Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Girl, you’ll see the world

And you’ll come to learn

That falling in love is a strange work of art

All of your battles will shape who you are ~ Girl

On a cold night on the eve of the 5th day of the 3rd moon of the year 111 AC, the halls of Runestone were said to echo with the sound of the pained wails of their Lady. The Lady Rhea Royce had been laboring for the better part of 20 hours, between much screaming and cursing, as the hour grew late and the sun hid behind the horizon giving way to a half moon that shone just bright enough to provide but the palest of lights. A fitting setting, the maesters would later say, for the events soon to follow.

By the 21’st hour of the lady’s labors, her agonized screams finally gave way to the high-pitched cries of a newborn babe. Though the birth had been anything but smooth and the mother anything but an eager participant, the child born to her was a hale and strong baby. 

A girl, as it turned out, much to the dismay of the maester and midwives attending the Lady Royce, for the dislike between Rhea and her husband, Prince Daemon Targaryen, was common knowledge. Given how difficult the conception of this child had been, it was very much unlikely that the Targaryen Prince would ever be persuaded to do his duty again and provide his wife with a son to inherit Runestone.

No, this babe was to be the unhappy couple’s one and only child, the product of one too many chiders from King Viserys towards his brother for his abhorrent treatment of his neglected wife and his blatant reluctance to attend his husbandly duties. It was rather fortunate for the ill-fated couple that it had only taken the one try for them to conceive, and the Prince had immediately left Runestone to pursue his campaign on the Stepstones as soon as the matter was done, not bothering to return even for a brief visit in the nine moons that followed. 

It was precisely this lack of proximity between husband and wife that gave way to insidious rumors all throughout the lady’s pregnancy. 

Rumors that only exacerbated the maester and midwives’ mounting distress as they cleaned up the babe only to realize very quickly that the girl lacked most of the common Valyrian features of the Targaryen progeny. With a tuft of dark curls and soft skin leaning more towards a light olive tone, the child’s coloring favored her mother’s rather than her alleged father’s. A fact that was not to escape Prince Daemon, for he would’ve surely declared the child a bastard had it not been for the girl’s very distinct eyes, a shade of violet so unique it could only come from Valyrian descent, a color she shared with Daemon himself. 

It didn’t take long for the news to spread all throughout the Seven Kingdoms. The birth of Daemon Targaryen’s firstborn was much celebrated by the King, although less so by the girl’s father himself, who rather than return immediately upon learning the news decided to continue his pursuit of the Stepstones until he saw his campaign successful with the defeat of the Triarchy. 

However, whatever lack of paternal affection Daemon showed for his daughter he made up for in thinly veiled skepticism well disguised as pride. He declared that any child of his should be given a dragon egg to be placed upon their cradle, as was the ancient old Targaryen tradition, and promptly demanded an egg be given to his daughter. A demand that the King immediately granted in good faith, pleased that his brother had finally sired a true-born child with his estranged wife. 

And so an egg was taken from Dreamfyre’s latest clutch and sent to Runestone, much to the chagrin of Lady Rhea, who disliked the idea of a “beast” sharing her babe’s cradle, and loudly declared that this was nothing but a ploy from Daemon to prove the girl illegitimate, for if the egg did not hatch (as was sometimes the case for some Targaryens) then the Prince would have a poor excuse to doubt the child’s paternity. 

Nonetheless the egg was placed in the girl’s cradle, as was her father’s wont, and Runestone’s inhabitants waited with bated breath to see if there was to be a dragon soon gracing the skies above the Vale. 

But in the short moons that followed, there would be no dragon and no father to show, and as the fates would have it, the babe’s mother was not to remain with her child for long either. Merely three moons did the girl get to spend in her mother’s arms, for the Lady of Runestone was not one to sit idly by reaping the joys of motherhood. The birth had been a difficult one and the maester insisted upon Lady Rhea’s prolonged bed rest, however as soon as she was declared healed enough to leave her chambers, she took it upon herself to escape her confinement. 

Being a proficient horsewoman and avid hunter, Lady Royce refused to remain indoors a second longer than necessary. Saddling her horse, she escaped to the woods in pursuit of one of her most cherished hobbies, hawking, despite the many warnings by the maester who insisted that it was much too soon for her to be riding a horse through the mountainous landscapes of the Vale. Heedless of all warnings, off she went, disappearing through the woods, never to return again. 

The ill-fated incident that followed would be forever shrouded in mystery and much speculation, given the odd timing of events. 

When Lady Rhea’s horse returned without his rider, alarms went off all around Runestone and a search party was quickly gathered. It didn’t take long to find her, body crumpled beyond repair. With a broken back and a cracked skull, it was believed that the unfortunate Lady had fallen off her horse, much to the disbelief of those who’d known her best and had witnessed first hand her prowess in horseback riding. 

The ravens bearing the sad news had barely left the rookery when Daemon made his presence known in Runestone, having been recently banished from court yet again for reasons unknown. A rather unlucky coincidence that he’d deigned to return a mere day after his wife’s untimely demise. Nothing would ever be proven for certain, but given her husband’s complete lack of emotion at the news of her parting, the rumors would soon spread that the Lady of Runestone’s death had not precisely been an unfortunate accident. 

Said whispers were only given more voice when Daemon, not one to waste time in empty condolences, soon addressed the issue at hand. His lady wife had not yet been laid to rest when he’d made his intentions known and positioned himself as claimant to Runestone. 

However the bold attempt was thwarted by the Lady’s own cousin, Ser Gerold Royce, who informed the Prince none too gently that it had been left on record by his late wife that, should she die without male issue, Runestone shall be given to her firstborn daughter and the regency of the place be managed by Ser Gerold himself until her daughter came of age. In her thorough dislike for her husband, Lady Rhea had made sure he would never benefit from her passing, and while she could not refuse the man the custody of their daughter she could very well deny him the satisfaction of ruling over her home. 

Disgruntled by this turn of events, Prince Daemon finally showed any kind of regard or interest for his daughter and demanded to see her for the first time, no doubt intent on corroborating the claim that the girl was indeed his own. 

Upon first inspection, the Prince regarded the babe with a sneer, a look somewhere between amusement and disdain, taking in the disappointingly ordinary color of the girl’s hair, so reminiscent of his despised lady wife. There was nothing Targaryen about her at first glance, Daemon declared, common-looking like any other Andal child. Furthermore, the dragon egg given to her had yet to hatch, proving in his eyes the unlikelihood of this babe carrying the famed Blood of the Dragon. 

That is, until the girl’s eyelids finally fluttered open at the sound of her father’s voice, and the reflection of Daemon’s own eyes stared back at him with childlike wonder. 

This prompted an unusual reaction from the Prince. With uncharacteristic gentleness, he cradled the baby girl in his arms but once, examining her more closely and noticing that her still undefined features, pudgy with newborn baby fat, were nonetheless fine and delicate, promising to resemble his own Valyrian heritage more closely than the girl’s bronze bitch mother, as Daemon often eloquently put it. 

Somewhat satisfied, he turned to the maester who’d delivered the babe. “What is her name?”

Three moons had passed and this was the first time Prince Daemon had taken any interest in learning his own daughter’s name. Nevertheless, the maester answered with a dutiful nod. “Lady Rhea decided to name her Elaerys, my prince.” 

A humorless smirk graced the Prince’s thin lips. Rhea had been wise enough to respect the Targaryen’s heritage and grant their daughter a Valyrian enough name, however defiant she’d been in twisting it to something closely resembling her own mother’s name, Elara. Daemon had not been consulted in this decision though. Alyssa had a much nicer ring to it in his opinion, and he was heard to debate whether to change the girl’s name to the one more to his liking. 

However he seemed to decide it was a matter not worth his attention. Stunted as his efforts to claim Runestone were, and deeply uninterested in the land without the added incentive of being its ruler, Daemon considered the burden of his daughter’s custody not one he was particularly interested in carrying. He set the girl back down in her crib, never to hold her again, and soon after left the holdfast on Caraxes’ back without even waiting for his late wife’s funeral ceremony to be concluded. 

Almost as in defiance to her father’s slight, the baby girl’s dragon egg hatched barely a day later, proving her in the eyes of the Rogue Prince and the rest of Westeros, a true Targaryen. 

This seemed, however, mostly inconsequential to Prince Daemon. After Lady Rhea’s death he soon moved his attention to more lucrative endeavors, seeking a union with the daughter of the Sea Snake, Lady Laena Velaryon, who would later bear him two more daughters, the twins Baela and Rhaena. 

In the years that followed, and with the excuse of his mostly self-imposed exile to Pentos with his new young wife, Daemon Targaryen proved to be a null presence in his firstborn daughter’s life, much to the dismay of King Viserys, who took a faint interest in his niece’s wellbeing — if only in a small effort to keep in House Royce’s good graces after his reckless brother’s blatant slight — and occasionally enquired about the girl’s upbringing. 

The young Lady Elaerys Targaryen grew up safely sheltered in Runestone under the care  and careful watch of her uncle Ser Gerold Royce. She was reported to the King to be a vivacious and charming child, having apparently inherited her father’s notorious charisma coupled with her late mother’s more tempered disposition, and with a thirst for knowledge and inquisitiveness entirely her own. A temperament perfectly suitable for a young lady of her station, the King thought with relief, not particularly eager to deal with a young child as unruly and wild as his brother had been. 

And although Lady Elaerys was said to have inherited both of her parents obstinate character, her naturally bright and pleasant disposition often quelled her more willful tendencies, making for an opinionated but ultimately agreeable young girl.  

But more in the interest of the girl’s own father was the fact that she had appropriately bonded with her dragon, a beautiful creature with bluish pearlescent scales that the young lady had elected to name Nyssarion. Much to the satisfaction of Daemon, his daughter was already shaping up to be a competent future dragon rider, and he was often seen praising her progress in the few odd letters he exchanged with her throughout the years, which was about as much interest as the Prince showed towards his first daughter.  

More than once, Viserys extended an invitation for Daemon’s girl to be brought to court, firm on the belief that the child ought to grow with the rest of her Targaryen relatives. She could benefit greatly from the relations she could cultivate in King’s Landing, and furthermore she could perhaps be a good influence on his own withdrawn daughter, Princess Helaena.  

However the arrangement was thought unwise by more than one party. Ser Gerold often cited the young lady’s late mother’s wishes that she be raised in Runestone as its future ruling Lady. While the King’s wife, Queen Alicent, firmly believed the girl to be as untamed and wild as Daemon himself, and what good influence could Daemon’s brood ever be on their delicate, easily spooked daughter? 

In the Queen’s mind, her arguments were perfectly reasonable, having heard of Elaerys’ childish escapades accompanying her uncle in hunts, of her developing prowess as a proficient horsewoman just like her mother had been, and her cultivated skills in archery, all of which were most uncommon and frowned-upon practices amongst highborn ladies. 

Viserys remained unfazed by such claims. The young girl’s education, according to the missives he occasionally exchanged with Ser Gerold, was perfectly appropriate for a lady. And while yes, his niece was said to prefer the outdoors and was perhaps a little more uninhibited than was strictly appropriate, she was suitably accomplished in more domestic practices more often related to her sex, with a particular interest in music and dancing. 

Indeed, if there were any major flaws in her character linking her more closely in temperament to the infamous Rogue Prince, the secret was well kept within the halls of Runestone. No concerning rumors or reports ever made it to the King’s ears, but the girl remained a stranger to her Targaryen family for years to come, for Daemon made little effort in bringing her into his own care, not even after his return to Westeros following the death of his second wife. And while the twins Baela and Rhaena remained under his custody, even after he’d married Princess Rhaenyra, there was no attempt made on his part to summon Elaerys and bring her into the family’s household. 

Therefore, it came as no little surprise when years later, Princess Rhaenyra proposed a most unexpected arrangement to the King: a union between her now stepdaughter Elaerys and the King’s second son, Aemond. 

By all accounts a perfectly unforeseen engagement, made all the more ludicrous by the fact that both of the proposed betrothed’s parents seemingly despised each other, which made it highly unlikely that neither Alicent nor Daemon would ever be agreeable to such a union. 

But Rhaenyra was determined to see this arrangement come to fruition, intent on the pursuit to unite once and for all the long since fractured relations between the two opposing sides of their family and prevent any future conflicts to escalate beyond repair. And what a better way to do so than the marriage between Alicent Hightower’s son and Daemon Targaryen’s daughter? A pact for life to keep the peace between Blacks and Greens through their children. 

Naturally, King Viserys had no objections nor misgivings with the proposed arrangement. The union was an advantageous enough one for both parties involved, and there was little the ailing King wished more than to see both sides of his family finally in common harmony. Once he’d heard all of his favored daughter’s arguments in favor of the engagement it was only to be expected that he would wholeheartedly give his blessing, regardless of whatever objections his wife or brother may raise to the betrothal. 

With the gap finally bridged between both sides through this marriage, no more discord shall be sowed within his family, for it was paramount to keep the peace for his House to succeed, and the King knew what his own grandsire had known before he’d been declared his successor; the only thing that could tear down the House of the Dragon was itself. 

But the Princess’ plan to quell the call for war would soon prove to be for naught, for there were ambitions that only bloodlust could satiate, and there were prejudices that only death could destroy.

Chapter Text

The women will be my soldiers

With the weight of life on their shoulders ~ Queendom

Rhaenyra drums her fingers nervously over the table’s well worn surface, her eyes constantly shifting towards the still closed doors of the Small Council room. Normally, flying with Syrax would improve her mood, but unlike any other time, the flight from Dragonstone to King’s Landing had done nothing to quell the anxiousness swelling somewhere deep in her chest. Not that she’d been expecting it to. Doing this behind Daemon’s back is not exactly helping soothe her rattled nerves, but what other choice does she have?

She’s been fretting and scheming for longer than she would ever admit to. The carefully crafted words in the letter she’d received from Rhaenys half a moon ago are still firmly etched into her mind, robbing her of sleep. Rhaenyra can’t ignore the hushed rumors apparently being whispered across the court at High Tide.

Vaemond Velaryon is planning to contest Luke’s claim on the Driftwood Throne, and she doesn’t exactly doubt the veracity behind these allegations.

Rhaenyra is under no delusion that the Princess’ warnings about the plots brewing behind her back came from any goodwill her father’s cousin may still have towards her. Rhaenys has not trusted her ever since Laenor’s murder, but they both have a common enemy in the Sea Snake’s brother. Vaemond’s claim also poses a threat to any inheritance Laena’s girls might hope to have, and Rhaenys has always been a firm believer that Corlys’ legitimate granddaughters are far more deserving of Driftmark than any other jumped-up Velaryon lordling.

Rhaenyra is fairly certain that if it came down to it, Rhaenys would rather side with her than see Driftmark passed over to Vaemond, and she has the perfect incentive to gain the older Princess’ allegiance.

Marriages are all that have occupied Rhaenyra’s mind as of late, it would seem, and while she hates all this vicious politicking, she would rather see her sons’ inheritance firmly secured than give into her softer instincts, those incessant whispers in the back of her mind that berate her for doing to her children what she’d once hated being done to herself.

Another piece to be moved in the board of this merciless game of constant fights for the throne. A throne that should rightfully be hers to begin with.

Rhaenyra lets out a sigh through her nose. If she were Syrax she’s sure steam would be coming out of her nostrils.

She has no regrets over leaving King’s Landing for the sake of her sons’ peace of mind. The court is a cesspool of mean-spirited gossips, their constant stares and judgement would’ve only damaged her boys’ soft-hearted spirit. But her decision means that she’s been left out of the game for far too long.

Rhaenyra knows she has little allies at court, and no doubt Otto Hightower has taken advantage of her absence to further spread the whispers that condemn her sons for their dubious parentage, and her husband for being a senseless rake. All with the intention to expose her to the censure of the ones who deem her unfit to be Queen.

Vaemond’s claims will only cement the poor opinion they already have of her and her sons, and solely relying on the King is no longer an option. Rhaenyra knows her beloved, aging father has delegated most of his duties to his Hand as his health deteriorates. While she has no doubt that the King will ultimately back up Luke’s claim, she also knows there will be nothing impeding this hearing of Vaemond’s grievances if Otto has any say in the matter. The audience alone regardless of its verdict will be damaging enough for her sons’ reputation.

No, this is a matter that requires her to relinquish her misgivings for the sake of her boys.

And to gain the court’s favor, she needs Alicent on her side again.

The mere thought makes her feel like she’s swallowed a lemon. But holding onto her own past resentments will do nothing to aid her children or her own claims to the throne. However much she may dislike it, Rhaenyra must swallow her pride and sue for peace.

She can think of only one way to appeal to the Queen’s good graces and that is through her children. If there is one thing Alicent will put above all else is her children’s security and good standing.

But above Alicent’s decisions always ruled Otto’s final say. And what could possibly be enough to appease the Hightowers’ greed?

Rhaenyra had tried before, however unsuccessfully. Marrying Jace and Heleana would’ve united both sides of their family and put Hightower blood on the line of succession. It had been a good match, even better than the one she was considering now. But alas, it was not to be.

Perhaps it had been Otto’s ambitions that were set in seeing Aegon as successor. Or maybe it was Alicent, forever the upholder of duty and honor, and her blatant disgust over Jace’s rumored parentage that prevented her from tying her daughter to Rhaenyra’s chosen heir. She still can’t tell who is to blame for her failed attempts but the arrangement had been repudiated by the Queen.

Instead, her poor sister Helaena had been married to Aegon, which only serves to further raise her suspicions about Otto’s schemes. There was nothing to gain from that union, unless Aegon were to be raised as a contender to the throne.

Rhaenyra huffs. Leave it to Alicent to deem Aegon of all people a more suitable match for Helaena. Regardless, if the Queen’s reluctance to see an alliance between their families lied solely on Rhaenyra’s boys and their rumored illegitimacy, an advantageous match with a true-born noble should not raise such qualms.

Helaena is a lost choice, but Alicent still has two remaining sons yet to be spoken for; Aemond and Daeron, Rhaenyra’s youngest brothers and therefore two more possible threats to her own claim.

Rhaenyra has not seen her brothers in years, and she’s never been close to either, however she’s heard enough about each to get a faint picture of their personalities.

Daeron had been raised as a ward in Oldtown, known to be a charming and courteous young boy, handsome, clever and certainly gentler than his older brothers. He is also a dragonrider, which is an added asset. By all accounts, he would surely be the better choice, at least character wise. However his dragon Tessarion is still young, and he is a third son, the spare of the spare, standing to inherit nothing from the King. There’s little advantage to gain there, and all things considered, the boy doesn’t pose much of a threat to Rhaenyra and her own sons.

Aemond, on the other hand, is an entirely different matter.

Rhaenyra grimaces as she remembers the last time she saw her younger brother, the ugly incident at Driftmark still fresh in her mind. That had been the last nail on the coffin of her family’s already strained relationship with the Hightowers.

Resentment is a nasty thing to breed, and it wouldn’t be far-fetched to think that Aemond has been cultivating it carefully all these years, considering what happened. And while accounts of Daeron mark him as little more than a vague concern, Aemond’s say the complete opposite.

Granted, Rhaenyra knows very little about him, but what little she knows is not to be taken lightly. He’s said to have become quite the skilled swordsman and a fearsome dragonrider, although that last one was to be expected considering his mount. Aemond had not claimed just any dragon, but Vhagar, the largest and most powerful dragon in the world.

His dragon alone is danger enough, but coupled with his rumored unwavering deference to his mother and grandsire and his years long resentment towards Rhaenyra’s sons, Aemond was shaping up to be one formidable opponent.

Rhaenyra shudders to think about it. In the event of a war to break out between the two Targaryen branches, Vhagar could easily overpower any rival. None of the dragons claimed by Rhaenyra’s side are a match to the Queen of all Dragons, and much to the disadvantage of all, her rider is apparently a fierce and unforgiving young man.

Without a doubt, Aemond Targaryen is a threat that Rhaenyra needs neutralized.

And so he is her obvious choice.

She has no daughter of her own to offer as a possible bride, but her husband Daemon has three. The future of two of them she’d already discussed with him. Baela had been considered as Jace’s future wife, to appeal to Lord Corlys’ ambition to see his blood on the throne. Rhaena had been contemplated for Luke, to appease both Rhaenys and Corlys and have a true Velaryon on the throne of Driftmark.

Gaining the Velaryons’ allegiance is in Rhaenyra’s best interest. Not only would it bring a capable dragon to her side with Meleys, but it would also grant her the Sea Snake’s famed fleet. Both of which would be paramount in turning the tides in her favor should she need to fight for her birthright. Baela and Rhaena are her key to obtaining it, she cannot squander them elsewhere.

That leaves only Elaerys, Daemon’s estranged daughter.

A union between the girl and Aemond could prove to Rhaenyra’s advantage. There is nothing the Hightowers preach more than decorum, the perfect image of the poised and devout servants of the Faith that they present to the realm is their biggest advantage. Nobody doubts their suitability or their morals. The very reason they openly criticize Rhaenyra’s claim on the throne is the breach in tradition and the lack of respect she’s supposedly shown to the Crown.

They can fight Rhaenyra and her children all they want in the name of justice and tradition. But how would they look if they openly opposed an innocent, a direct member of their own family besides? If Otto Hightower stood against his own grandson’s wife?

Would Alicent throw caution to the wind and expose her blatant hypocrisy? Placing Aegon on the throne would mean war, but how could she preach him to be the rightful choice, the morally better choice , when they would be openly turning against Aemond’s bride, a Targaryen forever tied to Daemon by blood.

Even if they did, the blow to their prestigious image would be considerable, the condemnation they’d face if Aemond chose to forsake his own wife in a conflict against Elaerys’ direct family would not be insignificant. And there is more to war than battles in the field, Rhaenyra should know better than anyone. The good opinion of the rest of the noble families in Westeros matters just as much. She’s suffering the consequences of it just now.

So yes, Lady Elaerys would be an ideal choice. The one Rhaenyra would offer to Alicent to be her dearest son’s bride.

She feels her heart stutter in her chest.

You have no right! Daemon’s voice seethes in her head.

True, Rhaenyra has no right to bargain with any of Daemon’s daughters, and she’s not naive enough to believe that her husband would ever agree to this scheme. Surely Daemon would sooner feed his girls to Caraxes than see them tied to a Hightower. However, when push came to shove, out of the three girls, Daemon’s daughter by Rhea Royce would be the one he’d be less reluctant to part with.

Besides, Rhaenyra has always been of the firm belief that it is better to ask for forgiveness than permission.

Her father had already given his blessing, but convincing the King was the easiest part of her plans. Rhaenyra now would have to convince Alicent that this was in everyone’s best interest, and hope that she in turn would not be influenced by any objections from Otto.

Supposing that this proved successful, then she would deal with Daemon’s wrath afterwards. No need to alarm him when nothing has been set in stone yet.

Rhaenyra is shaken out of her thoughts when the grand doors to the Small Council room open, a Kingsguard announcing the Queen’s arrival.

Alicent strides in, in all her elegant, green glory, a massive seven pointed star necklace glittering above her chest, her wide brown eyes sparkling with suspicion.

Rhaenyra stands and grants her stepmother a small bow of her head. “Your Grace.”

“Princess,” Alicent returns the gesture, if a bit more gracefully. “To what do we owe the pleasure of this unexpected visit?”

“Please, Alicent.” Rhaenyra gestures to the seat next to her. “Let us do away with the formalities. I wish to speak frankly with you.”

Alicent’s gaze is shrouded in scrutiny as she inspects her for a moment. She must not have found what she’d been expecting for she sighs reluctantly before accepting a seat. “Very well. How may I help you then, Rhaenyra?”

A polite way of asking her what exactly are her intentions for this audience she’d requested with the Queen, Rhaenyra knows. She takes a deep breath before letting her lips curl into what she hopes is a pleasant smile.

“I have come to the conclusion that we have let this rift between our families exist for far too long,” Rhaenyra says. “I think it’s high time that we worked together toward bettering our relationships with one another.”

Alicent blinks, for a moment her face is devoid of any emotion. And then her eyes narrow minutely. “May I ask, what has brought this sudden change of heart? You haven’t shown any interest in doing so before.”

Rhaenyra swallows the sharp retort at the tip of her tongue, biting the inside of her cheek. It wouldn’t do to antagonize Alicent right now.

“I realize that I’ve played a part in the discord that has sowed between our families, and I’m sorry for any offense that I may have caused,” she says, trying for a conciliatory tone. “Believe me, I am trying to mend my mistakes.”

“Why?” Alicent tilts her head, skepticism clear in her voice. “Why now precisely?”

Rhaenyra takes a measured breath. “It is my father’s dearest wish to see both sides of his family finally at peace with one another.” Her pleasant expression drops, replaced by a stiff, sad smile. “I will not delude myself into believing his health is to get any better. It is my duty as his chosen heir to keep the peace between us and hopefully grant him the pleasure of seeing us come together in harmony before…”

She lets the sentence hang, unwilling to give voice to such a dreadful thought.

“Peace?” Alicent scoffs, shaking her head in disbelief. “Do you not think it is a little too late for that? The grievances committed cannot be undone. Or were they so insignificant to you, you have already forgotten all about it?”

Rhaenyra stiffens, her temper flaring under her carefully controlled facade. If there were grievances they were given both ways, but she controls herself. “Of course I have not forgotten, and like I said I am sorry for—“

“Sorry? After all these years you are sorry now?” Alicent’s lips press into a thin line. “My son was permanently maimed by yours, with little to no consequence for his barbaric actions. And now you want to talk about peace?”

“It was indeed a dreadful accident from a fight between children, and I assure you Luke was very remorseful over it,“ Rhaenyra tries to appease, but Alicent does not let her finish.

She leans forward, eyes ablaze with barely tempered fury, and Rhaenyra is reminded of the half-crazed look in her gaze that night in Driftmark.

“Remorse will not bring Aemond’s eye back, will it?” Alicent spats, voice a harsh hiss. She seems to catch herself and takes a deep, controlled breath, closing her eyes until her cool and collected mask slips back into her face. “In any case, the Gods command me to be merciful and remain respectful toward you and your family. You need not worry, Rhaenyra, you can expect perfect civility from us. However I do find that asking for harmony between us is frankly absurd after everything that’s happened.”

Rhaenyra lets out a loud huff, her patience hanging by a thread. “That is precisely why I am here, Alicent, to try to make it up to you and especially to Aemond.”

That gives Alicent pause, and Rhaenyra seizes the moment to continue without interruption. “I know it won’t erase what happened that night, but I hope it can be a start. I also realize that this is far from the only issue keeping our family at odds but perhaps by mending this particular rift we can work on starting anew.”

Alicent’s eyes narrow in evident suspicion. “What are you proposing?”

“A union. A marriage,” Rhaenyra says, hoping her next words will not make Alicent leave the room before she’s finished explaining. “Between Aemond and Daemon’s daughter, Elaerys.”

A moment of silence stretches between them, so tense one could hear a pin drop. And then Alicent releases an uncharacteristically unladylike, loud breath that could’ve been a derisive laugh.

“Why would I want to pair my son with Daemon’s wild child? One that not even he seems to want?”

Rhaenyra suppresses a grimace. “I’d say the Lady of Runestone would be an advantageous match.”

“My son is a Prince of the Realm.” Alicent shakes her head. “He could have any lady in the Seven Kingdoms much more suitable for him.” She waves a dismissive hand, as if the mere idea is beneath her. “My father has plans to make arrangements with some of the liege lords of the Great Houses. One of their daughters would be a far better fit for Aemond.”

“Your son is a second son,” Rhaenyra reminds her with measured mildness. “Most of those lords already have male heirs in line to inherit, their daughters will only have their dowry to offer.”

She lets the information sink in for a moment before she continues.

“Elaerys is the Lady of Runestone in her own right, her mother’s only heir. Any son she may have will immediately succeed her. Besides,” Rhaenyra crosses her hands over the table. “She is a Targaryen, the Blood of the Dragon runs through her veins. A bride of Valyrian descent is invaluable to any Targaryen, especially one who is a dragonrider as well, and quite the skilled one at that from what Daemon is told.”

When she senses a hint of hesitancy from Alicent, Rhaenyra goes for the kill. “For once think about what would be better for your son instead of what would better please your father, Alicent.” She says with firm conviction. “Elaerys is a far more suitable bride for Aemond. With her, he would have a home to call his own, a worthy inheritance to give to his sons, and the higher chance to produce future dragonriders for House Targaryen. What more could he possibly ask for?”

Something in her earnest speech must have caught Alicent’s attention, for her gaze becomes sharper and shrewd as she finally speaks. “And if this is such an advantageous match, what could my son bring to the union that would benefit the lady in question?”

That gives Rhaenyra pause. It seems Alicent is trying to decipher the catch in this seemingly flawless proposition.

She doesn’t let it faze her for long though.

“Protection,” Rhaenyra answers without missing a beat. “You and I both know the challenges a woman faces when she is made heir of anything worth something. With Aemond as her husband and Vhagar in the vicinity, who would dare try to take Runestone from her?”

“The lady Elaerys has a dragon of her own,” Alicent counters. “I find it hard to believe that she would need further protection.”

Rhaenyra shakes her head, exasperated. “Her dragon is still young, it wouldn’t be enough protection against an army, if such were to be the threat.”

“And you expect me to believe that Daemon is alright with this union?” Alicent quirks an eyebrow.

Rhaenyra sighs. “Leave Daemon to me, he will come to see reason and realize that a union between our families is in all of our best interest,” She tries to reassure. “Besides, I’ve already asked Father and he has given his blessing.”

Something in Alicent’s face changes within seconds at this revelation, and her eyes turn ice cold. “You went behind my back and asked for the King’s permission to marry off my son before asking for my consent ?”

Rhaenyra feels like she’s lost her footing and she scrambles for a good enough reason to give. “We both know how feeble my Father’s will is. You’ve managed to convince him to change his mind about such matters before. I’m sure if you are truly against the match you’ll find a way to stop it.”

“You are most insistent upon this union,” Alicent wonders out loud, head tilting to the side. “Why? What could you possibly gain from it?”

“I already told you—“

“I want the truth, Rhaenyra,” Alicent interrupts, face hardened and losing all semblance of feigned politeness. “You said you wanted to speak frankly, after all. So tell me, what do you truly want from this?”

Rhaenyra holds the Queen’s intense stare for a moment, locking into a battle of wills. She could feign cluelessness and declare Alicent a paranoid shrew for distrusting such a blatant offer of goodwill. But for all her faults, Alicent is not stupid, and that would only lose Rhaenyra any hopes of securing her purpose.

Finally, Rhaenyra concedes. “I want peace. Father is right, this constant infighting must cease. The House of the Dragon cannot stand strong with us fighting each other at every turn.” She shoots Alicent pointed look. “I think we can be in agreement with this, I do not wish to see the realm plunged into a senseless war.”

This has its desired effect, and Alicent averts her gaze, fiddling with her fingers beneath the table, lips pressed into a thin line. Rhaenyra takes this for the small triumph it is.

“War is what will follow if we do not tread carefully now, you know this.” She can’t help but get rid of all subtlety. She is a dragon after all, and when threatened she will answer back accordingly. So she makes sure Alicent is aware of it. “Your father may have the support of this court, but my claim is supported by some of the most powerful Houses of Westeros, and I have the dragons to fight for it should it become necessary.”

Rhaenyra has known Alicent for most of her life, she can tell the exact moment her words finally hit where they make the most damage in the subtle way Alicent starts scratching at her fingernails. She would feel bad if the situation were different, however she needs Alicent to fear her now, needs her to know; this is a war the Hightowers will not win without great cost.

“But of course, such dreadful talk is not necessary,” Rhaenyra relents after a tense moment, letting her peaceful mask slip back on. “We must stand united, and what a better way to start mending our broken relationships than this marriage?”

Alicent purses her lips, still looking reluctant. She murmurs, like she’s trying to convince herself, “My son deserves a suitable wife, dutiful and respectable. Daemon’s daughter seems like a willful and uncouth young woman, not at all what an appropriate lady ought to be.”

Rhaenyra suppresses a laugh, but an amused smirk still makes its way to her lips.

“Why? Because her pastimes are not exactly ladylike? Please, Alicent.” She scoffs, waving her hand in a dismissive gesture. “The girl is not half as wild as you make her out to be. You will find that to your relief she was raised in the Vale, away from any influence Daemon might have had on her education. Besides, I am sure that her temperament and your son’s will make for a good match. Aemond seems like someone who would benefit from a strong-minded woman at his side.”

Preferably one able to stand and control his mercurial moods , but she’s not about to voice that thought.

Alicent ponders this for a long moment, and finally, after a moment of silence that stretches far too long for Rhaenyra’s liking, she sighs with great reluctance.

“Very well, it seems like a good enough arrangement. However,” she halts before Rhaenyra can get her hopes up. “I would like some time to deliberate before I give my final answer.”

It takes her quite an effort to stop her eyes from rolling, but Rhaenyra gives her a single nod. “Would a day suffice? I will need an answer before I return to Dragonstone and I cannot be gone for long.”

Alicent hesitates for a moment before nodding. “Well then, you shall have my answer tomorrow.”

Which is about as good an outcome as Rhaenyra could have expected from this conversation.

“I do hope we can all be united once again on such a joyous occasion as a wedding soon enough.”

Alicent fumes silently as she recalls Rhaenyra’s parting words, striding through the hallways of the Red Keep like a furious gale.

She’s not showing her usual grace. For once she doesn’t care.

How dare she?! How dare she come talking about peace and harmony when she’s the first one to blame for all this discord and contempt between their family?

Rhaenyra had only one most important job to do as the King’s chosen heir if she expected the realm to accept her as Queen; keep her honor and her image intact. Instead what did she keep doing all these years? Flaunting her blatant disregard for decorum and grace, showing off how much she could get away with without the King’s censure as if it were a game for her personal pleasure.

She kept spitting in the face of the ancient old traditions that keep the realm’s order, parading her bastard sons around court without shame, like they were all blind to the boys’ features very clearly favoring the Strongs over the Velaryons. Letting her kids run amuck, slashing people’s faces open without consequences. Marrying that rogue Daemon barely weeks after Ser Laenor’s suspicious murder.

By all accounts, an unsuitable woman to wield the power of a Queen. And now she expects Alicent to aid her in her quest for peace?

After all these years that Alicent and her children have had to endure of Viserys’ disgraceful treatment, all the time she has had to bear the King’s blatant disregard for them with her head held high while he had eyes for no one but his precious first daughter, who couldn’t be bothered to act with even a smidge of grace.

Alicent has lost count of all the things she’s had to give up for this; her youth, her body, her dreams, her dearest childhood friend . All of this she’s sacrificed without complaint, all to please her father, to do her duty to the realm and give the King the sons he needed to keep the peace within the Seven Kingdoms.

And all for what? For the King to cast those sons aside and keep his daughter as heir.

And even after all this Alicent would’ve had little complaints, had Rhaenyra only shown even the slightest bit of decency and regard for her position as Crown Princess.

Instead, she means to put her bastard son in the line of succession. Rhaenyra has made no secret of her intentions to make Jacaerys her future heir. A baseborn boy in the Iron Throne, while Alicent’s own legitimate sons were pushed aside like trash, destined to depend on their sister’s mercy and meant to inherit nothing.

Well, not all of them.

Alicent thinks about Rhaenyra’s offer and bites her lips. If she accepts, at least Aemond would have something to give to his future children. The Princess was right, she could not deny that it was an advantageous match.

All that would be required would be for Alicent and her children to bend the knee and give up the throne peacefully over to Rhaenyra while keeping a hypocritical mask of harmony and goodwill.

Alicent can already feel her nail beds breaking as she makes her way to the Tower of the Hand, thinking about Rhaenyra’s less than subtle threat.

The warning was clear; either keep the peace, accept this offer of uniting their families and stop all pretense of Aegon taking the throne, or face Rhaenyra and her dragons.

And Alicent is not completely confident that the Greens would come out victorious in such a fight.

Still, the mere thought of her beloved son, the most dutiful and worthy of her children, forever tied to Daemon Targaryen’s brood of all people… it makes her want to weep in horror.

Alicent voices all of these misgivings that come with Rhaenyra’s proposition once she makes it to the Hand’s chambers.

Her father barely pauses in his writing over the scroll he’s working on, looking at her with little interest.

“I do not think we should concern ourselves with this,” Otto says, dismissively. “Aemond is our greatest asset, he should not be wasted in an unsuitable match.” He continues with his writing like this doesn’t concern him at all. “He would be better paired with a bride that would benefit us more. Lord Borros Baratheon has four unmarried daughters, a union with one of them would bring the allegiance of a Lord Paramount, and the might of the Stormlanders’ bannermen.”

Otto finishes his letter and pours wax over the parchment. “A Lannister on the other hand, would be greatly beneficial for our coffers. Funding a war is no little expense.”

Alicent fidgets in her place. “Must we invariably think about a war?”

Otto shoots her a reprimanding look. “You are no longer a naive young girl, daughter. I would think you’d know better after witnessing the savagery that Rhaenyra’s sons are capable of. If you expect your sons to be safe, a war is inevitable.”

Alicent winces internally. In the dim afternoon light that filters through her father’s chambers, his features look even more severe than usual.

“She said she’s offering this as compensation, for Aemond,” she argues halfheartedly. “Mayhaps it would be wise to consider it. At the very least, it would mean one less dragon in Rhaenyra’s grasp to worry about.”

“A young dragon, like all the others on her side,” Otto brushes off with a wave of his hand. “No match for Vhagar.”

“We don’t yet know how much time we might have before the Stranger takes the King, hopefully long if the Gods are good,” Alicent paces, a bit fretful, Rhaenyra’s warning echoing in her mind. “Enough time, perhaps, for Rhaenyra’s dragons to grow and become a bigger threat. Shouldn’t we at least consider this as a peace offering?”

“And how exactly would this stop a conflict?” Otto scoffs. “If we intend to put Aegon on the throne regardless, do you truly expect this would halt Rhaenyra or Daemon answering with war?”

“Elaerys would be Aemond’s wife, duty-bound to him. Surely not even Daemon would stoop so low as to publicly denounce his own daughter…” Alicent mutters.

“You forget, Alicent, the rumors regarding the girl’s own mother and the suspicious circumstances of her passing?” Otto asks, raising an eyebrow. “Many believe Daemon to be behind the late Lady Royce’s accident. What makes you think he wouldn’t stand against his daughter if he was capable of killing his own wife?”

Alicent worries her lip between her teeth. “Perhaps… if they were to have a child…”

She’s grasping at straws, she knows. But the thought of a war involving dragons is enough to make her heart squeeze in her chest and her breath shorten. Alicent knows Daemon would kill her sons without a second thought if it meant keeping his precious throne, but surely Rhaenyra wouldn’t be so cruel…

If this union were to happen, neither Aemond nor Elaerys could possibly side against the other with a child in common, could they? Would Rhaenyra be so heartless as to tear a young family down in the name of her throne? What image would it give to the rest of the realm, if her husband stood against his own daughter and grandchild? Surely they’d think them Maegor the Cruel come again, proving the unsuitability of their reign.

Otto seems to have arrived to the same conclusion, and his previously uninterested eyes sparkle with newfound consideration.

“Hmm, perhaps you are onto something. A male heir would secure Runestone and its bannermen.” He rubs his chin thoughtfully. “And House Royce is a powerful family in the Vale. Not one of the warden Houses but it could possibly bring in the allegiance of House Arryn, their closest allies.”

Alicent raises a dubious eyebrow. “Wouldn’t they more likely back Rhaenyra’s claim? She has Arryn blood after all.”

“The Lady of the Vale is not fond of Daemon at all,” Otto argues. “She was a close friend of Lady Rhea. The Royces on the other hand despise Daemon after all his shameless slights. Perhaps with enough incentive they could both become powerful allies to our cause. A direct heir would be incitement enough, I’d wager.”

Alicent dislikes the spark that she glimpses in her father’s keen eyes.

“I stand corrected, daughter. You are right, this union might be more beneficial than I initially thought.” A rare, satisfied smirk graces Otto’s thin lips. “The Knights of the Vale would be as much of a valuable acquisition as the Stormlands’ bannermen, perhaps even more so, and adding another dragonrider to our forces is indeed, in our best interest.”

Alicent resists the urge to huff and instead keeps picking at her nail beds. Her father keeps thinking about armies and war instead of considering even for a second how to better halt the Blacks’ impulses to fight and hand over the throne peacefully.

“What makes you think Daemon’s daughter would ride her dragon to battle against her own father or the rest of her family?”

It’s one thing for Elaerys to be obliged to defer to her husband and refrain from actively opposing him. In Alicent’s best hopes, the young woman would remain neutral in the conflict, one less dragon to fight. But to think that she would actually take action against her own father…

“Daemon barely even acknowledges her as his daughter,” Otto differs. “What kind of loyalty would she have for an absent father who’s rumored to have murdered her mother? If Aemond plays his cards right, we might even gain the girl’s allegiance.”

These schemes were not exactly what Alicent had in mind. She worries that her notions of peace might have inspired her father to further plot a war that could only bring bloodshed in its wake, now actively involving her son in all of it.

“What are you suggesting, Father? What will you have Aemond do?”

“Nothing more than what he has always done. You have raised him well after all.” Otto seals the scroll he’d previously been working on, letting Alicent know he considers the matter finished. “Aemond will do his duty to his family and he shall secure his brother’s throne, like he’s always been meant to do. Let us play into Rhaenyra’s whims with this marriage, let her believe she has the upper hand. Meanwhile, your son shall win Daemon’s daughter’s trust.”

Otto’s statement brooks no argument and Alicent knows her father well enough to know he will not be dissuaded from his decision. However, she can’t help but raise her own concerns.

“The girl does not seem particularly demure nor docile,” she says dubiously.

“Then it might prove an entertaining challenge for Aemond,” Otto answers simply. “In any case, I cannot imagine he’d be well pleased with a dimwitted bride.”

He stands and turns to leave, apparently putting an end to their conversation without further comment.

Alicent sighs. She’s not entirely sure this is the best outcome, but if it keeps her children safe and their positions secure, then what other choice does she have? Perhaps in time, she can move her own influences to prevent the war already brewing in her father’s eyes.

But for now, she must accept the fact that her son has just become another piece in her father’s schemes to win the Iron Throne.

Chapter Text

Bite my tongue, bide my time

Wearing a warning sign 

Wait till the world is mine ~ you should see me in a crown

“Have you completely lost your mind, Rhaenyra?!” 

The Chamber of the Painted Table echoes with the sound of Daemon’s agitated voice, and Rhaenyra suppresses a sigh as he slams a fist against the Table. “You must have, if you thought I would ever agree to tying any of my children to Hightower scum!”

“If I had waited for your consent we wouldn’t have gotten anywhere. The longer we hesitate the more time we give them to harden their influence over the court,” Rhaenyra says, telling herself for the thousandth time this reaction, if irksome, was entirely expected. “I’ve already explained my reasons—“ 

“I care little about your faulty reasonings,” Daemon spats, his eyes ablaze. “Over my dead body will I see my own daughter married to a Hightower, you hear me?” 

Rhaenyra purses her lips, but lets Daemon rage as he paces before the lit hearth like a caged dragon. His mood matches the storm raging outside, the winds rattling against the castle’s walls with cold fury. 

“Elaerys’ hand can grant us invaluable alliances. She should be married to a powerful lord that could secure us an army, not given to the enemy on a silver platter!” Daemon says, running a hand through his face. “Besides, what could the One-Eyed cunt provide that could benefit us?”

Rhaenyra chooses to ignore the insult, letting out a controlled breath through her nose. 

“A better chance of neutrality,” she answers simply, not appreciating Daemon’s derisive snort. “You know what Aemond represents to us. If left unchecked, he’s shaping up to become one of our biggest threats.”

“He will be a threat regardless.” 

“He will be less of a menace if he is suitably leashed, and if bound to Elaerys he cannot strike freely, not without thinking twice,” Rhaenyra insists. “I know Alicent, I know she doesn’t want a war anymore than I do.” 

“You see, this is your problem, Rhaenyra.” Daemon’s lips curl into a mocking smirk, pointing a finger. “Your refusal to let go of your long-dead friendship with Alicent and start seeing her as a threat will be your biggest mistake, mark my words.” 

“She’s agreed to the betrothal,” Rhaenyra reveals, making Daemon pause in his restless pacing. “This marriage can finally unite our family once and for all.” 

“All the more reason to doubt its suitability,” Daemon scoffs. “If Alicent agreed, best believe she first consulted it with Otto, and you can bet that scheming old weasel has already worked out how he will use this to benefit his own cause.” 

Rhaenyra rolls her eyes. “Then let him think he has the upper hand, Elaerys is your daughter, your blood. I find it hard to believe she would be easily manipulated by the likes of Otto. Besides,” she steps closer to the fireplace, trying to catch Daemon’s flinty gaze, “a war suits them as ill as it would suit us. Are you so ready to believe everyone is as eager for bloodshed as you are?” 

“I’m willing to believe Otto Hightower capable of anything to see his blood on the throne,” Daemon returns, the light of the candles reflecting on his purple eyes, making them glint dangerously. “My brother and you are the only ones seemingly unaware of the depths of his greed.” 

“I am perfectly aware of the man’s ambitions, Daemon. But I am not willing to let this conflict between our families fester until war is inevitable!” Rhaenyra throws her hands up in exasperation. 

“And you think marrying my daughter to that Hightower cur will stop him from siding with his own family and backing his brother’s claim on the throne?” A small laugh of disbelief escapes him, as if the mere idea is ludicrous. 

“Aemond is a Targaryen,” Rhaenyra reminds him. “And if there’s one redeeming quality about him is that he’s said to be dutiful to a fault. He’d have an obligation to his wife, he can hardly oppose his own lady without being condemned for it.” 

Daemon rolls his eyes. “You truly believe that this would weigh more to him than any revenge he might get to extract against your sons? Have you forgotten Luke took his eye?” 

