Archive of Our Own ^beta

Being a Targaryen is not easy.

Aemma has an Arryn name, but she’s a Targaryen as much as any of her cousins. She is not a dragon rider, but she doesn’t need one to be a Targaryen.

There is a dragon blood in her, fire sleeping deep in her bones.

Her family shares blood with dragons. There is magic in them, powerful and ancient that can turn into something dark. They say Targaryens are closer to gods than men, and perhaps it is true. Fire is burning in their veins, their blood is singing for greatness and power and more.

She is the gentle one. Her blood does not whisper too loudly; fire is tenderly humming deep inside. Never burning.

Aemms is the gentle one.

So is Viserys.

“I’m glad it’s you,” he holds her hand tenderly, soft kisses slip over her temple, and she can’t be more grateful for him as her husband.

Viserys is kind and passionate about their ancient history, he smells of old books and his eyes always shine with love when he looks at her. He makes her feel comfortable even when she is not. 

Aemma can’t be more grateful.

She loves her family deeply, despite them being a headache most of the time.

Although they are not that close, she feels safe with Rhaenys. She is always calm, her anger doesn’t burn like dragonfire, it just tastes like ashes. There is a Targaryen grace in her and Aemma is always – always – confident when she is around.

Rhaenys is strong; she’s all sharp smirks and calculated eyes, a little awkward with her affection but still generous. Always knows more than she tells.

Rhaenys is their grandmother’s favorite.

Just like Daemon.

“He is young,” her grandfather says, lips crooked in a tired smile and painful yearning deep in the purple of his eyes. He probably thinks of his own daughters; as wild as only dragon can be.

“He will be trouble in future,” many whisper. He is ill-tempered, full of range and the smell of blood always follows him.   

Daemon is many things. He is impulsive and arrogant, brave and harsh with words. Like all dragons, he is selfish. He always takes and never asks.

Chaos and distraction are his closest friends; they follow him around wherever he goes, like loyal servants. He is young, but he is powerful.

But Aemma remembers.

Daemon, kneeling in front of her, warm hand carefully placed at her pregnant belly, tender smile on his face, the softness of his eyes, when he whispered in High Valyrian – their ancestors’ language – something she didn’t catch to her unborn child.

How his forehead replaced his palm, how restful was his breath, how vulnerable he looked. How easily he bent for her babe.

She remembers.

Again and again and again.

“It’s a girl,” he said in low voice, forehead still nestled to her swollen belly.

“You can’t know that for sure,” she couldn’t help but smile a little.

“It’s a girl,” Daemon repeated, his words quiet but strong. There was a hint of something Aemma didn’t understand.

Young and ambitious, quick to anger, and with too much fire in him.

Daemon is everything his mother once was.

And above everything, her cousin is so blindly loyal to his blood.

Aemma give birth to her baby daughter soon.

—

They name her Rhaenyra.

Her girl is a beautiful, beautiful child, something absolutely ethereal. Aemma holds her and can’t believe she is real.

Viserys shares her feelings. He smiles tenderly, murmurs softly words of love and his eyes shine with tears and adoration.

“Thank you, Aemma,” he says and places a sensitive kiss on her lips. She hums happily and smiles, smiles, smiles. Her body arches and she still feels pain in her abdomen, but Aemma has never been happier. “She is perfect.”

A watery chuckle escapes her, and she closes her eyes for a moment. She is so tired, but her daughter’s peaceful sniffling makes her heart shrink in her chest.

She wants to hold her close, kiss her little head, and listen to her steady breathing.

Her baby’s birth feels like a blessing, and gods above she is so happy.

Prince Baelon is here as well, standing near her husband. Viserys places their daughter in his arms, and the Spring Prince looks at his first grandchild and smiles. It’s a beautiful smile, but there is a heavy sorrow buried in his eyes.

Aemma wonders if he remembers his late wife. Alyssa Taragaryen was a wild spirit, joyful, and absolutely in love with her husband and sons. She had wide smiles and sharp eyes, there was always challenge deep inside them. She was from dragon blood.

