277X2qNjvUhJzr0ZMTGJrA?si=_b4LhTY8QGuE1J5ewJN17Ai feel like i write a lot of aemond pov's, maybe too many. :/
but YAYYY lucera is pregnant!! youre getting sweet..or maybe not dadmond
thank you for all the kudos yall leave behind! it really motivates me, so do the comments!!Also I feel like aemond with a braid would look SOooo badass like we were robbed of that (broken heart emoji)
also I started a tiktok account!
user: velaryonfxyou can check it out, i will be posting edits of my fics there! but you have a good day and remember, PLEAseeee do not be a silent reader, I love reading yalls opinions
HAPPY READING!!
Chapter Text
Lucera
The red keep, King's Landing
We gathered in my mother’s chambers just past midday, the air thick with the scent of lemon oil and parchment. Aegon clung to Rhaenyra’s skirts, half-asleep from the warmth of the hearth, while little Viserys babbled nonsense in Daemon’s lap. Rhaena and Baela sat to one side, their heads bent together in quiet talk. Joffrey kept bouncing on the balls of his feet, clearly holding back a grin, while Jace leaned against the wall with his arms folded, eyes sharp as ever. His left eye was still a little blue though.
My mother stood by the long table, fingers spread on the polished surface, her jaw set.
"We return to Dragonstone before the moon turns," she said.
The room stilled.
Daemon gave a short nod, unsurprised. "It is time."
Rhaenyra’s gaze swept over each of us. "I will not give birth in this pit of vipers. My confinement will be on Dragonstone. You all will come. Baela—you will remain with me until it's safe again."
Joffrey beamed. "Yes! Then I can see ser steffon again. He promised to show me the tunnels below the tower."
Baela smiled faintly, but Rhaena only looked to our mother.
I did not smile.
"I will not go," I said.
Silence fell again.
Rhaenyra turned toward me slowly, brow knitting. "Lucera."
"I will stay here," I said again, firmer this time. "This is my home now. My husband is here. I want Aemond beside me when I give birth. I will not ride arrax halfway across the realm only to birth my child without him."
My mother’s lips thinned. "It is not safe here."
"It is not safe anywhere," I said. "Not truly. But I would rather face the danger with him than sit on Dragonstone, aching and afraid, waiting for a raven to tell me what has gone wrong."
"Lucera," Rhaenyra said, voice dropping low, "you are with child. You do not understand the risk. Aemond cannot shield you from all of it."
"And neither can you," I snapped before I could stop myself.
Jace shifted beside the door, frowning.
"She is a wife now," Daemon murmured, almost amused.
Rhaenyra straightened. "You are my daughter. I will not leave you here while the court watches your belly swell and plots ways to use it against us."
Before I could answer, another voice cut in.
"She will not be alone."
All eyes turned to Rhaenys.
The Queen Who Never Was sat composed as ever, hands folded in her lap. I did not notice her when I came. Her tone was quiet, but it carried.
"I will remain in King’s Landing with Lucera. If she is to give birth here, then I will see to it that she is protected."
Rhaenyra looked stunned. "You would delay Driftmark’s affairs for this?"
"I would," Rhaenys said. "She is blood. She is young. She is brave, but she should not do this alone."
My throat tightened, but I said nothing. I only nodded.
My mother hesitated. Her face was unreadable, but I knew her well enough to see the struggle behind her eyes.
Finally, she exhaled. "Very well. You will remain, both of you. But if word reaches me of trouble, I will return at once."
"Understood," I said.
Joffrey pouted. "But Lucera won't come? Not even for a little while?"
"Not this time," I said gently. "But I will write. And perhaps, if your friend Ser steffon is clever enough, he can teach you how to send secret messages with raven."
He grinned.
The meeting moved on, but my mind stayed fixed on what had just passed. I would stay. I would give birth here. With Aemond beside me, and Rhaenys watching over me.
I was afraid. But not alone.
...
The carriages were drawn up in the courtyard by late afternoon. The skies above the Red Keep had clouded over, heavy and grey, and the air held the threat of rain. A small crowd had gathered to watch the departure: servants, gold cloaks, lords and ladies who had no better thing to do than gawk at dragons and queens. But there were no dragons today. Only wheels on stone, and farewells.
Little Aegon and Viserys had already been bundled into the first carriage, fast asleep beneath layers of wool and fur. I kissed their foreheads before they were taken down, but they did not stir. I doubted they would wake until the sound of the sea reached them.
Mother was next to depart. She stood by the second carriage, hand resting on her belly, her other gripping Daemon's arm. She looked tired. Not just with child, but heavy in the soul. Her mouth pressed into a thin line as she embraced me.
"Write to me. Often," she said.
I nodded. "I will."
She drew back to look at me, her hands on my arms. "Eat well. Drink water. Rest. If you so much as feel faint, send word. Promise me."
"I promise," I said. My voice caught despite myself. "Be safe on the road."
"And you in the castle."
Daemon pulled me into a one-armed hug next, rough and brief, but there was a flicker of something like pride in his eyes when he let go. "You’ve got her strength," he muttered. "Don’t forget that."
Joffrey came barreling into me after, arms flung around my waist. "You have to come back soon," he said. "You promised you'd help me prank Jace again."
"I never promised that," I said, laughing.
"But you will. Right?"
"Maybe," I teased. "If you behave."
He pouted, then gave me a loud, wet kiss on the cheek before running off toward the carriage.