Rhaenyra suppresses a grimace. 

“Alicent loves to praise his obedience. He may long for revenge but I don’t think he would act without his mother’s leave, and there’s little Alicent values more than decorum and duty.” She sighs heavily, feeling suddenly exhausted. “She will not have her family’s image tarnished in the eyes of society by having Aemond openly forsake his own wife in a conflict.” 

Daemon still looks at her with marked skepticism, and Rhaenyra knows she’ll have to change tactics. 

“Father seems to think the arrangement a great idea, and an opportunity to win House Royce’s allegiance back, get them closer to the Crown again.” 

“Of course he would,” Daemon mutters with a dark chuckle. “You think I give a fuck about what the King might have to say? The only one who has any right to have an opinion on this matter is me. Neither of you get to barter my daughter’s hand in marriage without my consent.” The look he sends her could freeze the Seven Hells over. “She is not your piece to play.” 

But if Rhaenyra had ever been intimidated by Daemon’s temper she would have never married him. She lifts her chin, ready for the challenge. “No, you’re right she isn’t mine, she’s the realm’s. Just like you and I were once, we are all duty-bound to the Crown, to serve to its best interest, not to cater to our own ambitions.” 

She lets her eyes soften. “But she is your daughter, and you have the final say over such decisions. Which is why I am asking for you to consider it,” Rhaenyra says, not caring to hide her almost imploring tone, stepping closer to take one of his hands in hers. “Think about what is best for all of us.” 

Daemon stills, but says nothing at all, his eyes still sparkling with discontent. Rhaenyra doesn’t let this dissuade her. She means to appeal to her husband’s pride in their Targaryen legacy, and presses Aemond’s suitability by reminding Daemon of his powerful dragonrider status, an ability that his potential children with Elaerys would likely inherit.  

“Wouldn’t you like that for your grandchildren, for them to do their family proud and claim dragons of their own? Two dragonriding parents would almost certainly secure that,” Rhaenyra puts forth the idea, already glimpsing that better future at their grasp. “Dragons that could make House Targaryen stand stronger, dragons to come to our side.” 

“Neither of them have pure Targaryen blood,” Daemon scoffs, taking a step back from her. “If that was my concern, I’d sooner pair Elaerys with our own sons. Aegon or Viserys would be a better fit.” 

“There’s little to gain from such a union,” Rhaenyra murmurs, more to herself than to him. She shakes her head before pressing the matter. “I would think more about your own experience. No matter how much of a rogue the realm might think you are, you know what you’re capable of to protect your own children. You think a war that can tear the realm apart is the best future for them?” 

She notices something subtle shift in his gaze, something in his mien softens just slightly, and gives him a meaningful glance. 

“Perhaps fatherhood might have a similar effect on Aemond, could be good to tame his more recklessly fierce tendencies. And if his children were sired with Elaerys, would he really tear apart his own family for a senseless war?” Daemon seems to be thinking about it, and Rhaenyra lifts her shoulders in a small shrug. “And who knows, perhaps if affection were to blossom between them…” 

Daemon lets out a scornful laugh. 

“Come now, Rhaenyra, you’re sounding more like my dreamer of a brother than ever before.” Daemon shakes his head, letting his stare harden. “Love is for folktales, it has no place in war.” 

However, something in her speech must have made him reflect, for he tilts his head in a conceding nod. “But you are correct, all men have a weakness. Perhaps my daughter might be up to the task of exploiting it.” He turns his reflective stare towards the hearth, the light of the fire casting deep shadows over his face. “Besides, with us remaining here in Dragonstone, we are painfully out of the loop on the happenings in court and therefore completely blind to Otto’s schemes.” 

Rhaenyra lifts a dubious eyebrow. “What is that supposed to mean?”

There’s a tense moment of silence before Daemon turns his stare back to her, a small smirk playing on his lips. “Nothing to concern yourself with, wife. Leave it up to me, I will take care of this matter accordingly.” 

He makes toward the door as though the conversation is finished, but Rhaenyra stands in his way. “Wait, what are you intending to do?” 

“Wasn’t it my consent that you wanted?” Daemon asks with an exaggerated innocent look, as though she had just asked the most confusing question. “Well, be content, Rhaenyra. Now you have it.” 

Rhaenyra is left reeling for a moment before she regains her bearings, noticing that Daemon has sidestepped her and continued on his way towards the grand doors. “What is your plan, then?” 

“Worry not, you can keep your naive illusions of peace,” Daemon says without pausing, an edge of derision in his sharp words. “I will take care of the rest. But when war inevitably comes knocking on our door, it shall not take us unprepared.” 

When Daemon finally exits the Painted Table Chamber, Rhaenyra realizes she might have gotten more than she bargained for out of him. It’s not a comforting thought at all. 

Aemond grunts as Criston’s morningstar smashes against his shield, missing his head by mere inches. He has successfully blocked the attack, but his footwork is not at its finest and he stumbles slightly with the force of the blow, barely catching himself in time to block the next assault. 

He’s distracted today, he is aware. Normally he would be able to land more offensive blows than merely blocking Criston’s. But when the heat of his training would usually help to soothe his mind and narrow it to the quiet intense focus of the fight, today it’s not working in his favor. 

Lately, Aemond has been the unfortunate receptor of Otto Hightower’s keen gaze. He’s been feeling his grandsire’s cunning eyes hovering over him with unexpected interest in the past few days. It wouldn’t usually faze him, but this coupled with his mother’s constant frazzled state can mean nothing good. 

He’s caught the Queen and the Hand more than once whispering between each other before everyone gathers for family dinners, evidently plotting something they have yet to reveal to the rest of them. And Aemond has a foreboding feeling about this. 

It’s far from the first time Alicent and Otto have united their artful minds towards similar end goals, but when they do it’s usually concerning the matter of the King’s succession. 

And it never means anything good for Viserys’ younger children. 

The constant muttered bickering between the older Hightowers typically means his grandsire wants something done, and his mother is fretting about the consequences. The last time Aemond had witnessed this odd behavior taking place, Helaena had been deemed old enough to marry Aegon. 

His sister had been barely four-and-ten when she’d given birth to her twins, and Mother had bitten her nails raw during the entirety of Helaena’s pregnancy. 

Aemond still bristles thinking about it;  innocent Helaena forever shackled to his wastrel of a brother, forced to bear his children when she’d barely been more than a child herself, while his sleazy brother can’t even be bothered to be more discreet in the way he constantly disgraces his sister-wife. 

He can only hope Helaena remains mostly unaware of her own misfortune, living inside her own mind more often than not as she’s always done. 

Yes, every time Otto Hightower plots, Alicent and her children suffer the consequences; Aegon and Helaena’s engagement, Daeron’s removal to Oldtown, and now that he’s a man grown Aemond suspects even his own parent’s stale marriage had been a direct product of his grandsire’s schemes. 

But so far, Aemond has escaped being a direct subject of his grandsire’s ploys. Being the second son means he’s mostly overlooked, and he makes it a point to avoid the older man’s attention by remaining the ever dutiful and responsible son, a complete opposite to Aegon’s derelict ways. And while his older brother remains the ever constant subject of their grandfather’s wrath and harsh criticism, he’s mostly ignored, which honestly suits Aemond just fine if having Otto’s attention can only mean facing harrowing consequences. 

That is… until now. 

He’s been ruminating over this far too much to concentrate properly on his training, and when Criston’s next offensive move comes from his blind side, Aemond spins to avoid the blow a second too late. His foot catches  and he loses his balance, Criston easily overpowering him and finally making him lose his grip over his sword. 

“Yield.” 

With one knee planted on the ground, his sword lying somewhere out of reach and Criston’s morningstar directly pointed at him, Aemond has no choice but to do so, jaw clenched tight in displeasure. 

“Everything alright, my Prince?” Criston asks, extending a hand to help him to his feet. 

Aemond ignores the offered help and gracefully stands on his own with a dismissive wave. “I’m fine, Cole.” 

“Perhaps it would be best to conclude for today.” 

Aemond picks up his shield and shoots Criston an exasperated look. “I said I’m fine .” 

But the knight merely nods towards somewhere over Aemond’s shoulder. 

When Aemond turns he’s met by the sight of a frazzled-looking page hastily making his way towards the training yard. 

Aemond bites his lip, sighing through his nose. He doesn’t need to guess what is about to happen. 

“My Prince,” the page bows once he’s come close enough. “Her Grace, the Queen requests your presence in her solar.” 

Aemond quirks an eyebrow. “Now?” 

The pitiful-looking man looks pained as he answers. “Now, my Prince.” 

He shoots Criston a questioning glance, but his mother’s sworn shield merely gives him a blank look. If he’s aware of what the Queen may want he’s not about to disclose it. 

“Very well,” Aemond mutters. 

It seems he will not have to wait much longer for his mother’s plans to be revealed, and like he’d feared, they probably have something to do with him. 

He makes a quick stop by his rooms to freshen up and change out of his training leathers into something more appropriate, because Gods forbid the Queen ever catches her son parading around the halls of Maegor’s Holdfast looking anything but perfectly presentable. 

When he finally makes it to the Queen’s personal chambers he stops before the doors, taking a deep breath that does little to truly harden his inner conflict into some semblance of complete indifference, before stepping into the room and being promptly announced by a Kingsguard. 

Alicent’s personal solar is bathed in warm sunlight coming from the windows, making the usually sober decor appear a bit more inviting. His mother is seated by the unlit fireplace, posture perfectly straight against the back of the upholstered settee, which almost blends perfectly with her emerald dress, the perfect picture of poise and grace. She sends him a welcoming smile as soon as he enters, but Aemond’s attention is soon turned to the dark shadow lingering in the corner. Otto Hightower’s imposing figure stands by the window, looking out into the distance like a towering sentinel. 

Aemond stiffens, the sudden suspicion that he’s stepping into a trap making his hackles rise instinctively. He hates Otto’s unexpected presence here, making him feel like he’s about to face trial, the crimes he stands accused of yet to be revealed. 

“Aemond, how good of you to show so promptly.” Alicent’s cheeks dimple, gesturing invitingly toward the armchair across from her. “How was your training?” 

Cut short, unproductive, could have gone much better… Aemond thinks, but none of those answers would suit his mother, who rarely even asks about it, so he merely hums noncommittally as he accepts the seat offered to him. “It was alright.” 

“I’m glad to hear it.” Alicent nods pleasantly. “I’m sorry if we interrupted your usual schedule, but there is something quite important that needs to be discussed and cannot wait any longer.” 

Aemond racks his brain for answers on whatever could be the matter; his father’s health, Helaena’s constant scattered moods, Daeron’s doings in Oldtown… perhaps his mother has found out about Aegon’s latest distasteful exploits in Flea Bottom and they are about to interrogate him on his knowledge about it. 

It is Otto who finally answers his silent questions. 

“Vaemond Velaryon has requested an audience with the King regarding Lord Corlys’ succession.” His grandsire informs, completely nonplussed as he continues. “He plans to contest Lucerys’ claim over Driftmark.” 

Aemond’s brow rises in mild surprise, the corners of his lips lifting into a small sardonic smirk. “Well, he seems to be the only one in his family with functioning eyesight.” 

“Aemond!” His mother scolds, while his grandsire’s eyes flash with a spark of censure. 

“I do hope, grandson, that you do not let such words leave this room.” Otto turns away from the window and comes closer to where they sit, the light from outside a contrasting sunny backdrop to his dark attire. “You know how the King dislikes such talk.” 

Aemond bites back a scoff. He already lost an eye over voicing the obvious, what more could they do to him? Take his tongue? He’d like to see them try. 

“In any case,” Otto continues, “this audience shall prove beneficial to us.” 

“How so?” Aemond asks with no little cynicism. “I cannot imagine the King will rule in his favor. He’d have to declare Rhaenyra’s sons illegitimate for that.” 

His father would sooner take his other eye than give credit to the fact that the Strong boys were, much too obviously, bastards. He’d proven that long ago. Aemond is under no illusions that to his father, Rhaenyra is not the only one who matters out of all his children. He’d never jeopardize her claim on the throne. 

“True, it is unlikely that Vaemond’s grievances will be acknowledged by the King,” Otto concedes with a nod. “However, the audience will give even more credit to the rumors already rampant around court. If Vaemond Velaryon is bold enough to question Lucerys’ legitimacy directly to the King, soon enough others will follow. It is a matter of time before the lords of Westeros further question the parentage of Rhaenyra’s sons allegedly fathered by Ser Laenor, and how suitable it is for a bastard to be the future heir to the Iron Throne.” 

Aemond thinks it a bit redundant to rely on rumors to change the outcome of the King’s decision to place Rhaenyra on the throne. Up until now, they have served them little. But it’s not like his opinion matters, so he lets his grandsire continue without interruption. 

“It seems the Princess has come to the same conclusions, and this has spooked her into action.” Otto comes to stand directly behind where Alicent sits. “She is now scrambling for allies to come to her aid.”

While the statement does give him a spark of vindictive satisfaction, Aemond tilts his head, unsure of how this concerns him. It is his mother who answers his unspoken questions. 

“Rhaenyra has proposed an alliance between our families.” 

This does manage to surprise him, and he frowns in confusion. “Whatever for?” 

“To have House Targaryen stand strong and present a united front against common enemies. A union for peace.” His mother shakes her head, looking unsure. “Or so she says.” 

Aemond presses his lips against a scornful sneer. Peace , he wants to snarl. After what Rhaenyra’s little runt did to him without consequence, and she dares ask for peace? The only thing Aemond would accept to appease his need for revenge would be Luke’s eye as payment for the one he took. And he doubts his half-sister would stand for that. 

However, if they’re informing him about this it can only be because they’re considering it. He can only stare in quiet, affronted disbelief, letting his anger simmer into embers that could spark at any second depending on how this little impromptu meeting turns out. 

“And what does this ‘alliance’ entail?” Aemond asks with silent derision. “Does this mean Aegon will no longer be put forward as the rightful heir?”  

“Of course he will be,” Otto says firmly, his tone not open for debate. “Aegon is the rightful heir by law, the more suitable choice and what is best for the realm.” 

It takes an extraordinary effort for Aemond not to roll his eye. The Seven Hells would have to freeze over for anyone in their right mind to consider Aegon of all people suitable for the throne. His own brother has no regard for it. More likely, Otto would think himself more suitable to be a direct influence over the throne, an advantage he wouldn’t have with Daemon being King Consort. 

Aegon is more easily bendable, of course his grandsire would think him better suited, even if he’d make for a frankly mediocre King at best, at least in Aemond’s opinion. But Otto will never be dissuaded from his designs and so Aemond cannot refute him. He limits himself to lifting a dubious eyebrow, prompting his grandsire to continue. 

“Nevertheless, Princess Rhaenyra’s proposal could prove beneficial to our cause in the future.” Otto pins him with a pointed stare. “And she has proposed an advantageous match that we can hardly ignore.” 

Aemond will not squirm under his grandsire’s intense gaze, it would be beneath him. Instead he lifts his chin, waiting for the next blow. “A match?” 

“A marriage,” Alicent answers, her attempt at a smile looking more like a grimace. “To unite our families.” 

Aemond is no idiot. If they have summoned him here it can only mean that he is to be one half chosen for this marriage. But who is to be his bride? Rhaenyra has no daughters to pair him with, but her husband Daemon has plenty. 

He recoils at the mere thought of it; Daemon’s twins, Baela and Rhaena, the ones who’d accused him of stealing Vhagar, the main instigators of the fight that lost him his eye. Aemond would rather feed himself to his uncle’s dragon than bear the humiliation of being forever tied to one of them, the ones responsible for his dreadful misfortune. 

But before he can voice his vehement reluctance, his mother speaks. 

“Rhaenyra has proposed a union between you and your cousin, Daemon’s firstborn daughter, the Lady Elaerys of Runestone.” 

That does put a halt to Aemond’s spiraling thoughts. Lady Elaerys… Aemond had scarcely ever even thought about the eldest of Daemon’s daughters. Indeed he had all but forgotten her existence, as she was estranged from her father and therefore the rest of the Targaryens since birth. 

Aemond knows next to nothing about the girl, other than the fact that Daemon had openly disparaged her mother, his first wife, even in life, and that there were rumors questioning his involvement in the accident that had caused Lady Rhea’s death. In hindsight, it does make sense that out of all the Targaryens on Rhaenyra’s side of the family it would be his uncle’s least favored daughter the one offered to him.

His mother seems to take his silence as distaste for the arrangement. 

“I know it may seem… unappealing, being tied to Daemon’s child given his… tendencies.” Alicent seems to struggle for the right words to remain civil. “However, I have done some more thorough research on her and she does seem to have some commendable qualities to recommend her, appropriate for a lady of her station.” 

Aemond is unsure of what to expect, he suspects his idea of what could be appealing on a woman widely differs from what his mother might find suitable, but he remains silent as Alicent lists all the supposed attributes of his bride to be. 

“She is said to be charming, with an interest in music, singing and dancing. Apparently she’s a coveted dance partner in balls, for the lady is an adept and graceful dancer and an entertaining conversationalist,” Alicent says, a little too mildly to appear convinced. The list of qualities his mother might find redeeming apparently ends there, and there’s an awkward pause in which Alicent seems to consider the lack of interest Aemond certainly has in such characteristics given his disdain for social events. 

“I’ve heard she is also an avid reader,” she continues after a moment, scrambling for something that might appeal more to his interest. “And a skilled dragonrider as well. I hope those can be interests you may find in common with her.” When he fails to show any obvious regard for this perfectly superficial description, Alicent purses her lips. “She is almost of an age to yours, and reports say that she has grown into a comely young woman.”

Aemond has only ever met the lady in question once, during his fateful visit to Driftmark at Laena Velaryon’s funeral. He barely even remembers her at all, with his attention obviously having been elsewhere. But what little he can recall of his cousin’s appearance is nothing particularly noticeable. He remembers her lacking the Valyrian features typically found in Targaryens, the ones who would usually deem them extraordinarily beautiful; with frizzy dark curls barely contained in unkempt pigtail braids and chubby, ruddy cheeks. Compared to other Targaryens she would be considered plain-featured. 

Aemond can’t imagine she might have changed much, and decides his mother is merely trying to make him find the proposed arrangement more appealing. 

“I fail to see what exactly Rhaenyra would find to her advantage in this union, and more importantly,” Aemond crosses his leg over his knee, shooting his mother a scrutinizing look. “How can it be useful to us?

It is his grandfather who answers his question. 

“Rhaenyra likely thinks this union will grant her more influence over our family, and therefore more control over you, given that you’d be tied to her stepdaughter. After all,” there’s just the barest glint of satisfaction in Otto’s eyes. “You and Vhagar are not a threat to be ignored.”

This time Aemond can’t hold back the hint of a scornful sneer playing on his lips. The thought that Rhaenyra will ever exert any control over him or Vhagar is frankly laughable. He is not a rabid dog to be restrained or set against foes at will. 

“As for us,” Otto continues. “This marriage may grant us invaluable allegiances. The Royces are a powerful family in the Vale and close allies to the Arryns. Besides, your firstborn male child with the lady will become the Lord of Runestone.”

Before Aemond can question these conjectured alliances, Alicent speaks. 

“Rhaenyra does not wish for a war to ensue,” she counters with a hint of exhaustion, almost as if she’s addressed this issue multiple times before. “A child coming from this union will be a common link between both families, and hopefully a deterrent for any undue violence to take place.” 

Aemond bites the inside of his cheek. His mother’s soft sensibilities may blind her to the obvious threats looming their way, but not him. He thinks a child will do little to quell the Rogue Prince’s ambitions. 

For once, Otto seems of a similar mind. 

“Regardless, in the unfortunate event of a war to ensue we may have the Royce’s bannermen, the Arryns possible alliance and another dragon to our advantage.” 

“And all this will be achieved simply by a marriage?” Aemond’s brow furrows in evident skepticism. “What is to assure us that Daemon’s daughter will lend her blind support to our side?”  

“Daemon has been neglecting his daughter all this time,” Otto says rather dismissively. “Once you’re married you will be her closest link to her Targaryen side of the family. A lonely young woman who’s been overlooked by her father and dismissed by her closest family for years… it is not hard to believe that with enough influence, you may easily sway her loyalty to yourself.” 

Alicent frowns at her father’s callous words, leaning forward to take Aemond’s hand in hers. 

“A marriage can come a long way in terms of alliances,” she says, gently squeezing his hand in what he thinks may be some attempt at comfort. “You will find that a good way to gain a lady’s loyalty is by being a dutiful and attentive husband.” She runs her fingers smoothly over his knuckles, and Aemond feels a little bit of the weight already placed upon his shoulders lift just slightly. “Simply by being supportive, patient… gentle, she will appreciate you better for it.”  

Aemond has no idea how to be any of that. Sure, he could be a dutiful husband, but that does not erase the fact that he is more often than not cold and aloof. The fact that he may not openly dishonor his wife like his brother does will not soften Aemond’s harsh edges. There’s nothing gentle about him, much less loving. How could he possibly achieve what his mother asks of him. And what exactly do they expect him to do? 

“So what would you have me do?” Aemond asks, a bit perplexed, eye narrowed. “Woo her?“

“I expect you to gain her trust and therefore her loyalty. I care little how you do it as long as it is done,” Otto says, like an order that brooks no argument. “Her unwavering allegiance can win us great advantages that will mark the difference between success and defeat.” 

“And I suppose I have little say on the matter.” Aemond removes his hand from his mother’s gentle hold, his shoulders stiffening. 

Alicent’s eyes soften with a hint of hurt at the distance he puts between them. 

“All the concerning parties have already been consulted.” His mother sighs, looking at him with something akin to pity. “Daemon has agreed to the match, surprisingly, and your father was consulted even before that. The King gave his blessing immediately. There’s little I can do to change that.” 

Aemond’s lips thin into a tense line. Of course, his own consent on the matter was never asked. Aemond is nothing more than a piece to be moved in his grandsire’s schemes, an asset to be traded to the best bidder. If it wasn’t his cousin, it would’ve been another lady that would grant Otto an army, or enough gold to fund his war to put Aegon on the throne. Let Aemond bear the burden of it all, that is his lot in life as the second son. Meanwhile Aegon gets to disparage his birthright with his dissolute behavior like it means nothing to him. 

Otto seems to read his displeasure with the arrangement, and sends Aemond an admonishing look. 

“It is an advantageous match, Aemond,” he says, as though he is being ridiculously ungrateful. “Far exceeding what you could possibly aspire to as a second son. I wouldn’t expect you to raise any objections on the matter.” 

He raises his thick brows, as if challenging Aemond to contradict him. He knows he can’t. Otto Hightower’s word is always law, and if his mother dares not oppose him, he can’t expect anything will prevent this arrangement. 

So he is left to do nothing but accept with a stiff nod and tight jaw. “Of course. I shall do my duty to my family and the realm.” 

His mother smiles in relief and his grandsire gives his own nod of approval. 

And while outwardly he might give the image of the ever dutiful prince, stoic and unfaltering in his responsibilities, inside Aemond stews with simmering resentment as he leaves his mother’s chambers without another word. 

He wants nothing to do with this pretended peace between their families. In fact, they can have their peace and choke on it for all he cares. 

After all the indignities and grievances he suffered without being granted any semblance of justice, he is now denied his chance for revenge without any regard to what he might want, expected to play nice with Rhaenyra’s side of the family as though they have done anything to gain his good favor. He can’t fathom coming face to face with his half-sister’s brood of bastards and pretend he doesn’t want anything more than to rip Lucerys Velaryon’s eye from its socket with his own bare hands. 

Aemond is not made for these political ploys his mother and grandsire play, with their masks of deference and propriety, their pretenses and patience. He is meant to be a warrior, a fighter, not whatever pawn they’re making him out to be, dancing to the tune of their game like a puppet.  

He doesn’t even care if Aegon is placed on the Iron Throne or not, all he wants is to see the Strong bastards suffer the consequences of what they did to him in his childhood. All he wants is to be deemed important enough to be taken seriously by his family as something other than a hand to be given in marriage in exchange for alliances. 

And the very thought of being tied to Daemon Targaryen’s blood… how easily his own mother forgot about her fears of what Daemon would do to him and his brothers once Rhaenyra took the throne, how quickly she gave her son away to the daughter of their biggest enemy, as though Aemond was worth nothing, simple cannon fodder in the war for the throne. 

Is it really surprising that once again he is left alone to lick his own wounds and settle for what little satisfaction he can get from watching Rhaenyra and her family’s misfortunes from a distance without actually being allowed to seek justice? 

No, it isn’t. But if this ridiculous plot is his only way of extracting his vengeance in the long run, then Aemond will strive to do his very best to play his cards right. Elaerys Targaryen will be his way to achieving his goal, by getting close to her he can learn all of the Black’s greatest weaknesses. And what a sweet revenge it will be, to see all of their plans crumble from the inside. Almost poetic justice, to steal Daemon’s daughter’s loyalty from him; his arrogant uncle who believes himself so far above anyone who dares to have Hightower blood, who looks at Aemond and his siblings like the dirt beneath his boot. What will he do when it is Aemond who his own daughter chooses in the end? 

This war brewing cannot be stopped, and when the time of reckoning finally comes, he will make sure those Strong boys lose everything they thought they had for granted, the inheritance they were not worthy of and their titles they had no right to. How he will enjoy watching their cocky little grins fade when they are finally declared to the eyes of the entire realm what they truly are; bastards, worth nothing. 

And if placing his undeserving brother on the throne is his only way to ensure it, then Aemond shall be the Green’s most valuable weapon. After all, how difficult can it be to ensnare Daemon’s daughter and gain her trust? 

Chapter Text

Lost I was born 

Lonesome I came 

Lonesome I’ll always stay ~ Carolina

“The very nerve of that man!” Ser Gerord Royce explodes, mustache bristling at the force of his tirade. “How dare he! Who does he think he is?! I have half a mind to write to the King about this, see what he thinks of this disgraceful treatment.” 

Elaerys’ lips curl in slight amusement. “You would be lucky if his Grace even bothered to reply, Uncle.” She lifts another supply bag into her arms with a small huff and keeps walking. “Under the law, he has every right to do this. As my father, he can summon me whenever he wants and I have little choice but to comply ‘ expeditiously ’” 

Daemon’s raven had arrived that very morning, asking his daughter for her presence at Dragonstone, and subtly implying he would be expecting her arrival by the end of the week at the latest. She had two days left for that. 

Evidently, her uncle had taken the less than gracious demand as a great offense. 

“Your father doesn’t even deserve to call himself so,” Ser Gerold grumbles as he follows her just a step behind. “He rarely ever even asks after you and now he thinks he has the right to summon you without warning, without granting you enough time for the adequate preparations for such a journey?” He throws his hands up in an irritated gesture. “How are you to travel so promptly with an appropriate retinue, without escorts… and to expect you to cover such a distance within mere days!” 

He’s working himself into quite a temper, his already usually ruddy cheeks turning an alarming shade of purple. Elaerys would laugh at the image if he wasn’t so irate already. No need to add more kindling to the fire. 

“He means to diminish you, is what he’s doing, the disgraceful wretch, just like he did with your poor mother,” her uncle continues his diatribe, his loud voice reverberating across the deserted Great Hall. Elaerys is somewhat glad the only witness to his rant are the bronze-plated suits of armor decorating the walls, proudly showcasing the Royce’s legendary coat of arms. “No lady of your station would ever be expected to accommodate such travels on such short notice.” 

To be fair, Elaerys doesn’t think her father was being deliberately inconsiderate with the sole purpose to demean her. Despite his evident dislike for her mother, he’s never been particularly cruel with herself. Well, if you don’t count his outright neglect as cruelty, that is. 

Most likely, he didn’t care enough to take the time to plan for her impromptu visit to Dragonstone, it wouldn’t be unusual of him, since Daemon often seems to forget about her existence. 

But mentioning this to her ranting uncle would be counterproductive. Evidently Ser Gerold takes Daemon’s complete disregard for his eldest daughter as insulting enough. 

Elaerys tries to calm her uncle’s incensed mood. “Well, it’s a good thing that I can make the journey on dragonback then. It shan’t take me long.”  

The guards stationed at the Great Hall’s entrance open the grand double doors for them, and Elaerys waves a hand in polite dismissal when they step up to help her with her bags. Outside in the courtyard, a stablehand already awaits with two horses saddled and ready to leave. The air is crisp in the early hour, and she enjoys the hint of pinewood that lingers in the cool salty breeze. 

“I do not like the idea of you going all on your own,” Ser Gerold worries, falling into step beside her. “You’ve never flown such a distance before.” 

Elaerys sets her bags over Zephyr’s saddle, her silver mare huffing in eager greeting as she scratches her mane. 

“Nyssarion is grown enough to endure the journey without trouble,” she says, trying to sound reassuring. “Besides, it’s not like anyone could join me.” 

Her dragon may be large enough to take her on long flights now, but she’s never had another rider at her back and is not likely to be open to trying. She might be gentle with Elaerys herself, but Nyssarion, despite her quiet nature, is not to be mistaken for being particularly docile. Bless her uncle’s fortune or else he’d probably try to mount the dragon himself in an attempt to come with her just to give Daemon a piece of his mind in person. 

“Which is why I insist that you should wait for the preparations to be settled for you to make the journey by ship.” Despite his arguments, Ser Gerold mounts his own horse, having insisted before on seeing her off, at the very least, and escorting Elaerys to the rocky hill where she is to meet her dragon. “Let that blasted man wait if he must, you don’t owe him your time.” 

Elaerys lets out a light laugh at her uncle’s continued aggravated insults over her father. 

“My father was likely counting on me making the journey on dragonback.” She mounts over Zephyr’s saddle in one graceful movement, taking the reins in one gloved hand. “This is probably his idea of testing my dragonriding abilities.” 

And Elaerys might care little for what her father may think of her, but she’s not about to give him the satisfaction of calling into question her skills as a dragonrider. 

With a click of her tongue and a small nudge of her heels, she sets off Zephyr on a brisk trot, swiftly exiting the castle’s large gates with her uncle following behind. They forego the path leading to the village, and instead take to the stony wilderness. The cliffy landscape is thinly obscured by a light mist at this hour, but to Elaerys it’s not a deterrent to find her way across the familiar fields of her home. 

The journey to the area where Nyssarion usually nests is a short one, just some miles away from the castle grounds, near enough that she can still glimpse Runestone’s highest turrets peeking through the surrounding hills. Soon enough, the wind starts to pick up and tussle her dark hair, and a rocky promontory rises to meet them, jutting out into the wild ocean below. 

Nyssarion awaits patiently at the very edge of the cliff, her pearlescent blue scales blending nicely against the backdrop that make the hazy sky and the murky waters of the sea ahead. She outgrew the castle’s courtyard a long time ago, and since Runestone lacks a Dragonpit, she is free to roam the crags and pine forests that surround the area at her leisure, her color and sleek build often allowing her to blend with the foggy landscape. Elaerys thinks Runestone suits her dragon most nicely, like she was meant to exist here, surrounded by sea-mist and rugged, lush forests.

“ Rytsas, Nyssa, ” Elaerys greets once she approaches the lounging creature, and smiles when she feels her dragon’s joy through their bond. 

She hears her uncle make a small sound of unease that almost comically matches his horse’s fretful huff as Nyssarion stretches from her previously coiled position, shaking her large, horned head. Ser Gerold has never liked coming near the dragon, not even when she was a hatchling. It’s a testament to how worried he is that he’s come all the way here to see her off. 

“I mislike all of this, Ella. What could Daemon possibly want that requires your presence so promptly?” he grumbles, as Elaerys swiftly dismounts her mare and busies herself with exchanging her bags from the horse to the dragon’s saddle. Luckily for her, Zephyr is much too used to Nyssarion to be fidgety around her, and allows Elaerys to lead her as close to the she-dragon as necessary to make the task less of a hassle. 

“It can be nothing too terrible, or he would have made it known in his letter,” Elaerys reasons. 

“Nothing good ever comes of him calling for you. Every time he remembers your existence, something dreadful has happened.” 

Well it’s not like there have been many previous occasions. Elaerys doesn’t feel like pointing out the fact that her father has only ever sent for her once before. That would make her uncle’s statement technically correct, since it had been to attend Lady Laena Velaryon’s funeral. In fact, it was that very unfortunate event that had put an end to her very limited interactions with her father. Before that it had been Lady Laena herself who had insisted on cultivating a relationship between Elaerys and her sisters, Baela and Rhaena. 

Her late stepmother had often extended an invitation for Elaerys to visit their lodgings in Pentos, but the distance rarely ever facilitated her travels, and so Elaerys’ visits had been most scarce. She could not recall leaving for Pentos on more than two occasions. Still, if it had not been for Lady Laena’s input, perhaps she would have never even met her dear younger sisters. It wasn’t like Daemon had any particular interest in keeping in contact with her beyond a few scarce letters a year. 

Which indeed, makes this sudden summon a rather unusual request, but she doesn’t need to further alarm Ser Gerold by agreeing with him. 

“Fret not, Uncle, I’m sure it shall be a short, uneventful visit and I will be back home within a fortnight,” she tries to reassure. 

Perhaps even less, considering previous experiences.

Ser Gerold looks unconvinced. “I should at least join you at Dragonstone later. I do not trust that man with your safety, not even one bit.” 

“There’s no need for you to go, Uncle. The journey is not worth the effort,” Elaerys replies, shaking her head with an exasperatedly fond smile. “Besides, you are much more needed here. What would Runestone do without you?” 

She is aware she is not being subtle in trying to appeal to her uncle’s sense of responsibility, however Elaerys is not being facetious. Had she been born a man, she would have been deemed old enough to rule Runestone in her own right by the time she was six and ten. However the Gods had decided to give Runestone another lady for heir, and the petty Lords of Westeros are a hardheaded bunch. So even though she is well past the age to be considered a grown woman, her uncle still holds the regency. 

Everyone seems to be waiting for the Lady of Runestone to marry so she can have a suitable man to rule at her side. 

Like I’m not capable on my own , Elaerys thinks with hidden bitterness. Perhaps this journey can finally show her uncle and the lords of the Vale who still think her juvenile and too inexperienced that she is more than capable of holding her own without a man by her side. 

In any case, her words at least serve to quell Ser Gerold’s doubts, if only slightly. He lets out a great sigh of resignation and finally nods. 

“You will write to me as soon as you get there,” he tells her firmly, giving her a stern look. “And if you feel even a little bit unsafe, you take your dragon and get back here immediately. I shall deal with your father’s complaints later.” 

“I will be fine, Uncle.” Elaerys shoots him a reassuring smile, stepping closer to where he now stands and giving him a quick goodbye kiss on his thick bearded cheek. “I know how to take care of myself.” 

“I know,” her uncle says a bit ruefully. Perhaps that is precisely what he’s fearing. 

Targaryen’s tempers clashing has never brought anything good. But Elaerys is not worried; she has her bow packed with the rest of her things, the dagger that Baela had sent her as a gift for her fifteenth nameday safely strapped to her thigh hidden beneath her riding leathers, and Nyssarion by her side. What could she ever fear? 

“Take care, Ella.” Ser Gerold squeezes her hand in farewell and finally lets her go with a worried frown. 

Elaerys waves her uncle goodbye and turns to mount Nyssarion with practiced ease, settling over the well-worn saddle. 

“ Sōvegon, Nyssa! ” she calls, feeling her dragon extend her wings at her command and let out a pleased rumble. The strong sea winds whip at her hair as she takes flight, cold biting against her cheeks, but Elaerys could not care less. 

After all, she never feels more at home than when she’s flying over the harsh cliffs and untamed waters that surround Runestone. 

Elaerys makes it to Dragonstone by nightfall. The flight was uneventful, with a quick stop by Crackslaw Point to let Nyssarion rest a bit and to take a quick lunch from the food she’d packed for the journey. 

She’s sore and stiff from the hours she’s spent flying but still the sight of Dragonstone rising in the distance is enough to take her breath away. The imposing castle is what Elaerys imagines a true Old Valyrian relic to look like, probably the closest thing to one as she will ever get to see with her own eyes. With its towering dragonesque gargoyles and dark-stoned walls, it looks like the building was shaped and built from the Dragonmont itself, a formidable architectural marvel to witness, far removed from Runestone’s own granite, wind-weathered walls. 

Elaerys has read much about the legendary ancient seat of the Targaryens, but this is the first time she’s ever visited. It certainly doesn’t disappoint, but she can’t say she doesn’t immediately miss Runestone’s foggy sea-breeze. The air here is thick with the smell of smoke and brimstone, and the dark castle makes for an intimidating enough sight, even without other dragons immediately lurking in the vicinity. 

She lands Nyssarion in the keep’s outer courtyard, her dragon being agile and slim enough to be able to maneuver without much trouble. She’s barely dismounting when a voice suddenly startles her out of her own musings. 

“Ella! I thought we wouldn’t see you for another few days.” Her sister, Rhaena approaches quickly with a spring in her step, then she seems to catch herself at the last second and adopts a more appropriately ladylike pace as she closes the distance between them. “It’s so good to see you again, sister.” 

Elaerys laughs lightly at her sister’s attempt at a less exuberant greeting, and opens her arms in invitation. And while Rhaena has always been the more delicate and refined of Daemon’s daughters, she wastes no time in engulfing her older sister in a tight hug, forgoing all propriety. 

“You too, hāedar ,” Elaerys says softly. She pulls away slightly, keeping her sister within arms length to examine her more properly. “My, how you’ve grown! The last time I saw you, you were but a little girl, barely more than a babe.” 

Indeed, Rhaena is practically a grown woman now. Her childish pink dresses are exchanged for a deep red gown characteristic of their House’s colors, and the high pom pom buns that used to make up her hairstyle are discarded for the tight coils classic of the Velaryons. 

Elaerys imagines Baela must be equally changed, and mourns the fact that this visit will not grant her the company of her other sister. Baela has been fostered at Driftmark for some years now, and unless something extraordinary has happened, she doesn’t think they would coincide on this occasion. 

Rhaena rolls her eyes good-naturedly, a small smile plastered on her lips. “The last time you saw me I was a halfway grown girl, certainly not a babe.” 

“Well that’s the thing about big sisters, I guess.” Elaerys pinches her sister’s cheek with a teasing grin. “I don’t think I will ever stop seeing you as a little girl.” 

Rhaena bats her hand away with a soft laugh. “I am far too grown for these jests, Ella.” 

“Indeed,” Elaerys agrees, squeezing her sister’s hands. “You have grown into a fine young lady, Iā gevie zaldrīzes .” 

Rhaena’s smile turns somewhat wistful, the spark in her eyes dimming. “No, not dragon enough yet.” 

She knows what she means. Rhaena has yet to claim a dragon of her own, a cause of deep dissatisfaction for her sister, as she’s shared in the many letters they have exchanged throughout the years keeping them apart. 

Elaerys pats Rhaena’s arm in an encouraging gesture. “Soon, hāedar, you will claim a dragon in due time, you’ll see.” 

Rhaena sends her a teasing smirk. “I can only hope when I do I might look half as striking as you riding your own dragon, mandia .” Her eyes drift towards someplace above Elaerys’ shoulder, and she knows she’s looking at her dragon. “Nyssarion has grown into quite the magnificent creature. Fitting, for her rider.”

Nyssarion seems to almost preen under her sister’s appraising stare. Her pearlescent scales would normally glimmer with iridescent blue hues beneath Runestone’s muted sunlight, but here, in the grim darkness of Dragonstone, her smooth frame sticks out like a sore thumb. 

The sound of heavy footsteps pulls her attention back to the courtyard, and she sees two dark-haired boys quickly approaching. The eldest Velaryon boys, she assumes. 

“Ah, here comes the rest of the family.” She hears Rhaena murmur. 

“Elaerys,” the older of the two, Jacaerys, greets with a charming smile. “It's good to see you again, sister.” 

“I hope you had a smooth journey, cousin.” The younger one, Lucerys, says almost at the same time. 

The brothers startle at their own contradicting terms of address, and turn to look at each other with identical reproachful wide eyes. 

“—Uh, sorry, cousin .” 

“—I mean, sister. ” 

Elaerys’ lips quirk, suppressing a laugh. 

“Worry not, cousins . Our family is complicated enough as it is, no need to trouble ourselves with one specific term.” She inclines her head in a polite gesture. “You can call me Ella and be done with it.” 

Jace perks up again, his smile all charming dimples. “Very well, Ella . Then you must call us Jace and Luke.” He gives her a gallant bow. “We are glad to have you here in Dragonstone.” 

Elaerys nods her head in courteous gratitude, but hesitates to return his warm manner. Despite offering, there’s only a handful of people that ever call her by the short nickname, the ones who she considers closest to her, and the name sounds strange coming from an unfamiliar face. The Velaryon boys seem friendly enough, but she’s only ever seen them once, and has barely ever spoken to them. They may be her brothers by marriage, but she is yet to see them as such. 

They seem to be intent on welcoming her like family, though. 

“We can help you take your dragon to the Dragonmont,” Luke says, his own grin sweet and boyish. “I’m sure she will like it there.” 

Elaerys seriously doubts that. “Nyssa likes the open skies better. She will probably be more comfortable in the beaches around Dragonstone.” 

Before anyone can reply, the heavy doors of the main keep open to reveal the Princess of Dragonstone herself. Rhaenyra Targaryen steps down the few stone stairs that lead to the courtyard, a white-haired toddler in her arms. Behind her trail a nursemaid that carries an even younger infant, and another young dark-haired boy that shares the look of the other Velaryon brothers. 

That must be Joffrey, along with Aegon and Viserys, Elaerys’ youngest siblings. 

Suddenly, Elaerys feels a hint of self-conscious discomfort. She hadn’t exactly been expecting such a reception as soon as she landed, and she can only imagine how little adequate she looks to be greeting the Crown Princess; with her windswept hair, unruly dark curls escaping her braid, ruddy cheeks and rumpled riding leathers.

“Lady Elaerys, welcome to Dragonstone.” 

Elaerys’ face adopts a milder expression when Rhaenyra approaches, her shoulders tense as she drops into a polite curtsy. “My Princess, I thank you for your kindness.” 

“Please,” Rhaenyra waves a hand with a gentle smile. “There’s no need for such formalities here. We are amongst family, after all.” 

Elaerys bites back a snort. Family . What an odd term to use for what they are. A family that has never bothered to reach out to her in all these years, a family that has kept her at a safe distance, never intending to truly welcome her into their Targaryen hold. 

Strangers, is more close to what they truly are to her. 

Nevertheless, she forces her lips to remain pleasantly quirked up. “Of course,” Elaerys says, feeling her cheeks stiffen with the insincere expression. “I am most glad to be with my family, at long last, even if we rarely ever see each other.” 

Rhaenyra’s brows lift ever-so-slightly, but she remains perfectly placid as she extends an inviting hand. 

“Speaking of, I believe you have yet to meet your younger brothers.” She brings the toddler in her arms closer to Elaerys. “This is Aegon.” 

The boy seems shy, and hides his face in his mother’s neck, but Elaerys doesn’t need to observe him closely to know he and his younger brother are the only ones of Daemon’s children to have inherited the typical Targaryen looks. 

“And this one here is little Viserys.” Rhaenyra gestures for the nursemaid to come closer and present the babe, who she knows has not yet had his first nameday.

Elaerys doesn’t know how to feel about her half-brothers. Both Valyrian-looking children with silver locks and ivory skin. They look little like Elaerys herself, except for the purple eyes they share. She thinks that she should feel a touch of kinship perhaps, some primordial warmth in her chest that lets her know these are her brothers. Instead, she feels little like a sister and more like she’s greeting a stranger’s baby. 

She gives them a tender smile regardless. “Hello there!” She coos, giggling as little Aegon turns only half of his face to look at her timidly. “We shall get more time to spend together, so they might get to know me better.” 

Perhaps then she would develop that fraternal feeling she shares with Baela and Rhaena around them too. 

Rhaenyra seems perfectly pleased by the idea. “That would be excellent, yes.” She gestures towards the castle. “Come, let us show you to your rooms so you can get comfortable and rest a little.” 

Elaerys’ eyes roam around the courtyard, catching on her sister, who sends her an apologetic look. There’s no sign of her father, but that should not be unexpected. Leave it to Daemon to not show up to greet her when he was the one to summon her in the first place. 

Rhaenyra apparently catches on the unspoken question and her face twists into something akin to an embarrassed grimace. “Daemon had business to attend to, but he will be there to join us for dinner, I assure you.” 

“Yes, I’m sure he will.” Elaerys knows her answering grin doesn’t reach her eyes. 

Dinner is an unexciting affair. 

After a brief respite that Elaerys made good use of by taking a quick bath to wash away the dirt from the journey and smell of dragon off her body, arrange her hair into a more presentable manner and exchange her riding leathers for an evening dress more suitable for the occasion, she makes it down to dinner with the rest of her estranged family with something like dread curling up in her belly. 

Elaerys does finally meet her father there, who looks mostly unchanged from the last time she saw him. Daemon merely asks about the flight and her improvement in her dragonriding skills, a brief conversation he starts with her in High Valyrian, most likely with the only intention to test her competence in that department as well. And although he does seem a little more interested than usual, he remains perfectly impersonal, as always. Rhaenyra on the other hand tries to be more engaging, asking about her life in Runestone and her usual activities there, which makes Elaerys rather feel like she is facing an interrogation. 

The one saving grace in this tedious gathering is Rhaena. It seems her sister has grown rather lonely and quite starved of feminine company in Dragonstone without her twin, and at the first chance she gets, she immediately latches onto Elaerys’ attention like a lifeline. 

Elaerys had suspected she was mostly overlooked here, and her suspicions are only confirmed when she notices the Velaryon boys often monopolizing the conversation with animated tales about their day. They are agreeable boys, and although they seem to do it without meaning to, it doesn’t erase the fact that Rhaenyra always gives them her undivided attention, often dismissing whoever else had been talking before. 