Alyssa died giving birth to her third son. Baelon’s never been the same after that.

Aemma inhales and presses her temple to her husband’s forearm. Viserys immediately takes her hand and she feels light touch of his lips.

“Come here, Daemon,” Baelon says, gently rocking her baby. “You were most eager to meet her.”

She just notices him standing near the window, eyes focused on his father. He shifts awkwardly, uneasiness openly on his face, and moves closer to them.

“You were right,” Aemma smiles tiredly, catching her cousin’s eyes. “It is a girl.”

He blinks slowly but doesn’t say anything, and she fondly watches how he carefully takes Rhaenyra in his arms.

Tension slowly erases from his shoulder. Daemon holds her baby daughter like she is the most precious treasure, and Aemma’s heart once again is full of affection.

“Hello, little dragon,” Daemon words escape from his lips like a scared bird’s escaping from a cage. His eyes are so soft, full of wonder, and when Rhaenyra reaches her tiny hands towards his face, they light up in a way Aemma has never seen before. “Yes, hello,” he carefully touches her nose with his finger, and her baby, her beautiful child bursts into happy giggles.

“It seems she likes you,” says Viserys with a fond chuckle.

Daemon doesn’t take his eyes off Rhaenyra.

—

“He’ll do better,” Viserys nods slightly to lady Rhea Royce, Daemon’s wife.

Her stomach sinks but she smiles politely at the young woman. She is stoic and distant, beautiful in the way that only children of the North can be. She has winter in her. 

Aemma can’t help but feel pity.

For this young woman and her cousin.

They both despise each other. Neither is happy with this match; both troubled with the weight of their duties.

Aemma has known Rhea since they both were little girls. Her spirit has always been unrestrained chained with her family’s expectations. She would wrinkle her nose in disgust every time listening stories of handsome knights and marriage and children.

And yet, she married Targaryen prince, rider of Caraxes, who has been knighted at six-and-ten, with Visenya’s sword on his hip. Her husband is pure fire, loved as much as feared.

And Daemon… well.

Daemon is driven to his blood. He seeks his brother’s acknowledgment, his father’s approval, his cousin’s solidarity, and her own affection. He seeks love and understanding. He desires belongingness.

Targaryens belong to Valyria but Valyria is gone, and their family is the only reminder of their origin.

Rhaenys marries Corlys Velaryon. Viserys marries her. Daemon, loyal and blind fool he is, desperately wants to belong to his family, but their grandmother tied him to foreign wife and foreign lands.

There can never be even a warm sparkle between these two.

If only Good Queen Alysenne - always so wise and thoughtful - can see it too.

“He warms up slowly to outsiders,” says Rhaenys, her eyes lazily following jousting Daemon. She’s graceful and smooth as always, her words are curt and a little harsh but that’s how Rhaenys is. She takes slowly to outsiders too.

“He will come around,” Aemma says and it feels like ashes in her mouth because he will not. Rhaenys knows it, too, but she doesn’t say anything. 

Instead, she reaches out to Rhaenyra and gently brushes off her silver curls. Her daughter nuzzles her nose on woman’s palm, which brings soft smile to Rhaenys’ lips.

Her baby is one-year-old; her eyes are bright violet, full of curiosity, her locks are pale and shine like silver. Her gaze’s always directed to the navy blue of the sky. Dragon’s blood is roaring in her child. She longs for skies and for freedom, always reaching her tiny hands up with smile on her beautiful face.

She sleeps with the dragon egg in her cradle.

“I’m glad you are here,” says Aemma and touches Rea’s hand gently. She smiles slightly, but her eyes burn with ire when Daemon approaches them.

“Dear cousin,” he doesn’t even look at his wife, and she feels how the woman next to her becomes tense.

He wears Targaryen colors and Aemma’s favour. She can feel watchful eyes staring at them. Rhaenys inhales tiredly at her side.