Jace was slower to approach. He stood before me, tall and quiet, that same hard look in his eyes he always wore now. But his voice, when he spoke, was gentle.
"I’ll keep Baela safe," he said. "And Mother."
I nodded. "I know you will."
He hesitated, then leaned in to kiss my brow. "Take care of yourself, Luce. And the babe."
I swallowed the lump in my throat and hugged him tight. "Fly safely."
Then came Rhaena "promise me you will send letters with raven. Oh and also write us when the babe is born!"
"I will, don't worry." I replied with a smile, giving her a final hug before she entered the carriage.
Baela came last. Her hand was warm in mine, her eyes bright but dry. She had never been the weeping kind.
"You’ll do well," she said simply.
"Thank you," I murmured. "For everything."
She gave my hand a squeeze before stepping away. Jace was already mounting Vermax. Baela followed, climbing onto Moondancer with practiced ease. I watched them rise into the sky, twin shapes against the darkening clouds, until they vanished from sight.
The courtyard emptied slowly. One by one, the carriages rolled down the hill. My mother’s disappeared last, her face still visible through the small window, watching me as long as she could.
When they were gone, I stood there a while, with Rhaenys beside me.
She had said little all morning, and less now. But her presence was solid as stone, unyielding and constant.
"You don’t have to thank me," she said at last, her eyes on the road beyond the gates.
"I wasn’t going to," I lied.
She huffed a breath that might’ve been a laugh.
"Come," she said. "Let’s go inside before it rains."
I followed her, my hand resting on the curve of my stomach.
...
I found him in the training yard, just where I knew he would be. The clang of steel rang through the air, sharp and rhythmic, echoing off the stone walls. Aemond moved like smoke and fire, fluid and precise, sword flashing silver in the late afternoon light. Ser Criston Cole circled him, breath heavy, morningstar in hand. But it was clear who held the advantage.
Aemond’s strikes were relentless—controlled, brutal, efficient. Criston barely parried one before another came, and another. Lords and ladies lined the gallery above the yard, fanning themselves lazily while whispering behind gloved hands. Their eyes flicked between the two men, though I knew their true focus: my husband, the prince who never lost.
My legs began to ache before long. I moved to the bench beneath the overhang, lowering myself with care. The child pressed against my ribs whenever I stood too long. I ran a hand over the swell of my belly, watching as Aemond drove Criston back with a series of blistering strikes. One final blow knocked the morningstar from Criston's hand and sent it skittering across the yard.
The match was done.
Criston bent to retrieve his weapon, but Aemond had already turned away. His eye found mine the moment he straightened. He crossed the yard without pause, the sweat on his brow catching the light. Criston said nothing, but his stare followed Aemond, then shifted to me—cold and judgmental, as if my very presence offended his knightly sensibilities.
Let him stare.
Aemond reached me and leaned down, his hand bracing beside my thigh. He kissed me softly, without care for the watching court, then knelt further and pressed his lips to the curve of my stomach. The murmurs above grew louder.
"You fight like a god," I said, brushing a strand of silver hair from his cheek.
"Criston’s grown slow," he replied, straightening. "And too used to victory."
"Perhaps it’s time you let him win."
"Never."
I smiled. "Come flying with me."
Aemond’s expression changed at once. "No."
"Please."
"Lucera."
"I want to feel the wind again," I said. "I miss flying with Arrax. He does too. We won’t fly high. Just above the treetops, near the coast."
He looked down at my belly, then back to my face. "You’re with child. It’s dangerous."
"I flew while I carried the babe inside me," I said, resting a hand over my stomach. "Before I even knew he was there. Arrax knows me. I won’t fall."
"It’s not just you anymore."
I reached for his hand. "Come with me. fly beside me. Keep me safe, if you must. But don’t keep me caged."
He sighed, long and low. Then, finally, he nodded.
"Very well. But not far. Not fast."
I beamed, rising with some effort. He offered me his arm.
We walked together through the rear gates and down the narrow path that led to Arrax’s nest—a rocky cove tucked beside the mountain ridge, just north of the Dragonpit. My dragon stirred when he saw me, his pale eyes glowing as he lifted his narrow head.
"There you are," I murmured. "Did you miss me?"
Arrax let out a soft, guttural noise, something between a purr and a growl.
Aemond left me there, mounting his black stallion and riding off to summon Vhagar from the far side of the hill, the forest. He would return soon enough. I stroked Arrax’s neck and whispered to him in High Valyrian as I waited, feeling the old thrill rise in my blood again.
Minutes passed. Then more.
And then I heard it—the thunder of wings. Vhagar.
She came like a storm, massive and shadowy against the darkening sky, her roar cracking the air. Arrax shifted beside me but held his ground. He had long grown used to her presence. I climbed into the saddle with effort, fingers gripping tight as Arrax crouched low.
"Sōvegon!" ("fly!") I called.
And we were in the air.
The wind rushed past my ears. Arrax’s wings beat strong and steady beneath me, and I laughed aloud, joy bubbling up inside my chest.
Then Vhagar rose beside us, great and terrible, her vast wings eclipsing the sun. Aemond sat atop her like a knight of old, regal and still.
Arrax knew the air well, cutting through it like a blade. I felt alive again, as if the aches and the weight I carried meant nothing. Just me and the sky. Me and Arrax.
And Aemond, far behind.
He had warned me not to fly too fast, his voice sharp with that clipped authority he always used when he believed he knew best.