It suits Elaerys just fine though, it only means she now gets to spend the rest of her stay close to her sister without feeling like a burden. She takes advantage of the precious little time she will get to spend with her as soon as dinner is done, sequestering themselves in Elaerys’ bedchambers and indulging in idle chit-chat late into the night, as though they were little girls again, enjoying a slumber party. 

“I still don’t know why Father summoned me here.” The question she’s been meaning to ask since she arrived finally blurts out of her lips as she paces before the narrow windows. “Do you have any idea what this is all about?” 

“They have told me nothing but Rhaenyra and Father seem to be plotting something.” Rhaena shakes her head, her skirts spread around her as she kneels before the lit hearth. “Father has been in a foul mood lately, and Rhaenyra isn’t much better. They’ve been bickering for days.” She scrunches up her nose. “It’s only slightly worse than when they appear more… taken with each other, so to speak.” 

“They certainly seem to make for a passionate match,” Elaerys laughs at her sister’s evident disgust. She shrugs. “Personally I think it’s better than an insipid one. I could not bear being paired with a bland man who inspires absolutely nothing from me, not even disdain.”

“I think I’d rather have a dull marriage than one full of contempt.” Rhaena quirks an eyebrow. “Can you imagine hating your spouse? How would you even stand being in the presence of someone you loathe, let alone bear children with them?” 

Elaerys thinks about her own parents, and has the sudden feeling that her mother might have fallen off her horse on purpose after all. 

She sends her sister a sharp, devious smile. “Then at least I would enjoy torturing such a husband.” 

“Ella!” 

“What?” Elaerys lifts her hands up in an innocent gesture. “I would do so in a perfectly socially acceptable way, I assure you.” 

“Please, you would never.” Rhaena rolls her eyes with an amused smile. “I can sooner see Baela doing such a thing.” 

“Our dear sister lacks restraint,” Elaerys points out. “She would feed her husband to her dragon at the first disagreement and then be forever condemned by Westeros’ petty society.” 

Rhaena lets out an uncharacteristically unladylike snort of laughter. 

“She needs to learn patience to know exactly when to strike.” Elaerys arches a brow as she continues. “I feel it’s much like hunting; one swift blow is enough to kill if you wait for the right moment and place to land your hit.” 

“I certainly pity the man you’ll marry if he ends up being of your dislike.” Rhaena’s eyebrows quirk up in a half-amused, half-incredulous expression. “He would never know what hit him.” 

“I suppose that’s one perk of being Father’s ignored child.” Elaerys shrugs nonchalantly as she lets herself flop back into the bed, her head hitting the downy pillows. “He hasn’t yet bothered to agree to any matches for me.” 

Not for lack of trying from her uncle’s part. Ser Gerold has been trying to find her a suitable match from the pool of eligible bachelors across the Vale since she first flowered. An advantageous match with a member of one of the prestigious families of the Vale would be ideal for her future reign over Runestone, and no small amount of proposals have come since Elaerys was born; after all, a Targaryen woman was always a much coveted bachelorette, even more so when said lady had a sizable inheritance to her name. 

But Ser Gerold can do little without Daemon’s express consent, and her father has yet to give it for any of the proposed matches he’s been consulted on. It seems he’s waiting for an even more influential potential groom. Knowing her father’s ambitions, she’s sure nothing short of a direct son from one of the Great Houses will do for him. 

“Lucky for you, you don’t need an advantageous marriage,” Rhaena points out joining her as she settles on the other side of the bed much more gently. ”You already have Runestone.”

“They will still demand I marry if I am expected to rule and bear Runestone a suitable male heir,” Elaerys says, a note of bitterness slipping into her voice for a second before she lets out a big sigh and turns her inquisitive eyes back to her sister. “But what about you? Any prospects that have caught your interest?” 

She wiggles her eyebrows in a teasing gesture, but Rhaena merely lets out a slightly forlorn breath. 

“I think they are planning for me to marry Luke.” 

“Oh!” Elaerys exclaims, a bit out of words. “Well… it could be much worse I suppose, he’s a strapping young lad, and he seems harmless enough. Like a little puppy.” 

Rhaena giggles slightly. “Yes, I suppose.”

Her sister’s resigned tone says differently. “But… he’s not your heart’s desire?”

“I love Luke, of course.” Rhaena shakes her head. “We grew up together, but sometimes I see him as too much of a brother to imagine being married to him.” 

“Well that’s half of what makes us Targaryen, sister.” Elaerys lifts an eyebrow, trying for a soothing tone. “Better you marry a gentle husband that you already know well. One that will make you the Lady of Driftmark besides.” 

Although Elaerys sympathizes with her sister. She may be a Targaryen, but she’s grown up far enough removed from the rest of her family to find the custom rather unappealing. She could not imagine marrying someone she’d grown up with like a sibling. Lucky for her, the rest of her Targaryen kin are perfect strangers to her. 

“You are right,” Rhaena says with a shrug. “I sure lucked out if you look at it that way. There are certainly worse Targaryens to marry. I mean, look at our poor cousin Helaena. I certainly would not like to be in her shoes.” 

Going by the rumors she’s heard, scarce as they have been all the way up in the Vale, Elaerys couldn’t agree more. The Velaryon brothers seem to be a far better choice than their Targaryen cousins, all things considered, even despite their infamously dubious parentage. 

But she’s not about to give voice to such a thought, much less within the walls of Dragonstone. She doesn’t have a death wish after all. 

The next day, Elaerys is invited to join the Princess for tea in the gardens. 

She wonders what exactly would be the appropriate attire to wear for such an invitation. She is unsure of how formal an occasion is having tea with the Princess of Dragonstone. On a normal day at home, Elaerys would usually don breeches and a tunic if she were to be outdoors, either practicing her archery or riding with Nyssarion or Zephyr, and a simple flowy frock if she was to remain indoors, something that wouldn’t restrain much of her movements. Neither of which are particularly courtly looks to present herself before the Princess. 

She settles for a simple yet sufficiently elegant outfit; a burgundy damask dress with flowing skirts. The copper-colored trimmings at the neckline and hem are paired nicely with a bronze brocade sash that cinches at her waist. The sleeves puff around her shoulders and end with a tight fit around her wrists, studded with bronze buttons that go all the way up her forearms. 

Elaerys lets the maids that Rhaenyra assigned for her help her into it and style her hair into an unelaborate updo, letting her loose, dark curls flow down her back, with her hair only partially pinned back by a simple braid that keeps it from falling over her face. 

It takes her a moment to find her way into the gardens with Dragonstone’s dark and confusing narrow hallways, but she fortunately makes it on time, enjoying the way the smokey air is masked with a pleasant piney scent around this part of the castle. 

Rhaenyra is waiting for her, seated on a pretty little set of outdoor benches beneath the shade of the tall, dark trees that surround the perimeter of the gardens. A nice spread of pastries and jams covers the stone table to go along with their tea. 

The Princess stands and smiles at her approach, and waves a hand as Elaerys bends into a polite curtsey for a greeting. 

“I hope you are finding Dragonstone to your liking,” Rhaenyra says as they both sit down. 

“Certainly, my Princess.” Elaerys nods, feeling a bit wary of the possible reasons behind this invitation and Rhaenyra’s overly hospitable attitude. “It is quite a unique opportunity to witness such a place in person.” 

“Please, Rhaenyra is just fine, there’s no need for formalities,” Rhaenyra insists again. 

“Of course, Rhaenyra,” Elaerys accepts, wondering what else is she supposed to call her anyway if not by formal title? Stepmother sounds too rough, and she doesn’t suppose the Princess would welcome her calling her cousin . Elaerys suppresses an amused smile at the thought of it. 

They exchange a few more inane pleasantries as they indulge in the fine snacks and tea presented before them, but after a while Elaerys grows weary of all this pretense. They are here for a reason, surely, and she would like to know why. 

However, she’s not exactly comfortable broaching the subject herself, untrusting of Rhaenyra’s intentions. It’s not that Elaerys resents the woman, but she doesn’t know her at all, not like she got to know her first stepmother Lady Laena, however briefly. The Princess is an elusive puzzle of soft words and pleasant smiles that hide something underneath, and Elaerys is not one to trust easily, much less her Targaryen side of the family. 

Nevertheless, she would much rather be done with these polite falsehoods and get straight to the point. But she is, after all, addressing the Princess of Dragonstone and therefore must navigate this conversation artfully. Let it never be said by her Uncle Gerold that he raised a foolish girl uneducated in the arts of politics. 

“I thank you for your hospitality, Rhaenyra, you have been most gracious,” Elaerys says, setting her teacup down. “But I can’t help but wonder what prompted this invitation.” She tilts her head, adopting a politely curious tone. “Forgive my forwardness, but I imagine this visit was never truly meant simply for leisure.” 

Rhaenyra’s purple eyes shimmer with something she can’t quite decipher, but after a moment of quiet contemplation, the Princess finally lets out a soft sigh. 

“Come, let us walk.” Rhaenyra stands, extending her arm for Elaerys to take. 

She does after a second of hesitation and the two begin a placid promenade around the gardens. Like everything else in Dragonstone, the nature around here is rough and glum, bushes of wild roses are the only thing that lend a splash of color to the landscape, with its towering thorny hedges and thick trees. 

After a moment, Rhaenyra finally speaks. “How are you finding your position as heir to Runestone?” 

Elaerys flounders a bit, a little puzzled by the unexpected question. “It is certainly a great responsibility to bear.”

“I imagine so,” Rhaenyra nods with a sympathetic smile. “This world has never been kind to us women, not even to the ones who are given positions of power, such as you and I. The Lords of Westeros have never found it suitable for a woman to rule, they think we are not meant for it, unfit to rise to the occasion.” She pats Elaerys’ arm, shooting her a meaningful look. “It is our duty to prove them wrong, a duty that is much too heavy sometimes. I find myself under such scrutiny and doubt as of late.”

Elaerys doesn’t really know what to reply to that, but Rhaenyra continues like she was not expecting an answer. 

“My father has always thought it imperative for the House of the Dragon to stand united. We must be, to remain strong against our many enemies that might feel compelled to attack at the barest hint of weakness.”

That seems like a very reasonable thought. Elaerys briefly wonders where exactly the King went wrong in transmitting that particular wisdom to his family. Union is not exactly a word she would use to describe the Targaryens. 

“This realm has thrived under years of peace. When I am Queen, I intend to keep that peace. And to do so I will require as much help as I can get.” Rhaenyra twists her thin lips in a dissatisfied expression. “Right now, we are weakened by the divide that has ripped apart our family for too long. Which is why a union is required, now more than ever. You, Ella, can help me with this.” 

Elaerys blinks, more than a bit thrown. “Me? How exactly?”

“You are lucky to have been raised away from all this insidious rivalry and grievances that have plagued our family for years.” Rhaenyra runs a gentle hand through Elaerys’ hair in an almost motherly gesture, her eyes crinkling with a melancholy smile. “You are untainted by it, impartial, unprejudiced. I feel like that is our greatest advantage.” 

“I fear I am not following,” Elaerys breathes, feeling her throat tighten with sudden apprehension. 

“These prejudices threaten my future reign. The Hightowers have been plotting against me, I am certain of it. There’s a high probability that they will try to put my brother, Aegon, on the throne.” Rhaenyra’s gentle voice suddenly takes on a hardened edge, eyes sparking with righteous anger. “I need this threat eliminated, either by allegiance or by neutrality.” 

“How could I possibly help with that?” Elaerys lifts a skeptical eyebrow. 

“Marriages have always helped to cement alliances,” Rhaenyra says. “To build bridges between powerful families.” 

Elaerys’ brain spins with all the possible implications behind this. She shakes her head in bewilderment. “As I’ve heard, Prince Aegon is already married to Princess Helaena.” 

“Indeed,” Rhaenyra agrees with a nod. “But Queen Alicent has more than one son.” 

“And I suppose this is where my help comes,” Elaerys says with quiet dismay as realization dawns on her, hitting like a powerful gust of wind that knocks the air off her lungs. “Am I to marry one of the Queen’s sons?” 

“My brother, Aemond,” Rhaenyra reveals her intentions at last. “He is of a suitable marriageable age, a Prince of the Realm, and a powerful dragonrider.” She lists, like she’s offering up goods to the highest bidder. “He is also fiercely loyal to his mother. As it stands, he is a threat to me and my reign. I need him either on my side or out of this brewing conflict.” 

“And has my father agreed to the match?” Elaerys questions incredulously, desperate for something that could possibly make sense in this bizarre proposition. 

“He has.” 

Seven Hells . 

“I don’t understand. What else could this union bring that could possibly benefit my father? How could it benefit me ?” Elaerys sputters, now deeply ruffled by the implications Rhaenyra hasn’t even bothered to consider and desperate to find an out from this. “Prince or not, he is a second son, what could he provide me in a marriage that would make it an acceptable union to my father?” 

“Protection,” Rhaenyra answers simply. “I hear he is a skilled swordsman, and well educated besides. He rides the most powerful dragon in the world.” Rhaenyra looks at her with conviction, not a single doubt in her firm gaze. “With a strong, accomplished man by your side, who would ever dare stand against your reign over Runestone?” 

This has the opposite effect of what Rhaenyra surely intended. Elaerys feels her cheeks heat up in an incensed flush, her eyes flashing with affront. 

“I have a dragon of my own,” she says, her voice suddenly quiet and tight. “I too, am the Blood of the Dragon, and a Royce beside. I am no weakling to be underestimated and trampled over. I do not need his protection.” 

“That is how I felt too, when I was young. Who could dare stand against me?” Rhaenyra says indulgently, like she’s treating with a rebellious child. “But my father saw it best for me to align myself to a powerful House and I now see the wisdom in his decision. My marriage to Ser Laenor was merely a political move, but a prudent one in the long run, and I was required to do my duty to the realm.” 

Oh, the entire realm whispers enough about that famously derailed duty, the sons Rhaenyra bore during that union are proof enough. She wants to laugh at the shameless statement, but fully antagonizing Rhaenyra is not exactly in her favor. Still, Elaerys can’t hold her tongue any longer. 

“Yes, I do admire your tenacity, Princess, and how you did your duty most wonderfully.” She gives Rhaenyra a scathing smile devoid of any warmth. “You have stated very eloquently how this union will benefit you . However I am still unsure what my marrying Prince Aemond would bring to my standing in Runestone.” 

“Because we are doing this for peace,” Rhaenyra lets out a weary breath, finally looking like she’s losing her patience. “I do not wish to see this realm descend into chaos, which is where we are headed if we do not act now to neutralize the threats. Do you not wish for harmony and prosperity over your own home? You can’t achieve it if the realm is plunged into civil war.” 

That does give Elaerys pause. The thought of a war between Targaryens is certainly a grim one, she loathes to even think about a battle between dragons. Elaerys wants absolutely nothing to do with this simmering conflict. 

“Of course, I would never wish for a war.” She concedes in a disgruntled murmur. 

“Then a marriage to end this rivalry is to our best interest.” 

There is no room for discussion in the Princess’ tone, she seems utterly convinced of her decision, giving little consideration to what Elaerys herself may think. She’s being merely informed about the arrangement, not consulted on it. There’s no agency to be had here, and Elaerys suddenly feels like a cornered animal. More sheep than dragon. 

“And if I refuse,” she dares to ask, already knowing what the answer will be. 

“I was hoping you would not,” Rhaenyra sighs, clearly disappointed. 

Of course she would think that, Elaerys thinks with scorn. Rhaenyra was counting on encountering a malleable, deferential girl. Why would she even consider Elaerys would have opinions and convictions of her own when she has never even been considered as anything more than a pawn to be moved in someone else’s game. 

The disposable Targaryen to be sacrificed to the enemy, like a lamb to the slaughter. 

Well, if she is to be sacrificed she will not go out without a fight. 

“With all due respect, your Highness ,” Elaerys says coldly, all appearances of pleasantness gone. “You may be my stepmother and the future heir to the throne, but that still gives you little to no authority over my marriage prospects.” She wrenches her arm away from where Rhaenyra still holds it in her own and takes a step back. “Only my father can give away my hand in marriage.” 

“Your father has already agreed—“ Rhaenyra starts, but Elaerys won’t have it. 

“Then I will hear it from his own mouth,” she interrupts, feeling her chest swell with contained fury. “Let it be he who informs me of how he plans to sell me away to his biggest enemy and admit what it is exactly that he gains from it.” 

“Ella…“ 

“Let him force me to it if he must, for you cannot expect me to comply to this on my own volition,” Elaerys snaps.

“Elaerys, please,” Rhaenyra tries to reason, but she has heard enough. 

“I thank you for your hospitality, my Princess, but I’m afraid I must retire.” Elaerys doesn’t wait to be given leave before she gives Rhaenyra the stiffest curtsy to have ever been and promptly whirls around. “I am most tired from my travels and I wish to rest. Alone.” 

She leaves Rhaenyra gaping in the gardens without a second thought. 

Chapter Text

Be careful, oh my darling, oh, be careful what it takes 

From what I’ve seen so far, the good ones always seem to break ~ A Sky Full of Song

Elaerys huffs loudly, storming through the dark, narrow hallways of Dragonstone like a gusting hurricane, chest falling and rising in her barely contained fury. She has half a mind to ignore Daemon’s request for a private talk and leave him standing like an idiot waiting for her. Would serve him right after the many times he was the one to ignore her . 

But her own pride will not let her. She wants her father to look her in the eye and tell her to her face what he means to do with her, how he means to squander her future away like it means nothing. 

No doubt this little talk will be to tell her she has no choice but to pander to Rhaenyra’s wishes with little regard to how this permanently affects her life. Well, she has little intention to make it any easier for Daemon.

She enters the Chamber of the Painted Table with her head held high and fire glinting in her eyes, like she’s headed for war. Her father is already expecting her, sitting at the head of the legendary table for which the room is named, a bored look on his face. Elaerys hates that she can’t even have the presence of mind to admire such a place when all she can do is glower at her father like he is her biggest enemy. 

Right about now he might as well be. 

Daemon tilts his head and extends his hand with a nonchalant wave, gesturing for her to take a seat. 

“I thought this setting might be more suitable for this conversation,” he says by way of greeting. 

Elaerys quirks a dark eyebrow. “Are we to negotiate?” 

“There is nothing to negotiate.” Daemon levels her with an intense look. “You will do your duty and marry the groom we chose for you, and that is final.” 

She scowls, taking a deep breath in a poor attempt to control her own anger. Losing her temper will only make Daemon think her a willful girl throwing a tantrum. 

“Why?” She asks, stepping closer but not taking a seat yet. “How could you possibly benefit from this?” Elaerys meets his eyes, a mirror of her own, the same fire burning within violet irises, and she knows that there’s something he’s not saying. “I find it hard to believe that you would be moved by Rhaenyra’s charming speech about peace.” 

Daemon sneers. “My reasons are my own and I don’t need to explain them to you.” 

“I thought you hated the Hightowers.” 

“I do.”

“You surprise me, Father.” Elaerys lets her lips curve into a cynical smile. She throws her next words like a blow aimed to damage, and some part of her knows she shouldn’t but she cannot help herself this time. “I would have never taken you for a pushover. Does Rhaenyra order and you merely follow at her command like a loyal dog?” 

The air grows thick with tension as Daemon stiffens, his gaze darkening dangerously, nostrils flaring. “Careful, daughter. I will not tolerate your insolence under my own roof.” 

We can move this conversation to be under my roof if it suits you better. Elaerys thinks, but bites her tongue. There’s only so much damage she can do before he strikes back ten times worse. 

“You will do as I say and marry Aemond Targaryen and I will hear no further discussion about it,” Daemon says with finality, making her grit her teeth. 

“And what exactly do you gain from selling me off to your enemy like a piece to be traded in your games?” Elaerys says, her voice wavering, betraying the hidden emotion within. She hates herself for it. “I deserve to know the truth at least.” 

Daemon regards her for a moment with narrowed eyes, something she can’t quite place glinting in his gaze. Then he gives her a condescending nod. 

“I must say, I am impressed,” he says, lifting a finger. “ Not pleased, but impressed nonetheless. You are certainly not dense, like your mother. Far more astute and observant than I would have expected.” He gives her an appraising look, ignoring the way she bristles at the insult of Rhea’s memory. “Good, that will suit us nicely, and it will help you if you are to survive the Red Keep.” 

Elaerys frowns. “What do you mean?” 

“You will soon find, daughter, that everyone has a weakness to exploit,” Daemon says, with a dispassionate shrug. “And men are fickle things, their loyalties sway to the rhythm of their best interest. It doesn’t take much to get one distracted enough. Most men are easily caught by a pretty thing, just dangle before them the key to their innermost desires and they’ll soon be doing anyone’s bidding.” He lets his words sink in for a moment before giving her a pointed look. “I expect my fastidious nephew, for all his ‘ disciplined ’ exterior will not be much different.” 

The meaning of his words is not lost on her but it does take her a moment to wrap her head around this frankly insulting insinuation. 

“You want me to… what?” Elaerys sputters, eyes wide in disbelief. “Seduce him?” 

Daemon has the gall to chuckle at her appalled reaction. 

“Well, do not put it that crassly if it is so horrifying to you.” He waves a dismissive hand. “I want you to use your head and your feminine wiles to… beguile him, if you will.”

She can only blink in speechless indignation, but Daemon takes her silence to continue.  

“I want you to entice him enough to gain his trust, and preferably that of his family as well.” A smirk plays on his lips, eyes sparkling with morbid satisfaction. “Learn all their secrets, their future plans, anything of importance. I want the Greens to think of you as one of them. Otto will likely underestimate you, but you shall be the viper lying just beneath their feet. And you will report all their weaknesses to me.” 

Elaerys is left reeling for a few long seconds, her jaw slack in a mixture between dismay and bewilderment. She doesn’t know whether to laugh, cry or rage, perhaps a blend of all three at once, so she fumbles for words for a moment, throat tight with contained outrage. 

“I am not a… a… whore … to be used in your political games!” 

“Then prove yourself better than one,” Daemon replies with a careless roll of his eyes.  “I wouldn’t expect a whore to be capable of navigating the courtroom politics of the Red Keep and use it to her advantage.” He raises his brows, pinning her with a persuasive look. 

“Think of it this way, Elaerys, you can be a powerful tool, finally worthy of making our family proud.” Daemon doesn’t seem to care that Elaerys in fact, would rather not be involved at all in his games. He continues as if he doesn’t notice her openly hostile gaze. “If you are smart, you will have my idiot nephew in the palm of your hand, bending at your will. In fact,” he crosses his arms over his chest. “That is exactly what I expect you to do.” 

This is insane, preposterous. She has no need for this. She is meant to be the ruling Lady of Runestone, not a doll to be used for Rhaenyra’s wishes and her father’s ambitions. She is more than this. 

“What if I refuse?” Elaerys arches a defiant eyebrow. 

“Then I will have you dragged to the Great Sept kicking and screaming if I must.” Daemon lifts a shoulder in indifference.  “We can do this either by fair means or foul, it’s entirely up to you. But I am your father and you will do as I say whether you like it or not.” 

“My father ?” Elaerys scoffs with a derisive quirk of her lips. “You do not get to call yourself that now.” 

All her life he’s treated her like little more than a nuisance, barely even acknowledging her existence, and now that it’s convenient for him, he suddenly remembers she is his daughter solely to use her like a weapon against his foes. Elaerys is sure even Dark Sister has been treated with more respect than what she’s being dealt with right now. 

“You reap the benefits of having my own blood run through your veins and yet dare renounce it?” Daemon asks with a sneer. “Would you have rather I declared you a bastard? I could have easily done so.” 

“Please, you couldn’t have.” Elaerys rolls her eyes. “I have too much of you for it to have been believable.” 

She hates that it’s true. She’s always been proud of her Valyrian roots, it’s what makes her the Blood of the Dragon after all. But right now she feels like she would be far better off having nothing of the Targaryens at all, nothing to tie her to Daemon and his psychotic plans. 

“You are right,” Daemon concedes. “You may dislike it, daughter, but we are much alike you and I, in more ways than one.” His gaze turns distant, a bit contemplative. “I too was married against my will, and I survived it. I expect you to do the same.” 

He finally stands, now towering over her, making her look up to meet his eyes. 

“Besides, no marriage lasts forever. You need only wait and bide your time.” He tilts his head, perfectly offhand in the face of her anger. “Once we secure the throne, I will see to it that you are freed from this farce of a union.” 

This successfully throws her off.

“How?” Her dark eyebrows draw together in confusion. 

“There is more than one way to end a marriage,” Daemon says dismissively, which Elaerys can only find rather cryptic. “Worry not how it is done. As long as it is done….” 

Elaerys’ mind reels with the hidden possibilities behind her father’s words, but there’s not much time to contemplate his meaning when he’s clearly putting an end to their discussion. So she seizes whatever out she can get from this. 

“So, I only have to help you get Rhaenyra on the throne… and then I will be free?” She asks slowly, feeling like she’s negotiating her soul away. 

Daemon nods, looking at her like he finds the very question foolish. “Naturally, I would not see my blood tied to Hightower scum forever.” 

Not forever, just long enough, like it is not a sacrifice regardless. Like he’s not making her endure it either way in the name of a conflict she could not care less about. The Targaryens fight over the throne and it is she who pays the price. 

“You might regret this decision,” Elaerys tries to reason in a desperate last bid. “My uncle and the lords of the Vale will not be pleased by this union, you must certainly know it.” 

Daemon is no idiot, he must realize the implications of two Targaryens ruling over Runestone and how little it would suit the Vale’s interests. 

“The Vale is of little concern to me at the moment when we have bigger fish to fry.” Daemon waves his hand in dismissal. “As long as the Arryns back Rhaenyra’s claim.  And considering Queen Aemma was one of them, I don’t see why they wouldn’t. Theirs is the most important allegiance that should concern us. Your uncle can be as displeased as he sees fit for all I care.” 

Elaerys’ eyes narrow. It seems his arrogance is bigger than his wisdom when it comes to underestimating the Vale once again. Too bad his plans may yet fail if he thinks the Arryns or Royces will blindly support him after what he did to Rhea. After what he’s doing to her . 

However, she knows nothing she says will make him change his mind. She is stuck with this senseless decision, at least for the foreseeable future.

Elaerys heaves a resigned sigh. “Well, I suppose I have little choice then.” 

“You have none, in fact,” Daemon corrects as he makes for the door. “It is already settled. I have agreed to the match, as has the King. We are to leave for King’s Landing on the morrow.” 

Elaerys feels her heart drop to her feet. Her helplessness has only one tiny glimpse of relief in the dismal concession she just managed to extract from her father but it doesn’t seem like enough. Half a day is not enough time to appeal to her Uncle Gerold and even if a raven was to reach him on time, he would have little say on the matter. His word is worth nothing against Daemon and the King’s designs. 

She needs to change tactics, think on her feet, no amount of righteous anger will help her in this. Elaerys will have to use what’s been given to her to get the best out of this situation. With the least damage done to herself and her home as possible. 

“Fine,” she says with great reluctance. “But once Rhaenyra secures her precious throne, either you free me from this bond or I will see to it myself.” 

Her father sends her an amused smirk. “I would not expect any less.” 

Elaerys watches him go, her eyes sparkling with carefully controlled rage. If Daemon thinks she will blindly follow his commands he has another thing coming.

She may have to play by his rules for now, but she is not to be underestimated. If she is to comply with this farce she will do it with her own safety and freedom in mind, Rhaenyra’s throne can burn in the war her father is so intent on waging for all she cares. As long as she ends up far removed from this conflict it is all the same to her. 

“There he is! The man of the hour!” Aegon’s loud voice echoes across the room, making Aemond roll his eye, already dreading his brother’s boisterous mood. 

Aegon comes to stand close to him, clapping him on the back with a too-enthusiastic pat that carries more force than necessary to be considered strictly friendly. 

“Dinner has not even started and you already reek of wine.” Aemond shrugs him off, wrinkling his nose in disgust. 

“Must I have dinner to get myself a drink?” Aegon asks, waving his half-full goblet that must certainly be at least the fourth one he’s downed in the last hour. “No, I did not think so. Anyhow,” he grins, entirely too giddy to foretell anything good, and lifts his cup in a mocking toast. “I hear congratulations are in order.” 

“You seem awfully pleased about this,” Aemond mutters, casting a look towards his mother and grandsire already sitting at the dining table, not keen on drawing their attention. 

“Of course I’m pleased! Nay, amazed, even!” Aegon shakes his shoulder again with a firm grip that barely passes as a brotherly gesture. “Little brooding Aemond managed to get himself a Lady!” 

His brother’s laugh grates on his ears, making him clench his jaw, but Aemond can hardly lose his patience in front of his mother and grandsire so he merely gives Aegon an unimpressed look. 

“You know, I always thought with that uninviting glower and that ominous way you carry yourself with, you would scare away every single lady in the realm. But here we are, you caught yourself a wife!” Aegon’s grin takes on that telltale taunting quality that never fails to get on Aemond’s nerves. “And not just any bride!” Aegon snorts with a grand wave of his hand. “ Daemon’s daughter of all women!” 

His unrestrained cackle makes Alicent shoot them an admonishing look, and Aemond makes to step toward the dinner table before Aegon snakes an arm around his shoulders, dragging him slightly down to his level so he can whisper in a conspiratorial tone. 

“I do hear the lady unfortunately resembles her late mother a bit, and you know what our dear uncle used to say about her?” Aegon’s lips curve in a mockingly sympathetic pout. “He was often heard saying women of the Vale were so unpleasant the men often preferred to fuck their sheep” 

Aemond roughly shakes his brother off of him again, his murderous look doing nothing to diminish Aegon’s chuckles. 

“Don’t worry brother, we got you a pig before. I’m sure we can acquire you a sheep for you to practice in the meantime.” 

“Keep talking and you may find yourself with a fork sticking through your hand at dinner,” Aemond hisses through gritted teeth, low enough to pass unnoticed by Alicent and Otto as he finally takes his usual seat at the table. 

“Come now, Aemond, don't be such a killjoy!” 

The grand oak doors of the Small Hall open to reveal Helaena, making her way to dinner in that serene way of hers despite being sufficiently late to cause their mother to narrow her eyes in slight disapproval. 

His sister doesn’t seem to notice at all as she settles beside Aegon —who now sits in front of Aemond— her usual absentminded look unfazed by the tension hanging between the brothers. 

“Ah, have you told our sister dearest about the joyful occasion?” Aegon asks with a smirk. 

“I fail to find anything particularly joyful to share about this,” Aemond says blandly. 

But this has sparked Helaena’s interest, her wide purple eyes appearing focused for once. “What occasion?”

“Our little Aemond here is to be married!” 

Helaena’s face suddenly brightens with a rare, mildly excited smile. “Oh, what happy news! Congratulations, brother.” 

Aemond shoots Aegon a withering look, but he never has the heart to be mean to Helaena, much less when she appears so genuinely happy, so he merely nods in polite acceptance. 

“It will be nice to finally have a sister present around here. A much welcome change of energy,” Helaena says somewhat wistfully, making Aegon’s taunting grin be replaced by a frown. 

“What is that supposed to mean?” 

“Who shall be the lucky bride?” Helaena asks, ignoring Aegon’s question. 

“Daemon’s daughter,” Aegon answers with an ironic tilt to his voice. “Our estranged cousin, Elaerys.” 

“Ah yes, she seemed like a lovely girl when we met her.” Helaena nods, like she’s approving of the decision. “You two shall make an appropriate couple.”

Aegon snorts. “Yes, I’m sure anything that closely related to Daemon would be sweet and lovely— wait, have we met her?” 

Aemond rolls his eye, taking a generous sip from his cup. He suddenly wishes the wine was stronger to at least make him endure this meal with an added bit of numbness. 

Aemond frankly doesn’t know why his mother insists on having these nightly family dinners. There’s little familial warmth to be found between the lot of them after all. His father is rarely ever there, Aegon is drunk off his ass more often than not, Helaena seems to drift in and out of her semi-permanent dreamlike state, and between Otto and Alicent he’s not sure who is less adept at coming up with particularly interesting topics to talk about.

He’s sure he zoned out half of the conversation happening at the table, but Helaena’s next words do snap him back to attention. 

“Did you know, it’s common in some species of spiders for the female to eat her mate sometimes?”

Aemond and Aegon share an equally perplexed look, and Aemond can only blink in silent confusion at the odd, unrelated statement. Not that this kind of disconnected comments from his sister are an uncommon occurrence, but they never fail to leave him a bit at a loss.  

“I think they are deeply misunderstood creatures, spiders I mean,” Helaena continues, unfazed by her brothers’ bafflement. “Most of them are harmless and only bite when provoked.” 

She pins Aemond with a meaningful gaze, her eyes suddenly becoming intense but distant in that characteristic hazy look of hers. 

“Do not provoke her, Aemond,” Helaena says in her usual cryptic way. “She shall weave a web of her own design. She does not wish to be disturbed, but you can meet her in the middle.” 

“What in the Seven Hells are you talking about?” Aegon says before Aemond has any chance to reply to her incoherent words. 

“Helaena, dearest, I do not think that is an appropriate topic of conversation for dinner,” Alicent says, softly admonishing. 

Otto then clears his throat, commanding the attention of the rest of the table. 

“I want to address some important matters,” he says, making Aemond’s shoulders stiffen in anticipation. “Ser Vaemond Velaryon’s audience with the King shall take place tomorrow. As such, the Velaryons are expected to come, along with Princess Rhaenyra and her family.” 

Aemond can feel a groan fighting to claw its way out of his throat. So he doesn’t even get a couple of weeks to assimilate the news of his impending marriage and this blasted farce about peace before he is expected to act the part in front of his half-sister and her bastards. Perfect. 

“I expect you all to be in your very best behavior during their stay,” Otto directs his intense gaze towards Aemond and Aegon, arching an eyebrow. “And that means not antagonizing Rhaenyra’s sons. I do not think I need to emphasize that I will not tolerate a repeat of that dreadful incident in Driftmark.” 

Aemond seethes in his place, averting his gaze so Otto can’t see his simmering anger hiding just beneath the surface. His grandsire speaks as though that very incident had been a mere childish fight between unruly kids, and not the gruesome attack that robbed Aemond of his eye, his dignity, and the chance to have a relatively normal life. 

Like he doesn’t deserve retribution for what he’d lost at the hands of the Strong boys. 

For once, Aegon seems to think similarly. 

“Pity, I was looking forward to seeing how you’d get your revenge on the little whelps now that you’re no longer a skinny pipsqueak yourself,” His brother murmurs with a hint of a malicious grin. “Maybe an unfortunate accident in the training yard might go inconspicuous enough.”  

Aemond lets the corners of his lips lift into a smirk of his own. “It may not happen now, but I will get my vengeance in due time, don’t you worry about it brother.” 

Aegon chuckles, raising his goblet. “Well, do save me a seat for when that happens.” 

Oh, but of course he will. Then perhaps, with enough luck, Aegon would catch the strays of his unleashed fury. 

“Does that mean Aemond’s lovely bride-to-be is to come as well?” Aegon asks loud enough to catch their grandsire’s attention. 

Otto nods. “The King will want to make the announcement soon. Your father would like a short engagement, given his delicate health and… worsening condition.” 

He puts it so delicately, as if they all don’t know Viserys is already living on borrowed time. 

“Well, more quickly than one would want but don’t worry brother,” Aegon’s eyes crinkle at the edges with a saucy grin. “You will still have plenty of time to sample other goods before you are permanently leashed, I would make good use of that time if I were you.” 

“Aegon!” Alicent snaps, lips pursed in displeasure. “You will keep such foul talk out of the dinner table, your siblings need not be exposed to your disgraceful manners.” 

That successfully wipes the smirk from Aegon’s face, and it’s Aemond’s turn to send his brother a satisfied look of his own. 

“Needless to say, I will not stand for either of you to embarrass this family with distasteful behavior,” Otto looks at the three of them with his usual severe mien. “You will be gracious hosts and treat the Velaryons and your sister’s family with utmost respect. We are to maintain the illusion of peace, and I will not have you jeopardizing that image. Understood?” 

They can only nod in agreement. Aegon and Helaena don’t seem too bothered by the instruction, but why would they be? They are not the ones who suffered the indignities Aemond was subjected to. In fact, more often than not it had been Aegon the main instigator of his childhood torment. And his brother makes a continuous effort to remain an uncomfortable thorn on his side. 

Aemond clenches a fist around his fork, imagining it’s Aegon he’s forcefully stabbing with it instead of the tender lamb loin they’re having for dinner. 

He’s already dreading the days to come. 

Rumors tend to spread naturally throughout Westeros when it comes to nobility, especially the ones pertaining to the residents of the Red Keep, and most importantly when the matter regards the Royal Family. However, the Vale is secluded and far enough away from King’s Landing that the main details and most sensational pieces of gossip tend to fizzle out by the time they arrive. Therefore, Elaerys has heard little about her relatives in the Red Keep, and what little information she has can only come from what these whispers carry. 

She does not like a single thing she’s heard so far, and she’s aware she’s only heard the most superficial things. What kind of people is she to be associated with soon? 

The least concerning of all would be what is said about her cousin Helaena; a quiet young woman with a scattered mind and odd, sometimes disconcerting behavior. Coupled with what she’s heard about her brother-husband, Aegon, the image they paint is not quite the most compelling one. Elaerys shudders to imagine the misfortune of being tied to such a man; a disreputable drunk with a habit of frequenting the Street of Silk far too often. 

And these are the two characters she’s heard more about, when people lament that the Queen should be saddled with a lunatic daughter and the scattered whispers about Aegon’s sleazy habits. But what matters to her now is the lack of talk Elaerys has witnessed about the Queen’s second son, and now apparently her husband-to-be; Aemond Targaryen. The One-Eyed Prince, they call him, but little else she’s heard about him from murmurs spread in the Vale. 

Regarding him, what she knows is from firsthand accounts, and nothing good. 

She remembers him, of course she does, how could she ever forget that horrid night in Driftmark? 

Elaerys had spent the day softly consoling her heartbroken sisters, too concentrated in them to have spared more than a cursory glance to either the Velaryon boys or her Targaryen cousins. Either way, neither had approached her after being introduced and frankly, she couldn’t have cared less at the time about trying to fit in with her estranged family. 

But when night had fallen, she’d been awakened quite abruptly by a distraught pair of twins. Baela and Rhaena had barged into her room in the middle of the night, both babbling about a stolen dragon. Their mother’s dragon. 

She remembers being skeptical, after all, one cannot simply steal a dragon, much less a dragon the likes of Vhagar. But her sisters had been adamant that something must be done to get her back, and hadn’t even waited for Elaerys before they ran off into the night. She had been left more than a bit blindsided, waiting at the foot of her door in her nightgown like a gaping fish, feeling like she’d dreamt the whole thing. 

Rather than trying to follow her distressed sisters, Elaerys had tried to look for help. The warnings of her Uncle Gerold about being in her very best behavior lest she give Daemon another excuse to disparage the Royces drilled inside her mind. She could hardly claim to be an appropriate lady if she was seen running around High Tide’s hallways in nothing but her nightgown in the middle of the night like a deranged child. 

Her first instinct had been to look for Daemon. It was the first and last time she ever made that mistake. Elaerys had not found him in his rooms, nor anywhere near the chambers designated for the guests present for Lady Laena’s funeral. With little choice but to take matters into her own hands she’d trailed across the hallway, down the narrow stairway and found herself in the Hall of Nine, where much to her fortune she’d finally found a Kingsguard posted at the door. 

Elaerys had barely begun consulting the knight about the possible whereabouts of her father when they’d heard a great commotion coming from somewhere outside the door. The guard had promptly turned and left, surely to investigate, and a moment later the great doors had opened again to reveal two more Kingsguards and a gaggle of screaming, bloodied children, amongst them her disheveled sisters. 

She still remembers the strangled gasp that left her as she witnessed a young Prince Aemond being carried by one of the guards, his hand covering half of his face, blood profusely pouring through his fingers. 

The gruesome scene had been so horrid, Elaerys barely remembers flashes in a blur; Rhaena crying, Baela screaming, insisting it had not been their fault, that Jace and Luke were only defending them. Something about Aemond calling Rhaena a pig? 

She definitely remembers being told Aemond had hit her sister in the face. 

And then Luke took his eye… 

And through all of it Aemond had barely made a sound of discomfort or pain as the maester had examined his wound, just a few quiet, stifled groans, bearing the butchery done to his face with a simmering, dangerous intensity in his remaining eye, looking like a disgruntled dragon hatchling. 

It had made Elaerys squirm with unease. 

When the adults finally came, Uncle Gerold had promptly taken Elaerys away despite her protests, insisting that her sisters would be fine under the care of their grandparents. There was no need for her to witness such a scene. She’d left with one last parting glance toward her sisters, she could still glimpse Aemond’s bloodied face behind their shoulders. She never got to see if Daemon deigned himself to come to his daughters’ aid. 

Ser Gerold had been adamant to leave the very next morning, taking their ship back to Runestone with barely a second to spare in goodbyes. That had been the last she’d seen of any of the Targaryens for years. 

Elaerys twists her lips into a frown at the memory. She suddenly wishes it had remained that way and she could be spared the misfortune of having to deal with this wretched family. 

Her first impression of her future husband was less than ideal, and the opinion of him she’d been left with was less than good. What kind of boy insults a grieving girl, hits her twin in the face, and calls his own nephews bastards? What kind of man could that boy have become? Rhaenyra may have tried to enhance that image with her own tales of the Prince’s prowess with a sword and with his dragon, but to Elaerys that only makes him look like even more of a menace. 

She thinks she could perhaps console herself with the fact that at the very least she has not heard Aemond Targaryen being talked about in the same way his brother is… would that count as a win? Would she rather have an apparently ill-tempered husband or a libertine one? 

Elaerys supposes it ultimately matters little. There’s no use in dwelling on it when she can’t escape her fate. The raven she’d sent Uncle Gerold bearing the terrible news will not even be halfway back to Runestone by the time they get to the Red Keep. 

Now, as she follows behind Caraxes and Syrax on their way to King’s Landing, with the early morning sunbeams softly caressing her face, Elaerys has half a mind to take Nyssarion back to Runestone, escape as fast as they can manage and never be seen again. She could if she really wanted to, Nyssarion is fast and agile, often disappearing behind the clouds like a puff of smoke. 

But Caraxes is just as nimble in flight, and her father a much more experienced dragonrider. Elaerys is not so arrogant to think he wouldn’t catch up to her in time. Besides, she has the sneaking suspicion that Vermax and Arrax are trailing just behind her, flanking her at either side, as an added precaution to prevent an improvised escape from her. 

The journey from Dragonstone is a short one and before long they glimpse King’s Landing in the distance, and while the sight of Dragonstone had taken Elaerys’ breath away, the Red Keep is not nearly as impressive in her opinion, save for the sheer size of it coupled with the tightly packed, meandering streets of the city. The busy landscape only makes her stomach tighten in apprehension. 

When they finally land outside the Dragonpit, Elaerys knows she has precious few moments to act according to her plans. She doesn’t trust Rhaena not to sugarcoat her true opinion in an effort to spare Elaerys’ feelings so she has asked nothing to her sister. 

Once Daemon and Rhaenyra dismount, along with Rhaena, who traveled with their stepmother atop Syrax, Elaerys lingers back, letting the family and dragons head inside the Dragonpit before her, while she slowly trails to where Jace and Luke are giving their dragons over to the care of the Dragonkeepers. 

“Jace, Luke,” she says once she’s close enough. “Could we have a word, please? In private.” 

“Of course.” Jace seems surprised but not unwelcoming, while Luke gives her a little nod. 

They let Daemon, Rhaenyra and Rhaena head out before them, lingering inside the Dragonpit’s enormous domed walls with the excuse of helping Elaerys and Nyssarion adjust to the help of the Dragonkeepers. 

Once there’s just the three of them left, Elaerys finally turns to address them. 

“I expect by now you already know about my impending…” she falters, the word catching in her throat before she clears it. “betrothal.” 

There’s a moment of awkward silence before Jace finally reacts with a smile that looks more like a grimace. 

“Oh, yes, congratulations!” 

“What… surprising news!” Luke says in the worst impression of a well-wisher she’s ever seen. 

“Please, cousins,” Elaerys huffs, arching a brow. “Surely we can drop the act when it’s just the three of us.” 

Their evidently forced smiles immediately drop to reveal a pair of sympathetic expressions that Elaerys honestly dislikes even more.  

“I swear we didn’t know they were planning to do this,” Jace rushes to explain. “Neither did Rhaena.” 

“We are so sorry, Ella,” Luke says, his soulful eyes full of something awfully close to pity. 

“I know,” Elaerys sighs with a dispassionate shrug. “But come now, you are making it sound like I’m headed for my funeral.” 

The brothers exchange a dubious look, before Jace shakes his head with an encouraging quirk of his lips. 

“I am sure you and Aemond shall find some common ground in this union eventually.” 

“I have no need for kind lies, Jace,” Elaerys says bluntly. “If I am to face this I need to know exactly what to expect. As I understand, you lived with Aemond for some time.” She looks at them intently, trying to convey her conviction to know everything. “What is he like, truly?” 

Luke bites his lips like he’s trying very hard not to blurt out something, but Jace, ever more diplomatic, tries to come up with an appropriate answer. 

“We only knew him when we were children,” he says hesitantly. “He might have changed quite a bit since then.” 

“Perhaps not for the better…” She hears Luke mutter under his breath. 

Jace shoots his brother a warning look out of the corner of his eye. 

“I find some traits are hard to change even in adulthood,” Elaerys insists. “What was he like then?” 

The brothers struggle for words for a brief moment, seemingly trying to come up with something sufficiently appropriate to say. It’s Jace who finally answers. 