“I name Rhaenyra the Queen of Beauty and Love,” he says; words loud and clear.

For a moment there is a dreadful silence, and then Rhaenyra’s little giggles fill the court.

—

Her daughter’s egg hatchels, and she names her dragon Syrax after one of Valyrian gods. It’s a beautiful beast with golden scales and loud voice. She is already very protective of her rider, always by her side; on her lap or shoulder. Rhaenyra is absolutely enamored with her.

She smiles fondly, watching from the side how her little girl is playing with her new companion. Her sweet laugh warms Aemma’s heart as much as sparkles of tender affection in uncle Baelon’s eyes every time he looks at his granddaughter.

Her daughter is a spoiled thing. Old King himself dotes on her as much as he can, spending rare hours free of duties by her side. Sometimes grandsire sits with her child on his knees, his gaze stroking over her face with such a thoughtful expression, sorrow clashing in the deep waves of his purple eyes.

(Grandmother weeped once, holding Rhaenyra. Which one of their daughters they saw, Aemma can’t help but wonder still.)

They say Jaehaerys loves his grandchildren the most, in a way he didn’t love even his own kids. Her grandsire’s love is a fickle, complicated thing, Aemma’s learnt. She doesn’t know if it’s weal or burden.

(He bickers with Daemon like dragons do; with claws and snarls, Daemon words hot and loud, while Old King never rises his voice but the fire burning dangerously in his eyes never wavers.

He fights with Daemon a lot, her grandsire. About everything and nothing. And yet he gives him Dark Sister with proud smile, so tin and slight one will almost miss it. He looks at him with affection and touch his shoulder lightly, just like uncle Baelon. He does it with Viserys too. Sometimes with her and Rhaenys. He is just not very good with girls, Alysanne once says.

Aemma wonerds again: is it Daemon he’s fighting or he’s trying to chase aunt Saera’s shadow?

She never tells Viserys, because, no matter how much she loves her husband, he is still a man. He is Jaehaerys’.

She tells Rhaenys. Her cousin doesn’t answer, but there is comprehension in her eyes, which Viserys – her sweet, gentle husband – can’t understand. Because he’s Jaehaerys’ and she and Rhaenys are Alysenne’s.)  

“Muña!”  

She can’t help but smile tenderly, heart humming in her chest. Rhaenyra throws herself into her arms and snuggles against her stomach. Her baby is so tiny and weights almost nothing. Her steps are already steady and she’s running through Red Keep like a little minx she is.

“Did you have fun today, my love?”

“Kessa!” she smiles widely, her hands clutching at her gown. “Grandfather took me to Vhagar.”

“Did he now?” Aemma hummes and softly touches her daughter’s hair. Silver-blond that gleam on sunshine, with one braid over her head.  

(She doesn’t remember her mother hands – she doesn’t remember her mother at all – but she remembers Alysenne’s gentle fingers braiding her hair.)

From the first sight Rhaenyra has been something ethereal for Aemma. Watching her grow up just strengthened that thought.

“Mhm,” she nods enthusiastically, and starts to fidget on her feet. “She is so big.”

“And old,” she hears Baelon’s light chuckle and shifts her gaze to him. She’s welcomed with his soft smile and warm eyes where flames are twinkling in joy.

Her daughter is babbling with mix of Common and High Valyrian, and she absolutely blames her goodbrother. Daemon has always been fascinated by their ancestor’s legacy, in a way only one of their blood can be. It seems Rhaenyra is following his steps. Her first words are in Valyrian, much to Viserys’ displeasure and Baelon’s amusement.

Where Daemon’s High Valyrian is sharp and confident, words falling from his tongue in powerful way, Rhanyra’s is soft and clumsy. And yet, it delights Daemon every time he hears her prattle in their mother tongue.

It still surprises her how enamored he is with her daughter. No one dotes on her more than Daemon, no one spoils her the way Daemon does, and sometimes there is that puzzling thought, that no one loves her like Daemon.