But the moment I saw the open sky, the clouds stretched like silk above the world, something restless stirred inside me.
So I leaned forward and commanded Arrax in Valyrian.
"Jikagon adere!" ("go faster")
His wings beat harder, sharper. We surged forward, catching the wind and racing ahead. The rooftops and sea cliffs below blurred into color and movement. The rush was intoxicating. I heard the wind scream past my ears and the sharp whistle of air between my teeth as I grinned.
Behind me, a roar—not of a dragon, but a man.
"Lucera!"
His voice was almost lost to the wind, but I heard it. Clear. Sharp. Furious.
I didn’t turn. Not yet. Let him chase me.
And then the sun vanished.
I looked up, and Vhagar's shadow swallowed the sky.
She came above us like a falling mountain, wings spread wide and terrible, her body blotting out the light. Arrax shuddered beneath me at the sight of her, instinct pulling him downward—but I held tight, fingers curled into the leather of the saddle.
Aemond had caught up.
Vhagar matched our speed without effort. Her wings barely moved, and yet she soared like the wind bent to her will. I could not see Aemond from here.
He did not speak again. He didn’t need to.
Arrax flew lower, but did not slow down. I gave him a gentle command to steady him, pressing a hand to his neck.
My heart still raced.
But Vhagar was not done.
She dipped low, massive wings sending gusts of wind through the sky as she swept forward and cut in front of us. Arrax gave a sudden jolt beneath me, forced to slow as the great she-dragon blocked our path entirely.
"No," I muttered, clutching the saddle. "No, no, no."
Arrax growled, a low, frustrated rumble rising from deep in his chest. He veered to the right sharply, trying to dart around her—only for Vhagar to shift again, enormous and fluid, matching our movement with terrifying ease.
She was playing with us.
"orvorta!" ("cunt!") I hissed.
We tried left—Vhagar blocked us.
We climbed higher—she rose with us.
We dropped toward the sea cliffs—her wings were already there.
Arrax roared his displeasure, his fire rising in his throat, though I gave him no leave to loose it. My own fury stirred to match his.
"Aemond!" I screamed, twisting around in the saddle. My voice barely reached over the wind, but I knew he would hear me.
"That is unfair!"
Vhagar turned her head slightly at my voice, and for a moment, I caught Aemond's pale hair in the saddle, his silhouette calm and straight-backed.
He was doing this on purpose.
Trying to rein me in like a child who had climbed too high into the trees. Trying to remind me that he still held all the power, even in the sky.
I growled in frustration, just as Arrax did again beneath me.
"Let me fly!" I shouted into the wind, though whether it was meant for my husband or the gods, I could not say.
Vhagar gave a single, deep-throated growl in response, gliding smoothly ahead of us again, forcing Arrax to beat his wings harder just to stay aloft in her wake.
And still, Aemond said nothing.
Arrax's wings slowed as I guided him back toward the hills beyond the Dragonpit, toward the familiar slope where his nest curled beneath a ridge of stone. My blood still buzzed with the thrill and anger of the flight, but I said nothing as we descended. The trees below rustled in the wind stirred by our arrival.
Arrax landed with a grunt, talons digging into the earth, and let out a snort through flared nostrils. I reached forward and stroked the scales of his neck, whispering soft Valyrian words to soothe him. He had wanted to fly more, and so had I.
But Vhagar had stolen the sky.
I slid from the saddle, careful with my footing, though the grass below was soft. My boots touched the dirt and I winced. My ankles ached, and the strain of holding myself steady in flight had left my thighs sore. I leaned against Arrax for a moment, his heat comforting against my side.
In the distance, the forest shifted, groaning as something ancient and immense moved through the trees. I turned my gaze toward the sound.
Vhagar.
She had landed deeper in the woods, where the trunks grew wide and tall enough to shadow half the godswood. Her long body coiled between the trees, wings folding with the slowness of age and size. Branches snapped beneath her weight as she settled, curling like a serpent around a clutch of crushed oaks. She let out one last huff, smoke rising from her nostrils, then lay still.
I watched her for a long while.
There was awe, yes. Always awe, when Vhagar moved. But today, I felt something else beneath it. Resentment, perhaps. Or helplessness. I had commanded the skies, once. Now I was grounded with sore legs and a growing belly, and even the sky bent to Aemond's will.
Minutes passed. Arrax nestled into the grass, curling his wings close, his great eyes half-lidded now. I stood with him, fingers in his neck-scales, until I heard the sound of hooves on stone.
Aemond.
I turned before I saw him. His stallion came into view between the brush, hooves steady, cloak billowing behind him like a banner. He rode with the ease of someone born in a saddle, one hand on the reins, the other resting loosely on the pommel of the sword at his hip.
He looked like a prince out of one of the old songs, except I knew better.
He pulled the reins gently and brought the horse to a halt near me. His eye met mine, but he said nothing at first. The wind tugged at the ends of his silver hair.
"You flew well," he said finally, voice even.
I narrowed my eyes. "I was winning."
His mouth curved, but not quite into a smile. "Until you weren't."
I crossed my arms over my chest and shifted my weight to one foot. The other was already starting to throb. "You used her like a wall."
"And you flew like you had no child in your belly."
That silenced me. He dismounted without another word, stepping across the grass until he stood before me. 
He looked at me long, then reached out to brush a strand of hair from my cheek. "Come. You should rest."