“He was… disciplined, studious, reserved…” he lists, his look reminiscent. “When he wasn’t training he often had his nose buried in a book.” 

“I think he liked his books better than us,” Luke jokes with a light smile. “He was always showing us up in every lesson, especially High Valyrian, remember?”

“Ah yes, he’s quite fluent in it,” Jace agrees. “And he had a special interest for history, and especially dragons.” 

“I used to find it odd, but now I think it was probably to compensate for the fact that he didn’t have his own at the time.” Luke’s smile  suddenly turns a bit wry.  

Elaerys’ tilts her head in curiosity. Something is not adding up. 

“I don’t find those characteristics to be quite nefarious,” she wonders out loud, quirking an eyebrow. “Which makes me wonder how such a seemingly harmless character would push you into a fight so vicious you had to remove his eye.” 

This seems to take them aback, leaving the two brothers fumbling for an embarrassing moment 

“We were children… Luke never intended-” 

“I’m not blaming you,” Elaerys interrupts before Jace can go down a myriad of justifications she’s not very interested in. “I would just like to know the whole truth.” 

“Fine,” Jace sighs reluctantly. “The truth is Aemond had quite the temper, it could easily snap at any provocation.” His lips purse as he seems to remember something particularly upsetting. “He could be extraordinarily mean when he wanted to be.” 

“He could hold a grudge to last a lifetime,” Luke adds. “Definitely not one to easily forgive. And he wasn’t fond of jokes, not even when they were harmless.” He grimaces. “Especially when they were about his lack of dragon.” 

Elaerys bites back a snort. 

“You don’t say.” Her voice carries a slightly sardonic tone, lips quirking up in irony. “Good to know, I shall remember not to joke around him about his lack of eye.” 

Luke winces, his cheeks coloring as Jace bites his lips rubbing the back of his neck in a self-conscious gesture. 

“What we mean is;  he is not an easy person to deal with, especially when he’s in a mood. And he is in a mood quite often.” Jace emphasizes, giving her a meaningful look. “He would probably expect a submissive and demure wife.” 

“Are you telling me to hold my tongue and be a quiet, little meek wife, Jace?” Elaerys asks archly. 

“You don’t strike me as the kind of lady who would comply even if I suggested it,” Jace says with a slightly amused grin, raising his hands in a shrug. “All I’m saying is, be careful around him, Ella. He’s not one to be trifled with.” 

Beneath his easy smile and kind eyes there’s a hint of genuine worry. She gets the feeling that he’s not saying it to be facetious and the warning makes her instantly wary. When her eyes trail toward Luke, his unease is even more evident. He looks at her like one would look at an abandoned puppy left to be some dragon’s prey. 

“I shall heed your advice, then,” Elaerys says with a nod, hoping her eyes convey her genuine gratitude. “Thank you both, for your candor.” 

The Velaryon brothers give her a warm smile, and as they exit the Dragonpit between lighthearted quips and friendly banter, Elaerys feels like perhaps they could become genuine friends. 

It seems Ser Vaemond’s audience has been the perfect excuse for a Targaryen family reunion. The Red Keep welcomes the Velaryons along with Rhaenyra’s family, of which only her youngest sons have yet to arrive — having been too young to travel on dragonback, they were to arrive by ship safely traveling with their nursemaids and the rest of Rhaenyra’s retinue.  

Elaerys’ much awaited reunion with Baela was as heartwarming as her one with Rhaena, her sister as equally grown, having become a strong-looking young lady, her voluminous, silver curls tumbling down loose past her shoulders, the perfect image of her untamable spirit. 

The three sisters shared a much needed bonding time as Rhaenyra and Princess Rhaenys left them to their own devices while they discussed private matters, no doubt about Vaemond’s impending hearing and the negotiations Rhaenyra was surely still machinating to save face. 

And while Rhaena had been all sympathetic dismay at the news of Elaerys’ engagement, Baela’s reaction was much less mild. 

Now, as they walk along the battlements overlooking the training yard where they’d left Jace and Luke to wander off on their own, Baela openly fumes in a righteous tirade. 

“I can’t believe he’s making you do this,” she grumbles with a deep frown. “What a demented plan. Is there nothing you can do to stop it? Perhaps your uncle could—“ 

“There’s little he can do about it if the King has already given his blessing,” Elaerys interrupts with a sigh. 

Below them, the sound of the training knights and members of the Kingsguard echoes across the courtyard as a crowd of spectators gathers around the sparring men. Baela keeps muttering through her teeth, perhaps even more outraged than Elaerys herself at this point. 

“To expect you to fraternize with our enemy in such a way… has he lost his senses?” 

“I am sure in time, you two could perhaps make something work,” Rhaena points out gently, no doubt trying to make Elaerys feel marginally less dispirited. “Some couples are only expected to produce an heir and afterwards they need not interact ever again.” 

But first they’d be expected to produce said heir… there was bound to be no small amount of interaction between Elaerys and her husband if she was to fulfill her duty. 

Baela rolls her eyes with a shake of her head. “She is to become a Princess of the Realm, she will be expected to interact with him in every social occasion.” 

Oh yes, what a way to raise her spirits… 

“Perhaps he’s changed and he’s not as bad as we are making him out to be.” Rhaena twists her lips. “It could be worse, at least he’s not said to have Aegon’s tastes. You know what they say about him , how he’s been known to molest even the maids.” 

Well, that last detail was news to Elaerys. Suddenly she feels even less comfortable about this whole thing. 

“What little chance we had to know Aemond was enough for me to know he is a condescending jerk,” Baela says with vicious distaste. “You would do better poisoning him slowly until you are rid of him, mandia .” 

“Baela!” Rhaena scolds, sufficiently scandalized to make Elaerys’ lips twitch in an amused smile. “You cannot say such vile things here, sister. This is not Dragonstone.” 

“Fine, just use my suggestion as a last resort.” Baela shrugs, completely unbothered by her twin’s warnings. “Regardless, you should tread carefully, Ella. The Hightowers are a bunch of greedy snakes, you cannot trust a single one of them. Except maybe Helaena, she seems harmless enough.” 

The collective loud gasp of the crowd below them catches their attention, and Elaerys comes closer to look over the stone parapet. She spies Jace and Luke lingering at the edge of the circle of onlookers surrounding a pair of training men, the boys quickly shouldering their way to come closer and catch a better view. 

From her upper standpoint, Elaerys has a clear view of the pair drawing the crowd’s attention. A tall, broad-shouldered, dark-haired man swings a dangerous looking morningstar with practiced ease, circling an equally tall but leaner figure before him. Elaerys doesn’t have to wonder who his sparring partner is; his long silver hair would be a dead giveaway already, but the eyepatch obscuring part of his face is the clearer indicator of the man’s identity. 

“Ah look at that, there he is.” She hears Baela mutter crossly.

The One-Eyed Prince himself, Aemond Targaryen. 

He looks nothing like the bloodied, disheveled boy she remembers, all traces of juvenile softness gone from his face, replaced by a slender man made of hard angles, his features sharp and defined, his long silver hair flowing smoothly past his shoulders with every move he makes. He looks like a Valyrian warrior carved in stone, harsh and deadly. 

Elaerys feels her stomach tighten in knots.

“And that must be Ser Criston Cole. Jace and Luke have nothing good to say about him.” 

She watches with bated breath as Aemond goes for the offense, but the dark-haired man easily dodges the attack and swings his weapon with dangerous swiftness, barely missing his opponent’s face, and Aemond’s shield shatters with the force of the hit he just blocked, drawing another surprised shout from the crowd. 

He tosses his shield to the ground, careless of the fact he’s now facing his partner with no protection. It looks like Ser Criston has the advantage, his swings precise and powerful, but Aemond moves with a swift agility that is almost surprising, a deadly kind of grace that is hard to miss; quick and calculated like a snake coiling, waiting for the right moment to strike. 

Elaerys doesn’t know exactly what she had been expecting from her husband-to-be but she feels like this wasn’t it. From the tales she’d heard, she would have expected an arrogant, wild, unpredictable menace, someone prone to angry outbursts of uncontrolled ire. But the man she observes now is composed and precise, there’s a stillness in his movements that feels perfectly calculated, a danger lurking just beneath the cool surface, like he’s holding back the full extent of his strength in each swift stroke of his sword. He’s not yet going for the kill, but she knows he’s waiting for the exact moment where it would matter the most. 

And that moment does come a few moments later. He takes advantage of the force behind Ser Criston’s swing of his morningstar, blocking the blow with his sword as he spins expertly to avoid his enemy’s weapon, his own blade twisting in a deadly arch. The maneuver is so swift Elaerys barely knows how it happened, but a second later Aemond has the tip of his sword pointed straight at Ser Criston’s neck, prompting the older man to yield as the crowd bursts into awed applause. 

And suddenly all the warnings she’s heard about this man pale in comparison to what she’d just witnessed. He is not the impulsive, reactive fiend she had expected but something much more sinister, something she can’t quite decipher. There’s danger in his cool demeanor, like a brewing storm in the distance. 

And that unsettles her more than the tall tales of his famed cruelty. 

The Throne Room fills with eager conversation as the courtiers mingle around, no doubt whispering about the very event that brought them here. 

Aemond has little care for whatever rumors they are creating between them. What matters is whatever is determined at the end of this hearing, and he very much doubts Ser Vaemond is to leave any more satisfied than when he came. 

He stands with the rest of his family by the foot of the dais, already knowing Viserys is not going to sit the throne this time. His father is apparently too indisposed again to oversee Vaemond’s far-reaching petition. Indeed he wonders if the King is even aware of the matters to be discussed today. In his stead, Otto Hightower will be the one in charge of the whole thing.

A mere theatric, Aemond knows. He cannot make any relevant decisions without the King’s express consent in such a delicate matter, but it’s all the same to Otto. As long as the courtiers keep whispering between them with even more conviction, his grandsire’s plans remain unaffected. 

The only satisfaction he’s able to get from this is the memory of his nephews’ faces in the training yard, the image still bringing a vindictive smirk to his face. While the years have passed, they have remained much the same, but Aemond knows he has changed quite a bit, leaving the timid boy he’d been behind to shape his body and mind into the one of a competent warrior. One perfectly ready for war. 

A war for which the Strong bastards look ill-suited for, and by the looks of it they know it. 

The room abruptly quiets as a Kingsguard announces the presence of the Velaryons as they enter the Throne Room, Ser Vaemond amongst them, looking far too smug for someone who is most certainly not likely to get his way. Their entrance is overshadowed by the much more grandiose announcement of Rhaenyra and her family.  

Rhaenyra marches forward with all the self-assuredness of a Crown Princess, giving the impression that she is very much confident of her standing in this scandalous hearing. Daemon looks pretty much unchanged from the last time Aemond had seen him, his bearing equally superior, like this whole matter is beneath his attention. 

Aemond looks on in thinly disguised distaste as his nephews enter right behind their mother. Jace keeps his head up, his confidence bordering on arrogance, as if he had any right to be walking so proudly before them when his clearly dubious parentage is being put loudly to question. Luke, on the other hand, looks appropriately anxious, his eyes darting around the room as he visibly tries not to hide behind his older brother. 

Aemond almost scoffs. Some future Lord of the Tides he would make. 

Aegon’s attention, however, seems to be caught by an entirely different subject. 

“Baela has certainly grown into quite the woman, don’t you think?” He mutters with a wicked little grin. “Perhaps she and I can get suitably reacquainted during her stay.” 

“You are a degenerate. Need I remind you Helaena is right here?” Aemond murmurs back with a curl of his lips. 

Aegon chuckles lowly. “We shall see how prim and proper you remain once you are married yourself, brother.” 

Before Aemond can reply, the last of Rhaenyra’s party is announced; a name that he has never heard presented at court before.

“Lady Elaerys of House Targaryen and House Royce, daughter of Prince Daemon Targaryen and Lady Rhea Royce, rightful Lady of Runestone.” 

Chapter Text

And I don’t want your heart, it leaves me cold

I don’t want your future

I don’t need your past 

One grand moment is all I ask ~ Leave My Body

“Lady Elaerys of House Targaryen and House Royce, daughter of Prince Daemon Targaryen and Lady Rhea Royce, rightful Lady of Runestone.” 

A hush settles over the court as all eyes turn toward the great doors, no doubt curious about the elusive Targaryen. 

Aemond feels a certain rush of silent expectation. She doesn’t disappoint, stepping inside right behind her sisters Baela and Rhaena. He can feel the crowd muttering all around the hall, no doubt commenting under their breaths about the lady’s unexpected appearance in this audience.  

But when his gaze finally settles over her, he knows what they must all be collectively thinking.

“Well brother, I stand corrected. Guess you lucked out,” Aegon says with an admiring tone Aemond doesn’t like one bit. “In fact, I might even be starting to envy you. She’s definitely an exotic beauty, isn’t she?” 

On that he is right. Lady Elaerys is not like any other woman he had ever seen before. Unlike the typical Targaryens, who stand out  in any crowd by their silver blonde locks and alabaster skin, she contrasts with her sisters by her dark hair falling down her back in soft, loose waves, only partially pinned up in an elaborate braid that ties with an ornate bronze pin at the back of her head. She blends in perfectly with Rhaenyra’s boys at first glance. That is, until one gets a clear look of her face. 

She’s not the girl Aemond scarcely remembers from childhood. Her now fine features and delicate jaw betray her Valyrian ancestry, but her high cheeks are colored by a rosy glow that does not typically come naturally to a Targaryen’s pale complexion, her skin touched by a hint of warmth. And perhaps most striking of all are her eyes; a pair of pale lilac-violet irises framed by dark lashes and defined, arched brows that make them stand out even more.   

She’s an anomaly within both Targaryens and typical Westerosi. A strange blend of earthy appeal coupled with the allure of Old Valyria, an amalgamation of contrasts that would have one looking twice to try to decipher what exactly it is that marks her as different. She is not ethereally beautiful in the way Rhaenyra is said to have been in her youth. Hers is a more subtle kind of beauty, wispy and mysterious, like a rare gemstone waiting to be discovered. 

And although he cannot deny her looks draw his attention, it is her bearing that keeps Aemond’s gaze locked on her. Elaerys walks with a quiet, subtle grace he hadn’t been expecting, a composed confidence and poise befitting a princess, head held high and back straight despite the whispers surging around her. It would appear haughty, but there’s a pleasant quirk of her pink lips that softens her face, a glimmer in her eyes that gives a keen quality to her gaze. 

She walks all the way down the aisle without faltering, and when she finally makes it to the dais, she stops before the Queen to give her a graceful, deep curtsey. 

“Your Grace,” she says, her voice smooth and measured. “It is a pleasure to see you again.” 

Alicent returns the sentiment with a stiff smile and a polite bow of her head, her eyes roaming over the lady’s attire like she is expecting to find a fault in it. There’s none to be found, at least in Aemond’s opinion. Her gown is tailored in the Vale’s typical fashion, the dark color of her dress enhanced by finely embroidered motifs that hint at her Targaryen heritage with subtle scales accentuating her hem and neckline, but fashioned in bronze thread instead of the typical red of their house. 

Elaerys seems unfazed by the Queen’s assessing gaze. She bears the scrutiny with a sort of mild nonchalance, not exactly proud, but neither does she acquire the simpering and demure semblance he’s often seen in the ladies of the court, doesn’t cower and wilt under the intensity of the attention currently set on her. 

After the appropriate greeting is complete, she spares the rest of the royal family a cursory glance before promptly continuing on her way behind her sisters and joining the rest of her family in the opposite side of the room. 

There’s no time for further greetings. 

Aemond is far too focused on analyzing his future bride to notice his grandsire has already commenced the petitions; he has a task to fulfill after all, so he barely even registers whatever it is Vaemond is requesting as his eye intently roves over Elaerys, trying to read every detail in her mostly neutral expression and get a better assessment of her. 

She doesn’t appear to be paying much attention to Vaemond’s allegations either, instead her eyes roam over the courtiers in attendance with mild curiosity, occasionally lingering here and there before they move to her next target. He wonders what she’s looking for, what seems to capture her interest in such a bland crowd when her own family is appropriately focused on the man blatantly trying to disinherit Luke. 

But despite the fact that her gaze flutters all around the court, her eyes never once settle over him, not even in passing. This too catches his attention. Aemond isn’t sure whether this should matter to him or not. Does he care that she doesn’t seem interested in the slightest in her betrothed, not even out of curiosity? 

He supposes it shouldn’t matter, in fact he should have expected it. She’s probably trying to avoid looking directly at him before it’s absolutely necessary, after all, what lady in her right mind would willingly want to set her eyes on him? The One-Eyed Prince, face disfigured after what Rhaenyra’s bastard did to him. He could almost pity Lady Elaerys, forced to be tied to him for the rest of her life. 

Alas, he is in the exact same boat, about to be bound to a woman he never chose, and he is not the compassionate sort. Aemond is far more interested in trying to decipher his mysterious fiancée to feel any kind of commiseration for their mutual predicament. 

He is suddenly startled out of his own musings when the grand doors of the Throne Room open to the announcement of the King’s unexpected presence. The crowd draws in a surprised breath at this sudden interruption. Aemond can feel his mother stiffen beside him, sees his grandsire stand abruptly from his seat on the throne out of the corner of his eye, his gaze now focused on Rhaenyra’s satisfied expression. 

Aemond feels his lips thin in silent derision. His father could not be bothered to get out of his room in the most dire of circumstances, but when the matter concerns his favorite daughter he is suddenly capable of summoning enough strength to drag himself to the throne again. Figures. 

The ailing King makes his way embarrassingly slowly down the aisle until he gets to the foot of the dais, declining the help of his Kingsguard to climb the steps toward the throne. But when his strength wavers and his cane proves of little help halfway up, it is Daemon who steps in to help Viserys the rest of the way. 

Aemond rapidly loses interest in this farce of an audience. Surely it would have suited his grandsire better if the King had never shown up, to drag Rhaenyra’s name to Vaemond’s heart’s content if only to fuel the rumors through court. But Viserys puts an end to the theatrics with his mere presence, and Aemond already knows what his father will declare without even finishing hearing Vaemond’s claims. 

Instead, he settles his attention on Luke, feeling a faint spark of vindictive satisfaction with every flinch of the puny boy and the way his nervous eyes dart around the room with every whisper from the crowd. And when Princess Rhaenys is called forward to give her testimony, Aemond tunes out most of what is being said until the woman announces Rhaenyra’s plan to marry Jace and Luke to her granddaughters Baela and Rhaena respectively. 

Well, isn’t this awfully convenient? It seems his half-sister has been keeping busy playing the matchmaker all around, arranging marriages to her convenience. Aemond wonders if his grandsire and mother had considered this turn of events. His eye trails again to the other side of the room. 

Baela looks sufficiently pleased with the news. Of course she would be, she is set to be the next Queen Consort if Rhaenyra gets her way. Rhaena keeps a neutral smile on her face, she doesn’t look particularly surprised, but then again she seems mostly insipid in her every action. But Elaerys’ gaze flickers from one sister to the other, her eyes sparking with curiosity. He doesn’t think she knew about this from the looks of it. 

After Princess Rhaenys’ testimony, to the surprise of absolutely no one, Viserys reinforces Luke as the rightful heir to Driftmark and future Lord of the Tides. But Vaemond is apparently a self-important idiot and openly contests the King’s ruling. 

Somehow, Aemond seriously doubts this was part of his grandsire’s plans. The Sea Snake’s brother now looks like a fool questioning the King’s words, making his claims look less righteous and more like the demands of a greedy man. He can see his mother pursing her lips and Aegon smirking at the chaos already ensuing from this, no doubt enjoying watching Otto’s plans go completely awry. 

It certainly proves amusing enough, when Vaemond completely loses his senses and decides to claim Luke is ‘no true Velaryon’ in front of the entire court. Aemond can’t help the grin pulling at the corners of his lips at the sight of Luke’s wide-eyed face and Jace’s affronted look. But Vaemond goes even further, heedless of Daemon’s taunting words and the dangerous spark in his eyes. 

“Her children are BASTARDS!” He shouts, the court’s appalled gasps echoing behind his words. “And she is… a whore.” 

He’s gone too far, Aemond can tell even before his father calls for Vaemond’s tongue. He barely blinks and a second later Vaemond’s head goes flying off his shoulders, his body crumpling to the ground at Daemon’s feet, Dark Sister dripping with his blood. 

Aemond takes a startled step back, the crowd around them letting out a collective terrified scream. His eye darts back across the room. Rhaenyra looks unsurprised, her sons and stepdaughters appear mildly stricken as they look at the beheaded body in the middle of the room, but it is Elaerys’ reaction the one that draws his attention. Unlike her siblings, her wide eyes are fixed on Daemon, jaw slack. She doesn’t flinch or flee or scream like other courtiers, but there’s a peculiar shadow in her gaze. 

That is not the fond look that a daughter would give to her father. She looks at Daemon like he is a mad man and she is just now realizing it. 

Hmm, interesting.  

“He can keep his tongue,” Daemon says almost casually. 

Personally, Aemond can’t help but reluctantly admire his uncle’s guts. Daemon doesn’t even look the slightest bit fazed when the guards draw their own swords as Otto calls for them to disarm him, nonchalantly wiping his sword with the hem of his own tunic like this was just a mild inconvenience. 

Meanwhile Viserys looks positively exhausted as he slumps back into the throne, a hand over his face. Otto orders the guards to remove Vaemond’s remains, and Aemond briefly wonders why they have not ordered to clear the room instead. But the reason becomes clear as soon as the body is removed from the Throne Room. 

“This is a most shameful situation that I did not anticipate,” the King addresses the room at large. “It pains me that it should overshadow a truly joyous occasion. But let us not dwell on the senseless ravings of a troubled, greedy man and his unfortunate demise, however deserved.” 

Aemond frowns. Surely his father wouldn’t be so impertinent as to continue this assembly when the blood of Vaemond Velaryon was still fresh on the floor. 

But Viserys has long since surpassed Aemond’s lowest expectations. 

“Let us move on to happier matters,” he continues with a bland smile on his wan face. “I would like to express my hearty congratulations to my dear grandsons and nieces on their betrothal. Jace and Baela, Luke and Rhaena; a most welcome union that will surely cement our longstanding friendship between Targaryens and Velaryons.” 

The audacity of this claim when Daemon had just slain Vaemond mere minutes ago would be appalling, but it seems his father’s delusions know no bounds. 

The King ushers the respective couples forward among the applause of the crowd, and as he watches Jace and Luke escort their new fiancées to the foot of the Iron Throne, Aemond has the sinking feeling that this will not only involve them. 

“And last but not least, it is my pleasure to announce as well the very fortunate betrothal between my son, Prince Aemond, and my niece Lady Elaerys,” his father declares, beckoning them too with a wave of his hand.  “A union that I expect will be most prosperous and make our House stand even stronger.” 

Another wave of applause follows and Aemond has little choice but to comply, stepping forward and meeting his own fiancée in the middle. This is the first time they are properly reintroduced, in front of the eyes of the entire court no less, but Elaerys doesn’t look particularly bothered by these circumstances. 

“My Lady.” Aemond bows politely before her. 

“My Prince,” she says, in that smooth voice. 

She gives him a perfectly graceful curtsey, and when she lifts her chin and her eyes finally meet his, her delicate lips lift into a pleasant smile. 

Her gaze doesn’t linger on his scar or his eyepatch, like so many others usually would, she does not look at him with apprehension or thinly veiled disgust. Instead her smile remains sufficiently agreeable, neither too big to appear fake nor too mild to seem shy. Her clear violet eyes sparkle with something he can’t quite decipher. 

And it is by that charming smile and those alluringly keen eyes that Aemond instantly knows; he doesn’t trust her at all. 

Elaerys doesn’t quite know what to make out of this place and the bizarre situation she finds herself in. 

The Red Keep is a gigantic maze of a castle, a holdfast within a holdfast so grand she can’t even tell where it might begin and where it ends, yet the air in this place feels stuffy and stale, the energy like a prison cell. She feels eyes watching her in every corner, like the very walls might be listening to the thoughts inside her mind. 

And the people are even more of a hard-to-solve puzzle. 

Elaerys had made a point to silently observe the courtiers attending Vaemond Velaryon’s audience, trying to decipher who in the crowd might feel inclined to support the man’s petition and who might find his request absurd. But what she found was a mix of masked, hypocritical reactions. The majority of them had looked on in morbid curiosity as Vaemond laid his high claims, basically declaring Lucerys illegitimate. Yet when he’d dared to outright say what he meant they had gasped in appalled surprise, like the mere suggestion was too scandalous to be spoken out loud. 

No one had dared to come to the Princess’ defense when her honor was being put to question, looking almost giddy to witness more of the scandalous claims, yet they had let Vaemond’s head be taken without raising much protest like they thought he had deserved it. 

And her father’s actions… to say they had left Elaerys more than a bit spooked would be an understatement. 

Of course she’s heard about Daemon’s infamous reputation throughout the years. She knows enough to understand why they call him the Rogue Prince. But to witness that with her own eyes… he hadn’t even flinched, not an ounce of hesitation or remorse had crossed his face after taking a man’s head like he was slicing through firewood. 

Not for the first time, she wonders if the sick rumors regarding her mother’s death have any foundations behind them. Elaerys had always found them a bit fanciful, but she had never witnessed just how far her father’s ruthlessness could go. 

She feels her chest tighten with the sudden realization that she can trust no one in this place; not her father and his ambitions, not Rhaenyra and her masked goodwill, not the hypocritical people in this court. She is to be left surrounded by either enemies or indifferent people but not one single ally. 

Not even her sisters can be of any help here. Elaerys is painfully alone in this predicament, and if she means to escape it she will have to do it on her own. 

After being left to her own devices in her assigned chambers, pondering on the events of Vaemond Velaryon’s disastrous hearing, she finally comes to terms with her precarious situation. 

She can’t openly defy her father’s wishes, Elaerys knows. If Daemon was capable of beheading the brother of his former comrade-in-arms right before the eyes of the entire court, who’s to say he wasn’t the one behind her mother’s accident? Who is to assure her he wouldn’t get rid of his own daughter if she proved too difficult to deal with; a daughter that he’s never seemed too fond of to begin with. 

No, Elaerys needs to bide her time, keep her head down while it is convenient, let her father believe her pliable and obedient. And when the time is right she will take Nyssarion and escape this wretched place, leave these blasted Targaryens and their petty squabbles behind. She will sequester herself back in Runestone and never leave again. Let the rest of her family tear itself apart over their precious throne if they so wish, as long as they keep her well out of it she could not care less. 

But if she means to escape this unscathed, Elaerys will need to play her cards right, meticulously so. And the first thing on the agenda is to get on the good side of the ones who are to be her closest family now, and therefore, her future husband. If she is to be left out for the wolves like bait, she might as well disguise herself as one of them. 

This is what she decides as she makes her way down to dinner. 

When Elaerys enters the Small Hall where they are to share a private celebratory family gathering requested by the King, she notices that most of the Targaryens are already mingling about in their own separate groups, waiting for the King to show up. Her sisters, however, have yet to arrive, so she wonders who she might stick with in the meantime.

Elaerys decides to approach the Queen first. If her fiancé is said to be so loyal to his mother, she supposes she would do well to gain Alicent’s favor. 

Lucky for her it seems the Queen herself had similar intentions. As soon as her eyes settle over Elaerys she moves towards her with a gentle smile. 

“Lady Elaerys.” Alicent nods politely. “I hope your accommodations were to your liking.” 

“Very much so, your Grace,” Elaerys bends in a quick curtsy. “I thank you for your kind hospitality.” 

“I am glad to hear it,” Alicent says, but before Elaerys can even think about starting a conversation, the Queen turns her head. “I am sure my son, Aemond, will be most glad to escort you to your seat.” 

It’s clear she’s said it loud enough for her son to hear, for he immediately turns toward his mother, his shoulders straightening. 

Elaerys can’t quite see clearly from this angle but she is willing to bet Alicent must have shot her son a pointed look, and Aemond hesitates only for a brief second before nodding rather stiffly and making his way to them. 

She feels her heart stutter in her chest. 

Of all the pieces in this game, Elaerys is still unsure of where her betrothed stands or what to make of him. What is she to encounter in the stoic Prince with the infamous temper? She’s not even sure if she wants to figure it out just yet.

But as he comes to stand before her, she figures she really has little choice here.

Aemond gives her a courteous bow. 

“My lady,” he says quietly. His voice is not what she was expecting; low and soft, surprisingly smooth like a whisper. 

He extends his hand to her and Elaerys hesitates for a moment before taking it. 

His hand completely engulfs hers, so much larger than her own, his skin cold to the touch. However the contact is brief as he links their arms and settles her hand delicately over the crook of his elbow before escorting her to her assigned seat at the dinner table, predictably next to his. 

Aemond’s movements are adequately gallant, yet there’s a stiffness to him as he pulls out her chair and helps her to her seat. Like he’s not used to doing such a thing. 

He sits beside her without another word, and an awkward silence settles between them as Elaerys is left floundering for something to say before the minutes in shared quietness stretch for long enough to become uncomfortable. 

She looks at him out of the corner of her eyes. Aemond’s blind side is not facing her way, so she can only steal surreptitious glances every now and then without it being too obvious. He has a strong profile; a thin straight, aquiline nose, high cheekbones and a sharp, prominent jawline. Even in this warmer setting, his features lend him a dangerous appearance, too sharp and sculpted to be natural. Fine-looking, she supposes, but in a peculiar, unusual way. Definitely not the kind of looks one would encounter in the men from the Vale. 

Perhaps he would appear less severe if he were to speak, but Aemond is not making any efforts to engage her in conversation. He doesn’t even glance her way, looking quite comfortable to keep mostly ignoring her presence as his eye roams across the room. The rest of their family are beginning to occupy their seats. Baela and Rhaena arrived sometime in the past few minutes, but it would be rude to stand and join them instead, so she is left to linger in this charged silence. 

This will not do.

Elaerys doesn’t normally enjoy inane small talk, but she figures it is as good a way as any to start testing the waters. 

“How are you enjoying dinner so far, my prince?” She asks, trying not to wince at the vacuous question. 

“It is hard to say when it has barely started.” Comes his blunt answer, not lending much way to continue their conversation. 

Elaerys swallows back a huff, but she is not one to be deterred so easily. 

“Well, we could comment on the fine quality of the Arbor Red,” she says with faint irony, a slight quirk of her lips giving a hint of her light teasing. “Or perhaps marvel at the fact that we are sharing a rare moment amongst family members we hardly ever see.” 

This successfully catches his attention, his gaze finally turning toward her with mild scrutiny. 

“I confess I am not used to such familial occasions. Life at Runestone can be rather lonely sometimes when it is just me and my uncle, and he is too busy most of the time to allow for many shared meals,” Elaerys continues, uncaring of his continuous silence. “Are family gatherings a common occurrence for you, cousin?” 

Aemond takes a second to answer, his eye lingering for a moment over her face before it shifts elsewhere with indifference. “I suppose it depends on what you define as ‘family’” 

Elaerys blinks, but before she can think much of the odd comment, the doors open again, this time to welcome King Viserys. 

Rather than lighten the somewhat tense atmosphere lingering between both sides of the family, Viserys’ presence only seems to heighten the divide between them, despite everyone’s best intentions to make it appear like a companionable moment. The already stilted murmur of conversation ceases as the King takes his seat at the head of the table, and the energy grows even more somber when Queen Alicent requests a prayer before dinner is served, and in her prayers she decides to include Vaemond Velaryon’s name. 

Elaerys doesn’t miss her father rolling his eyes with a mocking expression. 

Viserys continues by expressing his congratulations to the newly betrothed couples, and a rather sentimental speech about family union and prosperity follows. It would be wholesome, she supposes, if only the rest of his family actually took it to heart. 

Instead, the rest of the Targaryens appear to be in differing states varying between properly contrite and sardonic. 

“Well done, Jace. You’ll finally get to lie with a woman.” Aegon leans in to murmur as the King drones on, careless of Jace’s unamused face and Baela’s narrowed eyes. “You do know how the act is done, I assume? At least in principle? Where to put your cock and all that?” 

“Let it be cousin,” Baela hisses. 

“You can play the jester if you wish, but hold your tongue before my betrothed,” Jace murmurs between his teeth. 

Well, at least her sister’s fiancé seems decent enough, Elaerys tries to console herself with that. 

Aegon, however, is thoroughly unbothered by the tension he’s creating. Instead he turns his amused gaze toward a new target. 

“See, Aemond, this is why you should thank me, at least you won’t suffer the humiliation of not knowing what to do on your wedding night,” he says casually. Elaerys can almost feel the tension rolling off of Aemond, his whole body stiffening as his brother’s eyes turn to look at her. “Worry not, dear cousin, fortunately my brother is sufficiently acquainted with the act to not embarrass the both of you.” 

Elaerys blinks. What on earth is she supposed to do with that information? 

“Aegon,” Aemond says, a warning clear in his tight voice. 

But it seems his brother is too far into his cups to notice. 

“Although I am unsure how much he’s actually put that knowledge to practice,” he chuckles into his cup. “Knowing him, I’m afraid you might still end up disappointed.” 

Aemond sets his own cup over the table with a firm thud. 

“Enough.” 

He is not loud, but the look he shoots his brother is enough to silence Aegon, if not to wipe the taunting smirk from his face. 

Rhaenyra and Alicent continue with toasts of their own, praising each other in a way that would seem genuine, but Elaerys is far too rattled by the recent exchanges to pay attention to half of what is being said. 

She almost startles as Aemond leans slightly closer to her. 

“I do apologize for my brother’s uncouth behavior,” he says in a soft murmur. “It would seem he is not used to polite company.” 

Elaerys quirks a brow. “Is he not used to your company, my prince?”

“I am not quite sure what you are insinuating there, my lady.” Aemond tilts his head, there’s a glimmer in his lilac eye she’s not sure is a warning or just mere curiosity. 

“Merely that I find your company polite enough so far,” Elaerys says mildly, with a light shrug. “It seems if your fine manners are not enough influence over him, I would consider that a failure of his character more than that of his company, wouldn’t you say?” 

She lets the corner of her lips lift up, softening her words; a slight to his brother perhaps, but a small praise to his own person. Aemond doesn’t answer, but his eyebrow raises almost imperceptibly, like he’s not exactly sure what to make of her statement. 

Elaerys holds his scrutinizing stare, unafraid of its silent intensity. Let him know that she will not cower and wither under his inspection. If he means to intimidate her with it, he will be sorely disappointed. 

But before Elaerys can decide if she wants to draw a conversation out of him, they’re both snapped out of their silent staring contest by the sound of a loud smack that rattles the table. 

Jace stands, jaw locked tight, clearly provoked by whatever Aegon must have said to make him snap as the silver-haired prince in question hides his smirk in the rim of his cup. A tense silence settles over the room as all eyes turn to Jace, Rhaenyra’s looking especially worried. 

The chair beside hers scraps against the floor as Aemond rises to his feet as well, a quiet but clear challenge to whatever Jace is intending to do. Elaerys feels the already strained tension in the room draw tight like a bowstring ready to snap. 

Jace visibly tries to reign in his temper, mindful of Rhaenyra’s apprehensive stare. His smile is clearly strained but amicable nonetheless as he gives Aegon a pat on the shoulder that looks more forceful than strictly necessary. 

He toasts to the health of his uncles Aegon and Aemond, and though Elaerys is unsure of the sincerity behind Jace’s words, there’s no hint of irony in his voice. But when she lifts her head up to look at her own betrothed she can detect the clear animosity in his intense glare. Aemond is not moved by Jace’s bid for friendship between them. In fact, she’d say he looks almost disappointed as everyone else follows Jace’s toast without protests, even Aegon, who returns the sentiment half-heartedly. 

Nevertheless, Aemond sits back down reluctantly, stiff as a board. There’s a hidden energy simmering just beneath his calm exterior, Elaerys can almost feel it. A barely restrained need to act on something, although what exactly it is he wishes he could do, she’s unsure, but by the way he keeps glaring across the table, she’s willing to bet nothing good. It makes the hair at her nape stand on end. 

Suddenly, Helaena stands as well, raising her own cup rather unexpectedly. 

“I would like to toast Baela, Rhaena and Elaerys. They’ll be married soon,” she says in a soft, airy voice, her smile genuine. “It isn’t so bad, mostly he just ignores you,” she continues like she’s giving some secret, hearty advice, much to the embarrassment of Aegon, as she adds as an afterthought; “Except sometimes when he’s drunk.” 

Elaerys chokes on her wine, trying to hide her surprised giggle on a discreet cough. Daemon however has no such hesitation and openly chuckles at Helaena’s words. 

Aemond doesn’t seem the slightest bit amused by his sister, but Elaerys thinks she already likes Helaena better out of all her soon-to-be in-laws, and returns her cousin’s sweet smile. 

Viserys orders music, and a lighthearted, soft melody breaks the tension in the room, seemingly brightening everyone’s spirits. Jace stands and gallantly offers Helaena his hand, requesting a dance, which she gladly accepts without hesitation. 

Elaerys hides her smile in her cup as Aegon looks on in stunned silence, looking like a child who’s just had his toy stolen from right under his nose. 

“They make such fine dancing partners, do they not?” Elaerys comments, watching Helaena suddenly gain a happy countenance that she’d yet to see in the withdrawn Princess as she and Jace dance much like children would; carefree rather than elegant. 

Aemond merely hums noncommittally in response. 

“I definitely prefer this casual setting rather than the grandeur of a formal ball, it does make for more unrestrained enjoyment.” Elaerys turns her attention back to her fiancé with an assessing glance. “Do you like dancing, cousin?” 

Aemond’s lips thin. “‘Tis not an activity I particularly like, no.” 

“Pity, I very much enjoy it from time to time,” she says with an arched brow, somewhat entertained by the way he seems unsure of what to do with all her probing. “I wonder, what am I to do when my own betrothed refuses to dance with me on our wedding.” 

“What a dismaying conundrum we find ourselves in,” he replies, a note of sarcasm hidden beneath his deadpan tone. 

It makes her lips twitch in amusement. 

Elaerys’ eyes suddenly find Aegon’s, looking at their interaction with morbid curiosity. 

“Very charming, is he not?” Aegon nods toward his brother with an ironic grin. “The dream of any fine lady, I am sure.” 

She feels Aemond tense again at his brother’s taunting words, and a hint of irritation swells within her. She was making such slow progress, and here comes Aegon to stunt it even further. 

Elaerys quirks an eyebrow. “Do you dance, my prince?”

“Is that an invitation, my lady?” She doesn’t like the way Aegon’s smile shifts into something darker as he tilts his head. 

She can see Aemond’s fist clench around his fork out of the corner of her eye. 

“I do wonder if your current… state would permit it,” Elaerys says with an exaggeratedly sweet smile. “I’ve been told I’m quite agile on my feet, I wouldn’t want to cause any embarrassment.” 

It takes Aegon a moment to catch the subtle dig at his coordination. 

His suggestive grin slowly morphs into a frown. “I’m quite capable of a simple dance.”

“Perhaps, when you are more disposed I shall take you up on the offer,” she dismisses, taking a small sip of her wine. 

She can feel Aemond’s silent stare on her but Elaerys elects to ignore it for the time being. 

For a moment it appears like the once tense family reunion would be a remarkable success at keeping the peace between them. Lighthearted conversation and laughs are exchanged between both families, breaching the barrier of age-old animosity that had separated them for years, even as the King retires early, already drained of energy.  

That is, until the second course of their meal is served. 

Somehow, it seems a huge roasted pig set before her and Aemond at the dinner table is enough to snap her fiancé out of his carefully restrained composure. 

Everything happens so fast she can barely wrap her head around it. 

Aemond goes impossibly still beside her at the mere sight of the pig, his gaze darkening as he directs an intense glare to the other side of the table, where Luke does a very poor job at concealing an amused smirk. 

And it is then that Elaerys finally understands her step-brothers’ warnings. 

The whole table rattles with the force of Aemond’s fist slamming against it as he stands in one swift movement, making her almost jump out of her seat and startling even the musicians into stunned silence. 

“Final tribute.” He raises his cup in a toast, his voice acquiring a sharpness she hadn’t heard before. “To the health of my nephews; Jace, Luke, and Joffrey. Each of them handsome, wise…” he trails off, while everyone seems to wait with bated breath. But the moment of hesitation is short-lived as he nods subtly with a hum. “Strong.” 

“Aemond-” Alicent warns, only to be silenced by her son. 

“Come,” he raises his voice above hers, a spark of danger lurking in the mad glint of his eye. “Let us drain our cups, to these three strong boys.” 

Seven Hells, is he actually insane? 

“I dare you to say that again,” Jace demands, clearly affronted. 

“Why?” Aemond immediately counters, looking like a predator enjoying playing with his prey as he approaches Jace. “‘Twas only a compliment. Do you not think yourself strong?” 

Pandemonium breaks out as Jace throws a punch directly at Aemond’s face, but it barely even moves him, his head turning almost gracefully with the blow. 

Elaerys jumps to her feet when Luke slams his fists over the table and stands, trying to make his way toward his brother, only to be intercepted by Aegon, who smashes Luke’s head down against his own dinner. 

“Jace!” Rhaenyra’s voice rings out 

“That is enough!” Alicent demands. 

Meanwhile, Aemond turns his head back toward Jace, a dark smirk on his face. It takes a simple, nearly effortless, shove from him to send Jace crashing to the floor. 

Elaerys takes several steps back, trying to distance herself from the mess of it all. Jace scrambles to his feet again, lunging towards Aemond, only to end up being restrained by the guards along with Luke, both brothers struggling to be freed. Aemond looks thoroughly pleased by this turn of events, his sharp smirk only widening as he chuckles with dark amusement at the sight, his previously stoic demeanor long gone, replaced by this perverse enjoyment of the chaos he just created.

Elaerys is far too distracted, she almost misses Rhaena trying to restrain an equally enraged Baela behind her. She comes to stand before her sisters, not sure of what to expect anymore. 

“Why would you say such a thing before these people?” Alicent seethes, coming face to face with her son. 

“I was merely expressing how proud I am of my family, Mother.” Aemond says casually, snatching his arm out of his mother’s grasp whirling again to face the struggling princes. “Hmm, though it seems my nephews aren’t quite as proud of theirs.” 

This only prompts Jace and Luke to almost break free from the guards’ restraint in their rage. 

“Wait, wait!” Daemon comes to stand between them. He need only lift a single finger for his authority to suddenly reign in the Velaryon brothers. 

Elaerys watches, wide-eyed, as her father herds the boys back, and even Aemond seems to stand at attention, smirk suddenly wiped off his face. 

“Go to your quarters. All of you go, now,” Rhaenyra orders to her children and step-daughters, Elaerys included. She doesn’t need to be told twice. 

Elaerys goes behind her sisters, glancing back over her shoulder to see Daemon direct an admonishing look at Aemond with a sigh, like a disappointed father, making Aemond purse his lips but ultimately stay put like a chastised, rebellious teen. 

The sight is so bizarre it almost makes Elaerys linger back just to see what would unfold of those two clashing wills. But she would rather be done with this horrid dinner, so she ushers her sisters out with a brisk pace, not bothering to see what becomes of the rest of their family who stayed behind. 

This is madness, she decides. Complete and  utter nonsense. There is no peace to be had between these two opposing sides of the same family and a stupid, nonsensical engagement will do nothing to mend that rift. Elaerys will not be the sacrificial lamb for this experiment destined for failure. 

She can’t stay here, she can’t be tied to a man like Aemond Targaryen; all mysterious danger lurking beneath a mask of carefully crafted coldness. She can’t decipher him, can’t break beneath his facade, can’t predict his mercurial temper and so she can’t control the narrative. Better to escape while she still has all of herself to save before his fire ends up consuming her whole. 

That very same night, as the rest of the Keep slumbers, Elaerys sneaks into the stables, saddles one of the horses and steals into the night, carefully concealed beneath a cloak that covers most of her figure. She’s intent on making her way to the Dragonpit as fast as her horse will allow it, perfectly unaware of the shadow following her trail just a few minutes later. 

Chapter Text

I stand in the headlights 

Looking for a corner where I can’t be found

With a goddess in my right eye 

Watching every lover on the battleground 

You’re hunting for love 

Killing for pleasure ~ Animal

Aemond urges his horse on a faster trot, uncaring of the small-folk that have to jump out of his way at his frankly unwarranted pace this late at night, the faster he gets out of the city gates the better. He’s not in the mood to linger in the narrow streets of King’s Landing and have to witness the depravity and sin of the city’s activities at night. 

The guards barely have time to open the gates for him before he’s galloping away on the path leading out of town, his destination the one and only clear thing in his mind. 

There’s a tightness in his chest that’s been sitting heavy in him since that disastrous dinner started, a string drawn taut and ready to snap, the kind of fury that he can’t unleash without burning half of Westeros to ashes in his rage. 

The humiliation of being used as a political pawn to cater to Rhaenyra’s interests he bore with as much dignity as he could muster, the utter delusions of peace and family union from his father he could tolerate with barely disguised distaste. But to expect him to stand the barefaced audacity of the Strong bastards as they spewed their empty words of friendship while showing not a single ounce of respect or shame for what they did to him was honestly insulting. 

Aemond would’ve carved out Lucerys’ eye with his own dinner knife if it weren’t for his mother and grandsire’s presence, propriety and decorum be damned. See how much the little bastard would smirk over his dinner with one eyeball missing. 

He knows he will have to face Otto’s severely disapproving scolding sooner rather than later, his grandsire will no doubt lecture him to the next century for going against his wishes and carefully crafted plans, but at this very moment, Aemond can’t find it in himself to care even one bit. What was he supposed to do? Bear Luke’s blatant insolence with grace and patience like a diplomatic fool? He’d rather cut off his other eye than let that insult go unanswered. 