He is fierce and rough, her cousin, with dragonfire flaming in his veins, mirroring in his lilac eyes. And yet, he holds her daughter so unsure, so tenderly, like he’s never spilled blood to appease Dark Sister’s hunger without hesitation.

He is very patient with her.

And how can one blame him, when her child – her beautiful child, her little blessing – answers him with the pure adoration. She takes everything he gives and it is what Daemon needs. It is what he’s never gotten from any of them, because Daemon is fire made flesh, dangerous and so bright. Too much sometimes.

But not for Rhaenyra.

Her first words are for Daemon.

“I hope you were good for your grandsire.”

“I was!” Rhaenyra turns to Spring prince with her lower lip protruded in an adorable pout. “Tell her, grandpa!”

“Oh yes, she was the most well-behaved princess,” says Baelon and bends over to press a kiss on her head.

Rhaenyra’s face lights up with a joy, and she happily nestles to her again. Her small body is warm and it makes her warm as well.

Aemma meets uncle Baelon’s gaze and they both smile, listening to her daughter’s chirping about Syrex.

—

Daemon takes Rhaenyra to flight on Caraxes when she’s three.

Honestly, Aemma is not surprised, and she wonders why Viserys is.

Syrex is too small to take a rider, but she is big enough for staying in Dragonpit. Rhaenyra visits her as much as she can, with Daemon by her side. Sometimes Aemma joins them, because she can’t help but feel uneasy. Perhaps it’s because she doesn’t have a dragon on her own, so she does not understand the bond these beasts share with their riders. During restless nights when Rhaenyra was fussy, Syrax’s presence lulled her to sleep. Daemon’s mount lets her glide her tiny hands over his scales, scarlet and hot as fire itself. And yet, a dragon is what it is; a dangerous beast, capable of destruction and greatness at the same time, too wild to be chained or locked in cage.  

Her daughter is fond of these creatures, and it doesn’t help that Daemon is enamored with them even more.

So it is not really a surprise when she finds them on Caraxes’ back, soaring in the sky.

Viserys is going to be furious, and she supposed to be ranging too, because years pass but her cousin remains restless and selfish and so wild, taking her babe to dragon back. But it’s not anger burning hot inside. It’s worry and resignation holding her heart in cold grip.

A dragon is what it is. Wild and selfish, born to conquer skies and oceans.

Daemon takes Rhaenyra to the skies, where she belongs.

—

Uncle Baelon dies and she can feel how something shifts. Like a dark shadow, it’s looming over them.

Aemma can only hold Viserys, kiss his temple softly and let him cry on her shoulder.

She helplessly watches Daemon’s back and how Rhaenyra clings to his hand.

—

Grandmother has always wanted Rhaenys to be the queen, but suddenly it’s Viserys with the crown and without their cousin on his side.   

Daemon rises an army for him. He loves Rhaenys dearly, but he is devoted to his brother as if it is engraved deep in his bones.   

She smiles slightly and holds her husband’s hand in hers, heart leaping to her throat.

She cannot bring herself to look at Rhaenys.

—

Aemma doesn’t like Otto, but she never says anything. He serves as Hand to grandsire and now he is Viserys’ Hand, and Daemon absolutely hates it. A second son, he says and Aemma wants to bite him a little since he is second son himself, but she can’t. It is something too important for her cousin. Daemon is loyal in a way Otto can never be.

His daughter is Rhaenyra’s companion and closest friend. Alicent is a sweet girl, polite. There is a deep nervousness in her. She is young, a girl still, but she holds herself like a woman grown, her fingers are covered in blood, and Aemma can’t help but feel pity and uneasiness at the same time.

She is a Hightower. Otto’s daughter. Aemma doesn’t trust Otto. But Alicent makes her daughter happy. They spend their free time reading books or eating sweets, their laughter always fills godswood, they hold each other hands and smiles as wide as only children can – careless and free and happy. Rhaenyra takes Alicent to Dragonpit and introduce her to Syrex.