I didn’t move. "You think I can’t handle a flight?"
He sighed through his nose. "I think you're strong. But I also think you're reckless. And I won’t risk you."
The words were not gentle, but they weren’t cruel. That was Aemond's way.
Still, I bristled.
"I am not made of glass," I said.
"No," he agreed. "You're made of fire. But even fire can be smothered."
I hated when he spoke like that. Like a maester hiding meaning in layers.
But I let him take my hand. And when he did, I leaned into him.
He smelled of sweat, leather, and dragon.
"Come," he said again. "Let us go. The sky can wait."
He helped me mount his horse before he mounted it himself, seating himself behind me. I leaned into him as one of his hands gripped the reins, leading the horse, as his other hand rested on my stomach.
...
Five moons passed.
Lucera grew round with child, her belly full and heavy, though the rest of her remained as slim as ever. Her face glowed some days and wore only exhaustion on others. Most of her time was now spent in bed, propped up on silken cushions beneath gauzy curtains that caught the sea breeze. The midwives whispered of how large the babe would be. Her ankles ached. Her back ached. Her temper had shortened like the daylight hours.
She was restless in ways that bedrest could not soothe.
She had taken to writing letters often, sending ravens to Dragonstone and receiving answers with every changing moon. Joffrey would draw pictures on the parchment margins. Rhaenyra wrote often, always reminding Lucera to rest, to eat, to breathe. Daemon's letters were short but proud. Jace and Baela sent news of court gossip. Rhaena added pressed flowers. That's what Lucera told me.
But tonight, the raven cage was silent.
The halls were still. Everyone slept. Everyone but me.
I sat in the chair by the hearth, watching the flames dim as the logs crumbled to embers. The fire had not brought me comfort tonight. It had only deepened the silence.
Then I heard it—
Footsteps.
Soft, fleeting, too measured for a servant. I rose without a word, careful not to make a sound. Lucera shifted in bed as I stood, her eyes blinking open, face drowsy and sweet beneath the moonlight.
"Where are you going?" she murmured, voice thick with sleep.
"Nowhere important," I told her, tucking a loose curl from her face. I bent and kissed her brow. Then her belly. "Go back to sleep, ñuha jorrāelagon." ("my love.")
She mumbled something in Valyrian and turned over, already lost to dreams again.
I dressed in silence. Tunic, boots, sword at my hip. The halls were darker than usual, no candles left burning. Only moonlight filtered through the high windows, pale and thin.
The footsteps had gone quiet.
But then I saw it. The door to the small council chamber stood open.
I stopped in my tracks.
A sliver of golden candlelight spilled into the hallway. Voices rose in quiet tension. I stepped closer, careful as a shadow.
I did not enter. I listened.
"The King is dead," came the voice of Otto, low and clear.
A pause followed. No gasps. No cries of sorrow. Only silence thick as grave soil.
"But fortunately, he left behind a gift. With his final breath he expressed his wish for aegon to become king." he continued.
A stir of movement. Someone poured wine. Names were spoken. Loyalties weighed.
Then lord beesbury spoke up. He did not believe, that that is what viserys wanted. Criston quickly shut him up.
They were not mourning.
They were claiming.
The King was dead, and they had not sent a raven to Dragonstone. They had not told Rhaenyra. They had not summoned Rhaenya who was still here in the red keep.
They meant to crown Aegon.
I always knew that. Mother always bad-mouthed Rhaenyra and her family, and in when we were alone, she called Aegon the future king.
I said nothing.
I turned away.
The hall was cold as I walked, my hands clenched at my sides.
I returned not to our chamber, but to my mother's.
She was waiting by the fire, her expression unreadable, lips pressed in a line. Her hands were folded in her lap. She did not ask what I had heard. She knew.
I sat before the flames, my sword at my hip, and stared into the glow.
The King was dead.
My grandsire was moving the pieces.
And my mother had chosen her side. She had done so years ago.
The door opened.
Ser Criston entered, his armor on like always, sword at his waist, cloak trailing behind him like a shadow.
"Prince aegon has not been found in the castle, your grace. Your father has sent ser Erryk and his brother into the city to find him." He reported, glancing at me.
"Ser Erryk knows Aegon. He has the advantage." Mother replied, walking towards him
"I trust again to you, ser Criston, and to your loyalty. Aegon must be found and he must be brought to me. The very fate of the seven kingdoms depends on it." She then leaned in closer, whispering something to him, that I didn't quite hear.
"I will not fail you." Is the only thing Criston replied before I then spoke.
"I'll come with you." I stood as mother walked to me.
"That would not be my desire, Aemond." She took a hold of my arm.
"Cole needs me, mother. Ser Erryk is not the only one who knows aegon's doings." And with that, I walked out. Criston followed.
...
"Aegon brought me to the street of silk on my thirteenth nameday. It was his duty as my brother, he said, to ensure I was as educated as he was. Atleast thats what I understood he meant."
Me and cole stood in front of the door of the many pleasure houses Aegon always visits.
"I don't follow." Criston replied, knocking on the door.
"He said, 'time to get it wet.'"
"every woman is an image of the mother. They should be spoken of with reverance." He knocked again. Then the door opened and a woman walked out.
"Good morrow, miss. were searching for a certain someone, could you help us please?" Criston explained. I looked down.
"Describe him." She said.
"That is a delicate matter," He leaned to her to whisper in her ear. "you see, the man we seek is the young prince Aegon."