His mother will surely not sympathize with his reasoning, however. Alicent will no doubt be furious about his complete lack of self-control and more importantly the fact that he’d elected to antagonize Rhaenyra’s boys instead of occupying his time doing what she actually bid him to do; start trying to charm the elusive Lady Elaerys. 

Another —lesser but nonetheless present— thing to add to his mounting list of inconveniences.   

The only thing this blasted dinner exposed is that Aemond is not quite sure what to make of his formerly estranged cousin. Lady Elaerys is definitely not what he was expecting to encounter. For a young woman raised away from court and safely secluded in the northernmost corner of the Vale, he would’ve imagined a meek, unsophisticated lady unaccustomed to the rigid manners of court and their hypocritical masks. It would have certainly suited his plans better. 

Instead, what he found in her was an utterly confounding enigma. Her manners were perfectly refined, something that would surely please his mother, yet she didn’t strike him as demure. Quite the contrary, the lady did not seem hesitant to speak her mind at dinner when it suited her, prodding him with seemingly innocuous questions with the sole purpose to engage him in conversation. Aemond would surely think it harmless, perhaps a bit annoying even, but there was a glimmer in her lilac-violet eyes, a hint of a smile on her lips, a certain arch in her brows that betrayed a clever mind. 

His suspicions were only further confirmed the more he’d observed her. Elaerys did not shy away from his intense stare, unafraid to hold eye contact with him and seemingly unaffected by his dour demeanor. Her witty digs at Aegon’s character were bold, yet artfully hidden to the point that Aemond wasn’t exactly sure if she was actually mocking his brother or maybe even lightly teasing Aemond himself. He would think her arrogant, but then, she’d smiled sweetly at Helaena in a way that appeared genuine, unbothered by the way his sister kept murmuring under her breath in that sometimes disconcerting way of hers. 

She did not seem overly fond of her father and stepmother, at least not that he’d noticed, but it’s clear she holds affection for her sisters, he’d seen it in the way she stood almost protectively in front of them during his altercation with Jace. 

So, who is this woman? A potential addition to the Green’s side? A blank slate that he could manipulate and bend to his will? Or a viper disguised as a fine young lady, loyal to her father’s family? 

The uncertainty suits him little and is an unexpected and unwanted hitch to his plans, which can only add to his already foul mood. Aemond had been more than a bit thrown by her surprising attitude, left floundering in an inner recalculation on how to act around her. He’s half certain he either looked like a mute brute or a deranged psychopath to her after his fight with the Strong boys. How exactly is he to gain Elaerys’ trust after the disastrous first impression he surely left on her? 

He finds that he couldn’t care less at the moment. If Rhaenyra and Daemon decide to call off this insipid engagement after the events of this evening they can do as they damn well please, at least then he wouldn’t have to bother with this hypocritical farce. 

Aemond is snapped out of his thoughts when he can almost feel more than hear the deep echo of Vhagar’s low growl as he approaches the shrubby wilderness where she usually nests in the outskirts of the Kingswood; no doubt his dragon can sense his inner turmoil, for she rises her enormous head until he can glimpse her even in the distance and lets out a disgruntled rumble. 

He already feels a slight sense of relief. The only thing that can usually quell his temper is a flight on Vhagar. His dragon is made of the same heated temperament, both of them creatures made of fire and blood. Aemond doesn’t need to reign in his fury around her, Vhagar can match his intensity tenfold. 

Once he dismounts his horse, Aemond approaches with a barely audible greeting. There is no need for spoken words between them, and he doesn’t usually bother with them. Their bond goes deeper than words. He knows Vhagar is the only creature who understands the intensity of the wrath he usually keeps carefully leashed, the potential for destruction he doesn’t let loose, and even —and this he would never admit out loud— the immense depth of his loneliness.

Aemond suspects this is the reason they’re bonded. She is a mirror of his soul. Vhagar is legendary, formidable, and yet as equally solitary as Aemond is, a uniqueness in her own species, so much larger than life itself she prefers not to be enclosed in the Dragonpit with the rest of the dragons in King’s Landing, without no one to match her in either size or strength. How can a creature best suited for war and death and devastation ever truly be anything but alone? 

They have each other and that’s enough. She feeds off his rage just as much as he strengthens from her unyielding spirit, she soothes his troubled soul just as much as he gives some solace to her eternal solitude. 

It’s suited them for years and he doesn’t see it changing anytime soon. 

Aemond has just settled over Vhagar’s saddle when he sees it; a swift shadow flying beneath the moon and briefly obscuring the faint moonlight shining over them, so quick he would’ve missed it had he not been looking up at the sky at that very moment. 

A dragon. 

Not big enough to be Dreamfyre and too slender to be Sunfyre. This dragon is not from the Red Keep. 

It’s one of theirs. But whose? 

Aemond is not entirely sure if it is his own instinct or Vhagar’s call through their bond but he feels something overwhelming swell within him; a primal, predator need to give chase. 

He follows it anyway. 

“Sōvēs, Vhagar, tolī zirȳ! ”

She doesn’t need to be told twice. 

Nyssarion flies past Rhaenys’ Hill and quickly leaves the city behind, swiftly drifting over the Kingswood like a ghostly figure in the night, moonlight glinting off her pearlescent scales, making them shimmer like mist. 

Elaerys fights the instinct to urge her faster. Perhaps if she did and they forgo any breaks, she could get to Runestone by daybreak, by the time anyone realizes she’s gone it would already be too late. 

And then what? A voice inside her head asks. 

That would be the first place Daemon would immediately search for her. There’s only so much her uncle Gerold can do to protect her. Under the laws of Westeros, Daemon has every right to marry her off to whoever he sees fit and as long as he doesn’t put at risk the integrity of the rightful heir to Runestone, Ser Gerold can do nothing to stop him. Elaerys will not be the first nor the last maiden in the realm to be married against her will, that doesn’t necessarily put her in enough danger to warrant the Royces to raise their banners for her. 

Besides, she doesn’t wish to bring Daemon’s willful temper over to Runestone.

So where could she possibly go? There’s no place in Westeros where her father wouldn’t find her. 

She could fly past Runestone just to get Daemon and whoever may try to search for her off her trail, make them think she was headed there and cross the Shivering Sea to Braavos. Live the rest of her life as an anonymous woman without a past and without a future and make a living there. 

The idea is so absurd it nearly makes her laugh. Instead, Elaerys shakes her head with a frown. 

No, she will not be chased away like a deer being hunted for sport. She is the rightful Lady of Runestone and she will not leave her birthright behind for someone else to take just because some Targaryens are too greedy for the Iron Throne. 

She’s shaken off her musings when Nyssarion lets out a soft, keening croon, her smooth flight abruptly broken by a nervous jump. 

Elaerys’ brow furrows. “Lykirī, Nyssa.” She runs a soothing hand over the smooth scales of her dragon’s neck. “Skoros iksis pirta?” 

Rather than calm down, Nyssarion’s wings snap in an odd pattern, the low click of her throat a silent warning. 

Something has spooked her dragon. 

Before Elaerys can wonder what exactly caused this reaction, something catches her eye. Beneath the pale light of the moon the clouds part to reveal an enormous shadow. Elaerys would’ve thought they were flying low enough to come near a small mountain. 

But mountains don’t move. 

The gigantic shadow beneath them rises higher, coming closer to them, and Nyssarion’s wings start to flap a bit more frantically, matching the rhythm of Elaerys’ heart beating wildly in her chest. 

The dragon that breaks through the clouds surrounding them is so unbelievably big it draws a startled cry from her. Elaerys watches, wide-eyed, as its colossal head raises to her right, its eyes like molten lava, its jaws big enough to swallow her and Nyssarion whole in one bite. Those intimidating gleaming eyes watch her closely as it comes directly next to her, a low growl leaving its snapping jaws.

“Seven Hells!” Elaerys breathes in a strangled gasp. 

There’s only one dragon nearby that could possibly be this ridiculously enormous. 

Vhagar. 

“Going somewhere, my lady?” Aemond’s smooth voice carries in the cool night air almost effortlessly. 

Elaerys tries not to flinch. Encountering Aemond alone in the middle of the night seems intimidating enough, but coupled with Vhagar this feels like a recipe for disaster. She doesn’t know what to expect of him after his little display at dinner but she knows it can hardly be anything good. 

She takes a deep breath to steel her nerves and turns to look at him over her shoulder.

“Fancy seeing you here, my prince,” Elaerys says, careful to keep her voice mildly curious. “At such a late hour no less.” 

“I enjoy a night flight every now and then.” 

“As do I.” She tilts her head. “What an odd coincidence, with the sky being so vast, that we should find ourselves in exactly the same place.” She raises an eyebrow, struggling to look at him when the wind is blowing in the opposite direction, whipping her hair over her face. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were chasing me, cousin.” 

“Would I have a need to chase you?” He asks lightly, brow slightly furrowed. 

But it’s a loaded question, she knows. He wouldn’t have any need to go after her… unless she was actively trying to flee King’s Landing. 

“If you did, I’m afraid you’d be hard-pressed to catch us,” Elaerys shrugs with affected casualty. “Nyssarion is quite swift in flight.” 

Aemond’s face is slightly obscured by the shadow of night, but she can still glimpse the slight curl of his lips. “I would not question the abilities of a dragon like Vhagar. One could come to regret it.” 

A warning, and perhaps something more hidden in there. His tone is not quite menacing, but something softer, almost curious. However, she’s come to realize he’s quite good at keeping his threatening impulses under veil. He’s like a coiled snake, ready to snap at the barest provocation, and unfortunately Elaerys is sometimes a little too good at provoking. 

She turns to look at him again as Nyssarion gives another anxious lurch, rattled by Vhagar’s close presence, and frowns. He looks perfectly still and completely nonchalant, like a Valyrian statue, his long silver hair blowing gracefully at his back, almost glowing beneath the pale moonlight, while she can’t imagine her own windswept curls look like anything more presentable than a bird’s nest. 

Elaerys finds herself inordinately irritated by this. 

She will be damned if she lets herself be intimidated by this man. She was here first, perfectly content flying on her own, and he was not invited to her nocturnal flight, whether she wanted to use the cover of night to escape or not is beside the point. If Aemond Targaryen wishes to disturb her peace of mind, he should at least work for it. 

“Is that a challenge, my prince?” She lifts an eyebrow, a sharp smile gracing her lips. 

He doesn’t return it, but quirks his head in curiosity. “Take it as you wish.” 

And Elaerys takes it for what it is; a measure of her worth as a dragonrider. Well, if he wants to catch her, let him chase her first if he’s up for it. 

“Very well,” she secures herself on the saddle. “Naejot, Nyssa!” 

Nyssarion darts forward with a great flap of her wings. 

Aemond watches her disappear within the clouds like a puff of smoke, leaving not a trace behind. He’s left staring for a second, somewhat thrown off by this unexpected reaction from her. 

Was she truly challenging him and Vhagar? 

He barely even needs to direct his dragon forward before Vhagar rises to the bait, shaking her head in slight irritation. 

Aemond can’t really see them, both rider and dragon seem to have vanished into thin air, but Vhagar’s predatory instincts are more than enough to trail them. It takes only one forceful flap of her enormous wings for the clouds to part before her, revealing the moving silhouette of Nyssarion ahead. 

Aemond smirks. So she wants to play this game, well he’s more than up to the challenge. 

Her dragon is surprisingly agile, he’ll give her that. Nyssarion’s light bluish color makes her blend perfectly in the foggy night sky, she keeps to the mist of the clouds, darting in elegant, sinuous lines, elusive and fast. One minute he can glimpse her and the next she’s disappeared again like a vanishing ghost.  

However fast she may be, Vhagar is so much larger she can keep up with the smaller dragon with just a few forceful waves of her wings, rapidly closing the distance between them. Aemond keeps them above, dominating the sky, Vhagar’s imposing figure a trailing shadow that closes in on the other pair like an approaching storm. 

But Elaerys holds a fine control of her own dragon, every time Aemond seems to almost catch up to them, Nyssarion swerves in a graceful loop, changing directions as easily as the currents in a tumultuous sea. He loses momentum trying to redirect Vhagar’s massive body and it’s enough of a distraction to lose sight of them again. He can feel his dragon’s growing irritation. She’s losing patience. 

Vhagar swoops lower, and he catches a glimpse of Nyssarion’s shimmering form, cutting across the sky like moonlight. Elaerys keeps her closer to the hills and trees that make up the Kingswood, knowing Aemond cannot guide Vhagar’s enormous body that low without crashing into the greenery. But those graceful acrobatics are bound to tire Nyssarion sooner rather than later, and Vhagar is made for endurance. 

They keep up that dance until Elaerys guides them to the edges of the Kingswood, where the shore meets Blackwater Bay. She dives down abruptly, and for a moment Aemond loses her again within the fog rising from the edge of the forest and covering the seaside. Vhagar circles low, lumbering like a huge predator, and then, perhaps purely on instinct, she swoops down as well, so suddenly Aemond thinks they will surely smash upon the shoreline. 

Vhagar lands by the coast with a heavy crash, pebbles and dirt rising in a cloud of dust around them. When it clears, Aemond sees Nyssarion and her rider some distance away, closer to the treeline, with Elaerys having already dismounted, keeping a careful hand over her dragon’s side, like she’s unsure whether to stay there or climb atop her saddle again. 

For a moment, both dragons seem to size each other up. Vhagar raises her enormous head towards the sky, emitting a low, carefully controlled rumble; not a threat, but a warning, a clear assertion of dominance. Nyssarion watches carefully, her shimmering, icy eyes fixed on both Vhagar and Aemond, like she’s evaluating how much of a threat they represent. The smaller dragon doesn’t bow to Vhagar’s display, but she curls a protective tail around her rider, still and observant. 

Aemond climbs down his mount, convinced that they appear to have reached an impasse. 

Elaerys’ voice carries across the space between them as he approaches, clear and unfaltering. 

“Very well, cousin, I admit defeat. You’ve caught me.” 

“I wouldn’t see it that way,” Aemond says, not only because he’s wondering if she actually let herself be caught. “That is, unless you were actually trying to escape?” 

Elaerys doesn’t answer, but he can see her tense as he slowly bridges the distance between them. She may appear bold but she is wary of him. It makes an involuntary thrill run down his spine, that predator instinct in him shifting in interest.

“It does make me wonder what you were doing roaming the skies in the middle of the night, so far away from the Red Keep, my lady,” Aemond continues, keeping his voice smooth. 

Elaerys lifts her chin. “I could ask you the same thing.” 

“You could,” Aemond concedes, biting back a smirk. “But I asked first.” 

“Nyssa enjoys longer flights, especially after being cooped up in such a constricting space as the Dragonpit,” Elaerys says, giving her dragon a gentle pat. Her eyes flash with some hidden meaning as her clear violet gaze fixes on him. “She quite values her freedom, you see.” 

Aemond thinks he understands what she means. This girl continues to defy his every expectation. The poised and proper lady he’d met earlier is gone, replaced by a defiant young woman, her dark windswept hair escaping the elaborate braid she’d worn for dinner, some flyaway curls framing her face, her cheeks flushed from their flight, her eyes alight with a carefully concealed fire, giving her an alluringly wild air. And suddenly Aemond realizes her earlier appearance was an elaborate mask she’d kept for the court’s eyes.  

She’s definitely not a sheep from the Vale, easily spooked and compliant. She is the Blood of the Dragon indeed. 

So he needs to change his approach. 

“I agree, a dragon shouldn’t be restrained in such a place. It stunts their growth, a crude attempt to leash in their indomitable spirit.” Aemond slows his pace, halting a safe distance away from both shedragon and rider. “Of course, given that, I could understand if you were indeed planning an escape.” 

This seems to stun her into speechlessness for a moment, her wide eyes blinking in quiet confusion. Aemond takes her silence to continue. 

“And if such were your intentions, rest assured,” He regards her carefully, taking in the set of her jaw and the slight furrow between her dark brows, and then he extends an arm like he’s inviting her to leave. “I will not stand in your way.” 

“My prince?” She asks, clearly baffled. 

“You are free to go if you wish,” Aemond insists, uncharacteristically gently. “I will not stop you.” 

Elaerys stays silent for a long moment, her eyes never leaving his, as though she’s trying to decipher the truth from his stare. It’s clear she doesn’t trust his seemingly good-natured offer, but she doesn’t seem to know what to do with it either.  

“Where would I go?” She finally asks in a strange mixture between skeptical and resigned. 

“I imagine with a dragon like yours, there’s little restriction.” Aemond lifts a shoulder in an uninterested shrug. “The farther away the better.” 

Her eyes suddenly clear as she seems to snap out of her own bewilderment at his unexpected offer. 

“Is that what you want?” Elaerys tilts her head. “For me to leave so you can be rid of this betrothal?”

“What I want has never been of any consequence to my family,” Aemond evades the question, rather dismissively. “It will either be you or any other lady in the realm, in the end they will pair me with whoever they see fit.”  He tries not to let a note of bitterness into his voice, keeping his tone mild and steady. “So you see, I care little what you decide. My own fate remains much the same.” 

He approaches slowly again, feeling much like he’s trying not to spook a wild dragon. 

“If you want to stay then stay. But if you wish to leave…” he trails off, his gaze trailing between her and her observant dragon. “You have precious few moments to attempt an escape.” 

It looks like she’s actually considering it, tempted by his offer, her eyes briefly flickering towards the night sky. 

“I do wonder though, how long will it take for your father to start looking for you?” Aemond ponders out loud with affected curiosity. “I cannot imagine my dear uncle is one to take such open defiance lightly.” 

He watches a shadow of doubt settle on her face with a spark of satisfaction. He takes another step closer, and the underbrush snaps beneath his boot, making her faraway gaze snap back to him. 

Aemond cocks his head slightly, his voice almost a soft murmur. “What will he do when he finally finds his wayward daughter? The one that opposed his will so openly?” 

“It would hardly matter then,” Elaerys’ shoulder lifts in a half-shrug. “I wouldn’t suppose your family would wait around for me to be found.” 

The corner of his lips lift in a humorless smile. “So it is an engagement with me specifically what you wish to avoid, is it?” 

“The way I see it, you are most insistent on me leaving, which makes me think it is the other way around, dear cousin.” Elaerys returns with a smirk of her own, her dark eyebrow lifting inquisitively. “Perhaps there is another lady you would find more suitable to be your bride?” 

Aemond bites back a scoff. 

“If indeed there was, it would matter little. The arrangement is already announced.” He dismisses with a noncommittal hum. He lets his gaze linger over her, trailing the fine curve of her high cheekbones, the delicate swoop of her nose, the soft curl of her lips, and finally returning to her luminous, light violet eyes, taking another tentative step forward. “But as it stands, I happen to find my own betrothed adequate enough.” 

Elaerys lets out a small huff that could almost be a soft laugh. “How flattering.” 

“I’m afraid empty flattery is not a thing you will find from me, my lady,” Aemond says, not bothering to sugarcoat his bluntness. 

She lifts her chin, leveling him with an assessing stare. “What can I expect from you then, my prince?” 

Aemond thinks for a moment. He’s not one for empty words, he cannot promise her love, or gentleness or affection. Not even honesty. But if he means to do what is expected of him he can’t very well come off as uninviting.  

“You can expect a dutiful husband,” he finally settles for that much, keeping his voice soft, like a murmur carried by the wind. “If you so wish.” 

He’s shortened the distance between them enough now that he can see the nervous rise and fall of her chest, the way her lips tense at the edges. They seem to hold each other’s gaze in an intense trance, neither willing to back down but intrigued enough to keep gravitating closer. If he takes just a few more steps, he’d be near enough to touch her. 

Nyssarion, however, seems to think Aemond is no longer an appropriate distance away to not become an unwelcome intrusion in her space. The dragon flicks her serpentine tail, coiling more protectively around Elaerys, and bares her enormous fangs with a threatening growl. 

Behind him, Vhagar answers in kind. 

“Careful, my prince. I wouldn’t get too close right now if I were you,” Elaerys’ eyes spark with light amusement. “Nyssarion may still be young, but one shouldn’t misjudge her quietness. She is quite protective of me.” 

“I admit, she is a magnificent beauty… your dragon.” Aemond says, his eye still firmly fixed over Elaerys, a hint of a smirk on his face. “But I do not fear her.” 

“Pity. You should take care around her.” The left corner of her lips lifts up in a half-smile as she crosses her arms over her chest. “She is not to be crossed.” 

Aemond is unsure they’re still talking about the dragon. 

“So will she rage and fight back if she is to be brought back to the Dragonpit?” He wonders, part curious, part challenging. 

“If she is unwilling, she might.” Elaerys’ dry smile vanishes, her face all seriousness now. 

“So what will it be then, my lady?” Aemond asks, a part of him silently daring her to act on her own subtle warnings. “Will you take her away? I can assure you, if you choose to do so, Vhagar and I will not follow. You have my word.” 

He expects to gain at least a little bit of her trust with his generous offer, perhaps make her see him as a more reliable ally to turn to than her father at the very least. Instead, Elaerys’ eyes narrow slightly. 

“I do apologize if I trust your word little right now.” She turns halfway toward Nyssarion, her hand caressing her dragon’s neck in a soothing gesture. “We do not know each other, after all.” 

However, she does seem to consider the open option for just a moment, then shakes her head with a sigh. “Nyssarion may dislike it, but we will have to stay. You are right, eventually my father would find me. He’d chase me to the Seven Hells if he had to.” 

Aemond is somewhat pleased by the note of bitterness that slips into her voice as she says this.

When she turns to him again, her lips are graced with a rueful smile. “And I cannot imagine the King would be well pleased either, if I slighted his son in such a way.” 

Aemond scoffs, “Worry about Daemon only, I assure you my father could not care less about however my pride might be wounded.” 

“I see,” She breathes, a newfound spark of curiosity in her shrewd gaze. “You are not close to your father either, I take it?” 

Aemond’s shoulders suddenly stiffen, his lips tightening into a thin line. He refuses to answer that particular question. This conversation wasn’t supposed to turn about him. 

“Must run in the family,” Elaerys comments lightly, unbothered by his tense silence. “Might be a Targaryen thing, to make for indifferent, absent fathers.” 

Perhaps. He’s yet to meet a Targaryen who isn’t a spectacularly shoddy father figure. Aemond wonders if he’s bound to become the same when he sires his own children. 

To his surprise, Elaerys is the one to take a tentative step closer to him now, leaving the protective barrier that her dragon’s frame had made for her. 

She’s not intimidated by Aemond’s towering figure, standing stiffly almost a head taller than her. Rather, somehow, he seems to have piqued her interest. Elaerys approaches slowly, intrigued, like she’s inspecting a rare mythical creature she is trying not to spook with sudden movements. It makes Aemond’s skin prickle with irritation. 

“You and I might have more in common than we care to admit right now, it would seem,” she says, stopping right before him, her luminous gaze roving over his face as she tilts her head, voice dripping with something awfully close to amusement. “How poetic, how similar our situations are wouldn’t you say?”   

“I wouldn’t be so fanciful as to call it poetic,” Aemond says dryly. 

“No?” Elaerys’ lips twitch as she shrugs. “I like to find the silver lining in most things.” 

She steps away, but remains close, gravitating around his presence, and somehow, idiotically, Aemond can’t seem to look away, twisting his head to keep her in his line of sight as she starts pacing. 

“We are both in the same boat here,” Elaerys says, voice airy. “Both ignored by our neglectful fathers, forced to be used in their political alliances, and I suppose we are both largely underestimated by our families, from what I’ve noticed so far.” 

It takes him a moment to realize she’s been circling him as she points out every one of his inner grievances with unnerving accuracy. Aemond suddenly begins to feel like he’s lost his footing in this conversation. 

Elaerys comes to a stop just a breath away from him, standing by his side, head tilted up to look him in the eye. The fire in her gaze is oddly hypnotic. “We are both the Blood of the Dragon, you and I. Running away like a coward doesn’t suit me.” 

“What do you want then?” Aemond asks in a low murmur, feeling like the tension between them might snap with anything louder than a whisper. 

“Same as you, I imagine.” She raises a dark eyebrow, voice equally soft. “I want to be seen. I want to be respected. I want… so much more than merely being a bride used for political gain.” 

“Good.” He breathes. 

He can work with that, in fact, he believes it suits him even better. Elaerys isn’t the meek little wife he expected but her fire is much more welcome. He can use that to his advantage, shape the spark within her into a raging inferno to match his own, coddle that hint of resentment for her father into a righteous need for revenge, bend her ambitions to his will. They can be perfectly matched, he can be the fire that ignites her embers. Soon the Blacks will realize the mistake of underestimating the both of them. 

Her voice suddenly snaps him out of his musings. 

“I propose a truce then.” Elaerys extends a hand toward him, like she’s sealing a deal. 

Aemond lifts a dubious eyebrow. “A truce?” 

“I do appreciate the choice you gave me now, cousin. Know that it will not be forgotten,” she says, whether she is being honest or not he’s unsure but her eyes hold a hint of conviction. “I offer you the same consideration. We will look out for each other’s best interest. I may not be the bride you chose, but we can be allies.” 

Aemond holds her gaze with a cautious hum, gauging the sincerity behind her words. He feels like he’s looking through stained glass, the colors distracting enough to hide what lies on the other side. She’s an enigmatic puzzle he’s not yet sure how to read. But Elaerys doesn’t falter beneath his scrutinizing stare, and after his prolonged silence her lips lift into that hint of a teasing grin he’s coming to recognize well. 

“I think that would suit us better than being a thorn on each other’s side, don’t you agree?” 

Well, he can’t argue with that logic. 

“Very well,” Aemond concedes, taking her hand in a sealing shake. But rather than let go when she does, he holds on tighter, pulling her slightly closer. His voice lowers in a subtle warning. “But if we are to be allies, I expect loyalty.” 

Her faint grin widens into an arch smile, all sharp teeth and little sweetness as she leans closer to murmur in his ear. “Likewise, ñuha dārilaros.” 

Aemond would quite literally rather die than admit that those words made a faint shiver run down his spine. He lets go of her hand and steps back, spine stiff and face a blank mask. Elaerys looks perfectly breezy when she turns around, dark curls bouncing with her every step as she makes her way back to her dragon, Nyssarion’s great blue eyes boring on him with silent wariness, and somehow he’s left feeling like the elusive dragon can read his dark intentions and is not impressed by him.  

“Well, the hour grows late. We better head back before someone realizes we are both missing.” Elaerys climbs atop her saddle with a few agile movements and sends him a playful look over her shoulder. “I cannot imagine neither your mother nor my stepmother would take that lightly.” 

She doesn’t wait for him as she directs her dragon to leave, both taking to the skies in one swift jump. Aemond watches them go, their silhouette cutting a sinuous line across the sky, shimmering beneath the pale moonlight before they disappear behind the clouds. And after a second he realizes there’s a reluctantly intrigued smile pulling at the corners of his lips. 

Yes, Elaerys Targaryen is definitely an unexpected challenge, but one he is more than willing to take. 

Chapter Text

Something about you is soft like an angel 

And something inside you is violence and danger 

I knew from the moment we met 

You are a dangerous thing ~ A Dangerous Thing

The early morning air is crisp as Aemond makes his way to the training yard quite a bit later than usual. He would normally start his routine before sunrise, but his mother and grandsire had retaliated to his behavior during that disastrous family dinner by tasking him with inane “royal duties” that filled up his entire schedule for the past two days, making him miss his usual morning practice with Ser Criston; one of the few activities he actually values and enjoys. 

It’s little wonder they’d made their very best effort to deprive him of it. 

Now, Aemond finds himself in great need to blow off some steam, and while he would usually prefer to conduct his training before other occupants of the Red Keep could fill up the training yard, he will have to make do with what little time he has left now to conduct his sparring sessions with Cole. 

It doesn’t help soothe his sour mood at all when his brother, of all people, intercepts him on his way quite unexpectedly. 

“There you are!” Aegon huffs, falling into step beside him. “I was beginning to wonder if you’d ever come.” 

“Such an early hour for you to be up and about. What are you even doing here?” Aemond drawls, lifting an eyebrow. “Should I be worried that the end of times is upon us?” 

“Very funny,” Aegon says dryly. “I’ll have you know, it’s been known to happen.” 

Aemond snorts. “Only when sunrise catches you still at the brothel.” He shoots his brother a sideway glance. “Were you just now on your way back?” 

It wouldn’t surprise him, but Aegon doesn’t have the disheveled look he’d usually sport when coming back from the Street of Silk, oddly enough. 

“It wasn’t that eventful of a night.” Aegon twists his lips into a smug smirk Aemond doesn’t like one bit. “I’m hoping the day will prove much more interesting.” 

“What has got you so giddy then?” Aemond tries not to let his wariness show, keeping his brisk pace and making Aegon have to almost jog to keep up with his long strides. 

“There’s actually something I’d like to witness with my own eyes,” Aegon says casually. “Say, have you perchance run into our dear cousin Elaerys in the training yard?” 

That almost makes Aemond pause. “Why would I?” 

He hasn’t seen Elaerys since their unexpected nocturnal flight two nights ago, in fact. He would think she’s trying to avoid him, but he’d been kept so busy he didn’t even have the presence of mind to even think about her much. His brother’s uncharacteristic inquiry can’t forebode anything good, though. 

“Oh, haven’t you heard?” He can almost hear the taunting excitement in his brother’s voice. “Rumor has it that your lovely bride-to-be likes to spend her mornings there with none other than the Strong brothers.” 

That does make Aemond’s pace falter for just a second as he whirls his head to look at his brother with a scowl. “Where did you hear that?” 

Aegon shrugs. “The walls have ears, brother.” His silver eyebrows lift, a telltale glint in his eyes giving his smirk a malicious tint. “I heard the lady and the little bastards seem to get along splendidly.” 

Aemond’s scowl deepens, but he doesn’t dignify that with an answer as he continues on his way, intent to not fall for his brother’s provocations, even though they manage to worsen his already bad mood. 

Aegon, however, is undeterred. 

“I thought I’d put those rumors to the test myself,” he says, following just behind him. “And, lo and behold, there they are!” 

He is unfortunately not wrong. 

As they round the corner and step out into the courtyard, Aemond is able to witness exactly what his brother was babbling about. 

He’s momentarily thrown by the sight of a lady in the very same yard where Aemond spends his mornings training with the sword. A space he’s come to think of as so uniquely his own. The training dummies, targets and weapons scattered all around the place make the sight of a woman there appear quite bizarre and unexpected. 

But Elaerys stands there like she’s perfectly used to such a setting. Her dark hair is tied up in a simple braid falling down her back, a few wispy strands coming loose with the early morning breeze and framing her slightly flushed cheeks. Her dress is exchanged for a long-sleeved, charcoal grey tunic beneath a sleeveless black leather jerkin perfectly fitted to her slender form and cinched at her waist with a belt carved with subtle runes. Her knee-high leather boots circle her calves over dark riding trousers that cover her legs in a way that has Aemond suddenly averting his gaze. 

Obviously the ensemble is better suited to avoid restricting her movements, but he can admit he’s not used to seeing ladies of the court dressed in such a way, much less mingling among the knights and guards of the Red Keep in the training yard. But somehow, she doesn’t clash with the rest of them, perhaps because she seems to know exactly what she’s doing. 

Elaerys holds a bow in her hand, arrow nocked, bowstring drawn and ready to snap as she points at the target ahead, back perfectly straight. A moment later she lets go, the arrow shooting with a whoosh and hitting her target on the bullseye with practiced precision. 

Aemond’s momentary daze is quite abruptly interrupted by the Strong bastards cheering at her side. His single eye narrows at the sight of their carefree grins. 

“Quite impressive, Ella!” Jace praises. “You might even be better than Luke.” 

“Not fair,” Luke grumbles without any heat behind it. “The wind was blowing stronger when it was my turn to shoot. Ella had it much easier.” 

Aemond feels his jaw tighten. Ella? Was that a nickname she often used? Who gave the odious bastards the right to refer to his betrothed with such familiarity? Nevermind that they’re step-siblings. They barely know each other as far as he knows. 

“Taking the wind into account when you shoot is part of the job, Luke.” Elaerys chuckles as she turns toward Luke with a teasing grin. “But if it will help you sleep at night, I’m willing to take a rematch. We all need practice before we’re up to par with Baela, after all.” 

There’s an odd, uncomfortable feeling curling in the pit of his stomach at the sight of their easy banter. Standing where he is, the three of them truly look like they could be siblings. Their interaction seems to be that of merely platonic, familial friendliness, and it grates on Aemond. An unexpected budding friendship between them puts a damper on his plans that he had not accounted for. Suddenly he feels like challenging the Strong boys into a ‘ friendly ’ duel just to wipe those idiotic grins from their faces. 

But before he can decide whether to act on his impulses, his brother’s voice interrupts his train of thought. 

“Well, well, well,” Aegon calls, his voice dripping with insidious amusement. “What a lovely family gathering we have here.” 

The three of them whirl around to face them,  and Aemond is only momentarily satisfied by the fact that the mere sight of his brother and him standing there successfully erases the Strong bastard’s grins, replaced by identical frowns. 

“Cousins,” Elaerys greets, her own smile turning a bit strained. “Good morning. What a nice surprise to see you here.” 

“Oh, believe me, no one is more surprised than us.” Aegon smirks. “I didn’t  know you had such… unexpected talents.” 

Elaerys’ lips tighten at the corners, her chin lifting up slightly. “I’ve been doing archery since I was a young girl. It’s quite a common practice for the Royces, regardless of their gender.” 

“You don’t have to explain yourself to them , Ella,” Jace mutters, sending Aegon a disgruntled look. 

“Yes, Ella ,” Aegon returns with a mocking tone. “We are merely curious, I assure you.” He pats Aemond’s stiff shoulder with a chuckle. “I can tell my brother here is quite impressed with your skills, basically struck dumb, as you see.” 

Aemond shoots his brother a nasty look. 

Rather than appear bothered by Aegon’s jeers, Elaerys gives them an easy smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. 

“Well, we were having a friendly shooting contest,” she says. “Would you two like to join us?” 

Both Strong brothers turn to look at her like she’s grown a second head, evidently appalled by the suggestion. It would make Aemond grin in perverse amusement if it weren’t for the fact that he quite literally would rather gouge their eyes out than share a moment of ‘friendly’ competition with them. 

Aegon clicks his tongue. “I’d love to but archery is not really my strong suit. I find it a bit too impersonal.” He lets his gaze travel down Elaerys’ frame in a way that makes Aemond want to throttle him. “I prefer sports that allow for much more… physical contact.” 

“I see.” Elaerys arches an eyebrow. “That’s alright, I find usually only very few men are up to putting themselves in a position where they could possibly be bested by a woman.” 

Aegon lets out an amused chuckle. “Oh, I know just the person for such a challenge.” He throws his arm around Aemond’s shoulder with a rough shake. “I’m sure my brother here is more than up to the task. Don’t let his impairment fool you, he’s actually a decent shot, all things considered.” 

If looks could kill, Aegon would have already combusted into flames with the intensity of the glare Aemond directs his way. 

“I was actually on my way to my own training,” Aemond comments stiffly. “I don’t have time for games.” 

“Come now, Aemond, don’t be sour. One missing day of training won’t kill you. Besides,” Aegon’s eyes glint as he gestures toward Elaerys. “Will you deny your lady when she’s asking so nicely?” 

He’s not exactly sure what Aegon is intending, but Aemond definitely doesn’t appreciate it. His gaze drifts back to Elaerys, who tilts her head in silent question with a perfectly innocent look on her face that Aemond isn’t buying for a second. 

However, he’s been put on the spot, and doesn’t see much of a way out of it without appearing like a coward, so he finally nods with a reluctant sigh. 

“Fine,” he says through gritted teeth. “I suppose I could spare the time.” 

Elaerys’ smile widens into something that Aemond could almost call genuine, her light violet eyes glinting with amusement. 

“Wonderful.” She extends her arm toward the weapons’ rack in invitation. “Shall we, my prince?” 

Aemond goes to pick a bow of his own with great reluctance. Aegon is technically not wrong, Aemond used to be more than a decent shot once upon a time, however he’d lost that practice along with his eye, preferring to hone his skill with the sword, and while he’s not precisely a mediocre archer, it’s definitely not his forte as far as practices go. 

He’s not exactly eager to display less than excellent skills in front of his nephews and fiancée. Aemond has half a mind to go pour one of Helaena’s flasks of insects all over Aegon’s bed when this is all over. 

When he makes his way back to their gathered group, he sees Jace twist his lips like he’s fighting back a grin. 

“You know, I think Luke and I would rather sit this one out,” Jace says with a seemingly carefree shrug. “We’ve had enough practice for one day.“ 

“What a pity,” Aemond’s lips curl into a dark smirk as he passes right before the brothers, his tall frame towering over them. “I’ve been looking forward to training with you, nephews.” 

His lone eye bores over Luke with clear ill-intent, making the younger of the Strongs frown. Perhaps a stray arrow might make its way into his eye somehow. 

Elaerys clears her throat, coming a few steps closer to him. 

“What, am I not a challenge enough for you, cousin?” She asks, lifting her dark brows. 

Aemond bows his head with a gesture of his hand, keeping his cynical smirk intact. “After you, my lady.” 

And so they begin. Elaerys is surprisingly adept at it, firing a clean, steady shot near the center of the target with almost effortless accuracy. However Aemond is not as rusty as he would have imagined and matches her shots equally, perhaps with a touch more intensity, his form rigid but precise. For a while they seem evenly matched, neither gaining a clear lead, much to the interest of the few gathering onlookers watching their impromptu contest with evident curiosity. 

Aemond can feel a growing tension simmering between them, increasing by every shot he fires and scores. It’s not precisely hostile, but taut like a bowstring ready to snap. He can tell she’s not used to being challenged this way, and there must be a strike of competitiveness in her that makes her grow slightly frustrated by the fact that she can’t seem to gain the upper hand that easily. 

The very few times she misses the bullseye by mere inches, she huffs, making the corner of his lips lift up smugly. But Elaerys doesn’t seem willing to back down, and unfortunately for her Aemond is just as competitive. 

By the time they finish a third round, she finally turns to him, her smile growing sharp at the edges. “Well, cousin, I think this proves we’re both rather equally matched.” 

Aemond raises an eyebrow. “Are you calling for a draw, my lady?”

There’s a flicker of challenge in her gaze as she calls one of the squires for a horse to be brought forward to her. “What do you say we raise the stakes, my prince? These unmoving targets seem too easy for us.” 

Aemond is left momentarily stunned, not quite expecting that answer. A hint of hesitation swells within him. Moving targets are much more of a challenge with his impaired depth perception, and he’s much less practiced in horseback archery, but he’s not about to back down, so he merely gives her a reluctant nod and calls for his own horse. 

Somehow, their little, improvised ‘friendly contest’ becomes something much more elaborate. The entire courtyard is cleared to give space for their practice, the targets moved to be placed in strategic areas that would make the competition more difficult. The movement draws the attention of a small crowd of curious onlookers gathering at the edges. Aemond feels a flicker of irritation at the unnecessary attention. 

He’s not sure who’s enjoying this more; the Strong brothers look on with amused grins, meanwhile Aegon seems interested enough for once to remain in the training yard for longer than a few minutes, looking positively giddy. Perhaps his brother is counting on a rather public humiliating defeat for Aemond. Well, he’s not about to give him the satisfaction. 

“You can do it, Ella!” Luke calls with a whoop. 

Aegon shoulders his way to the front of the gathering crowd much at the same time, conveniently shoving Luke so roughly the boy goes stumbling a few steps and is barely saved from hitting the ground by his older brother pulling him back.

Aemond fights back a smirk; at least they share their mutual dislike for Rhaenyra’s bastards, if nothing else. 

Elaerys mounts the horse brought to her as easily as she mounts her dragon, with clearly practiced movements that show her expertise. She rides first, directing her horse into an initially light trot before gaining momentum, swift and graceful, loosing arrows at full gallop with remarkable accuracy. Aemond can admit to himself it’s an impressive, daring display, one that clearly impresses the watchers, much to his slight annoyance. 

“Well, she’s one talented rider, I’ll give her that.” Aegon whistles and then winks suggestively as he leans in to murmur. “I wonder what else she could ride with those skills, if you know what I mean.” 

Aemond’s withering glare could freeze the Seven Hells over. “Do you want to lose your tongue, is that it?” 

Aegon lets out a loud laugh. “What? That’s a good thing for you. Those shapely thighs will surely put you to work, brother.” 

Before Aemond can decide to punch that suggestive smirk off his brother’s face, the small crowd around them bursts into applause, and Elaerys comes back from her lap across the courtyard, her horse huffing loudly as she comes to a stop before them, a satisfied smile gracing her lips. 

“Your turn, cousin,” she says, completely unaware of what she’d just interrupted. 

Just as well, Aemond is sure his mother would have a conniption if he actually were to attack Aegon out in the open for everyone to see. 

His jaw is still clenched tight when he goes to mount his horse. Aemond can feel the stiffness in his own movements as he directs his black stallion into a slightly slower canter than Elaerys had displayed, keeping careful control of his mount. With his peripheral vision greatly impaired, he struggles to balance riding with aiming at the targets, and although his performance is decent, it feels evident that he’s straining to match hers. He misses one of the targets at the beginning of the course, but recovers with a sharp shot near the end that scores right on the bullseye, gaining a round of surprised applause from the gathered onlookers. Even so, by the time he’s done it’s clear Elaerys has narrowly bested him. 

Aemond reins in beside her, silent but steady. He’s surprised to find he doesn’t exactly feel the sting of humiliation that would normally come with defeat. Rather, the situation is so unexpected it feels almost bizarre, drawing a reluctant feeling from him suspiciously akin to intrigue. 

It doesn’t make it any less uncomfortable. 

“Well played, my prince,” Elaerys says lightly as she saunters towards him once he’s dismounted. “You are certainly a worthy opponent.” 

Aemond turns to face her, expecting the hint of that somewhat teasing smile that he’d come to find familiar in her. Instead, her eyes soften with the glimmer of sincerity. 

“I admit that was quite the impressive feat, my lady,” Aemond says, the praise coming unfamiliar to him. “But I realize we were playing to your advantage.” 

“Oh?” Elaerys quirks a dark eyebrow. 

“Perhaps next time we can compete in something better suited to my skills to even the odds.” Aemond suggests as he starts directing his horse by its reins toward the weapon rack. “See how well you perform then.” 

He can feel Elaerys following behind him. 

“I hope you’re not suggesting a sword match, cousin,” she says evenly. “Surely you cannot expect me to partake in such activities. Me practicing archery is already unorthodox enough to the opinion of some ladies of the court. What would you think of a lady who were to engage in swordplay?” 

He looks at her out of the corner of his eye as she removes her archery glove, then her bracer, in no particular rush. 

“Should I think such a lady less appropriate?” Aemond hums. “I’d find a lady who cannot defend herself rather pitiful.” 

Elaerys lets out a soft, surprised laugh. “Such harsh words, cousin.” She folds her arms loosely, not defensive, just observant. “You ask for too much, I’m afraid, when our society would rather frown upon a woman who doesn’t display the appropriate behavior of a damsel in distress.” 

Aemond doesn’t answer, watching her thoughtfully as she discards her quiver next to the rack. 

“In any case, I hate to disappoint you, my prince.” She sets her bow down next to the one he’d placed back in the weapon rack a second ago, drawing slightly closer to him in the process. “I regret to inform you that my training in that particular field is a bit null. My skills are surely nowhere near good enough to compete with yours and not embarrass myself in the process.” 

“Pity, I much prefer the practice of fencing,” he turns to face her fully, letting his gaze roam over her face with quiet scrutiny as he steps closer. “I find it much more… vigorous. Allows for a closer proximity to one’s opponent, to get a better read of their moves and motives.” 

Elaerys meets his stare, unbothered by the challenge in his voice. “Well, if you’re so keen on it, I suppose I could polish my skills. I’ll have to get myself a tutor that can put me up to par with you first.” She leans her hip against the wall. “You wouldn’t happen to know anyone appropriate for the task, would you?” 

Aemond feels the corners of his mouth lift up involuntarily and presses his lips together into a thin line. 

“I suppose Ser Criston Cole could be a good option,” he says with enough apathy to appear rather uninterested. “Although I am unsure he has the time for such a job.” 

Elaerys tilts her head slightly, the hint of a smile playing on her face. “That’s alright, maybe my stepbrothers might be up for it. I hear they’ve trained with my own father, I would imagine their talents to be more than good enough.” 

Aemond bristles at the mere mention of the Strong bastards, his answering chuckle sounding derisive to his own ears. 

“I’ve seen them train before,” he scoffs, turning his attention back to removing his own archery equipment. “I think you’d find yourself sorely disappointed.” 

Elaerys huffs. “Well, that leaves me with little choices left.” 

“Perhaps I could help, if you’re really intent on it.” Aemond does his best to make the offer sound casual, almost bored. 

He sees Elaerys pause out of the corner of his eye, can feel her observant eyes on him. 

“I wouldn’t want to be a bother,” she says hesitantly. 

Aemond finishes setting his gear back where everything belongs and shrugs with indifference. “Alright then, surely you’ll find yourself an appropriate knight that can be up to the task.” 

He starts to walk away without another word, and then…

“Well,” her voice rings out, clear and nonchalant. “I guess I could take you up on the offer if it doesn’t interfere with your activities too much.” 

Aemond purses his lips against a triumphant smirk, slowly turning back to face her. 

“I wouldn’t have offered if it did,” he says flatly, making her blink in perplexed silence. 

An unconventional, risky approach he’s playing with, he knows. His mother would surely be appalled by it. But Aemond finds that the chivalry, flattery and softness that men of the court would usually resort to in order to charm a lady don’t suit him. He’s not one for hypocrisy and the act would feel too faux to appear genuine. 