(She is afraid of dragons, that child.)

She makes Rhaenyra happy, so Aemma doesn’t say anything.    

—

“Everything would’ve been different if I was a son.”

Her heart breaks for her child, but there is nothing she can say because Rhaenyra is smart, has always been.

“I am my father’s cupbearer as long as I remember and I have attended in every Counsel’s meeting,” Rhaenyra tugs angrily at her necklace, not meeting her eyes. “I am intelligent and I learn fast, I have a dragon and I am the youngest rider of our family. But I am not a son. And no matter how hard I am trying, it’s not enough. They won’t see me more than a… object to be sold for the better of realm! They will force you to have babes again and again, and all of this because I am not a son-”

“Sweetheart,” Rhaenyra freezes, breathing deeply. she took her hand in, thumb gently stroking her warm skin. “Me and you father cannot wish for a child more perfect.” She scoffs and turns away from Aemma, towards open window. “Rhaenyra,” she calls, voice firm but not cruel, and waits patiently until her daughter is facing her again. “Your father loves you, child.”

“I know!” she presses lips together, her eyes avoiding Aemma’s. “And yet, I am not enough for him,” Rhaenyra says, emotion clear in her voice and she feels anger burning hot inside at her husband, stabbing her every part like thousand needles.     

Realm needs heir, Viserys needs hair. A boy with silver heir and purple eyes, with dragon egg in his cradle. Future king.

(They have an heir-)

Aemma’s body is tired from her latest pregnancy, - failed as one before - her eyes are swollen and red. She has a cursed womb and husband who need a son, realm that needs its prince. She has a daughter; beautiful and brave, but also restless and desperate to be more that people see her.

“They will force you to have babes again and again, and all of this because I am not a son-”

“You are enough, Rhaenyra,” her voice doesn’t waver and her grip on her child’s hand is only tighten. She won’t let Viserys’ desperation or dreams put out Rhaenyra’s fire. Aemma’s blood has never sung too loud and sometimes she’s afraid its song is no longer there, but it does not matter, because she is still a dragon and her child is dragon’s daughter. “You are enough.”

—

Sometimes she looks at Viserys, and think that perhaps, he does not understand.

With each lifeless body, each unreleased scream and cry, part of her dies. And yet, her husband – her sweet, gentle husband – asked for more because it is what realm needs, it is what Small Consul needs, and it is her duty – as a wife, as a queen, as a woman.

Aemma wants, desperately, to scream and cry.

What of her needs?

Is it her duty – to lose part of herself with each dead babe, with each grim look in her husband’s eyes, with each ill-fated pregnancy full of pain and dread?

She loves Viserys. Gods above, she does, and she knows Viserys loves her too, but Jaehaerys showed them that sometimes love is not enough.   

He says I love you and kisses her, he holds her gently and they make love, and she enjoys it, because how can she not when it is Viserys. But with each pregnancy the warm flame that burns in her heart for her husband fades into cold ashes.

He loves her, and yet he makes her suffer in worst possible way, but she cannot say or do anything, because it is her duty to bear children for her husband, heirs for the realm.

(She has a child. Bold and beautiful, always wanting, always seeking for more. The realm has an heir – smart and strong, the youngest dragonrider in their family’s history.

But Viserys is chasing his dreams, – I saw him, Aemma, -  so blinded with them, he can’t see what is in front of him.

Aemma is dutiful wife and dutiful Queen, so she says noting.)

She runs finger through her daughter’s pale hair, felling the softness, and enjoying the heath of her body. Rhaenyra is lying her head on her knees and Aemma’s position is a little uncomfortable – she can feel slight pain in her abdomen, but it’s not terrible, so she doesn’t say anything and lets her child sleep.

Rhaenyra is everything she and Viserys aren’t.