She scoffed. "The prince is not here."
"has he been here? Earlier..perhaps?"
"quite a bit earlier. Years ago in fact." She replied with a smile and glanced at me. I looked away.
"But more recent?" Criston pushed but she just shook her head.
"He does not frequent the street of silk. His tastes are known to be...less discriminating." She tilted her head.
"meaning what?" He asked.
She did not answer the question.
"I wish you luck, my good Ser." She looked at Criston again before smiling at me. "And my best to your friend."
She studied me.
"How you've grown."
I did not reply, instead turned around and continued walking. Criston joined me.
"Here I am trolling the city, in search of a drunkard who has never taken even half of interest in his birthright." I said.
He stopped walking and I did too.
"It is I, the younger brother who studies history and philosofy. It is I who trains with a sword, who rides the largest dragon in the world. It is I who should be-..." I cut myself off.
He walked towards me.
"I know what it is to toil for what others are freely given." He told me.
I looked away.
"mh. We can't find him, Cole. We are decent men who have no taste in depravety. I'm next in line for the throne. Should they come looking for me, I intent to be found."
Rhaenys
The red keep, King's Landing
The sun had risen already.
I sat upon the cushioned window seat in my chamber, the cool stone beneath my feet and the blanket pulled tight around my shoulders. I was woken up early today. The lock had turned in my door sometime during sunrise, and when I tested the handle, it would not budge. I was a princess of the realm, a Targaryen, and still, I was locked in like a common prisoner.
From the window, I could see the long galleries and courtyards of the Keep. All was quiet at first, but not for long.
One by one, lights began to flicker to life. Torches. Lanterns. The first sounds were of boots—dozens of them—marching across stone. Then came the whispers. Servants led from their quarters in single file, clutching what few belongings they could carry. Lords and ladies escorted by white cloaks down the steps of the Tower of the Hand. I watched in silence as they were herded like sheep.
To where, I did not know.
They moved with confusion, not defiance. Some wept. Some clung to one another. A few resisted, and those few were not seen again.
I pressed my palm to the glass, my breath fogging the pane.
Then the door opened.
I turned, expecting guards.
It was Alicent.
She wore no crown, but her bearing was queenly all the same. Green velvet clung to her frame, her hair braided back, face pale with little sleep. She dismissed the guards outside the door with a glance and stepped inside, shutting it behind her.
"You locked me in," I stood.
She did not deny it. She only crossed the chamber and stood near the hearth, warming her hands though no fire burned.
"Forgive me, princess," she said at last. "It was not my choice."
"Spare me your soft lies, girl. I have seen the torches. The smallfolk marched like cattle. Tell me what is happening."
A pause.
"The King has passed."
The words landed not like a blow, but a breath held too long.
"When?"
"Last night."
"And you have said nothing to his daughter?"
Alicent lowered her gaze. "We do what we must."
She was usurping the throne.
"You keep me locked away. You keep Rhaenyra in ignorance. And yet you speak of duty."
"It was the King's will—"
"The King named his heir twenty years ago," I snapped. "You were there. Everyone was there. Do not pretend to me that this is anything but treason."
She flinched, just slightly.
"He changed his mind," she said, but there was no steel in it.
"Did he? Or did your father finally convince you to listen to your own ambitions?"
She walked to me then, slow and deliberate.
"You think me blind to the weight you carry," she said. "You think I wanted this war. I did not. But it is here. And we must choose where we stand."
I said nothing. Only watched her.
Outside, the torches moved like a river through the courtyard. Somewhere, a child cried.
"There is still a place for you," Alicent said. "For your house. For your grandchildren. your real ones. Baela and Rhaena. Not the brood of bastards Rhaenyra claims as your and your husband's grandchildren."
I laughed.
A bitter sound, sharp and joyless.
"You offer me crumbs while you feast on the crown. You speak of peace while laying kindling for war."
Alicent did not argue.
She only looked at me, eyes tired, shoulders straight.
"The board is set, princess. The game is in motion. All I ask is that you do not choose until you have seen what we offer. I'll leave you with your thoughts. Ring the bell when you have an answer."
And with that, she turned and walked from the room, the door shutting gently behind her.
The lock turned again.
I was alone.
Lucera
The red keep, King's Landing
I had been awake long before the first knock of boot on stone echoed in the corridors. Sleep had fled me when Aemond left, and I was dressed already, pacing, then sitting, then rising again. My hands twisted the fabric of my gown. The air in my chamber felt close, stifling.
Where was Aemond? I told myself he was safe, that there was no cause for fear, but my mind would not quiet. Something was wrong. I could feel it in my bones. The Red Keep was alive with movement, not the slow waking of a court, but a frantic, purposeful shuffling.
From my window I watched the guards march through the galleries. Doors were flung open. Lords, ladies, handmaidens, midwives—all driven out, some with gentle words, others with gauntleted hands at their backs. Bundles clutched to chests. Faces pale, confused. Those who resisted vanished from sight, pulled away by the white cloaks. I pressed my brow to the cool glass, heart hammering.
Then the latch clicked.
I turned sharply, expecting a guard.
Alicent Hightower swept in instead, green silk trailing behind her, her expression a mask I had seen before—composed, unyielding. She closed the door herself and did not bother to knock.
"The King is dead," she said, her voice steady, almost cold. "Aegon will be crowned. You will remain here, in King’s Landing, as Aemond’s wife, and you will fulfill your duties dutifully."