But Elaerys seems curious by nature and has yet to look deterred by his sometimes off-putting manner. There’s a hidden spark of intrigue in the way she seems to analyze him with her eyes, like she’s determining her next move. Aemond is reluctant to admit he somewhat enjoys throwing her off course in her unburdened approaches, giving her just enough leeway to doubt whether she’s captured his interest or not. 

He wonders if he’s captured hers, if perhaps she sees him as much of a challenge as he sees her. 

Elaerys finally nods, a keen sparkle playing in her eyes. “Very well, ñuha dārilaros, I’ll be looking forward to our shared training, then. See if you’re as good a tutor as you are a swordsman.” 

Aemond feels his mouth dry, an unexpected pull drawing him closer. He quirks the faintest answering smirk, not warm, but sharp; a challenge to her bait. There’s something in her that’s unpredictable , and he finds that deeply... inconvenient, as frustrating as it is magnetic. 

“Ella!” A voice cuts the invisible tension coiling between them, and Elaerys whirls around to find Baela and Rhaena at the edge of the training yard, their previous audience already dispersing around them. 

“Rhaenyra wants us there for tea, remember?” Baela calls, her eyes narrowing slightly at the sight of Aemond so close to her sister. 

“Oh! Right.” Elaerys steps back, putting more distance between them as she shoots him a parting glance. “Well, see you around, cousin.”

Aemond watches her go to her siblings with a slight skip in her step, all carefree charm. Rhaena links their arms together once Elaerys joins them, while Baela places an almost protective hand over her elbow, shooting Aemond a warning glance over her shoulder as they draw their eldest sister away, the Strong bastards closing behind them like guarding escorts, a very clear message displayed between the four of them; Elaerys is a Black, first and foremost, and she will remain loyal to them. 

Aemond’s smirk widens. That has yet to be proven. 

He feels Aegon’s grating presence behind his own shoulder before Aemond hears his taunting voice. 

“What a charming show of family union, is it not?” He can hear the smirk in his brother’s tone. “Call me crazy, but does that not feel like a challenge to you?” 

Aemond’s jaw tightens. “I see little challenge.” He turns around, preparing to leave. “Under the eyes of gods and men, Elaerys is to be mine, whether they like it or not. Her loyalty shall remain with her husband, and there’s little they can do about it.”  

Rhaenyra and her family can fool themselves all they want. The price of underestimating Elaerys Targaryen shall be her resentment, and Aemond plans to make good use of it. 

He will not make the same mistake as them. Elaerys is a fine, raw jewel he very much plans to cut and shape and morph to his will. By the time he’s done with her she shall be one formidable weapon, just as deadly as he can be. 

He just needs to bide his time. 

She’s bluffing. She’s playing with fire and she knows it. At some point, she may well come to regret it if she ends up burning herself in the process.  

Because as it turns out, Aemond Targaryen is one frustrating, puzzling enigma Elaerys is not sure she’s any close to deciphering and is much less certain how to handle.

Everything would be much easier if her betrothed was just a vicious, dimwitted brute with an unmanageable temper. She could deal with the danger that such a man would present, as long as she kept a cool, unaffected mask of docile temperament, she would be good and mostly safe until the appropriate time to escape presented itself. 

But Aemond is evidently no idiot, and Elaerys doesn’t think he’s easily manipulable either. His unpredictable nature makes him dangerous, and a challenge she wasn’t expecting to encounter in her future husband, he’d proven as much already. 

Elaerys had been half certain that when Aemond had chased after her on dragonback, he would have Vhagar dispose of both her and Nyssarion in one fell swoop, get rid of the betrothed that had been imposed on him, who conveniently came from a family he so clearly despised, before any vows could be exchanged. 

Never in a million years would she have expected him to offer her the one and only thing her own family had denied her; a choice. A chance to take her freedom back and leave if she so wished. Elaerys could have easily taken it, and for a moment she’d seriously considered doing it, just to spite Daemon if nothing else. But the long-term consequences to such a choice were less than ideal and as surprising as Aemond’s offer had been, she wasn’t sure about the motives behind it. 

She’d be a fool to trust him so blindly from the get-go. Why would a man so clearly full of spite suddenly offer a glimpse of kindness to her without expecting anything in return? 

And yet, despite her mistrust, she’d seen a glimmer of something more during that encounter with him in the Kingswood. A glimpse of the tiniest hint of vulnerability in his demeanor by the way Aemond had talked about his own family. 

He’s resentful, that much is evident, but there’s something deeper lurking within. It seems he’s as much of a cast-out in his own family as she is, Elaerys had recognized the warped mirror of her own frustrations somewhere in the depth of his guarded gaze. 

And that is something she can work with. 

Elaerys can dig deeper into Aemond’s hidden depths, cultivate that spark of kinship between them, draw from the lacking sense of belonging that they both have with their own families, and make it her own. Aemond may feel like he’s not sufficiently valued by his own family but that’s alright, if he cannot belong with them, she can make him feel like he can belong with her . 

After all, Elaerys suspects that if indeed a war were to break out between their family, she would much rather have Aemond Targaryen as something closer to an ally than an enemy. 

If she does gain Aemond’s trust, she can lessen the threat to her own home and people. In time, Elaerys could make him come to see her as his equal, make him consider her dependable, trustworthy, someone who is more to him than just a mere incubator for his future heirs. A husband who values his wife, or better yet respects her, will be less likely to try to get rid of her. 

And Elaerys has little intention of ending up like her mother did, if the rumors are true. She will not be easily disposed of if she becomes too much of a hindrance to her own husband, like some old garment that is thrown out once it stops being useful. 

When the ailing King finally succumbs and Elaerys seizes her chance to rip herself away from this brewing conflict, Aemond may choose whatever path he wants to take, but if she’s become important enough to him, perhaps he would not oppose her request to be kept away from the conflict, maybe he would even rather have her remain safely in Runestone, far from the fray. 

But for that she needs to make Aemond depend on her. 

The problem is, Elaerys is not exactly sure how to go about achieving this goal. 

She’s no stranger to the feminine charms that would normally attract a man’s attention. She’s observed it enough in the other ladies of the Vale’s court; their coy smiles and gentle manners, the flutter of their eyelashes and that spark of something promising in their coquettish glances and simpering, delicate laughs. Flirting would not be a challenge.

But Elaerys is fairly certain Aemond wouldn’t be much charmed by the typical coy wiles high-born women would employ to gain a man’s attention. In fact, she is more inclined to think he’s far from interested in her, with the way he acts around her. 

She doesn’t see Aemond much in the following days. He makes little effort to seek her out, and their interactions are mostly reserved to the nightly family dinners Alicent and Rhaenyra still insist they all share despite the disastrous first attempt, during which Aemond remains just as stoic as that first night, so very different from the man she’d encountered in the Kingswood. He answers to her probing questions and poor attempts at conversation with short but courteous replies, like he’s merely fulfilling a requirement by entertaining her just enough to please his mother. 

And yet, there’s an undercurrent of something else simmering just beneath the surface of his seemingly indifferent tone, a spark of challenge in the way he answers to her attempts to draw him out. Elaerys sometimes has the odd feeling that he’s toying with her. She wonders if he’s always so abrasive in his manner or if this is just reserved to her, a subtle effort to taunt her, to make her slip and throw off her mask of an unflustered lady by drawing a less polite response from her and display the fire she keeps carefully hidden within herself. 

But Elaerys always keeps their conversation light, she answers to his baits archly, with a smile on her face and cool temper intact, careful to maintain their tentative banter in that precarious path they’d set where they toy the line between civility and hidden defiance but never stretching farther from thinly veiled teasing on her part. 

The more she resists to his attempts, the more she seems to gain his attention, oddly enough. If what he’s trying is to get a measure of her, she is surely making it quite difficult to get a clear read of her intentions. But that’s all the same to her, she would rather keep it that way. 

However, there’s only so much she can do with these very limited interactions, and he doesn’t seem to be in a rush to seek her company elsewhere. 

It appears Aemond is somewhat of a reclusive man who can only be found either at the training yard or at the Small Hall where they share their family dinners. Elaerys isn’t keen on running into him again in said courtyard, however. She’s kind of grateful he has yet to bring up their agreed upon sword training. She can admit to herself she was merely putting on a show to appear less intimidated, but after seeing Aemond’s talent with the sword she is definitely in no rush to come close to his deadly skills. 

Regrettably, she still needs to cultivate further interaction with her difficult betrothed and he’s not making it any easier. 

Over the next couple of days, without having the chance to casually run into him, Elaerys keeps her mornings flying with Nyssarion and her afternoons in the company of her sisters; the one thing she’s grateful for in this gods-forsaken Keep. Baela and Rhaena are always a welcome distraction to her current situation. The twins seem to be in a silent agreement to never mention Aemond or her impending marriage in front of Elaerys, probably preferring to keep her attention away from what they surely believe is to be her certain doom. That suits her just fine, Elaerys is determined to enjoy their company for as little as she will be able to have them by her side, cherishing every moment. 

Unfortunately, along with her sisters, the occasional company of Rhaenyra is an added bonus she’s not exactly grateful for. 

Elaerys is still resentful over the Princess’ meddling with her life and marriage prospects and she’s not one to forgive and forget that easily. So far, Rhaenyra has added her youngest sons to the occasion when requesting for her stepdaughters’ company in her personal solar, which makes for a successful buffer against Elaerys’ immediate rejection. She can admit she has no ill-feelings towards her youngest half-brothers, enjoying a bit of their company is not something she is against. 

But this particular afternoon, Rhaenyra has requested their presence specifically to discuss further plans for her stepdaughters’ future weddings, and that is something Elaerys is not keen on putting up with at the moment. Both Baela and Rhaena seem to be much more favored by their stepmother, so Elaerys lets them fend off the Princess’ attention while she claims a rather strong headache to escape the engagement. 

However, she can barely bear an hour of being cooped up in her own bedchamber with nothing to do before it gnaws on her nerves. 

Elaerys sneaks out and creeps along the long hallways of Maegor’s Holdfast, careful to avoid the general area of Rhaenyra’s chambers, before she winds up in the Royal Library. 

The smell of ink and old parchment welcomes her as soon as she opens the grand oak doors, and an awed breath escapes her when her eyes adjust to the dim light, the vast space a great contrast to the library back in Runestone. The cavernous chamber is full of towering shelves filled with books and shadowed alcoves, a perfect place to lose oneself in the hidden worlds within their tomes, ones Elaerys is eager to explore. 

The hushed silence is a welcome escape from the whirl of courtly activity. Somehow she can just tell this will be a perfect place to escape and hide herself every once in a while. She’s been looking forward to exploring the collection of books on ancient history the Red Keep has to offer — mainly on whatever she can get her hands on regarding Old Valyria; what little is left of information on such a mysterious civilization must surely reside here. 

But once she sets on exploring the ample shelves, running her fingers over worn leather-bound spines, Elaerys discovers with great disappointment there’s not much on it, if anything at all. Perhaps what little is left to read about it is back in Dragonstone, and not for the first time, she regrets her very short time there was spent fretting over her impending engagement and not exploring the place. 

She finally settles her eyes on one of the tomes about the Conquerors’ lives, resting further up one of the towering shelves. She stands on her tiptoes, stretching her arm as far as it can go until the tip of her fingers barely graze the spine of the book, but she can’t get enough of a grasp to actually pull it out. She gives a little jump in an attempt to reach it, breath escaping her in a silent huff. 

“Wouldn’t it be easier to use a ladder?” A familiar voice drawls. 

Elaerys whirls around, more than a bit surprised to find Aemond there, standing at the edge of the aisle, a book in his hands. 

He points to the other corner of the hall, where surely enough a tall ladder leans against the bookcases, tall enough to reach the very top shelves. 

Elaerys lets out a small sigh as she turns back toward the book she’d been intending to take. 

“Evidently, I like to complicate my own life,” she says with a little more snark than usual. 

Aemond’s lips twitch ever so slightly. He approaches her slowly until he comes to stand right behind her, caging her between the shelf and his towering frame. She can feel her heartbeat speed up like the wings of a hummingbird at his close proximity, her breath hitching in her throat. She can almost feel the heat radiating from his body at this close distance. She sees his arm reach out over her shoulder and easily grab the book of her interest, his much taller stature allowing him to take it without further hindrance. 

Elaerys doesn’t dare turn around, but he merely hands her the book and steps back, allowing for a much more appropriate distance between them. She feels like she’s been holding her breath the entire time. 

“Thank you,” she murmurs, somewhat breathless. 

She feels like an idiot. Wasn’t this exactly the opportunity she’d been looking for? Why is she suddenly rattled by his unexpected presence? 

Aemond tilts his head, his eye roaming over the title of her book. “Interesting choice of book.” 

Surprisingly, this is the first time she’s noticed a genuine note of curiosity in his voice. 

Elaerys shrugs. “I was hoping to find something more related to Valyrian history, thought the Red Keep would be one of the few places to still hold at least a little bit of information on it.” She twists her lips. “But so far I’ve been sorely disappointed.” 

There’s a flicker of interest in Aemond’s gaze at her words, one she hadn’t been expecting. 

“The maesters are not exactly fond of anything to do with Old Valyria. They think the culture depraved and sinful. Apparently whatever books and scrolls are still left holding any knowledge on it are ‘ too dark and arcane ’, at least for them,” he explains with a hint of irony. “Most of that content has been banned by the Citadel.” 

“Oh.” Elaerys’ shoulders drop. “I suppose I would’ve had better luck finding something more interesting in Dragonstone.” 

“Probably,” Aemond says, stepping back towards the edge of the aisle. “That’s not to say the Red Keep’s library has nothing to offer. It’s just better concealed.” 

His enigmatic words merely serve to confuse her, and she watches in baffled silence as he starts to walk away like he’s planning to leave her there, gawking like a fish. 

But once Aemond notices she’s still standing where he left her, he turns halfway back, shooting her a somewhat impatient look. “Well, aren’t you coming?” 

“Where exactly?” Elaerys asks, her feet already following his path even as she frowns. 

“Thought you wanted to see the books containing more about Old Valyria.” 

Is she actually insane for following Aemond Targaryen to an unknown, seemingly concealed location inside the Royal Library, completely alone? 

Perhaps. 

But she still has Baela’s gifted dagger strapped to her thigh and hidden beneath her skirts. At least she will not be completely defenceless. If he tries anything untoward she will take out his other eye, betrothal be damned. 

She doesn’t care to admit that he would probably be able to disarm her in an instant. 

Aemond stops before a huge tapestry depicting two intertwined dragons in flight. He lifts a corner to reveal a hidden, pointed arched door behind it instead of a flat wall, the hinges creaking as he opens it. 

He extends an arm in silent invitation for her to step into the secluded alcove. 

Elaerys looks at him, then at the newly revealed entrance, and back at Aemond again, her eyebrow lifting in disbelief. 

He must be delusional if he thinks she’s getting in there with him alone. 

Aemond mirrors her expression with a mocking smirk. “This section is not open to the public. You can take a look for yourself, see that I’m not lying, and I’ll leave you to it if you prefer.” 

Elaerys steps before him with a petulant sniff. 

“You can stay if you want. I’m not afraid of you, cousin.” 

Lies . 

“Hmm, that sounded almost convincing, my lady.” 

Before she can reply, the sight of the little hidden alcove makes her pause in silent wonder. Only candlelight illuminates the inside, a half-moon shaped room with shelves lining the stone walls, full of scrolls and ancient-looking tomes. The slightly damp smell of cold stone, of leather and ink and dust fills the cool air, giving the room the impression of a hidden cave. A worn, narrow, ebony table sits at the center of the alcove, framed by two high-backed chairs on either side. She sets the book she had in her hands there, already forgetting all about it. 

Elaerys immediately feels drawn to the room, her gaze flickering over the books displayed across the shelves with avid curiosity. She paces around the chamber like she wants to see every single thing this hidden marvel has to offer, going from one end to the other in an almost frenzied trance. There’s so much to explore and learn she feels like she would never have enough time to go through all of it; tomes on dragonlore, Valyrian practices and their old gods, and even bloodmagic are only some of the titles she can glimpse across worn book spines, along with some other dark-looking topics she would’ve never even dreamed about. 

Valyrians did have rather questionable practices, no wonder the Citadel had deemed most of these too scandalous to be displayed in the Royal Library. She wonders what her uncle Gerold would think if he ever caught her reading such things. 

Elaerys lets her fingers flutter over the engraved titles in the leather covers with reverent curiosity, until she finally settles over one book of her interest. 

“Vōlzia se Ānogār,” she reads the title under her breath, taking it out amidst a puff of fluttering dust and carefully flicking through its worn pages, already entranced by its contents on dragon bonds and the bloodmagic behind them. 

“That one has no available translation in the Common Tongue.” Aemond’s quiet voice snaps her out of her reverie. She’d almost forgotten his presence. 

Elaerys turns to face him, quirking a dark eyebrow. “Are you suggesting I might not grasp it?” 

Aemond tilts his head. “I’m merely saying it’s completely written in High Valyrian, even I had trouble understanding all of it the first time I read it.” 

“ Skoros mazverdagon ao pendagon gaoman daor shifang Valyrio Eglie? (What makes you think I do not understand High Valyrian?),” Elaerys asks, a bit defensively. 

If she didn’t know any better, she would say she has surprised him. But Aemond recovers quickly from his momentary speechlessness. 

“Nyke gōntan daor gīmigon ao ȳdragon ziry sīr sȳrī. Skorkydoso gōntan ao gūrēñagon ziry? (I did not know you speak it so well. How did you learn it?),” he asks. On any other occasion, Elaerys would think he’s mocking her, but this time there’s no hint of irony in his voice.  

He seems genuinely intrigued, oddly enough. 

She shrugs lightly. “My father ordered a tutor to be brought to Runestone when I was a child, so that I could be properly taught the language of our ancestors.” She runs an idle finger over the cover of the book in her hands. “Of all the things he’s been neglectful of, my education hasn’t been one of them.” 

She used to think that was a sign that she actually mattered to Daemon, that he cared even if just a little. Elaerys no longer harbors such hopes, but at the time it was what drove her to prove to him that she was a worthy Targaryen. If she was fluent in High Valyrian, if she cultivated her knowledge on the history of their ancestors, if she became a skilled dragonrider, perhaps then she would be good enough to gain her father’s attention. 

Now she thinks she would’ve been better off never being looked at twice by Daemon. 

“Lucky you…,” Aemond murmurs, there’s a slight furrow between his brow, a spark of something she can’t quite decipher in his distant gaze. 

She doesn’t feel like digging further into it right now. Elaerys sighs, shaking off her bitter thoughts. She's a woman on a mission, after all. 

“You’ve read this before,” she says, not exactly a question. 

Aemond nods. “A long time ago, when I was a boy.” 

Elaerys suddenly remembers her stepbrothers’ comments about Aemond, about how he spent his time reading and studying. She’s not surprised, considering the topic of the book, that it would’ve caught his interest. She wonders if this made him feel closer to their Valyrian roots without a dragon of his own. She wonders if he grew up as lonely and alienated from the rest of their family as she did, despite residing in the same castle. 

Somehow she thinks he wouldn’t appreciate that question. So she ventures for something different instead. 

“You spend a lot of time here?” She asks softly. 

“Here in this room or here in the library?” Aemond returns, casually walking over to the shelves. 

“Both, I suppose.” 

Aemond takes a moment to answer, his back to her now. “Perhaps more than I ought to,” he says quietly. “I do prefer this collection to the rest available in the Keep. Makes for a more interesting, complex read.” 

“I hope you don’t feel like I’m intruding in your territory.” Elaerys leans against the table in the center of the room, her smile a bit sheepish. She feels like she’s interfered enough with her little display in the training yard. The last thing she wants is to make him feel cornered. 

But Aemond shoots her a mildly amused look. “It’s hardly mine, though few rarely ever bother to come in here.” 

“I was hoping to escape courtly duties,” Elaerys says by way of explanation. “I find some alone time in peace and quiet is a welcome distraction from time to time.” 

Aemond hums. “I can leave if you prefer to be alone.” 

“No, no, that’s not necessary.” Elaerys shakes her head. “You were here first and this is your home, I do not mean to chase you away from your own space.” 

Aemond tilts his head, his gaze assessing. 

Elaerys lifts her hands in a gesture of indifference and promptly sits herself in one of the high-backed chairs alongside the table. “Surely we can share this place in friendly company. After all, we’re bound to share much more in the near future.”  

It takes Aemond a moment to answer, and even longer to finally accept the proffered invitation, but after much hesitation he finally settles on the chair next to hers, setting his book open in the table before them. 

The minutes pass by, and Elaerys tries not to notice the presence of someone else in this secluded room as she concentrates on her own lecture. They spend the entire time in companionable quietness, and somehow the silence doesn’t feel quite as oppressive as the one that can sometimes stretch between them during dinners for minutes on end. 

Elaerys tries not to steal glances out of the corner of her eyes, but Aemond’s presence seems to constantly draw her attention away from the pages of her book, much against her will. He seems so different from the stiff man that sits beside her at dinner. Without the added presence of the rest of their family, he appears slightly less tense, less guarded, his sharp features a bit softened by the warm light of the candles flickering around them. He doesn’t look like the severe, dangerous man that he normally appears like, still equally serious, but much less intimidating as he lounges in his own chair with a casual, leisurely air, a slight furrow of concentration between his brows. 

Eventually, to her horror, she finds that Aemond was actually right about the book she chose. It is indeed a more complex dialect of High Valyrian than what she would be used to, but Elaerys would rather bite her own tongue than ask for his help now, and so she resigns herself to keep her questions to herself. 

After what seems like ages, Aemond clears his throat, closing his own book. “It’s growing late. We better leave if we don’t want to be missed at dinner.” 

He speaks so softly, barely above a murmur, and yet Elaerys feels like his voice reverberates all around them in the stillness of the room. She stands as he does, nodding in agreement. 

“I thank you, my prince, for showing me this place,” she says, finding with no small amount of surprise that she actually means it. “It’s a kindness I dearly appreciate.” 

Aemond looks at her intently, and after a moment’s hesitation, he finally speaks. 

“I think it is about time we dropped the formalities between us, wouldn’t you agree?” He takes a step closer. “We are family, after all, and bound to be husband and wife beside.” 

Elaerys tilts her head up to meet his eye. “What shall I call you then?” 

“Aemond is just fine.” 

“Very well, Aemond .” She feels the corner of her lip lift up in a tentative half-smile. There’s a moment of doubt in which she flounders with her decision before she nods. “Then you may call me Elaerys.” 

She doesn’t miss the flicker in his eye, something intense lurking in its depth. Does he realize she hesitated? Can he tell why? Surely he’s noticed her siblings calling her Ella instead, a concession of familiarity, a show of trust. But that special nickname feels too intimate to grant him the use of, as though this tentative dance between them was suddenly becoming real. She’s playing a part, not actually meaning to trust him. 

If Aemond was expecting her to give him leave to use a more familiar pet name, he doesn’t show, merely bowing his head slightly in acknowledgment. “See you at dinner then, Elaerys.” 

The sound of her name on his lips is oddly soft, like the brush of a feather, it makes her breath catch in her throat. 

He turns around and walks out of the hidden alcove without another glance back, leaving her feeling slightly off-kilter after this unexpected encounter. 

The walk back to her rooms feels like she’s in a daze, her mind replaying the limited interactions she’s had with Aemond like she’s trying to piece together a complicated puzzle, struggling to make sense of the contradiction between the cruel and dangerous aura he gives off in front of others and the softer, quiet man she’d just witnessed, the one who seemingly prefers books to company. By the time Elaerys gets to her chambers she barely registers her lady’s maid trying to get her attention. 

“A raven arrived for you some hours ago, my lady.” 

The young woman hands her a letter, the sealed scroll bearing the sigil of House Royce. She pauses in slight disbelief. It had barely even been a sennight since Elaerys had arrived at the Red Keep; she hadn’t been expecting a response from her uncle Gerold so soon. 

She breaks the seal with eager fingers, her eyes scanning the brief missive with avid curiosity before her heartbeat quickens once she makes sense of her uncle’s message. 

Ser Gerold is coming to King’s Landing, and he is anything but pleased with the news of Elaerys engagement by the looks of it. 

Chapter Text

My heart still beats and my skin still feels

My lungs still breathe, my mind still fears

But we're running out of time

All the echoes in my mind cry

There's blood on your lies ~ Running with the Wolves

“The King has ordered a feast to be held in honor of our engagements,” Rhaena comments as the three sisters break their fast together in the twins’ chambers. It seems she’s taken it upon herself to brief Elaerys on what she’d missed from their afternoon tea with Rhaenyra, even though she’s yet to ask outright. 

Wedding planning is something she will not be able to escape for long. 

Elaerys pauses in spreading apricot marmalade on her toast. “I suppose with a triple royal engagement he’s expecting something quite grand.” 

Baela snorts. “Alicent was definitely not pleased with having to plan this on such short notice.” She takes a generous sip of her tea. “This on top of her precious son’s wedding being so rushed will surely drive her mad.” 

“What do you mean rushed?”

Baela and Rhaena freeze, both looking at each other for a moment before turning their guilty gazes toward Elaerys. 

She lifts a dark eyebrow, prompting Rhaena to cough awkwardly. 

“A date has been set for your wedding,” she murmurs, avoiding her scrutinizing stare. “Apparently the King wants a short engagement, and both Rhaenyra and Father agree it’s for the best.” 

“How short?” Elaerys asks, already dreading the answer. 

“Six weeks.” Rhaena cringes. 

“Six weeks?!” She didn’t mean to sound so dismayed but honestly, such a short time for a royal wedding is fairly unusual. 

Another thing to add to Uncle Gerold’s growing list of grievances that he’d surely raise with the King once he arrives. Elaerys is not looking forward to that reunion. 

“There’s more,” Baela says a bit reluctantly, gaining time by taking a bite of her poached eggs.

“Of course there is,” Elaerys sighs. “Well, it couldn’t get any worse, now can it?”

“We are set to go back to Dragonstone right after the feast.” Baela bites her lower lip, playing idly with her fork. “We will only return shortly for your wedding.” 

It takes a moment for that particular information to set in, and even then it doesn’t make much sense. 

“Why would we leave for Dragonstone in the middle of wedding planning.” Elaerys frowns. 

Baela and Rhaena exchange a look, but the doubt in their eyes is enough to make realization dawn on her. 

“Oh,” Elaerys breathes, feeling a tightness in her chest. “You’re leaving me here, aren’t you?” 

Rhaena grimaces. “Rhaenyra and Father are to come back sooner to oversee all the preparations. But Rhaenyra doesn’t want us to remain here for long.” She lowers her gaze to her plate, her voice a soft murmur. “It’s rather clear not all of us are really welcome here.” 

“I understand,” Elaerys says, a bit tightly. 

“We would take you with us if we could, Ella,” Baela says. 

“But you can’t.” Elaerys gives her a bittersweet smile. 

It shouldn’t surprise her, that once again she’s overlooked by her own family. Who cares if she’s left behind unprotected, surrounded by strangers that her own father and stepmother see as enemies, as long as she does her duty it is all the same to them. Her siblings may escape the situation, it is Elaerys who is to be sacrificed for the greater good after all, taken for granted at best and disposable at worst. 

She doesn’t say much else for the rest of their breakfast and once she’s finished she immediately excuses herself to go back to her own chambers. 

Part of her feels a faint wave of bitterness over the whole thing. She doesn’t resent her sisters, they have no say in this matter any more than Elaerys does, but sometimes she can’t help but feel a spark of envy. Baela and Rhaena get to marry decent, promising young men that they already know, they get their father’s favor and Rhaenyra’s indulgent treatment, they get to be spared from the clutches of the Red Keep while she gets the short end of the stick, offered up like bait to the wolves. 

Elaerys is left grappling with the knowledge of her virtual loss of freedom in this matter. She hates feeling like a helpless pawn, moved across the game board quite against her will, blind to the hidden agenda of the ones making decisions for her, but what else could she possibly do to change her own situation? 

She ponders over it as her lady’s maid prepares her outfit for the day, displaying a few options for Elaerys to choose from. She absentmindedly settles for a dark dress to match her suddenly gloomy mood and turns her inspecting gaze towards the young maid helping her dress. 

Mila is a kind woman, perhaps only a couple years older than Elaerys herself. Her honey colored eyes seem to hold a gentle soul; soft-spoken but so far reliable. She doesn’t talk much but she appears observant, quietly perceptive. She’d been assigned to Elaerys as soon as she got to the Red Keep, and so far she’s made her feel welcome enough without being stifling. 

Elaerys considers this for a moment before coming to a decision.

“You’ve been working in the Red Keep for long, Mila?” She asks lightly. 

“Since I was a girl, my lady.” Mila doesn’t even pause as she adjusts the stays of Elaerys’ corset. “Started in the lower halls, then was moved to Queen Alicent’s service.”

“You must know the Royal Family well, then.” 

Mila moves on to adjust Elaerys’ petticoat. “Only as well as a humble member of the Keep’s staff might, I cannot claim to know them on a personal level.” 

“That still may be more than most know,” Elaerys comments. “What are they like?” 

“Well,” Mila fumbles for a second, thrown off by her sudden curiosity. “I’m not exactly sure what you would like to know, my lady.” 

“I’d like to know what is the general opinion of them within these walls. A more honest, grounded view, if you will,” Elaerys says, keeping a conversational tone. “I’m not exactly familiar with any of them, you see. I’m merely curious to know who is to be my closest family.” 

“Well… the King is a good man, I think… or he used to be, at least. He mostly keeps to his own rooms these days, being as progressively frail as he is.” Mila adjusts the skirts of Elaerys’ dress. “He’s left most of the handling of the realm to the Hand, but he was a gentle man once upon a time as far as I know. People say he used to dote on Princess Rhaenyra and his first wife.” 

But not on his younger children, it would seem… 

Elaerys hums, lifting her arms to allow Mila better access to accommodate her bodice. “What about the Queen?” 

“She’s everything a proper Queen ought to be, I suppose,” Mila says noncommittally “Her Grace is a pious woman. Everyday she goes to the Sept to pray and mostly keeps herself busy with courtly duties. She seems like a devout lady.” 

“To the Faith, to the realm, or to her husband?” Elaerys quirks an eyebrow. 

“All of them, I guess,” Mila answers without much explanation. 

“And what of her children?” Elaerys ventures. 

Mila pauses, her nimble fingers stilling over the buttons at the back of Elaerys’ bodice. “Princess Helaena is a gentle soul.” She continues with straightening her garments. “Some may say the princess is a bit odd, and her ladies can sometimes find her difficult because she doesn’t like to be touched. Indeed, she is a bit distant but she’s kind, and she dotes on her children as best she can. I think she just prefers to live in her own world, but who can fault her for it?” 

True, Elaerys finds herself agreeing wholeheartedly. 

There’s a brief pause in their conversation as she allows herself to be guided toward her vanity, where Mila busies with her hair. 

“What about the Princes?” Elaerys dares to ask tentatively. “Are they as kind as their sister?” 

She can feel Mila’s hands tense as she runs her fingers through Elaerys’ loose curls. “I couldn’t say, my lady. I was never assigned to attend to them.” 

“You can speak freely with me, Mila. I merely wish to know what I am to face once I marry.” Elaerys lifts an eyebrow, meeting Mila’s eyes over the reflection of the mirror. “Surely you’ve heard things, even if you haven’t witnessed it yourself.” 

Mila hesitates for a long moment, and then finally speaks in a hushed voice. “The Princes are as different as water and oil. Prince Aegon seems to lead a more… unrestrained life. He likes to venture outside the castle walls, has his fun until late into the evening.” She picks up a brush and starts running it gently through Elaerys’ dark tresses. “The servants that attend him say he is rather difficult.” 

“Difficult how?” 

Mila seems to choose her words carefully. “He can be a little too fond of his wine. The maids know it’s better to avoid him when he’s in his cups and keep their heads down.” She pauses, like she’s debating whether to tell her more. “He’s been known to get a bit… handsy…” 

“I see,” Elaerys tries to keep her voice even, though her stomach turns in apprehension. “And has Prince Aemond been known to behave similarly?” 

Mila shakes her head firmly. “Not that I know of, my lady. He is a rather quiet, serious man, keeps mostly to himself from what I know. Some say he’s the Queen’s favored son, since he’s not one prone to scandal.” 

She can tell she’s holding something back, and gently prompts her to continue. 

“Well, he can have a bit of a strong temper,” Mila says, avoiding Elaerys’ keen gaze. “We all know to leave him alone when he’s in a mood, he can be quite harsh and unforgiving when bothered.” 

She says it like she’s urging Elaerys to heed her words, a piece of advice for her future married life perhaps.

So that tracks with what the Velaryon brothers told her.  

Elaerys smiles through the mirror. “Thank you for your honesty Mila, I find myself in great need of it now.” She waits until she’s done with styling her hair before disclosing her intentions. “Can I trust you with a great favor?” 

Mila meets her gaze, her wide eyes unsure but kind. She nods, if a tad hesitant. “How may I be of service, my lady?”

“I feel like I’m navigating this Keep blind. Soon I will be left alone here, surrounded by people who are still strangers to me,” Elaerys hesitates, wondering how much to divulge before deciding to lean into her true feelings for once. “I admit that leaves me quite uneasy. I don’t truly know anyone in this court and I trust them even less. I find courtly behavior rather… hypocritical. Everyone is wearing their best masks, only showing what they want to look best in front of others, but not their true selves, not their true motives.” 

She bites her lips, chewing on her next words carefully. “I think one’s true character is better shown behind closed doors, in the way one would treat the staff, the way we behave in the privacy of our own rooms.” She tries to convey her urgency through her eyes as she gives Mila a meaningful stare. “I would suppose rumors about these sort of things do fly among the servants in this Keep do they not?” 

“I’m not sure what you’re asking of me, my lady,” Mila says, a bit baffled. 

“I need all the information I can get on the courtiers of the Red Keep,” Elaerys explains. “Whatever rumors spread about them within these halls; their habits, who they keep for company, what they are like when no one else is looking. Only then will I have enough information to get a better assessment on who to trust.” 

Mila looks a bit overwhelmed with this request. “I-I’m not sure how reliable the gossip amongst the servants is, my lady. One does hear some pretty fanciful tales sometimes.” 

“All rumors hide a bit of truth behind them,” Elaerys says. “Surely they would be more reliable than whatever I can glean from the courtiers themselves. At least the staff don’t have political biases or alliances to keep.” 

Mila bites her lip, and Elaerys takes her hesitation to press further. 

“So, can I trust your discretion in this matter?” Elaerys asks earnestly, for once preferring not to hide behind her mask of easy nonchalance to show the actual depth of her inner turmoil. “I do not wish to be taken advantage of by being seen as an outlier to these people. I will need someone to be my eyes and ears, to catch me up to speed with the inner movings within the Royal Court.” 

Something shifts in Mila’s wide eyes, a hint of compassion softening her face into a gentle expression. She hesitates for a second before nodding. “I don’t know how much help I can be, but I will try my best to be of service to you, my lady.” 

Elaerys gives her a genuine smile, her fingers discreetly rummaging through a hidden pouch within her vanity’s drawers. 

“Thank you, Mila.” She takes the young maid’s hand in hers in a friendly gesture, pressing two coins against her palm. “Your loyalty is deeply appreciated and shall be rewarded in kind.” 

Mila looks down and gasps at the sight of the two golden dragons in her palm. 

“My lady, this is too much, I cannot accept—“

“Take it, as a token of my gratitude.” Elaerys interrupts. “I know what I ask of you may not be an easy job, maybe even dangerous in these uncertain times when we don’t know exactly who to trust. But know that your services are very much valued.” She presses a gentle hand over the maid’s, gently closing her fist around the gold coins. “For as long as you keep your loyalty with me, I shall see to it that you are well taken care of.” 

Mila gives her a tremulous smile, her eyes welling with silent emotion. “Thank you, my lady. You are too kind.” 

Elaerys shakes her head. “Careful, Mila, one shouldn’t confuse generosity with kindness.” 

It’s a subtle warning; keep loyal and she shall see the fruits of her labor rewarded, but betray her at her own peril. And Elaerys may not be cruel, but she doesn’t take disloyalty kindly. 

Not that Mila gives any indication to be dishonest, but one can never be too sure in this place of masks and secrets. 

Mila takes her leave with a respectful curtsy and a sweet smile, and Elaerys feels like she can breathe a little more easily now. 

She may be left alone surrounded by snakes, but she will not remain defenseless. 

“How is your courtship of Lady Elaerys going?” Alicent asks discreetly as they walk along the halls of Maegor’s Holdfast. “Any particular progress in that regard?” 

Aemond hums, not exactly glad to have been intercepted on his way by his mother. “We’ve had a few moments together, if that is your concern.” 

“Yes I know about your little display in the training yard, and that you were seen alone with her at the library.” Alicent’s lips purse in disapproval. “I was hoping for a more formal courtship, Aemond.”

“It happened unexpectedly, I was not exactly planning for that to occur,” Aemond explains, a bit defensively, not caring to question where his mother got her information from. “In any case, those encounters have been rather… enlightening.” 

“It is unseemly,” Alicent hisses. “She is a lady, not some lowly squire. You should treat her with kindness and decorum.”

Aemond can’t help but scoff. “You don’t know her, Mother. I very much doubt Daemon’s daughter would be moved by any kind of gentleness.” 

“That doesn’t make her any less of a lady,” Alicent argues with a frown. “Every woman should be handled with care as she is—“ 

“The image of the Mother and shall be treated with respect, I know.” Aemond interrupts tiredly, already having heard this lecture a hundred times before. “Do you take me for a brute? I wasn’t intending to dishonor her.” 

“Well then, I urge you to take a more appropriate approach,” she orders, her firm tone brooking no argument. “It would do you well to be seen with her in a more public setting, show your interest to the eyes of the court. It will make her feel more appreciated. Perhaps a walk around the gardens would be ideal.” 

Aemond fights the urge to roll his eye. Something tells him Elaerys would much rather continue with their unpredictable interactions than be treated like a lady in need of attention, but then again he doesn’t know her that well and his mother will not appreciate back talk, so he merely nods in silent resignation.  

“As you wish.” 

It is his mother’s insistence that has Aemond looking for Elaerys later that same day. He’s more than a little caught off guard when he comes to find her precisely in the gardens, in company of none other than his sister, much to his bafflement. 

The two young women sit beneath the shade of a big oak tree, Helaena’s twins playing in the vicinity. His sister seems engrossed in her needlepoint project, having brought with her a set of threads and needles she keeps in a small basket by her feet. Elaerys on the other hand is busy weaving vines and flowers together in some odd pattern. 

Aemond watches from a distance, surprised by the unexpected image of his usually withdrawn sister sitting so amicably and at ease with a virtual stranger. He would have expected Elaerys to be in the company of her own sisters as she normally is, or perhaps even the Strong bastards, but he hadn’t been aware that Helaena and their cousin had been entertaining any kind of interaction at all, much less that Helaena would feel comfortable enough in her company to sit with her in the gardens. 

Jaehaerys comes running towards Helaena and Elaerys, carrying a small pile of leaves in his little hands that he promptly throws up, making them rain all around the sitting women. His twin, Jaehaera, pouts at the mess, and Helaena smiles softly at her son’s childish rambunctiousness with a fond shake of her head, but Elaerys lets out a tinkling laugh, taking a little fistful of fallen leaves in her own hand and returning the gesture to Jaehaerys, who screeches in delight, already running away. 

Aemond is not exactly sure how to feel about this seemingly wholesome scene. He feels a hint of protective irritation swell within him. He has no idea how Elaerys managed to so easily gain his sister’s trust, but Helaena is a dreamy, gentle ingénue, she could be easily taken advantage of by the enemy and she wouldn’t know the first thing about it. He has the odd feeling of watching a kitten being stalked by a fox. 

But Helaena seems perfectly unperturbed, her attention absorbed by her embroidery. Her fingers move with practiced ease, threading complicated pictures over the thin fabric in her hands, her airy voice carrying in the gentle breeze. 

“Spool of green. Spool of black,” she murmurs absentmindedly, then pauses. “Spool of bronze… it makes for a different tapestry.” 

“It does?” Elaerys hums by her side, seemingly unbothered by Helaena’s nonsensical mutterings, busy with her own weaving flowers. “Does it make a prettier tapestry?” 

Helaena squints, that telltale faraway look taking over her gaze. “Two dragons are circling the same sky, fire behind their teeth. One means to land while the other shall fall .” 

Elaerys blinks, evidently confused. Aemond is prepared to watch her scorn his sister’s odd behavior with that patronizing tone others have used before when Helaena starts speaking in riddles. But she simply shoots Halaena a soft, curious look before she continues with her weaving, shrugging lightheartedly. 

“Then I hope the wind is kind to whichever one forgets how to fly,” she says with a small, playful smile, like she’s indulging a child’s fantasy. There’s no mockery in her gaze as she asks; “Is that what the new tapestry shall depict? It most certainly would make a magnificent image.” 

Helaena doesn’t answer, her fingers working faster as she embroiders, but Elaerys doesn’t seem to mind. She finishes with the flowers in her hand and holds up the result. It’s then that Aemond notices she’s made a crown of woven flowers and vine. 

She presents it to Jaehaera with a flourish. “Ta-da! Here, a beautiful crown for a beautiful princess.” 

Elaerys places the flower crown gently over Jaehaera’s silver hair, making the girl giggle softly in delight as Elaerys playfully pokes her little nose. 

The sight is perhaps even more bizarre than the fact that Helaena is sharing a friendly moment with their cousin. Jaehaera rarely ever smiles, let alone laughs in the company of anyone other than her mother. Aemond is left staring like he’s witnessing a hazy dream, long enough to be noticed by Jaehaera, looking over Elaerys’ shoulder.

His niece waves her hand in a shy, small gesture, making Helaena’s eyes turn to him. 

“Aemond!” She smiles. “What a surprise to see you here.” 

Helaena beckons him closer with a light wave, and Elaerys whirls her head toward him, her lilac-violet eyes widening in slight surprise. 

Jaehaera tugs softly at the fabric of his trousers once he comes to stand next to them, her innocent eyes looking up at him expectantly. “Do you like my crown, Uncle Aemond?” 

Aemond’s lips curl up slightly as he nods. He can admit he has a soft spot for Helaena’s kids. “Quite the pretty crown, byka mandianna .” 

Jaehaera nods, satisfied. “Auntie Ella made it for me!” 

Ah, so even his little niece gets to call her that while Aemond himself is denied the privilege. He would laugh at the irony of it if his pride wasn’t slightly wounded. 

Instead his gaze drifts toward Elaerys, who watches his interaction with Jaehaera with a peculiar expression. 

“Would you like to join us, brother?” Helaena asks lightly. “We were just enjoying a bit of fresh air.” 

“I actually came looking for Lady Elaerys,” Aemond says as he turns to his sister. “Do you mind if I steal her away for a few minutes?” 

Helaena hums. “That depends, does the lady want to be stolen?”

Elaerys twists her lips into a thoughtful expression. “I might not mind if I am asked properly.” 

Aemond gives her a polite bow. “Would you care to join me for a walk in the gardens, my lady?” 

Elaerys brows lift up in surprise, but she recovers quickly, an amused twinkle in her eyes. “I thought we were dropping the formalities, cousin.” 

“Very well,” Aemond sighs through his nose. “Elaerys, it seems like a good day for a turn about the gardens. If you are inclined, I would walk with you.”

He watches as her lips tense against an arch smile but she takes a moment to consider his offer, apparently enjoying making him wait for an answer. 

Helaena, meanwhile, seems perfectly unaware of this little game. She sighs a bit wistfully with a soft smile. “Oh, it is indeed a lovely day to enjoy a romantic promenade.” 

Aemond’s brow furrows at his sister’s words, making Elaerys laugh lightly under her breath. “Alright, Aemond, let us walk then.” 

She stands to join him at a respectable distance, and she bids Helaena and her children a wave goodbye as they start to walk away. 

“My sister seems to like you well enough,” Aemond comments once they’ve stepped further away. 

“That’s a good thing, I quite enjoy her company as well,” Elaerys says lightly. “She is a lovely woman.” 

“‘Tis most uncommon,” Aemond’s eyebrows draw together in silent skepticism. “Helaena is not normally fond of strangers.” 

“Then I’m glad she doesn’t consider me one.” Elaerys waves off, her tone bright and easy. It makes Aemond’s slight frown deepen. 

“You don’t find her a bit… peculiar?” He tries to gauge. 

“We all have our queerness, who am I to judge?” Elaerys shrugs, giving him a conspiratorial look like she’s confiding a secret to him. “I, for one, have been told my forwardness can sometimes be off-putting.” 

“Who told you that?” Aemond raises an eyebrow. 

“My Septa,” Elaerys says with a wry smile. “She thinks I have a rather sharp tongue. A lady shouldn’t be quite so bold, she says, for men can find that behavior unappealing.” 

Aemond is inclined to disagree. That might actually be the reason he finds her somewhat intriguing. He finds himself constantly wanting to test just how sharp that tongue is indeed, and for a moment he wonders if he’d like the way it cuts, if she were ever to let her subtle barbs become more direct. He wants to know how it would look like to see the full potential of her wit unleashed without having to rein in her impulses for propriety’s sake. Then he promptly discards the intrusive thought. 

“But what say you, Aemond?” She directs her keen eyes to him, quirking a dark eyebrow. “Have I come across as too brash in my manners?” 

“I can’t say you behave in the way I’d normally expect a lady to,” Aemond answers carefully, shooting her a sideway glance. “That’s not to say I find it particularly unappealing.”  

“Really?” She asks, looking somewhat surprised for a second before her lips lift into a teasing grin. “Have I successfully charmed you then, my prince? Is that why you asked me in such a gallant way to accompany you now?” She tilts her head, a twinkle in her eye, her voice holding a hint of sarcasm. “I wouldn’t have taken you for a man who enjoys such activities.” 