Her daughter runs barefoot along the passages of Red Keep, not paying any mind to her septa, laughs too loud, smiles too wild for a princess. She smells of dragon despite rich Dornish oils her maids use to bath her. She is five and ten, full of life and so much fire, her mind is sharp and spirit is enduring. She can be polite - perfect image of little princess, but her blood sings too loud, Aemma can see it.

She looks at her – her little girl, her precious child, and thinks that she can’t be more perfect.

The love Aemma has for her daughter is the only thing that lets her keep her sanity after so many losses, so many dead children.

She hears the sound of opening door and tears her gaze away from Rhaenyra to see her goodbrother. He smiles slightly, his eyes soften when he noticed her daughter. She grates him warmly, her own lips twitching in soft smile, as he sits next to them.

“How are you feeling?”

“I am well, thank you,” Aemma watches carefully how he drops soft kiss to Rhaenyra’s forehead and nuzzles into the base of her neck. “And you’ve been busy, as I’ve heard, Lord Commander.”

He smirks in mischief but doesn’t say anything, too focus on Rhaenyra’s peaceful face, gently touching her nose with his fingertip. So tender it makes her heart swell.   

Rhaenyra is young but she’s not a child anymore. Soon will come time for her to wed, and Aemma is terrified. Her stomach turns and sinks every time she thinks about it. Her little blessing is not little anymore.

(Her mother was so young and she was so young, and Rhaenyra is older than them but she cannot help but feel fear because what if-)

Daemon has been her daughter’s loyal shadow since the day she was born. He brings her gifts, one would gift to his lover, delights her with stories of his adventures, takes for a flights on Caraxes’ back and watches as she soars with Syrex - proud glint in his eyes, soft smile on his lips.

People notice and they talk. Daemon is aware of it but he never pays any mind to whispers.

“Who gives a fuck what they think?” he speaks when Aemma shares her concern. She shouldn’t be surprised for her cousin never cares of "sheep’s opinion", as he says. He will never let anything or anyone stand between him and Rhaenyra, and he definitely will not change his behavior towards her.

It would’ve smoothed her worries, knowing that her daughter has someone so devoted to her, ready to bring world to her feet. But Rhaenyra is a girl, soon to become a young woman and things are different for her.

She touches her belly, heavy with child – again – and looks at her girl, sorrow filling her heart. Things will always be different for her. Aemma wishes she enjoys her freedom as much as she can, before her shoulders will become stiff and smiles hollow, before she will be locked in the cage of her duties. She wishes it won’t break her, her brave child, too wild and too rebellious, with fire flaming in her vein and dragon’s roar singing deep in her bones. 

(“Betroth them,” she once says to Viserys. She’s sitting in warm bath - not warm enough for her liking, but maesters are strict with their instructions.

“He is already wed, Aemma,” her husband sighs and he looks so weary it breaks her heart a little. He is not fit to be king, her husband. He is too soft, too gentle, and he clings too hard on their grandsire’s peace.

She misses Rhaenys.

“You are the king,” she places her hand on his arm, squeezing gently. “It won’t be a problem to annul his marriage. You know they both will be grateful,” he doesn’t say anything, his frown deepens and she inhales tiredly. “You cannot keep them away from each other, Viserys. People start to talk. Either you will betroth them or they will create troubles.)

Daemon takes Rhaenyra’s hand, intertwining their fingers together and places a light kiss to her palm.

Aemma is dutiful wife and dutiful Queen, but she is also a mother.

“Promise me you will take care of her.”

Her cousin looks at her, his eyes bright, fire flaming in them and lighting them up.

“Promise me.”

“I promise.”

She nods, satisfied with seriousness in his voice, and touches Rhaenyra’s hair again. Her daughter’s weight and her warm is a comfort.

Daemon doesn’t say anything, just watches her with keen eyes. He takes her hand and silently holds it. There isn’t much he can say or do. There are some battles you cannot control.

He can only hold her and Rhaenyra, but that’s enough because at least Aemma knows there is someone who see her child for what she is and he will protect her no matter what.