The words struck like a slap. I stood frozen.
"You will swear your obeisance to the true king," she went on, stepping closer. "The child you will bear will be of great use in preventing Rhaenyra from plunging the realm into war. A living bond between our lines."
I found my voice, low and tight. "You speak of my child as if it were a piece on a cyvasse board."
Her lips curved, but there was no warmth in it. "That is what all children are, in truth."
I took a step back, revulsion rising in me.
She watched me carefully. "Aemond agrees with me. He knows the value of what you carry."
The breath left my chest. "No."
"He does," she said smoothly, though her eyes betrayed nothing. "He told me so himself."
It was a lie. I knew it. Aemond had never said as much—he had said nothing at all when she spoke of such matters. But the seed of doubt burrowed deep all the same.
Alicent moved toward the door. "You would be wise to think on it, Lucera. For the sake of your husband. For the sake of your child."
With that, she walked out and locked the door behind herself.
I immediatly walked to the passageway door and tried pushing it open to check if I could maybe somehow escape. It wouldn't open. Like a large shelf stood at the other side of the door.
There really wasn't a way out.
Aemond
Criston and I watched as Erryk and Arryk forced Aegon out of the sept as he screamed for them to let go.
Then we striked.
Arryk attacked Criston and Aegon took the oppurtunity to run. I followed him.
He was on the ground, screaming as I held him down. "I had hoped you'd dissapeared." I hissed.
He smiled. "Is our father truly dead?"
"yes. And they're going to make you king." I didn't get to continue when he spat in my face. I let go of him for a split second before taking a hold of him again.
"Let me go!" He screamed. "I have no wish to rule, no taste for duty! I am not suited."
"You get no argument from me."
He managed to turn around in my arms, his palms cupping my face.
"Let me go and I will find a ship and sail away, never to be found." He almost pleaded, that smug grin still on his face. Then came Criston, having managed to beat Ser Arryk.
“The queen awaits.“ He simply said.
...
They gathered us in the Dragonpit, the air thick with the smell of dust, hay, and the nervous sweat of too many men packed too close. The smallfolk filled the tiers above, a sea of faces forced here by command rather than choice. Goldcloaks lined the paths, swords in hand, their presence as much a warning as a guard.
I had not seen Lucera as I had not returned to my chambers. I locked the door and passageway door behind me when I left this morning. I do not want her to get involved yet.
Otto stood before them all, voice carrying across the cavernous space. "King Viserys Targaryen is dead," he announced, the words falling like stones in still water. Murmurs rippled through the crowd, some feigned grief, others only confusion. "By the will of his late majesty and the consent of the council, his true heir shall now take the throne."
The goldcloaks pushed the people out of their way as they formed a sort-of passage for Aegon to walk through with their swords.
Aegon stepped forward in his finery. He looked uneasy, though he tried to mask it behind a crooked smile. Ser Criston knelt before him, placing the circlet upon his brow, and proclaimed for all to hear, "Behold your king!"
We were made to bow then, all of us—the lords, the knights, the ladies of the court. I bent my neck with the rest, my head lowered, though my blood burned hot in my veins. It should have been me. Aegon had never wanted this, had never been worthy. He wore the crown, but I could feel it pressing on my own skull as if by right.
The order came for him to address the people. Aegon drew his sword and lifted it high, the blade flashing in the light. On cue, the smallfolk erupted into cheers, waving their arms, stamping their feet. The sound was deafening, a performance as rehearsed as any mummer’s play. They had been told to cheer, and so they did, their voices echoing through the pit until the stone seemed to tremble.
But it was not the stone that trembled.
A groaning crack split the air, followed by a cascade of dust from the high vault above. The cheering faltered as eyes turned upward. A section of the ceiling gave way with a thunderous roar, sunlight and smoke pouring in with it. Then she came.
Meleys burst through in a storm of broken stone and beating wings, her crimson scales blazing like fresh-spilled blood. The Queen Who Never Was sat astride her, clad in armor that caught the light like fire. Gasps and screams rose from the crowd as the dragon descended into the pit, her claws gouging furrows into the earth, vrushing people.
Guards surged forward, not to attack, but to seal the great doors. The smallfolk were trapped, penned in like sheep before the slaughter. Meleys advanced until she was close enough that I could smell the heat of her breath, the air shimmering around her as if the very world bent away from her presence.
She fixed her eyes on us. For a heartbeat, the pit was silent but for the rumble in her chest. She opened her jaws wide, and the roar that followed shook the very marrow in my bones. Hot wind blasted across my face, and I felt my hand tighten on my sword without thinking.
Then, just as swiftly, she turned away. Her wings spread wide, beating the air in great, furious strokes. Dust and debris swirled in her wake as she leapt skyward, shattering what remained of the oculus above. Rhaenys did not look back.
I watched until they were a red-and-gold speck against the sky, my jaw clenched, my heart still hammering. The crown sat on Aegon’s head, but in that moment, all of King’s Landing had seen how easily it could be torn away.
...
The day had been long, and the air of the Keep felt heavier than steel armor. The sun was sinking when I left the coronation. Aegon’s coronation was done. Rhaenys had fled on her dragon, and though she had the chance to wreak havoc, she had not taken Lucera with her. She could not have known where my wife was being kept. Lucera had spent the day locked in her chamber, barred from the hall, barred from the truth, for now—at least, that had been the plan.