“I don’t,” Aemond answers bluntly, doing his best to keep his pace appropriately leisurely in a way he’s not at all used to. “I was sent to be the charming one actually. Apparently this is a more appropriate form of courtship.” 

That he was ordered by his mother to do this goes beyond saying, and Elaerys catches his meaning quickly. 

“I see,” Elaerys nods with exaggerated understanding. “Well, what else shall we do to appear more proper and decorous? I should of course aid you in pleasing your mother’s wishes.” 

Aemond feels his lips twitch against an amused smirk. “Perhaps you could take my arm, that would make it seem more legitimate.” 

“ Of course . We wouldn’t want to appear distant between us.” She pulls closer as he offers his hand, promptly linking their arms together in a perfectly appropriate pose. 

His arm stiffens at the contact, but Aemond refuses to let it show as he takes a turn toward a more spacious place in the royal gardens. 

“What else can we do to sprinkle more credibility to this little walk?” Elaerys asks, completely invested in this exaggerated display of a Queen’s approved courting. If he didn’t know any better he’d say she’s amused by his rather strained gentlemanly behavior. “Perhaps we could talk about inane things no one really cares about. How do you find the weather today, cousin?” 

“I don’t have an opinion on it,” he says, not one for waxing poetic over inconsequential things. 

Elaerys lets out a soft huff. 

“Well then, I’ll give you mine to carry on this conversation and you shall bear it with grace and try to appear like you’re genuinely entertained,” she continues as they pass beneath the carved arch that leads to the royal glasshouse, unfazed by his cold aloofness. “I dislike the warmth here, I find it a bit stifling.” 

“Do you?” He asks flatly. 

Elaerys looks off to the side, admiring the colorful, exotic flower bushes they can see through the green-stained panes of the glasshouse with a hint of nostalgia. “I miss the cool, fresh air of the Vale. I’m much more fond of colder weather.” 

Aemond hums. “And does Nyssarion like it there? Dragons usually prefer warmer places.” 

“She hatched in my crib, she’s never known anything else.” She slows as they come upon a patch of winter roses visible through the glasshouse, blooming unnaturally in the late season, and her eyes suddenly grow distant.

Aemond feels a spark of long-forgotten envy at the small detail she’s disclosed. Even his estranged cousin had a dragon hatch at her crib, another reminder of just how poor an excuse of a father Viserys is, when even Daemon proves to be a more attentive parent in that regard, granting his least favored daughter the chance to bond with a dragon at birth. 

“Perhaps she’ll like it better here now that she’s experienced something different,” Aemond says after a bit. 

Elaerys snorts with a shake of her head. “I doubt it. Even if she preferred the weather, Nyssa isn’t made for the Dragonpit.” 

“She makes quite the beautiful addition to it,” Aemond comments almost absently, hoping a praise to her dragon would appeal to her, and somewhat distracted by the way the intense sunlight makes her cheeks warm with a sun-kissed blush. 

“Perhaps, but some beauty is better appreciated in its wild, natural state, wouldn’t you agree?” She says softly, fingertips ghosting over the glass, tracing the edge of the dusky lilac petals of the winter roses. 

The image of the night he encountered Elaerys mid-flight comes unbidden in his mind; the way her usually carefully styled curls blew about her face, her windburn cheeks, her riding leathers clinging to her form, that spark in her violet eyes hinting at the fire beneath her cool surface. And Aemond can’t help but agree with her; some beauty is better kept wild. 

He keeps thinking about that and Elaerys’ carefree laugh the rest of the day, long after their walk led her back to her own sisters waiting for her and she’d bid him goodbye without much preamble. Much to Aemond’s chagrin, he keeps going back to the moment he saw her with Helaena and the kids, and it grates on him that for some unfathomable reason, he can’t seem to smother the memory of it off his mind. 

Chapter Text

When you move

I can recall somethin' that's gone from me

When you move

Honey, I'm put in awe of somethin' so flawed and free

So move me, baby ~ Movement

It appears their walk around the gardens was of astounding notoriety to the court’s public opinion. For the next following days, the subject of the odd sight of the One-Eyed Prince walking leisurely with Lady Elaerys by his arm is much discussed among the nobles in the Red Keep, seeing as the usually stoic Prince had never before been seen in public in such close company with another lady that wasn’t his mother or sister, nor would anyone have expected him to show such marked interest to his betrothed considering the widely known animosity he held towards his half-sister’s family. 

Elaerys is inclined to deem their little display a great success, which earns her Rhaenyra’s visibly pleased smile and gains Aemond the evident approval of his mother — if the Queen’s subtle praise to his efforts during dinner are anything to go by. 

Of course both women would be satisfied with the rumors already circulating. It suits the image of a mending rift between their families successfully brokered by what, to the opinion of many, is already promising to be a successful marriage. 

But behind closed doors and away from the close inspection of prying eyes, the reality is much different. Not that Aemond and Elaerys hold any outward dislike for each other, but more in the way that Elaerys is almost convinced they’re locked in a silent battle of wills, both strategizing the best way to get under the other’s skin as a challenge rather than with the intention of actually courting the other. 

Over the next several days, Elaerys’ visits to the library become a habit. Initially, she regards it as a welcome distraction, being drawn to the place out of genuine curiosity for the great many books that she could peruse. But as she keeps running into Aemond there more often than not, Elaerys becomes unsure whether they often find themselves in there out of a shared like for the place and literature or if it had also become a way to get a better measure of each other. 

At first, there was a lingering awkwardness between them as they sat in shared silence, much like the first time, each enjoying their respective books while actively trying to ignore the other’s presence, unwilling to be driven away from the place. But as the days progress, some sort of building sense of companionship seems to develop between them. In time, Elaerys grows used to Aemond’s presence, much like winter’s frozen grounds yield under the sun as spring comes; resisting its warmth at first and slowly thawing away with each passing day. 

Eventually, her natural curiosity wins over her reluctance, and she swallows her own pride to ask for his help in translating the more complex Valyrian scripts in her book. Aemond looks a bit surprised by this sudden admission of his superior knowledge, but doesn’t make a show of it beyond a subtle, self-satisfied smirk. 

It still irks her a little. 

But he does end up helping her, and in turn their silent time spent in the library becomes a moment where they both discuss the contents of their respective books. They find a common interest in ancient history and dragonlore, much to Elaerys’ surprise. But their mostly intellectual discussions can delve into somewhat heated debates when their opinions don’t necessarily align, which can happen more often than not. 

Elaerys is fascinated by the mysteries of Old Valyria, their mostly unknown rituals and the arcane bloodmagic that still remains tied to dragonbonds, but she’s not blind to the darker side of their history that paints Valyrians as the enemy to the civilizations they conquered and enslaved. Aemond, however, isn’t much fazed by it, he’s much more interested in the might of the Valyrian Freehold, and how they managed to turn into the most powerful empire of their time. 

Whenever she questions this or critiques their ruthlessness, he looks at her like one would look at a naive child. 

“Come now Elaerys, it wasn’t compassion what made our ancestors conquerors,” he says with a scoff. “Power needs to be wielded with a firm hand to keep it.” 

“And power wielded without measure can only lead to tyranny,” she argues. “There’s only so much that will do to keep you on top. When the many grow tired of the few’s cruelty, it’s only a matter of time before they revolt. History proves a beloved and respected ruler is often much more successful than an imperious one. Look at Maegor the Cruel and Jaehaerys the Conciliator for example.” 

Aemond’s lips lift into a condescending smirk. “Do not confuse wisdom with compassion, dear cousin. Jaehaerys wasn’t soft so much as shrewd, he knew how to pick his battles.” 

“Still granted him the admiration of his people, which gave his reign stability and peace.” Elaerys frowns. “Gaining yourself the respect and love of your subjects as a ruler is a much more effective way to keep their loyalty.” 

“Loyalties are as fickle as the pennies that can buy them,” Aemond dismisses. “When it comes down to it, love will not put fear in your enemies’ hearts. Who’s to stop them from challenging you when they don’t dread the consequences?” His single lilac eye bores on her with some hidden meaning in its depths. “No, you cannot make everyone love and respect you, but you can certainly make them wary of ever crossing you. I’d find that much more effective.” 

Elaerys sometimes hates that his arguments have logic behind them, which in turn makes him all the more interesting to discuss with, frustratingly enough, an intellectual challenge that she welcomes as much as she dreads. But it gives her a much better glimpse of his nature; Aemond is not easily swayed in his opinions, he will not be an easy man to bend to her whims, she realizes soon enough. 

As the days progress, she finds a more regular schedule in her activities in the Red Keep, alternating between these visits to the library, time spent with her sisters, morning flights with Nyssarion, and afternoons of helping plan the engagement celebrations with Alicent and Rhaenyra — to the insistence of both women who bid Daemon’s daughters should start learning how to take care of these matters as they will eventually be the ones in charge of their own households. 

Elaerys quickly grows weary of this last requirement, which soon takes up most of her time. Back in Runestone, she would normally at least have time to ride Zephyr across the landscapes around the castle without much restraint, a way to clear her head with the cool salty breeze caressing her face. But the Red Keep feels oppressive and King’s Landing doesn’t allow for such an activity within the city walls, and her morning flights become all the more brief as her schedule grows tighter. 

Eventually, she decides she’s had enough. Elaerys had been avoiding the training yard in the hopes of not having to run into her betrothed again there. But she finds herself in great need to unwind the high-strung tension within herself and some target practice would be just ideal for the job. 

She dresses herself in the leathers she keeps for training and sneaks out of her room while the rest of the royal family still slumbers. She figures the dark hours before dawn will provide enough cover and solitude to conduct her archery practice without unwanted interruptions. 

Apparently, she is wrong. 

The training yard is cloaked in the cool, bluish light of pre-dawn when she gets there, faintly illuminated by the lit torches around the stone walls, which echo with the sound of steel hitting against something hard. 

She freezes at the edge of the yard, her eyes quickly adjusting to the dim light and finding, to her dismay, that she’s in fact not alone. 

Aemond is already there, sparring on his own against a training dummy. His silver hair flows down his back, swaying almost gracefully with each of his swift movements. It contrasts against his dark training leathers, his black jerkin snugly fitted to his torso, emphasizing his broad shoulders and narrow waist, a tighter fit than what he’d usually wear at court. His performance is as hypnotic and dangerous-looking as the first time she’d ever witnessed it, his movements fluid but powerful, each aggressive strike of his sword a carefully delivered blow that hides a deadly precision in its focused strength; it’s almost beautiful in its violence. 

Elaerys finds herself rooted to the spot, half of her willing her legs to cooperate and turn the other way and leave and the other half silently drawn to the sight in front of her. 

“Well, are you here to join in or merely to enjoy the view?” 

Elaerys almost jumps out of her skin at the sound of his velvety voice. Aemond stops and turns to her, his face half obscured in the shadows that still linger in the training yard. She fights an embarrassed blush as she crosses her arms loosely over her chest. 

“I wasn’t expecting to find anyone here at this early hour,” Elaerys says, willing her voice to come out steady. 

Aemond shrugs, lowering his sword to his side. “I like to start my training before the yard gets too crowded.” 

“Yes, I thought I’d do the same.” She steps out of the shadows that still obscure her and into the training yard, making a beeline to the weapons rack where she left her bow the last time. “Guess I misjudged the hour.” 

“Perhaps that’s a fortuitous coincidence.” Aemond tilts his head, coming closer to her. “I haven’t forgotten we have unfinished business here.” 

Elaerys feels her spine tense as he shortens the distance between them. She focuses on her own weapon, humming in a questioning tone without turning to face him. 

“I promised you a lesson, if I remember correctly,” Aemond says. “This is as good a time as any to have it.” 

“Somehow I doubt Queen Alicent would approve of such a thing.” Elaerys deflects, her smile feeling strained. 

“There’s no one here to witness it.” Aemond shrugs. “Ser Criston will not come for at least another hour, plenty of time for us to practice.” 

Yes, that's precisely what worries her. 

He seems to notice her hesitation and his voice acquires a hint of mocking challenge. “That is, of course, unless the prospect makes you too wary.” Aemond draws slightly closer, and his presence feels overwhelming in the cold stillness of the training yard. “You’re not afraid of me, are you Elaerys?” 

She scoffs but doesn’t give him the satisfaction of turning to address him. “I’ve told you before, I’m not.” 

“Then you have nothing to fear.” He picks up a narrow, dull sword from the rack, his arm coming awfully close to brushing hers in the process. “I promise to go easy on you.” 

Aemond hands her the sword, and Elaerys hesitates for just a second before straightening her shoulders and taking it. With her pride pricked, there’s little else she can do but to accept, her eyes narrowed in slight defiance. 

And so they begin. Elaerys has rarely ever picked up a sword in her life. Though she’s not a stranger to the weapons one could find in a castle’s training yard and her uncle Gerold has seldom restrained her in her pursuit of less traditionally ladylike practices, she’s never been much interested in swordplay. It seems she inherited more of her mother’s talents in archery than her father’s legendary skills as a swordsman. 

Aemond guides her through a few defensive stances to begin with, directing her through the motions with a flat, impersonal tone, but there’s an edge to his gaze as he inspects her form with almost clinical precision, like he’s analyzing an opponent he’s soon to meet in battle. 

He corrects her stance every now and then, his hand brushing her elbow, adjusting her posture, pressing lightly against her lower back. He’s close now, closer than he’s ever been to her, she can feel the heat of his body radiating against hers. It makes her pulse rise in silent apprehension. But Aemond doesn’t seem to seek any undue advantage from this interaction, he keeps his touches steady and detached, strictly professional... and yet, Elaerys is not entirely sure if it’s her mind playing tricks on her but she could swear his fingers linger just a second longer than absolutely necessary every time they brush briefly against her skin. 

It sparks something in her, a flutter in the pit of her stomach that she chooses to associate with trepidation, because what else could his close proximity awaken in her but dread? 

He steps behind her, entirely too close for comfort to her racing heart, and adjusts the position of her hands on the hilt of her sword. His fingers barely brush against hers, but it’s enough to make her feel a humming tingle beneath her skin.

“Elbows in,” he murmurs, close to her ear. “You're leaving your sides exposed.”

Elaerys follows Aemond’s instructions to the letter. She may not be a proficient fighter but she’s always been a quick study. And while her movements are a bit clumsy and inexperienced at first, what she lacks in strength and technique she makes up for in agility. She can feel the tension in her shoulders slowly loosening with each passing moment. 

Aemond tests her strength pressing his own sword against hers. He shows her how to catch his blade and let it slide harmlessly to the side.

“The goal is not to overpower,” he says. “It’s to redirect. Let your opponent burn his strength while you save yours.”

Huh, so not much different from their verbal sparring. She can adapt to that, Elaerys supposes. 

“At what point should I actually go for the offense then?” 

The corner of his lips lifts up in a sardonic half-smile. “Not while you can barely lift a training sword.” 

She frowns, but can’t argue with that logic. 

Aemond then strikes downward, prompting her to lift her sword to parry high, almost on instinct. He leans in, pressing harder against her blade, testing her grip. Elaerys doesn’t give in, their faces suddenly coming too close, peeking through the cross of their swords. 

“That wasn’t as quick,” Aemond says. “You hesitated.” 

“I blocked you just fine,” she huffs. 

“You better start fighting like you mean it, Elaerys.” He presses even harder, making her take a step back. “Don’t hold back, you can’t afford any weakness.” 

She’s so close to him now, their breaths mingle, she can see the beads of sweat glinting on his brow, his hair slightly damp with exertion and curling at the tips. She has the irrational urge to tuck the few wispy strands clinging to the sides of his high cheeks behind his ear. It’s enough of a distraction to have him shoving her sword to the side, successfully disengaging them from this stubborn lock of blades. 

Aemond circles her now, and Elaerys makes sure to keep him in her line of sight, their footwork keeping them close, and suddenly she very much feels like prey being hunted for sport, his intense eye lingering over her like a hawk ready to strike. 

But Aemond doesn’t lunge to an attack. Rather, he proceeds to walk her through a sidestep pivot, instructing her on how to avoid a forward lunge and return a strike from the side with this movement. 

She realizes she’d seen him doing this before, the first time she saw him sparring with Ser Criston Cole. But Elaerys is convinced that while his movements were graceful and almost elegant in their precision, hers just look like a poor attempt at a haphazard pirouette. 

Aemond seems mildly amused by her try, biting his bottom lip against a smirk. It makes Elaerys brow furrow. 

“Here,” he comes closer, placing a hand lightly on her waist and guiding her turn to demonstrate. “Step off-line. Use your hips.”

This is the first time he’s ever touched her so boldly, and she fights a shiver as that tingling churning in her stomach travels all the way through her body like lightning. She resists the urge to step away from his light hold, letting him guide her through the motions much like a dancing partner would. 

Aemond steps away as soon as he’s done, but she can feel his heat lingering where his hands touched. 

Elaerys lifts an eyebrow. “Are you always this... hands-on in your training?” 

Aemond hums. “Only if my opponent proves to be promising,” he says coolly, waving his hand in an impatient gesture. “Ready?” 

Elaerys readies her stance, preparing to receive his offensive move. Aemond strikes first, and Elaerys swiftly parries his blow like he taught her, letting her blade slide against his with the successful block. Aemond lunges again without missing a bit, his movement prompting her to instinctively pivot in that newly learned technique, her braid whipping behind her with the swift movement. She thinks she’s managed it, but halfway through the turn, Aemond catches her blade again, his arm hooks across her torso as he steps behind her, interrupting her pivot. 

Before Elaerys knows it, she has her back pressed flush to his chest, the edge of his sword kissing the delicate skin of her neck, just under her jaw.

Her breath catches in her throat, she can feel her pulse quicken as her whole body stiffens, locked in the deadly circle of his arms. 

“I thought you were going easy on me,” she says lowly, fighting the tremor in her voice despite the spark of genuine fear coursing through her veins. 

“This is me going easy. Your enemies won’t grant you such leniency,” Aemond murmurs against her ear, his warm breath brushing against the hair at her nape. “You need to learn how to defend yourself against any attack.”

Elaerys wants to argue that she has no enemies of her own. Why would a highborn lady ever find herself in a situation such as this? Then again, these are uncertain times they’re facing. Perhaps Aemond has a point after all. She hates that his close proximity is distracting enough to have her agreeing with him.

His arm is looped across her midsection, not tight, but firm. His chest rises and falls slowly against her spine. She can feel the heat of him, the way he holds still like a coiled serpent, as if he’s waiting to see what she’ll do next. 

“You’re in a kill hold,” he continues, his voice a low purr. “What do you do then?”

There’s the barest tremor in her shoulders. He feels it, she knows he does, pressed as close as they are together. Elaerys doesn’t have an answer for him beyond a feeble attempt to break away. He holds firm, the dull edge of his sword pressing further against her neck. 

“Do you yield?” he asks.

“No,” she replies stubbornly, but her breath hitches. “I’m not done learning.” 

He chuckles once, soft and dry. “Good.”

He doesn’t release her. She can feel the rumble in his chest as his voice instructs from behind her. 

“Shift your weight. Left foot behind mine. No, not there. Here.” His boot nudges hers into place. She feels his shin against her calf.

“Now lower your center. Keep your spine straight.” Elaerys feels her cheeks heat up in a mortified blush as his hand adjusts lightly at her waist again, guiding her. Surely this is entirely indecent. Good thing no one is here to witness it, the Queen would have a stroke over their scandalous current position. 

“Now use your elbow. Drive it into my side.”

She does as instructed, holding back just slightly. Aemond grunts with the slightly forceful jab. The pressure at her throat lifts, but not enough to let her break free. 

“Again,” he commands, voice taut. “Don’t hesitate.” 

This time, she flows through the motion. Her elbow drives in. Her shoulders twist. She ducks and turns beneath his arm, breaking the hold in a single smooth movement.

They face each other now, still entirely too close, breathing hard. Her sword is pointing towards his chest while his is still raised to her neck. A stalemate. 

They meet each other’s stare with stubborn defiance. The first rays of sunlight are beginning to peak over the castle walls, making his single lilac eye glimmer as his gaze drops to her parted lips, lingering for a moment. 

“Not too bad for a beginner,” he finally says with a tilt of his head, lowering his sword. “You might even become something close to decent some time.” 

Elaerys’ lips twitch into a dry smile. “Gods, what a compliment. I feel honored.” 

Aemond rolls his eye. “If you wish to fish for compliments from me you will have to work harder for it.” 

She lets out a light chuckle. “Fortunately for both of us I have no need for you to appeal to my vanity, thank you.” 

Elaerys feels the tension simmering between them heighten as their gazes lock, like an invisible force pulling her closer to him, a coil drawn tight and ready to snap. But before she can decide whether to let herself be guided by that magnetic pull, a loud cough startles her. 

They jump away from each other like they’ve been burned by the close proximity, and Elaerys whirls around to find Ser Criston Cole at the edge of the training yard, arms crossed over his chest as he frowns in evident disapproval. 

“Cole,” Aemond says, appearing perfectly unbothered by the interruption, despite having taken several steps away from her. “You’re early.” 

“I was unaware we would be having company,” the knight says, his eyes drifting to Elaerys in silent judgment. He gives her a deferential bow nevertheless. “My Lady.” 

“The Lady Elaerys and I were just finishing a session of friendly sparring,” Aemond’s voice rings cool in the face of his mentor’s unmasked disapproval. 

Elaerys suddenly wishes she could disappear in a puff of smoke. 

“Yes, I could see how friendly that appeared to be.” Ser Criston twists his lips. “Forgive me, my prince, my lady, but I am unsure this is an appropriate setting for a courtship.” 

Aemond scoffs. “Since when is sword training considered courtship ?” 

“Precisely,” Ser Criston nods, looking slightly uncomfortable for having to address this. “I am not sure that the training yard is an appropriate place for a lady. I have to wonder if Her Grace would find such pursuits befitting of a lady of noble standing. Or if she might prefer her soon-to-be daughter by law to practice more traditional virtues.”

Elaerys scowls in affront. Who does this man think he is to dictate where she can or cannot be? 

Rather than appear guilty, Aemond gives Ser Criston a sardonic smirk. “And I suppose you will be the one to inform her of it?” There’s a dangerous spark in his eye as he regards the knight without remorse. “Go ahead and tell her if you must. I find nothing wrong with sharing the space with my betrothed if the lady is inclined to it.” 

Elaerys is slightly grateful for his stance, but she has no wish to be the object of scrutiny any further, so she lets her face relax into a sunny smile as she addresses the two men. 

“In any case, I was just leaving. I do not wish to interrupt your set schedule.” She gives each of them a quick bow of her head. “If you’ll excuse me, my prince, Ser.” 

But before she can rush out of there, a big commotion draws her attention. The sound of great iron-bound doors creaking open echoes from the main entrance of the Keep, booted footsteps scrambling across stone as a guard’s voice rings out from the gatehouse

“Presenting, Ser Gerold of House Royce, Regent Lord of Runestone.” 

Elaerys halts mid-step, her heart suddenly in her throat, tension flashing across her face. She can see Aemond’s jaw tighten in carefully repressed surprise at this unexpected audience, while Ser Criston turns toward the main entrance, brow raised. 

Ser Gerold rides in beneath the archway and crosses the gate, tall in his horse’s saddle, with a dark brown and grey wool cloak clasped at his shoulder by the brooch bearing his house’s sigil. His eyes sweep across the courtyard, hawk-like and assessing.

He halts his horse when he sees Elaerys, coming to a stop right before her , his dark gaze softening just slightly.

“Niece,” he calls, in a voice that still carries the steel of the Vale’s highlands, “I wasn’t expecting to find you here.”

His scrutinizing eyes sweep between her and Aemond standing a few paces away, taking in their attires and mussed up appearance with slightly narrowed eyes.

Elaerys steps forward, practice sword still lightly clutched in her hand, trying to appear steady and composed despite the touch of color rising high on her cheeks. 

“Uncle,” she replies. “You arrive earlier than I expected.”

“And not a moment too soon, by the look of things,” Ser Gerold says, dismounting. “I’d linger with further introductions but there’s an audience with the King that cannot be postponed a minute longer, now if you’ll excuse me.” 

He doesn’t wait to be formally received by anyone at the courtyard before he strides towards the great doors leading inside the Keep, and as Elaerys shakes off her own bafflement long enough to shoot Aemond a brief parting look before she follows behind her uncle’s footsteps, she can’t help but wonder what this arrival might mean for the state of things now. 

Of all the things she doesn’t wish to witness, the confrontation between her uncle and her father that is soon to come isn’t one she is prepared for. 

Chapter Text

Oh, the loneliest girl in town was bought for plenty a price

Well, they dress her up in golden crowns, his smile hides a lie 

She smiles back, but it's a fact that her fear will eat her alive 

Well, she got the life that she wanted, but now all she does is cry ~ The Tradition

“I’d just like to know what you intend to do, Uncle.” Elaerys tries to keep up with Ser Gerold’s brisk pace, her voice taking on a warning note. “I’ve seen what these people are capable of and trust me, these Targaryens are not to be taken lightly.” 

“Fret not, child. I know how to deal with the likes of your father,” Ser Gerold dismisses, continuing on his way across the Red Keep’s hallways. “If they think they have every right to marry you off without consulting me at all, they have another thing coming.” 

Elaerys huffs, feeling her chest tighten with apprehension. “What exactly will you be doing? Do you mean to contest the King’s will and ask for an annulment of the betrothal?” 

“Not when he’s already announced it for all the realm to hear.” Ser Gerold shakes his head, keeping up his stubborn pace. “I may not be able to annul this preposterous arrangement but I sure can demand that you’re not taken advantage of. They cannot keep me out of your marriage contract negotiations.” 

“Well, if we are to negotiate I should be present in this audience with the King,” Elaerys points out as they near the Small Council room, feeling slightly relieved by her uncle’s words. 

But Ser Gerold shoots her an impatient look. “This is a matter better discussed amongst more experienced adults, niece.” 

Elaerys scowls. “I’m not a child anymore, Uncle. I’m a grown woman, perfectly capable of understanding what’s going on.” She fights the urge to stand on his way, a cold edge in her voice. “It’s my future you will be discussing, I have every right to have a say in it!” 

Ser Gerold sighs, slowing his pace in order to face her more directly. “You had an opportunity to negotiate such things with your father before he had the King make this arrangement public.” 

She feels her face heat up in an incensed flush. “How exactly was I supposed to go against my father’s will? He gave me no other choice!” 

“Precisely,” Ser Gerold concedes, continuing on his way. “If he cared not for your opinion he will have to put up with mine. As your Regent and your warden, it is my duty and my right to have an input in what is established in your marriage contract.” 

“But—“ 

“Worry not, Ella,” her uncle’s voice softens just slightly as he turns to look at her, placing a placating hand on her shoulder. “Let me deal with this. I assure you, I will have yours and Runestone’s best interest at heart.” 

He doesn’t give her a chance to protest as he turns and marches inside the Small Council room without further preamble, leaving her behind, steaming in her own frustrations. 

Elaerys lets out a loud breath, biting her lips against an exasperated groan and crossing her arms over her chest. 

This is infuriating. Not even her uncle believes her capable of taking part in the negotiations involving her own future. How long will he insist on treating her like a child too naive to know better? 

She has half a mind to storm inside the Small Council room and give everyone involved in this arrangement a piece of her mind when the sound of footsteps suddenly interrupts her musings. 

Two voices echo across the stone walls of the spacious hallway, clearly arguing. She can’t quite place the harsher, deeper tone of the first, but its companion’s cold, silky-smooth baritone is one she’s come to recognize well. 

Aemond is approaching, and he’s not pleased by the sound of it. 

“—and it's my marriage that you will be discussing apparently, why should I not be allowed in?”

“What could possibly be your contribution in such decisions?” The gruff voice of what she now recognizes is Otto Hightower asks. “You forget, Aemond, that these arrangements are not made to please you specifically, but for the greater good of the realm, something you have little knowledge about.” 

Elaerys rushes to hide herself behind the pillar of one of the archways as she sees their figures approaching, not keen on being found by the Hand lingering outside the Small Council room. 

“And I suppose you expect me to stand by inanely as you gamble my own future away while I have no say in it,” Aemond spats, his usual cool tone turning into a harsh hiss. 

“Aemond,” Alicent’s measured voice is added to the mix, a subtle warning. 

There’s a pause as the footsteps slow into a halt, and as the tension seems to build, Elaerys waits with bated breath, hidden behind the pillar. 

“Careful, grandson, lest I think you are forgetting your place,” Otto says. “As a Prince of the Realm, your duty is to the Crown and whatever it needs of you, and right now, it has no use for neither your opinion nor your impetuousness. Limit yourself to doing what you were already tasked with.” 

He says nothing more as the footsteps resume and the doors to the Small Council room creak as they open and close with a deafening thud in the echoing silence of the hallway. 

Elaerys peeks carefully over the side of the pillar where she hides. She can glimpse Aemond and Alicent standing before the great doors, Alicent’s back facing her as she turns to address her son. 

“You shouldn’t raise such a fit over a mostly inconsequential thing,” she advises, her tone serious yet oddly soft as she raises her hand to smooth the tips of Aemond’s silver hair over his shoulder in a stiff but uncharacteristically tender, almost maternal gesture. “This is a mere formality. We will only discuss the details of your marriage contract so far as to appease Ser Gerold Royce, and it shall prove beneficial to you, I assure you. Nothing to fret about.” 

Aemond’s lips tighten into a thin line, his jaw visibly clenched, but Elaerys can see the slight droop of his shoulders as he seems to relax under his mother’s gentle touch, if only a bit. 

“I’ve done everything you’ve asked of me,” he says tightly, his voice almost a murmur carried by the echo of the stone walls. “Being present in this discussion is the least I’m owed.” 

“You are owed nothing, Aemond.” Alicent’s spine straightens as she drops her hand to her side. “As part of the Royal Family our duty is only to the good of the realm. Our personal wishes and desires do not matter. The sooner you understand that, the better.” 

She turns and enters the Small Council room without another word, leaving Aemond standing stiffly by the door. 

Elaerys debates for a moment, biting her lower lip in a thoughtful expression, before stepping out of the column that hides her and revealing herself to Aemond, whose eye immediately snaps to her with barely disguised surprise. 

“So, you were excluded from the reunion as well, huh?” 

Aemond’s lilac eye narrows minutely before wandering away, his lips downturned into a frown. He says nothing, but that doesn’t deter her as she approaches him. 

“This is ridiculous,” Elaerys huffs, letting her hands drop to her sides with an exasperated snap. “They get to determine whatever they want to get out of this arrangement while we have no say in the matter when it is us who are the ones to live with this marriage. We are nothing more than glorified pawns in someone else’s game.” 

“I suppose it was to be expected,” Aemond mutters, looking off to the side to the far corner of the hallway. 

“We should be drawing up our own marriage contract and forget about whatever is being discussed in there.” Elaerys half-jokes with a wry smile. “Good luck trying to tell us what to do with our own marriage.” 

The corner of his lip lifts up slightly as his gaze finally settles over her again. “That’s not a terrible idea.” 

Elaerys sighs, her small smile dropping into a look of defeat, lowering her gaze. “If only it were that easy to break free from their designs.” 

There’s a moment of silence in which Aemond seems to regard her carefully. Elaerys can feel his stare on her as she turns toward the closed doors of the Small Council room, wishing she could just listen to what everyone would be determining about her own life. 

“We may not have any say in it, but they can’t stop us from listening in,” Aemond says. 

Elaerys quirks a curious eyebrow. “How would we do that?” 

“Come,” Aemond nods toward the corner he’d been inspecting earlier, already turning away from her. “Let me show you.” 

Elaerys hesitates for a second before walking after him, wondering if she’s lost her mind, following Aemond Targaryen again to an unknown location, alone. 

Once they reach the end of the hallway, Aemond pushes against the stone wall, and a seemingly secret door slides open, revealing a small arched entrance to a tiny, dark room. 

He gestures for her to step in. 

“You’re getting quite used to leading me into secluded, secret alcoves.” Elaerys frowns. “Should I be concerned?” 

Aemond shrugs with marked indifference. “If you really want to know what’s being discussed in that room, I’d advise you to get in there.” 

She finally concedes, stepping into the room with some reluctance. To call it an alcove would be an understatement. The space is barely larger than the size of a small broom closet, big enough to fit her and Aemond without leaving much space for movement. 

She can feel him slide in behind her, his chest brushing against her back in the reduced space, making her feel slightly claustrophobic. 

Great. What was she thinking agreeing to this?

“It’s a tight fit, isn’t it?” She murmurs as her eyes adjust to the darkness, the tiny space barely illuminated by the filtered light that slips through an iron-wrought grid that covers a slit in the wall before her. “How convenient.” 

“Shh,” Aemond hushes against her ear, close as he is to her his breath ghosts over the back of her neck, making her skin break out in goosebumps. “Listen.” 

Elaerys does, and as her sight finally adjusts she glimpses the interior of the Small Council chamber through the slit in the wall, the voices from the people seated at the table filtering clearly across the space. 

“—and respectfully, your Grace, I find the fact that I was never even consulted in this matter insulting and frankly preposterous.” Her uncle’s firm voice says. “I was never sent formal word. No raven, no rider. Only rumors to be taken for gossip until my own niece’s raven reached me bearing the news that she was already betrothed.” 

“I hear your grievances, Ser Gerold.” The King nods from his place at the head of the table, his voice a weak rasp. “Indeed, it was an unforeseen oversight.” 

“We understand the offense that this may have unintentionally caused, Ser,” Otto Hightower continues, his gaze grave as his eyes travel across the occupants in the room before they settle over Rhaenyra and Daemon with a hint of reproach. “I, however, was under the impression that all pertinent parties had already given their blessing over this union.” 

Daemon lets out a sardonic chuckle. “Please, don’t be dramatic, Royce. The only one who needed to be consulted in this was me.” His lips curl into a cynical sneer. “Your opinion is of little importance here.” 

“I beg to differ, my prince.” Ser Gerold frowns with great affront. “You have not been a part of Elaerys’ life since she was born. I am the Lord Regent over her holdfast and she was made my ward after you declined having anything to do with her custody. As her legal guardian, I should have been consulted.” 

“And yet the girl still has a father, and as long as I shall live I am the one who gets to give her hand in marriage,” Daemon counters, waving a hand in dismissal. “You may dislike it all you want.” 

Ser Gerold puffs up like a puffer fish in his anger, his ruddy cheeks turning almost purple beneath his beard. But before this little squabble can escalate, Rhaenyra puts a placating hand over Daemon’s arm, silencing whatever he was about to say next to further offend Ser Gerold. 

“I do regret this terrible miscommunication,” she says. “I was the one who proposed the match, and in my eagerness to see this union arranged for the good of the realm I regret I did not inform you on the delicate matter. You are perfectly within your right to be offended, Ser, and I offer you my sincerest apologies.” 

Ser Gerold calms slightly at the Princess’ words, although the color remains heightened on his face. “I appreciate your concern, my princess. However, you might understand that a mere apology still leaves me far from satisfied.” 

Daemon scoffs but Rhaenyra merely gives him a conceding nod. “Please, make your requests, Ser Gerold. What would appease you and your family? I shall see to it that we get to an accord, as a gesture of my respect to you and your House.” 

Otto clears his throat subtly. “I’m afraid, those negotiations should fall to the King, Princess, as they will surely concern matters pertinent to the realm.” 

Elaerys can glimpse the dangerous smirk gracing her father’s face as he looks at Otto with evident acrimony, while Rhaenyra straightens in her seat with an unbreakable mask. However, it is Viserys who interferes. 

“That’s quite alright, Otto.” He waves a decrepit hand. “Let Rhaenyra handle the matter, it will be good practice for when she becomes Queen.” 

Otto gives him a stiff nod with great reluctance, much to the satisfaction of Rhaenyra, who smiles gratefully at the King. Elaerys can see Alicent’s lips tighten at the corners. 

“Thank you, your Grace, my princess.” Ser Gerold nods with polite deference. “First, I should like to know how this union is to benefit House Royce specifically. As the Lady of Runestone, my niece would’ve benefited greatly from a union with one of the more important Houses of the Vale, and there were no small amount of offers made for her hand. In fact,” he adds, shooting Daemon a reproachful look. “A union was all but settled with House Grafton; a most advantageous marriage that would’ve granted Runestone a profitable alliance, and one my niece might have welcomed besides, had it not been for Prince Daemon refuting the match.” 

Elaerys winces as she recalls the event. Her uncle had been elated at the prospect of striking an alliance with the Graftons; the union would have strengthened Runestone’s coffers, securing trade from Gulltown to the Fingers. With House Grafton ruling over the largest port city of the Vale, it was little wonder Ser Gerold had encouraged a betrothal. But alas, Daemon had scorned the proposal, refusing to give his daughter’s hand in marriage, much to Ser Gerold’s dismay. 

“Elaerys is the Blood of the Dragon, she was fated for a far better match than to a puny merchant lordling.” Daemon sneers. 

Elaerys scoffs. At the time everyone had wondered why the Rogue Prince had been so adamantly against the marriage, but now she realizes Daemon had been waiting for the right opportunity to use her to his own advantage and the alliance with House Grafton had only benefited Runestone, while Daemon had little to gain from it. She now understands he's always intended to use her in his attempt to secure the Iron Throne one way or another. 

It seems her uncle is of the same mind, and further presses to know what advantages House Royce is to be given with this new arrangement, expecting something even more lucrative than the potential alliance with Gulltown. 

Elaerys hears the rustle of fabric as Aemond shifts behind her. 

“You were set to be married before?” He asks in a hushed murmur, more a statement than a question, his voice seems to reverberate in the cramped space, startling her out of her focused attention to the conversation taking place in the other room. 

She takes a moment to answer, carefully chewing over her words. 

“A fair proposal came not too long ago, from Ser Alaric, the second eldest son of Lord Grafton.” Elaerys shrugs. “Nothing was ever settled, for obvious reasons, though my uncle certainly pushed for it.” 

Everyone had been expecting the match, Elaerys included. It was an arrangement long in the making between Lord Grafton and her uncle, and by the way Ser Gerold had talked about it, she’d always assumed one day she would be arranged to marry the young knight. And then her father had refused to give his blessing, much to the astonishment of the Vale’s nobility. 

“I take it you were well acquainted with your potential suitor,” Aemond ventures, there’s a peculiar edge to his voice; something deeper than mere curiosity, dark and caustic. 

“We used to be friends, when we were children,” Elaerys says without much importance. 

It had been a casual acquaintance, distant but friendly. Their families had often coincided in formal affairs, feasts and tourneys held across the Vale throughout the years. Ser Gerold and Lord Grafton had always encouraged a friendship to bloom between them, and with time Elaerys had come to realize exactly why. Alaric had been a steady, kind boy, easy enough to befriend. And though she hadn’t seen the young knight often enough to grow attached, their interactions had always been of easy, tender camaraderie, the innocent gullible whimsy of childhood. 

She doesn’t really mourn the loss of the potential marriage, but now that she’s reminded of what could’ve been, Elaerys wonders where life would’ve led her had her Uncle Gerold’s plans come to fruition. She’s never been much eager to be married anyway, but now that she has the chance to compare both options, she realizes how different her situation could have been. 

Alaric was safe, steady, easy . He’d been the path leading to a peaceful life. Aemond is the complete opposite; dark, mysterious, the threat of something powerful simmering just beneath his still surface. She wonders if she could have ever been happy with the kind of tranquil life Alaric could have provided, or if her spirit might have still craved the challenge that only another dragon could ever offer. 

As though reading her mind, Aemond’s velvety voice snaps her out of her musings. 

“And was Ser Grafton a better fit for you, my lady?” He asks, his murmur a husky whisper in the darkness. It sends an involuntary shiver down her spine. 

Elaerys turns her head slightly to the side, but they are pressed so close together in the tiny room that their noses almost bump against each other as she tries to face him. She feels her breath hitch as she catches his intense gaze, his eye darkened to a deep violet in the dim light.  

“I guess that remains to be seen,” she breathes. 

Her eyes briefly drop to his upturned lips before snapping back to the slit in the wall before her, trying to to get back on track with the conversation in the adjacent room. 

“—besides, the union with Prince Aemond binds House Royce not merely to Gulltown, but to the Iron Throne itself. A match far surpassing any lord of the Vale." Otto says, measured and diplomatic. “The Crown’s favor, not to mention the protection of an additional dragon at your disposal. I would certainly deem such a union far more advantageous.” 

“It is precisely the additional presence of dragons in the Vale which concerns me, my Lord,” Ser Gerold says. “House Royce has been ruling over Runestone for centuries, you will understand how having two Targaryens in the seat of Runestone is hardly convenient to the Lords of the Vale. Besides, it might well diminish my House’s standing when we are overruled by Targaryens.” 

“No one is seeking to supplant your House’s claim over Runestone, Ser Gerold, I assure you,” Rhaenyra placates. 

“Then it will be settled on paper,” Ser Gerold insists. “My niece is the rightful Lady of Runestone, and even after her marriage, she shall retain all authority over her own lands. Her husband shall hold no claim nor speak command over her bannermen.” 

Rhaenyra is quick to concede, but Elaerys can see Otto tensing in his seat, his calculating gaze narrowing in subtle indignation. 

“There is also the matter of heirs,” Ser Gerold continues. “Her children shall bear the name Royce, to continue the legitimate line of succession of our House.” 

This clearly causes a stir within the occupants of the Small Council room. Daemon lets out a sardonic chuckle at the bold demand, Rhaenyra purses her lips, and both Otto and Alicent straighten in their seats with identical scowls. Even Viserys looks momentarily affronted. 

The King turns to him with a placating wave of his hand. “I understand your demands, Ser Gerold, however—“ 

“Elaerys is a Targaryen,” Daemon interrupts. “Her children shall carry the Blood of the Dragon, why should they be done the disservice of being denied their royal name?” 

“She is a Royce first and foremost, as our family’s rightful heir she bears the responsibility of carrying down our House’s name.” Ser Gerold’s implacable tone raises over the protests. “With all due respect, your Grace, I will not see our family’s ancestral line be erased by this union.” 

“Perhaps… the heir to Runestone, Lady Elaerys’ firstborn son, might bear the name Royce when he eventually takes over his mother’s seat.” Otto gives a slight concession, tight-lippped as he regards Ser Gerold with that cunning look in his eyes. “However all subsequent children will retain the Targaryen name as is their right and the lawful tradition.” 

Elaerys can feel Aemond stiffen behind her. When she turns slightly to look at him out of the corner of her eye she can see his jaw tightly clenched. 

“Does the arrangement displease you?” Elaerys asks with a hint of mocking sweetness. 

Aemond turns his hardened gaze to her. “Any trueborn child of mine should bear my name, as the law dictates.” 

Elaerys sighs, fighting back an eye-roll. “If you were marrying a lesser lady, of course. However you’re marrying a woman who’s meant to rule her own holdfast. Our children shall inherit my place and my lands, they shall be powerful lords or ladies in their own right. Would you rather trade all that for your progeny to bear your name while inheriting little else?” She asks, letting her lips curl into a derisive smile. “You’re welcome to marry the daughter of any other great lord then, be dependent on whatever they might spare for you other than her dowry.” 

Aemond says nothing more, but she can tell he’s not satisfied with this little exchange by the way his lips tighten into a thin line and his gaze darkens. 

She turns her attention back to the Small Council room, where her uncle is still deep in his negotiations. 

“If, for whatever unforeseen circumstances, my niece should perish prematurely and without issue,” Ser Gerold’s dark eyes bore on Daemon with evident contempt, “her seat, her lands and all her assets shall pass to her closest kin of Royce blood, to keep Runestone under our House’s rightful claim.” 

“Believe me, Ser Gerold, we have no intention to strip her or your House of your rights,” Alicent reassures with a smooth, diplomatic voice. “However I ask, what is to be done then in the unfortunate event of the lady’s demise if her children are still young. My son has every right to oversee his own children’s education and regency should it be needed.” 

As Alicent and Ser Gerold engage in further discussions, Elaerys shoots Aemond a wry smirk over her shoulder.

“Hear that, dear cousin?” she teases with a note of irony. “You better take good care of your wife for my death can only mean your own destitution. Although I suppose you could always marry another wealthy lady that might take you for your title.” 

She means it as a jest as much as a warning. If he was ever planning to get rid of her, he’d better know it would serve him little. 

Aemond returns her teasing grin with a sharp smirk of his own. “Your uncle seems greatly affected by what happened to your mother.” He tilts his head, leaning closer to her, his breath ghosting over the side of her cheek. “Does he expect me to act as shamelessly as your own father did once?” 

That does erase the smile from her lips as she turns her head forward again. Elaerys has to wonder what he is referring to; the fact that Daemon immediately tried to claim Runestone when her mother’s body wasn’t even cold in her grave, or the sordid rumors of his involvement in her death. Either way, the comment doesn’t sit well with her, his mocking tone sounds more like a dangerous warning of his own than a countering banter. His towering frame behind her suddenly feels oppressive, like he’s caging her in. 

She feels more than hears the amused chuckle that rumbles in his chest, reverberating against her back. “Fret not, Elaerys,” his voice murmurs in her ear, his nose lightly brushing her temple in the barest of touches. “I’m not as much of a fiend as your father is. You have nothing to fear from me.” 

She’s not entirely sure about that. 

Elaerys tries to ignore his close presence as she focuses on what is being discussed at the Small Council table. The more she listens, the more she grows frustrated with herself. Every point of contention her uncle has risen is a delicate matter that hadn’t even crossed her mind before. No wonder he still thought her too inexperienced to participate in this. She’d thought she had everything under control, that she would be able to maneuver her delicate situation with her wit and resolve alone, that she would eventually find a way to break free from this insane arrangement. But as she listens to Ser Gerold negotiate she realizes with sudden dismay just how naive she had been, how easily controlled, gullible even, in her overconfident belief that she could outwit her father and everyone who might have sought to control her. 