I did not know if she had heard what happened. Mother could have told her. Someone might have. My pace quickened. She was due any day now, the maesters warned that she should be on bedrest, her mind calm. Yet nothing about this day promised calm.
When I entered our chambers, I moved quietly, not wanting to wake her if she slept. But she was not abed. She stood near the corner by the window, her back to me, shoulders rigid, gaze fixed on the city below. The orange light of the dying sun made a halo of her hair. I heard it then—small, uneven sounds. Sniffles. A stifled hiccup.
So she knew.
Anger coiled in me—not at her, never at her—but at my mother for the cruelty, and at myself for leaving her in their hands. I stood there a moment, searching for words. None came easy.
"Lucera," I said at last.
She did not answer, did not turn. The set of her shoulders told me she would not. I crossed the room, stopping just behind her. The city sprawled beyond the glass, the streets and rooftops washed in firelight, as if the realm itself were smoldering.
"You should be resting," I tried again. "The maesters—"
Still nothing. The silence between us was heavier than any crown.
She needed to be in bed, away from the strain of this day. But there she stood, unmoving, and I found myself unable to force her.
I stripped off my tunic, the fabric heavy with the day’s sweat, and reached for my nightclothes. I also took off my eyepatch like every night before going to sleep. She still hadn’t moved. Not to the bed. Not even to a chair. She stood there, stubborn and still, as though the stone beneath her feet might swallow her whole. Ever since the child, she hated standing for too long. I knew that. The way it made her shift her weight from one foot to the other, the ache it put in her back and ankles. Yet she didn’t complain. She never complained.
Eventually, she moved—slow steps to the far closet. She pulled out one of the spare blankets. I watched her fingers close around it. Thin. Always thin, unlike the heavy warmth of the one on the bed. She carried it to the hard couch in the corner, the one that had never been meant for sleep, and lowered herself down. No pillow. She didn’t even reach for one, though I knew she liked her feet propped when she slept, head cushioned just so. She lay with her back to me, still in the day’s clothes, the blanket pulled over her shoulders like armor.
She liked warmth. She liked softness. She liked curling into me, or sinking into the bed, the air heavy with heat between us. The cushion was cold, empty, the sort of thing that made your bones ache by morning.
I fastened the last tie of my nightshirt and stood there, watching her. The room felt larger with the space she had put between us, but somehow colder all the same.
…
I woke to an empty bed. For a moment, I forgot the night before, forgot where I was, forgot the weight in my chest. My hand moved on instinct, reaching to the other side, seeking her warmth. All I found was cool linen. Then it came back to me—she had taken the couch, back turned, wrapped in that thin blanket.
The chamber was quiet but for the faint sound of her breathing. Even. Measured. Awake. She was always like that when awake—her breaths too steady, too controlled to be asleep. I swung my legs from the bed, the chill of the stone floor biting at my feet, and dressed without hurry. The leather ties of my jerkin felt stiff beneath my fingers.
A knock came. One of the handmaidens stepped in, balancing a tray. The scent of fresh bread and stewed fruit filled the air. She set it down on the table, her eyes flicking to Lucera. There was pity there—soft, lingering. Then she looked at me. Her gaze sharpened, her mouth pressed thin, before she bowed and left without a word.
Lucera did not move. She didn’t so much as lift her head. I knew how much she loved to eat. She always had. And now she needed it more than ever—not just for herself, but for the child. Yet she stayed where she was, the blanket pulled close, as if food were the furthest thing from her mind.
I stood a moment longer, watching the stillness of her shoulders, the way the thin cloth bunched at her neck. I stepped toward the table, my voice cutting through the quiet. “You should eat.”
No answer. Her back stayed to me, hair spilling over her shoulder, the thin blanket drawn tight around her like she thought it might keep me out.
I tried again, lower this time, though the words came out harder than I meant. “You will make yourself ill.”
Still nothing. The bread’s scent filled the room, the berries’ sweetness clinging to the air. I waited, listening to the steady sound of her breathing, wondering how long she meant to keep this up.
I crossed the space between us, each step heavier than it should have been. She did not turn. Her back was a wall, her body stiff beneath that thin scrap of a blanket. I stood over her for a moment, looking down at the dark crown of her hair. Then I reached out, laying my hand on her shoulder.
She flinched hard, the movement sharp enough to jolt me. I let my hand fall away at once. No good would come from forcing touch on her now. She kept her eyes shut but her brows were furrowed. Her breathing even but just a fraction too measured. Awake, without a doubt.
"You need to eat," I repeat, my voice low but carrying in the quiet room. "It is not only yourself you feed anymore." I could see her fingers tighten on the blanket. "If you will not do it for me, then do it for the child."
No answer. Not even the smallest shift of her head.
I let the words hang a moment before I spoke again. "You will not make yourself ill over a quarrel. Not while I still draw breath." The morning light through the narrow window caught on her hair, on the line of her jaw, but she would not look at me.
"Lucera," I said her name as if it might break the distance between us. "This stubbornness serves nothing. You need food. Come to the table."
I had expected her to ignore me again, to lie there under that blanket and make me drag the words from her. Instead she moved so suddenly I took a step back. The blanket slid from her shoulders as she sat up and planted her feet on the floor. Her face was flushed, her eyes bright with something hotter than anger.
"Stubborn?" Her voice cracked with the force of it. She pushed herself to her feet, squaring to face me though she had to tilt her chin to meet my gaze. "You dare call me stubborn, when you and your cursed family usurped my mother’s throne?" Her hands were fists at her sides. "Do you think this is some quarrel? Some petty squabble over bread and cheese?"
She did not wait for an answer. The words came fast, sharp as any blade. "You are a liar, Aemond! A thief. A kinslayer waiting for the right moment. Cold as stone, just like your stupid whore of a mother! Do not stand there and speak to me of what serves nothing when you serve nothing but your own pride."
I let her speak. She needed to speak. Her breath was quick, her cheeks wet though she had not noticed. I knew the truth of it—how much of her fury came from the weight she carried now, the strain on her body, the unrest in her mind. Pregnancy left her raw, every feeling sharper than it might have been. But that did not make the edge of her words any duller.
When she paused, I spoke, quiet but firm. "You think I do not know what has been taken from you?" I did not step closer; the air between us was thick enough without that. "You think I do not understand the cost? I do. More than you will believe. But starving yourself will not win back your mother’s throne. It will only leave you too weak to stand when the time comes to fight for it."
"You don't get to order me! I'd rather die of starvation than sit here all day, doing nothing while your family usurps my mother's throne!"
I opened my mouth to answer, but she cut me off with a final, venomous hiss.
"I hate you!"
Her hand flew before I could move. The slap landed hard, the crack of it echoing in the room. My cheek burned, but I did not raise a hand in return. I only stood there, looking at her, feeling the weight of her rage and the space it carved between us.
She turned and laid back down, pulling the thin blanket over herself without another word.
Notes:
MA GAwd was this a long one. sorry i havent been updating recently, my father disowned me (kind of) and wants to send me halfway across the fucking world to my grandma who believes women only exist to please a man, so theres that.
but i hope yall are okay.
Atleast yall know more of my lore now! YAAAYalso this chapter was really difficult to write so im sorry if you find any grammarly mistakes or mistakes in the story and plot! also, like always, i changed some canon scenes up.
HAPPY READING!!
Freya (Guest) on Chapter 1 Tue 26 Aug 2025 10:40PM UTC
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Koko__koko on Chapter 1 Wed 27 Aug 2025 01:49AM UTC
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TheDancingPineapple on Chapter 2 Sat 26 Jul 2025 06:46AM UTC
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Koko__koko on Chapter 2 Sat 26 Jul 2025 07:11AM UTC
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ShiranaiAtsune on Chapter 4 Sat 26 Jul 2025 12:43PM UTC
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Koko__koko on Chapter 4 Sat 26 Jul 2025 12:49PM UTC
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ShiranaiAtsune on Chapter 4 Sun 27 Jul 2025 09:27AM UTC
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RukiaK1 (Guest) on Chapter 5 Sat 26 Jul 2025 09:43PM UTC
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bobbylay (Guest) on Chapter 5 Sun 27 Jul 2025 01:53AM UTC
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Koko__koko on Chapter 5 Sun 27 Jul 2025 08:58PM UTC
Last Edited Sun 27 Jul 2025 08:58PM UTC
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ShiranaiAtsune on Chapter 6 Mon 28 Jul 2025 04:14AM UTC
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Koko__koko on Chapter 6 Mon 28 Jul 2025 04:49AM UTC
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ShiranaiAtsune on Chapter 6 Fri 01 Aug 2025 11:16AM UTC
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ShiranaiAtsune on Chapter 7 Mon 28 Jul 2025 04:17AM UTC
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ShiranaiAtsune on Chapter 8 Tue 29 Jul 2025 12:47PM UTC
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Koko__koko on Chapter 8 Wed 30 Jul 2025 03:07AM UTC
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ShiranaiAtsune on Chapter 8 Fri 01 Aug 2025 12:05PM UTC
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ShiranaiAtsune on Chapter 9 Wed 30 Jul 2025 04:16AM UTC
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ShiranaiAtsune on Chapter 10 Fri 01 Aug 2025 06:19AM UTC
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ShiranaiAtsune on Chapter 11 Sat 02 Aug 2025 12:48AM UTC
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ShiranaiAtsune on Chapter 12 Sun 03 Aug 2025 01:37PM UTC
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Koko__koko on Chapter 12 Sun 03 Aug 2025 03:09PM UTC
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ShiranaiAtsune on Chapter 12 Sun 10 Aug 2025 11:58AM UTC
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ShiranaiAtsune on Chapter 13 Wed 06 Aug 2025 01:45PM UTC
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Koko__koko on Chapter 13 Mon 11 Aug 2025 11:15PM UTC
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ShiranaiAtsune on Chapter 13 Sun 17 Aug 2025 12:10PM UTC
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ShiranaiAtsune on Chapter 14 Wed 06 Aug 2025 02:03PM UTC
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Rhea Royce (Guest) on Chapter 14 Fri 08 Aug 2025 02:25AM UTC
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AeraTargaryen (Guest) on Chapter 14 Fri 08 Aug 2025 10:59AM UTC
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ShiranaiAtsune on Chapter 15 Tue 12 Aug 2025 01:01AM UTC
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hazelbites on Chapter 15 Tue 12 Aug 2025 09:50PM UTC
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Polyk on Chapter 15 Wed 13 Aug 2025 12:11AM UTC
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Polyk on Chapter 15 Wed 13 Aug 2025 12:11AM UTC
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Koko__koko on Chapter 15 Wed 13 Aug 2025 01:07AM UTC
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