The Targaryens on both sides had been halfway on their way to taking full control of Runestone by marrying her to Aemond and Elaerys hadn’t even realized it. She would’ve blindly entered this marriage without raising all these reasonable demands had it not been for her uncle’s adamant input. And the way they keep discussing this betrothal like she’s nothing more than a bartering chip makes her hands clench into fists, fingernails digging into her palm, shoulders quivering in restrained rage. 

She wants to storm in there and scream her throat raw. She wants to shake off Rhaenyra’s beatific countenance, wants to shout in Otto Hightower’s smug face that she can see his disgusting ambition behind that sharp gaze, wants to scoff at Alicent’s blatant hypocrisy. She wants to tell King Viserys that he’s a weak-minded fool clearly being controlled by Otto’s scheming hand, that he’s the reason his family is in shambles and his mess is sucking her into an unavoidable vortex of imminent doom. 

But most of all, she wants to slap that condescending smirk off Daemon’s face. The man who she was supposed to trust most in the world, the one who was supposed to protect her, love her, cherish her. The biggest traitor in her life. 

And the worst part of it all is that, despite her best efforts to remain indifferent, it still stings like betrayal. Elaerys doesn’t know why, she had never expected anything from them, but it hurts . There’s a gaping wound in her heart that has been festering for years with every slight, every time she’d been ignored, sidelined, taken for granted by her own family, left behind like she’s the unwanted black sheep. And now that they have need of her they don’t even have the decency to let her partake in the decisions regarding her own marriage. 

A marriage she never asked for in the first place. 

She must have been vibrating with barely restrained fury, and she startles when Aemond places a tentative hand on her shoulder. 

“Elaerys?” 

She shakes her head. “I want to leave.”

“The meeting is not over yet.” 

“I don’t care.” Elaerys stiffens under his touch, feeling like she might explode at any given moment now. “I don’t care to keep listening to them negotiate with my own life like I’m nothing more than goods to be sold at the market.” 

“You’re not the only one being discussed here,” Aemond mutters, sounding equally crossed. 

“You can stay if you want, but I’m leaving.” 

She tries to wedge her way out, but Aemond doesn’t move an inch, making it rather difficult. 

“What exactly were you expecting from this?” He asks, his voice dripping with scorn. “As royals who hold little authority this is our lot in life.” 

Elaerys scoffs. “I shouldn’t have to put up with it, I’m—“ 

“You are a woman,” Aemond cuts her off, eerily calm and matter-of-fact. “And I am a second son. Much to our misfortune that makes us little more than bartering tokens for our family to trade away to the biggest bidder.” 

“I am a ruling lady in my own right, that should at least give me some leeway, if I had been born a man—“ 

“But you were not,” Aemond interrupts again, making her scowl. “That’s why you have a Lord Regent tied at your hip making all the decisions for you. Did your uncle ever ask for your opinion before negotiating the terms of your own marriage?” 

Elaerys bites her tongue, refusing to answer.  She will not think of her uncle Gerold with the same resentment, even if perhaps his negligence to involve her would merit a similar sentiment. But Aemond has little need for a response to that. 

“Do you really expect to have any autonomy over your own rule?” Aemond questions. “Don’t be mistaken, Elaerys, he’s treating you as much as a pawn as the rest of them.” 

Elaerys shakes her head, hating the quiver in her voice. “No, he’s looking out for me, he only wants what’s best for me.” 

Aemond scoffs. “For you, or for House Royce?” His voice is a harsh whisper as he counters her claims. “Every demand he’s made is for the benefit of his own House. If he truly intended to let you rule, why is he still your Regent? You are a grown woman, it’s high time you claimed your own seat and yet he won’t let you. I have to wonder why.” 

Elaerys feels the air thinning around her, her head swimming with countless implications she’s never bothered to question. She wants to leave this stifling room and everything she’s learned in it behind, but Aemond clutches her arm in a firm grip, keeping her in place. 

He lifts his other hand, tilting her chin and turning her face up to him in a surprisingly soft move. 

“Don’t settle, Elaerys,” he says, his lilac eye boring into hers. “The sooner you realize what role you’re playing, the sooner you can plan to break free from your chains.” 

He lets her go abruptly, and she doesn’t think twice before slipping out of the tiny alcove hiding them without another word, shaking like a leaf as she makes her way back to her chambers in a brisk pace. 

But Aemond’s voice echoes in her head, his whispered warnings like a hissing snake announcing danger. 

She doesn’t have to wonder what exactly holds her back. One thing Elaerys knows for certain is that the Targaryens are the chains binding her. But how is she supposed to break free if she’s meant to be forever tied to one of them? 

It’s not for another few hours before Ser Gerold finally leaves the meeting in the Small Council room satisfied with the negotiations brokered for his niece’s betrothal. 

He comes to Elaerys’ chambers soon after, presenting the newly signed contract to her with a satisfied nod as he goes over every important point discussed before, most of which are details that Elaerys had already been privy to, unbeknownst to him. 

But as her uncle prattles on about the agreements reached and all the benefits that House Royce now successfully gained with this, her eyes pause over a certain clause in the binding document that makes the blood drain from her face. 

The Lady Elaerys, of House Targaryen and House Royce, betrothed to Prince Aemond Targaryen, shall remain in residence at the Red Keep for a term no less than one year from the date of their union, save by royal command, to strengthen the bond between House Targaryen and House Royce, and to ensure her education in the duties and privileges of her station as Princess of the Realm.

“Wait, what does this mean?” Elaerys questions with an almost shrill voice. “A year?! This has got to be a joke, I can’t stay here for a year !” 

“I’m afraid there was no avoiding this, Ella.” Ser Gerold rubs a tired hand over his forehead with a deep sigh. “I tried to oppose it, but Queen Alicent was quite insistent upon it, said it was imperative for you to learn the appropriate duties as a Princess of the Realm and to adapt in your new place at court.” 

“Honestly, a year seems like an excessive amount of time for that.” Elaerys frowns. “I can’t stay here for that long. I won’t . My place is back in Runestone, with you, with my people. How am I meant to rule when I am stuck all the way here?” 

“Those were the King’s orders, niece, and I could not dissuade them from it,” Ser Gerold says with a hint of sympathy. “Everyone agreed that it would be for the best. Otto deemed your presence at court a necessary step to show unity before the realm. And Princess Rhaenyra insisted that it would be best to give you time to adjust to your added responsibilities as Royal Princess before thrusting you back to your place as a ruling Lady. Daemon did not refute the arrangement, so my hands were tied.” 

Of course they would agree with this, Elaerys wants to scoff, those two were plotting to keep her as a spy for the Greens, what a better way to do it than to have her essentially sequestered in the Red Keep, mingling amongst the vipers of the court. 

One of these days she might just follow her instincts and really escape to Braavos in the back of Nyssarion, never to come back. 

“Well, what is to happen with Runestone in my absence?” Elaerys demands to know. 

“I shall remain your Regent, looking over the land’s affairs with your express consent on the more important matters that might require your attention,” Ser Gerold explains patiently. 

Elaerys’ mind echoes with Aemond’s distant voice and the words he’d whispered in that alcove. 

Was her uncle truly looking out for her wellbeing, or was he merely satisfied with keeping Runestone under his command for a while longer? 

She shakes her head as though shaking off a momentary lapse of insanity. Of course Uncle Gerold is only doing what is best for both Runestone and Elaerys. It’s not his fault Daemon is plotting behind his back to use Elaerys for his ulterior motives. 

But it seems her uncle is not entirely unaware of it. 

He comes closer to her and grasps her forearm in a firm but kind grip. “Listen to me Ella, the Targaryens are framing this marriage as a union for peace, but I don’t think there is any peace to be had between them.” His dark eyes bore on her with an intensity that seems urgent. “I do believe they mean to use you and your position in Runestone to their own advantage.” 

Elaerys swallows nervously with a shaky nod. “I know.”

She doesn’t tell him about Daemon’s plans, although part of her is itching to reveal them just to have a more experienced adult on her side. But she knows her uncle Gerold’s deep dislike for Daemon would only stir further conflict, and Daemon is bound to win over any kind of confrontation the two men might have, either by rank or by force. 

“You have to be careful, Ella,” Ser Gerold says gravely. “The King is frail and his health will only decline further. I don’t think he will last much longer. And when he finally perishes, a war of succession will likely follow. You will be asked to choose which claim you support.” 

“No,” Elaerys shakes her head vehemently, feeling her heart clench in her chest. “I won’t pick any sides, I don’t want any part in this.” 

“They will not give you a choice!” Her uncle insists, grasping both of her shoulders now like he’s trying to shake some sense into her. “You’re a dragonrider, you have the Royce’s forces under your command and you’re a strategic link to the Arryns by our close association with them. You will be pulled into this conflict whether you like it or not.” 

Elaerys feels the air growing thin around her, her chest heaves with a strangled gasp as she shakes herself away from her uncle’s grasp and takes a few staggering steps backward. 

“I-I can’t do this. I don’t want anything to do with them.” She shakes her head in a daze, hands flying up to clutch the necklace hanging over her chest in an anxious grip. “How could they ask this of me? How am I meant to choose between two sides that have never even considered me part of their family?” 

“That should make it easier for you. There’s no loyalty to be spared in a senseless war.” Ser Gerold sighs with resignation. “You’ll have to be smart about this Ella, figure out which way the wind blows stronger. Make the choice that will cause the least damage to our House and to our people.” 

“I can’t betray my father ,” she breathes, realization dawning on her like a ton of bricks. 

Ser Gerold’s thick eyebrows draw together in a deep frown. “You owe that man nothing.” 

“No… but my sisters… Baela is meant to be Queen one day, and Rhaena the Lady of Driftmark.” Her voice waivers as she thinks about the dire consequences of a war breaking out. They’d never be granted that future if the Greens take the Throne. “And my brothers… little Aegon and Viserys are just kids, they’re innocent. The Greens would condemn them to slaughter should they win that war.” 

How could she ever live with herself if she chose Aemond’s family over her own? She may not hold any love for Rhaenyra and might even be on the verge of hating her father, but Elaerys can hardly take it out on the rest of the Blacks. The Greens would not spare any contestants to the Throne. Jace and Luke have been nothing but kind to her, and Joffrey is just a child. Siding with their enemy would mean supporting their demise as well. Besides, she’d be jeopardizing her sisters’ future. 

“I can’t stand against my siblings… my own blood.” 

“Then you’d be betraying your husband,” Ser Gerold reminds her, his voice grave with concern. “If you were to bear him a child, you’d carry his blood as well. You’d be condemning their father, and perhaps your own children by mere association.” 

Elaerys feels her chest tighten as the magnitude of the situation dawns on her. All of Viserys’ children are claimants to the Throne, even with Aegon out of the equation. None would be spared by Daemon, Elaerys knows, not even sweet innocent Helaena, perhaps not even her children. And if she were to bear Aemond a son… would her father take him as a threat to Rhaenyra’s claim, however far removed the child might be from the line of succession?

“If you side against Aemond, the Greens will not take it lightly, and make no mistake, Otto Hightower is a ruthless man. There will be no mercy spared,” Ser Gerold warns, his lips pursing in a worried frown. “If Prince Aegon ends up winning that war, there will be dire consequences for you and for Runestone.” 

“What shall I do then?” Elaerys asks, a bit desperately now. 

“You will have to choose wisely,” her uncle advises, his eyes softening with a hint of regret. “And wise decisions may not always align with the heart’s desires.” 

Elaerys feels her stomach clench, her heart in her throat, her breath coming out in strangled little gasps that make her chest heave. She can’t do this, she can’t condemn innocents over a war that should have nothing to do with her.

“I’m not asking you to make a decision now,” Ser Gerold tries to soothe. “I’m not telling you which side you should pick either. You must make that decision yourself. Indeed, however much I may dislike your father, Princess Rhaenyra is still King Viserys’ chosen heir, and we are honor-bound to support her claim. However, in situations such as this we must consider first what is best for our House and our seat.” 

He comes closer to her again, placing an encouraging hand over her shoulder. “When the time comes I must urge you to think about what is best for the people that depend upon you, for your home .” 

Elaerys feels the icy fingers of fear clawing at her throat, fighting for a chance to escape in a strangled sob. Her vision blurs with unshed tears as she bites her wobbling lip. 

“I’m scared,” she says, a reluctant confession shared through a shaky whisper. “I just want to go back home.” 

“Listen to me, child,” Ser Gerold tightens his grip over her shoulder. “You are smart, and you are strong, and you are resilient. You will not be brought down by these senseless Targaryens and their petty ambitions. You will come out of this.” He pulls her into a tight hug, letting her shake in his arms as she finally lets out the desperate tears she’d been holding back for so long in a deep sob. “I trust that you will make the right decision in the end.” 

But Elaerys is not so sure about that. The weight of what he’s asking of her sits heavy on her shoulders, the oppressiveness of it still lingers in her chest even hours after her uncle left. She was a fool, the plans she’d had about getting out of this mess unscathed now seem like the naive fantasies of a child. 

The only thing she realizes with stark clarity now, is that no matter how much her family has damaged her with their indifference and their callous treatment of her, she doesn’t have the heart to risk her sisters’ future or condemn her little brothers and the Velaryons to the whims of Otto Hightower. Ultimately, if she owes her father nothing, she owes the Greens even less. 

Which can only mean one thing. Elaerys doesn’t want any part in this gods-forsaken war, but if push comes to shove, she will have no other choice but to back Rhaenyra’s claim. If the alternative means that any harm should befall her sisters, she’s willing to sacrifice her pride and her morals if it means sparing them, however much she may loathe it. 

She shudders to even think what that would mean for herself. Should Rhaenyra lose this fight over the Iron Throne, what will become of her? What will happen to her uncle, her home, her people? Would the Greens spare her if she chooses to side with their enemy? 

No . Aemond’s words whispered to her in the darkness of the Kingswood now echo in her mind. If we are to be allies, I expect loyalty .

He would never let her get away with this. 

However, Elaerys has no intention to meet her own mother’s downfall, she’d sworn that to herself before. She needs to find a way to get around this and survive, she needs to become fireproof to his blazing rage, and for that she needs more than Aemond’s mere trust. But what would be enough to spare her should she evoke his wrath with her betrayal? 

His love , the idea bounces around in her head, fluttering like the wispy wings of a butterfly. 

She needs more than his respect, more than his confidence. Elaerys needs to become indispensable in his life in more ways than by just being his trusted companion. She needs to entice him, charm him enough to gain his undivided affection. She needs Aemond to become so devoted to her he cannot conceive a life without her, that the mere thought of a world without her pains him more than her possible betrayal. She needs to become so unbearably important to him, he will not let any harm come to her, not even by his own hand. 

He’s capable of such loyalty, she knows this. Despite his cold and unyielding exterior, deep down he must have a heart. She’s seen glimpses of it in the way he treats Helaena, in the way he defers to his mother, in the soft look she’s only ever seen him spare to his little niece and nephew. She just needs to find a way to worm her way into the depths of that carefully concealed heart before all Seven Hells break lose. 

Elaerys winces at the thought of doing all of this only to end up betraying him in the end. But wasn’t that the plan all along? She’d entered this arrangement with the idea of someday being freed from said marriage. Even when she’d planned on gaining nothing more than his respect and trust, she’d still thought about it as a means to an end. The only difference now is that she would be forced to pick a side…

She tries not to think too much about it, lest she ends up spiraling into a nervous breakdown. This isn’t her fault. Elaerys never asked for this. In the end, the Targaryens and their ambitions are the only ones to blame for their own downfall, and she tries to console herself with that as she starts plotting the necessary steps for her own survival. 

From now on, Elaerys will have to harden her own heart and start trying in earnest to gain Aemond’s affections. There is no other way around it. 

But the whims of the heart are not so easily overcome, she would soon realize, and when dragons collide, only ashes are to be left in their wake. 

Chapter Text

The people talk, but that don't matter

Because to you, she feels like home (…)

She wears a flower crown

She is the people's daughter

She's holy, holy

Maria's prayer, the dragonslayer

She's fighting fire by the sea ~ Dragonslayer

If there is one thing Aemond will never understand, is his mother’s perpetual necessity to put duty and decorum above all else, even when she’s almost on the verge of collapse — if the occasional twitch in her eye is anything to go by. 

He can’t fathom how she can sit so calmly on the dining table right in front of Rhaenyra and discuss the final preparations to be arranged for the celebratory feast his father ordered in honor of the royal engagements with little more than a stiff upper lip and no evident disdain for the Princess of Dragonstone. He’d be inclined to call it a tremendous talent for hypocrisy if he didn’t respect her half as much, though he has to admit that he’s been losing even that much the more she keeps bending to this ridiculous affair. 

The Red Keep has been bursting with activity since the guests have begun to arrive for the celebrations, Houses from all around the realm coming to congratulate the royal couples. And even though both sides of the Targaryens will be forced to present a united front for the sake of appearances throughout the entire day, Alicent still insisted on having all of them break their fast together like one big happy family. 

Aemond is about ready to snap. 

The sound of Aegon’s fork scraping loudly against his plate grates on him, and he’s about to call him off on his atrocious table manners when Elaerys’ lighthearted voice catches his attention. 

“Will you be in the lists, Aemond?” Her violet eyes turn to him with a glimmer of genuine curiosity. “I hear today’s tourney will be the biggest one the Red Keep has hosted in years.” 

Before he can even reply, Luke answers with a teasing smirk. 

“I heard Aemond doesn’t give a sh— hoot about tourneys,” he corrects himself at the last second, the distinctive sound of someone kicking him under the table not passing unnoticed. Probably Jace, judging by the side-eye he shoots his younger brother. 

Aemond has half a mind to smack that little smirk off the boy’s face, but he knows he can do nothing with Rhaenyra and Alicent in the room. One of these days he’ll catch the little bastard alone, see how cocky he gets without his mommy’s shadow lingering in the background. 

He settles for gritting his teeth, swallowing back his vitriolic rage. 

“I care little for the petty glory to be had in a fight for mere show,” Aemond says in a dangerously calm tone. “If I am to fight I shall do it in a real battle. I have no need to break lances for amusement.” His single eye bores on Luke, his lips curling up with a hint of derisive mockery. “Although some lack the most basic skills to even participate in a simple tourney. Remind me, are you joining the lists, nephews?” 

That does wipe the smirk off Luke’s face, and earns him a deep scowl from Jace across the table. 

Before the tension heightens to unbearable levels, Elaerys interrupts their silent stare down with a charming smile. 

“Then perhaps I shall save you a seat beside me, cousin.” She turns to Aemond, her face the picture of serene nonchalance despite the brewing tension in the room. He doesn’t miss the sparkle in her eyes as the curl of her lips turns almost mischievous. “We can both watch the joust together. I’m sure you might enjoy judging the skill of others without having to raise a lance yourself."

Aemond blinks, unsure if her dry wit is meant to mock him or if she intended it as a genuine invitation. He can never be too certain with her, something that irks him as much as it intrigues him. 

He answers after a heartbeat, his own smooth tone betraying nothing of his inner bewilderment. 

"A gracious offer. One wonders if it is mere courtesy...” he lifts a brow, head tilting slightly. “Or are you particularly eager for my assessing commentary, my lady?” 

“Perhaps both, my prince.” Her smile widens, making a dimple he’d never noticed before appear in her cheek. “A lady must seek wisdom where it is offered."

“Then who am I to deny your wishes,” Aemond nods; a cool acceptance to her invitation. 

He notices the hint of satisfaction in her eyes and wonders if she’s genuinely pleased that she managed to secure his company during the event. Judging by their last interaction hidden away in that secluded alcove, he would’ve thought perhaps his intensity might have spooked her. 

But Elaerys appears perfectly unbothered as she continues enjoying her breakfast, even despite the clearly baffled look from Rhaena and the suspicious frown Baela directs at her after the odd exchange between them. 

He supposes it might not be such an unexpected invitation. Perhaps Elaerys seeks to lend further credibility to their little display in the royal gardens after it proved to be such an astounding success; what a better way to show unity than to sit beside her at the royal box, in view of the entire court and royal guests. It would please his mother, at the very least, and it would grant him a better chance to get closer to Elaerys. After all, he’s inclined to believe he’s been more successful than not in his attempts to gain her trust, lackluster as they’ve been. 

If he didn’t know any better he’d say she almost seems to be actively seeking his company these days. So he doesn’t really think too much about it as he takes his seat beside her later that same morning. 

The rest of the guests start to occupy their own places all around them. Aemond can see the banners displayed across the tiltyard where the tourney is being held in one of the biggest courtyards in the keep to accommodate the sheer amount of visitors. Banners from the most prominent Houses in Westeros decorate the area in a colorful mix. The majority in attendance are families from the Crownlands, as was to be expected by their close proximity. But amongst them he can also glimpse the Baratheons, the Tarlys, the Lannisters. 

Of course the guests of honor are the Velaryons and the Royces, along with the Hightowers — Aemond knows his uncle Gwayne is to participate in the joust, and feels a spark of regret that Daeron was once again excluded from the Hightower host. He knows it must have been his grandsire’s will to keep Daeron safely secluded in Old Town where the influences of other Targaryens cannot reach him. 

Finally, amongst the guests, a surprising number of highborns from the Vale apparently decided to follow behind Ser Gerold on his way to King’s Landing, no doubt to show their support to one of their own becoming a Princess of the Realm. House Arryn was to be expected, but along with them came the Corbrays and, much to Aemond’s curiosity, House Grafton as well. 

Elaerys doesn’t seem particularly intrigued by this last addition. As the participants who are to fight start to prance into the list field in their respective horses, she merely looks on with polite indifference. Or at least she does, until her own father joins the arena, which makes her straighten in her seat with a slight furrow between her brows. 

Daemon’s presence draws the thunderous cheers from the crowd, and Aemond resists the urge to roll his eye as his uncle peacocks across the field, clearly enjoying the attention. He predictably asks for Rhaenyra’s favor when he comes to a halt in front of the royal box, which she graciously grants with a small smile, before he goes on to ready himself for his first round. 

Aemond doesn’t even have to know who his opponent is, nor does he bother to check. Unsurprisingly, Daemon unseats his rival within seconds, much to the excitement of the crowd. 

“Perhaps this would be more interesting if it wasn’t so predictable,” he murmurs under his breath, making Elaerys tilt her head toward him. 

“That would take away the fun from the Lords already placing bets over their favorite contestant,” she says with a hint of satire. 

Aemond scoffs. “Would serve them right for taking part on such an unsavory vice.” 

Elaerys lets out a small laugh. “Come now, Aemond, are you always so pedantic?” She shoots him a teasing grin, although her tone is more genuinely amused than mocking. “What’s the harm in placing a little wager here and there?” 

He quirks an unamused eyebrow. “Who would you be placing your bets on then, my lady?” 

Elaerys shrugs. “I suppose it would be disloyal of me to support anyone but my own father.” 

There’s a dangerous irony here that Aemond does not gloss over. He turns his full attention to her, his gaze singularly focused on her pretty profile. 

“Oh,” he murmurs lowly. “And does your father deserve such unwavering loyalty from you?” 

He can see the way her chest shudders with a hitched breath, her shoulders tensing at the question. But before he can press further, the next participant joins the lists, apparently drawing her attention judging by the way her eyes narrow minutely. 

A knight trots forward atop his gelding, head held high, confident in his bearing, his perfectly polished suit of armor bearing the sigil of House Grafton. He reins to a halt in front of the royal box and lifts his helm, revealing a young man with deep chestnut hair, brown eyes and a friendly smile. 

Aemond notices Elaerys’ eyes brighten with recognition. 

He can already hear the murmurs flittering around them as the young knight bows his head politely, clearly addressing Elaerys. 

“My lady,” he says, lifting his lance. “I should like to take this moment to offer my congratulations on your upcoming marriage. For the sake of old days, please, grant me your favor as a friend; may your smile bring me luck in the lists.”

A hush settles over the crowd as Elaerys looks on with wide eyes, clearly baffled by this wholly unexpected request. 

Aemond’s fists clench over his armrest in a knuckle-white grip. Who is this dunce and more importantly, who does he think he is, asking for his betrothed’s favor? 

The crowd watches with eager curiosity, and Elaerys recovers mere seconds later, rising from her seat, perfectly poised and graceful, with a mild smile on her face that betrays nothing other than mere politeness. 

She inclines her head in a courteous gesture. 

“Thank you, Ser Alaric,” she says, her tone not overtly friendly, but rather with the cool, distant civility of courtly manners. “I wish you well in the lists.” 

She grants him her favor, a wreath of flowers she wears around her wrist in a discreet, delicate arrangement of blue cornflowers and maidenhair fern that match the dark, blueish color of her dress. She places it delicately over the knight’s offered lance and promptly goes back to her seat, not making a great show of it. 

Despite this, Aemond feels a muscle in his jaw tick with restrained annoyance, his blood turning icy in his veins. 

So this is the man Ser Gerold had championed for his niece, the famous Ser Alaric Grafton, Elaerys’ former, would-be suitor. The knight may not have shown undue familiarity with her, his manner may have been one of courtesy and friendship, no lingering stares or suggestive tone, but Aemond cares little, his temper already piqued by the mere attention he’d set over his fiancée.

Even as he schools his expression into cold indifference, he still bristles internally at the man’s audacity. It may not be precisely unheard of —although certainly uncommon— for a knight to ask an already promised lady for her favor, and the exchange was not nearly warm enough to merit scandal, but their previous familiarity, the history between them, the might-have-beens, all of it sits ill with Aemond, making him wonder what kind of relationship existed between them before he was even considered in the picture. 

Does Elaerys mourn the loss of that possible marriage? Would she rather it had been the confident young man, the one she had ended up promised to instead of Aemond? The one joining the lists; warmer, friendly, charming, whole. 

It matters not, he tells himself. Elaerys is to be his regardless, by law and fate, and if the Grafton knight is fool enough to test his patience, Aemond will make sure he learns not to mess with a Targaryen prince and what is his.

He says nothing as Elaerys takes her place back by his side, but his jaw remains locked tight as the young knight proves to be rather competent, advancing to the next round, much to Aemond’s mounting chagrin. 

His silence must speak volumes though, for Elaerys turns to him with a tentative quirk of her brow. 

“You’ve grown rather quiet.” 

“I’m always quiet,” he murmurs back. 

“Hmm, true, but you seem tense.” She tilts her head. “Are you displeased, my prince?”

“Why should I be?” 

“Logically, you’d have no reason to.” Elaerys nods. “I was put on the spot, I could not have rejected Ser Alaric’s request, it would’ve been appallingly rude.” 

Aemond hums, still not looking at her. “It seems your favor has granted him the luck he wished for.” 

Elaerys lets out a subtle sigh. “Maybe, if you had decided to enter the lists, I would’ve granted you my favor, had you only asked for it, ñuha dārilaros.”

“That might just persuade me to join the next time, ñuha riña.” He finally turns to her with a sardonic curl of his lips. “Perhaps if Ser Alaric is to compete as well it would make it even more of an incentive.”

She rolls her eyes. “I would not encourage a rivalry over such a petty thing.” 

Petty? He wants to scoff. Well, that remains to be seen, he supposes. 

Aemond says nothing more, though his mood remains sour as the tourney progresses. Once the less experienced participants are quickly eliminated, the crowd grows more invested as the joust turns less predictable. With the far worthier players raising the stakes, the wins become less easy and the losses turn more violent. 

He’s rather bored by the whole thing to be honest, but he notices Elaerys occasionally flinch whenever there’s a particularly gruesome encounter. She doesn’t seem to be especially squeamish, but neither does she appear to get any joy from the more brutal displays, leaning far back into her seat as though she wished to be far removed from the scene.

It is precisely during one of such moments, that something subtle shifts between them. A horse topples to the ground with a deafening neigh and the crowd draws in a collective horrified gasp as the man atop it crashes down only to be nearly crushed under the weight of his own horse a second later. Elaerys jumps in surprise, her hand flying down to grasp the arm of her seat, but she ends up clutching Aemond’s wrist instead, which is laying atop the armrest next to hers. 

They both look down simultaneously, equally startled by the unexpected contact. She removes her hand almost as abruptly as she placed it there, the touch so brief he might think he imagined it if he hadn’t seen it, but the warmth of it lingers on his skin regardless, a buzzing tingle coursing through his veins. 

Aemond doesn’t comment on it, and she turns her head back toward the field like it never even happened. But he can’t ignore it however much he tries, a part of him whispering in the back of his mind; what if he liked it, however fleeting? What if he encouraged it next time, let her know that he welcomes her touch, her hand on his skin, her fingers around his? 

Rather than remove his forearm from the armrest, he lets his hand turn, palm up, fingers slightly flexed; a deliberate, yet subtle invitation if she chooses to see it as such. He doesn’t look at her directly, his attention now back on the lists, but he catches her looking out of the corner of his eye. 

The tourney goes on, and Aemond remains silent and steady by her side. Elaerys doesn’t take the proffered hand immediately, though he wasn’t exactly expecting it either way. But when a particularly formidable knight from the Stormlands unseats his equally capable rival, hitting the other man with a sickening crunch as his lance splinters into shattered pieces that stick under the cracks of his armor, drawing a slightly alarming amount of blood, Elaerys startles involuntarily in her seat again, her hand instinctively landing over the same spot from before. However this time, her fingers brush his open palm. 

Rather than immediately removing it again, she lets her hand linger, her touch featherlight and tentative. Aemond grants her no outward reaction, remaining as equally unbothered as he’s appeared the entire morning, but beneath his cool mask of indifference he can feel something dangerous uncurl deep in his chest, not victory exactly, but something just as addictive; satisfaction mixed with heat. 

This seems deliberate on her part, a conscious choice to accept his offer, to let him be the one who steadies her when she reaches for him. Definitely a step in the right direction for his plans. 

He doesn’t hold her hand back right away, lets her wonder for a moment if he’ll respond, tests how long she’s willing to cave to his game, then slowly closes his fingers around hers. A subtle claim. He’d normally be bothered by such a public display, but right about now he has half a mind to boast it to whoever may want to challenge this arrangement; this is where her hand belongs, beneath the gentle trap of his fingers and his palm. His to claim. 

And he’s not giving it up easily. 

They don’t keep their touch lingering too long, each withdrawing after a prolonged moment that feels like ages within minutes, but it’s enough to boost Aemond’s pride. 

His small victory proves especially satisfactory when Ser Alaric comes back into the field, proudly displaying House Grafton’s colors, to the cheerful applause of the crowd which seems especially loud from the Vale’s audience. His rival ends up being none other than Gwayne Hightower, and Aemond can already feel a vindictive smirk pulling at the corners of his lips. The Grafton knight may be talented, but his uncle is far more experienced. 

As the opponents prepare on opposite sides of the field, Aemond’s gaze turns back to Elaerys, catching on her profile, cataloguing every subtle flicker of her face. But she remains mostly impassive, betraying nothing more than a fleeting spark in her eyes that he can’t quite place. And when Gwayne ends up unseating the younger knight with a loud crack of his lance, Elaerys offers no outward reaction other than a slight widening of her eyes and a brief, sharp exhale, her features quickly schooled into measured surprise, no leaning forward, no gasp beyond the first instinct. 

She makes it rather difficult to read whatever lies beneath. Is that relief? Concern? His jaw ticks when her lips press faintly together as Ser Alaric groans when he tumbles to the ground with a loud clank of his armor, too soft an expression for Aemond’s liking. Not even that much he’s willing to overlook, not when it comes to her. 

You waste your concern on a man who is nothing to you, Aemond can’t help but think with no small amount of bitterness. But he is careful to keep his cool façade as the crowd around them cheers for Gwayne’s victory, his shoulder’s stiff as he applauds along with them. 

“It seems your champion’s luck has run out, my lady,” Aemond says coolly, an undertone of derision in his frigid voice. “Perhaps you did not grant your favor with enough conviction. I hope you’re not too overly concerned for his safety.” 

Elaerys shrugs, her tone light enough to appear unbothered. “He seems like a strong knight, I’m sure he’ll manage.” 

The tourney moves on quickly after that until only two final participants remain, this outcome far too predictable for Aemond’s liking although he’s unsure of who is to walk out victorious out of the two; Ser Criston Cole or Daemon Targaryen. 

The two trot into the field with confidence, a stark contrast to each other. Cole with his pristine, gleaming armor almost intact, posture rigid, face a perfectly focused mask. Meanwhile, Daemon oozes arrogance in his black armor, thriving under the crowd’s wild cheers like a preening dragon, sharp grin feral beneath his winged helm. 

The first tilt goes by almost in a blink. They ride their horses to full gallop and meet in the middle with a great clash, both striking hard. Criston’s lance shatters against Daemon’s shield, spraying splinters. Daemon rocks precariously but remains mounted, while his lance grazes Criston’s shoulder with enough force to make the knight lean back dangerously. 

There is no clear winner this first round, so they direct their mounts to the opposite side, preparing to strike again. Aemond can see Elaerys shift nervously in her seat, leaning slightly forward, her hand going back to hold his in a slightly anxious grip, almost on impulse. He wonders if she actually cares about Daemon’s safety or if this is just the excitement of the show. 

Aemond turns his attention back to the lists as the crowd roars louder. The air is heavy with the scent of churned earth and horse sweat.

This time, as the two competing men direct their horses to a gallop, Daemon leans low, his body coiled like a serpent, and expertly drives his lance square into Criston’s chestplate.

The force is brutal. Criston topples, armor clanging, rolling in the dirt as his destrier veers off in panic with a loud squeal. 

The applause of the crowd grows deafening as Daemon reins in with effortless grace, drawing to a stop before the royal box. He lifts his helm with a rakish flourish, his silver hair tumbling free like a banner. The grin that curves his lips is a sharp, feral thing as he lifts his arm in triumph, enjoying the cheers around him. 

Aemond can’t help but roll his eye at the arrogant display, his own unenthusiastic applause almost offensively forced. He notices Elaerys’ stiff smile beside him, her posture rigid as the rest of her family loudly celebrate her father’s victory. 

Daemon swings down from his horse and strides to the royal box. Aemond is already halfway tuning out what’s happening, knowing that his uncle would predictably crown Rhaenyra Queen of Love and Beauty like an idiotic, symbolic mirror of what he surely intends to do once the King finally draws his last breath. 

But much to Aemond’s —and apparently everyone else’s— surprise he turns to the right side of the royal box instead of the center where Rhaenyra sits, and extends the wreath of crimson roses in his hand to Elaerys’ direction. 

“To my daughter, Elaerys Targaryen, in honor of her upcoming nuptials,” Daemon declares loudly and the crowd’s cheers fizzle to a low murmur. “Let this be a reminder of her worth as true Blood of the Dragon. I am sure she shall honor her house and make our family proud.” 

It’s abundantly clear Elaerys, least of all people, had not been expecting this public display of fatherly pride. She stays frozen in her seat for half a beat, her wide eyes blinking in silent bewilderment as her posture draws taut and stiff. But as Daemon strides forward, she’s quick to arrange her baffled expression into a carefully pleased mask, standing to accept the offered wreath that Daemon places atop her head with a gracious smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. 

Daemon crowns her Queen of Love and Beauty, to the wild clamor of the guests around them. And Aemond’s world narrows to the sight of his future bride being so publicly claimed by the Blacks as they loudly cheer around her, showering her with welcoming smiles and hugs as though she’s always been a part of them, as though she fits in with them like a missing link, like they had not spent her entire life ignoring her mere existence. 

Aemond feels his hands clench into fists by his side. Something sharp he can’t quite name lodging deep in his chest at the sight of her adorned in Targaryen colors, the crimson roses a stark contrast against her dark hair, her gown so dark in color it might as well be black. The Blacks have clearly staked their claim over her, a claim that should be his alone to make. 

Elaerys looks a bit overwhelmed by the sudden attention, but her pretty, charming smile remains intact on her face, even if Aemond is half sure it isn’t genuine by the way her lilac-violet eyes lack their usual spark. 

As the attention shifts and the crowd slowly disperses to make their way back to the castle, she is finally able to come back to his side, her lips curling into a somewhat sheepish grin. 

“Well, that was certainly… eventful.” 

Aemond hums noncommittally with a tilt of his head. He lets his gaze linger deliberately over the crown of flowers atop her head. 

“Tell me, Elaerys,” he leans down toward her, voice a low murmur. “Did that feel like a father’s pride? Or a warning?”

He leaves her pondering over his words, not bothering to wait for an answer. 

The Great Hall glows like molten gold, braziers burning bright, music from pipers and fiddlers drift between the chatter of the gathered guests. The scent of roasted boar and spiced wine lingers heavy in the air, it should make his mouth water but all Aemond can really focus on is his half-full wine cup. If he lets his eye stray it will inevitably land on her again, like it’s been doing since she walked into the room.

It’s becoming increasingly difficult to remain indifferent to her, if he’s being completely honest with himself. Elaerys looks especially enticing tonight, clad in a rich black velvet gown with deep crimson accents decorating her fitted bodice, her skirts flaring elegantly around her feet with the shimmer of silver thread embroidery accentuating the hem and traveling all the way up her figure in elegant twists, her neckline trimmed with fine lace, drawing his gaze toward places he shouldn’t linger on for propriety’s sake. 

She usually favors her Royce heritage in her outfits, but tonight she looks every inch the dragon princess, and something deep and primal stirs within his chest every time he looks at her. 

Aemond can’t quite understand what caused this shift in himself. Outwardly, not much has changed other than her more elegant attire. But for some reason, tonight it seems like she makes the very air shift around her, making his chest tighten like he can’t draw enough breath. Perhaps it’s the fact that her appearance embodies everything he craves; poise, grace, power cloaked in a hint of mystery.

As she sits right next to him at the high table, her close proximity sparks a flicker of something intense Aemond is not entirely ready to explore yet but that he can’t quite ignore any longer. Desire, raw and sudden and entirely unwelcome. Every time his eye flicks toward her he remembers the way her laughter had sounded in the gardens, the defiance in her eyes when sparring with him, the intellectual spark shimmering between them in the library. And the cusp of all of that wrapped in this vision? It shakes his very composure, much to his annoyance. 

Worst of all is that she doesn’t make herself easy to overlook. 

Elaerys leans slightly closer to him, her lilting voice carrying that characteristic teasing charm. “So, I don’t suppose I could persuade you to grant me a dance before the night wanes, could I?” 

Aemond tries to remain impassive, the picture of cold detachment as runs an idle finger around the rim of his goblet. “You know I do not dance.” 

“So I’ve heard.” She lets out an exaggeratedly disappointed sigh, he doesn’t miss the twinkle in her eyes as her lips curl into the hint of a smile. “Too bad, you might find it… liberating. You look like you need to unwind a bit.” 

“If I wanted to unwind, I can think of far more appealing activities that might entice my interest.” He doesn’t intend for it to sound quite so suggestive, and perhaps it’s only his clipped tone the only saving grace for the comment not to sound like innuendo. 

It still makes her choke slightly on her own wine. She covers it with a polite cough, recovering quickly. 

“Well then, I wonder, how am I to find an appropriate dancing partner?” Elaerys turns back to face forward again, the light of the torches catching on her dark curls, shimmering over the intricately braided half-updo she wears, looping into a woven crown at the back of her head. “With the way you keep scowling I doubt anyone will venture close enough to perhaps invite me for a dance.” 

Good, Aemond thinks. The idea of dancing in front of all these people is thoroughly unappealing, but the thought of another man spinning her in his arms is even more so.

He dislikes the exposure of this whole thing, the way they’re displayed on the high table like some kind of amusement show for the guests to stare at. Aemond longs for the privacy of the moments they’ve shared together before. But if he’s meant to endure this ridiculous charade, he would much rather have her stay by his side for the remainder of this torturous evening, even if the loud music and the noise of the incessant chatter make it hard to hold a meaningful conversation. 

Of course, ever since his half-sister came to the Red Keep along with her family, his expectations rarely ever go according to plan. 

Before long, Ser Gerold approaches the dais with stiff grace and bows gallantly before Elaerys. “May I have this dance, niece?” 

Elaerys doesn’t hesitate to grant it, her smile  genuine as she joins her uncle on the dance floor, skirts swishing hypnotically with her every move. 

This only marks the beginning of Aemond’s own personal torture. With Ser Gerold successfully extricating his niece from the imposing formality of the high table and now rid of Aemond’s daunting presence by her side, some of the nobles invited soon flock towards Elaerys, no longer deterred from seeking her company. He’s forced to watch from a distance as she’s spun around the room, switching from partner to partner as the night progresses. 

The first few don’t spark his displeasure. Elaerys joins each of her sisters on a lively courtly dance and then switches to an uncharacteristically joyful Helaena, who seems all too glad to be joining in the merriment of her cousins. As Aemond watches his typically withdrawn sister share in the laughter of his vivacious betrothed, an unexplainable warmth swells in him. It’s not often that he gets to witness a smile from Helaena, let alone the girlish giggles that Elaerys coaxes from her as they link arms and spin around the dance floor. 

The sight is so innocent, so seemingly idyllic, something Aemond is altogether unused to, he feels it imprint behind his eyes, stirring something in the very depths of his chest, a flutter in his heart he’s not particularly comfortable with. 

That unexpected mellowness in him is abruptly doused as Jace claims Elaerys’ hand for the next dance, soon followed by Luke. She shares with them the same easy camaraderie he’d witnessed in the training yard, making Aemond’s mood sour in an instant. 

It only goes downhill from then on. 

Elaerys’ natural charm appears to shine best upon the dance floor. She moves like a living flame, light and graceful on her feet, her laughter trailing like tinkling bells. She is radiance made flesh. She doesn’t seem to realize or care about the attention she is drawing on herself, but Aemond is not the only one who notices. 

Encouraged after she’s seen dancing with the Velaryons, it is only a matter of time before other lords are asking for a dance. Aemond hates every second of it. 

He watches, silent, unmoving, dinner untouched. How he detests these courtly fripperies, he’s not well pleased that Elaerys seems to thrive among them, not a quality that he would enjoy or encourage in a wife, he thinks, with the faintest curl of derision touching his lips

But it does not stay mere disdain. No, disdain would not make his pulse climb.

His eye follows her through every turn, noting the elegant arch of her neck, the heightened color of her cheeks, the flicker of candlelight on her lilac eyes. Each smile she gives that is not directed at him, never at him, not like this. And something deep inside him coils tighter.

Even Aegon is granted a turn about the dance floor with her, and really, that might just be what snaps him out of his composure if it weren’t for the fact that his brother is making a fool out of himself with his graceless, stumbling footsteps. It seems to amuse Elaerys enough, her lips tightening against a laugh that she keeps restrained out of propriety’s sake. Her twinkling eyes meet Aemond’s intense gaze across the Great Hall, and she shares with him a small smile with enough mockery hidden within it that Aemond instantly knows she finds Aegon’s poor performance as pathetic as he does. 

When Aegon turns, lurching on his own feet, Elaerys twists discreetly, gaze pinned on Aemond as she mouths a silent ‘help me’ clearly directed at him. 

Her widened eyes almost stir his compassion. Almost. 

Aemond returns her previous smile with a faint sneer and a quirk of his eyebrow, lifting his cup in a mocking toast. He’s not about to play the knight in shining armor. She can deal with that whole mess on her own. 

Elaerys rolls her eyes, but her grin softens with a silent laugh as she shakes her head and is promptly spun away by an embarrassingly uncoordinated Aegon. And she might be sharing her time and her smiles and her laughs with everyone else, but this little exchange, this silent communication that only the two of them understand, that is for Aemond alone to keep. He tucks it in the corner of his chest where he can bury it deep enough to almost forget it even exists. 

When Aegon stumbles back to the dais, Aemond doesn’t even bother to acknowledge his cat-like grin. 

“Well I have to admit, brother, you are one lucky man,” he hiccups, already wine-soaked despite the night being early still. “Look at her, our dear Elaerys, quite the charmer, isn’t she?” 

Aemond doesn’t glance at him, jaw tightening slightly but he keeps his mask of cool disinterest. 

“She does seem to thrive under the attention,” he murmurs with just a hint of scorn. 

“And you are oh so attentive, aren’t you?” Aegon jeers. “If you stare any harder she might just burst into flames.” 

“I fail to see how this concerns you.” Aemond finally turns, just as Aegon flops down on the empty seat beside him. 

Aegon laughs loud enough for those nearby to hear. “It doesn’t, but it should concern you.” He nods toward the dance floor. “That one seems especially interested in our lovely cousin.” 

Aemond’s gaze snaps back to her, his grip on his goblet suddenly turning white-knuckled at the sight that meets him. Alaric fucking Grafton again, claiming Elaerys’ hand with a smile that seems all courtly charm, but Aemond is no fool. He sees the way the man’s gaze lingers just a fraction too long on the curve of Elaerys’ mouth as she accepts his request with a measured curtsey, and he leads her into the throng, his posture easy, almost predatory in its confidence. 

The music swells, and Aemond feels the polished metal of his cup creak faintly under his vise-like grip as he watches their steps fall in perfect rhythm. Elaerys spins with the Grafton knight under the glow of a hundred candles, skirts swirling like molten obsidian, Alaric bends his head low, speaking close to her ear. Whatever he says draws a soft laugh from her, light, melodic, unguarded in a way she never is with Aemond. His single eye follows the way her lips curve, the warmth there, and something sharp and possessive stirs in the pit of his stomach.

The sound of Aegon’s grating chuckles catches his attention before he can manage to crush his goblet in his hand. His brother’s eyes glint with familiar viciousness. 

“She seems quite pleased laughing in Grafton’s arms.” He smirks, leaning closer as he murmurs in a conspiratorial tone, all mocking concern. “You’ll burn a hole clean through the man if you keep glaring like that, though.” 

That would be an understatement. Aemond can feel the fire warming his blood as he watches Elaerys dance with the man who so clearly insists on gaining her favor even outside the tourney, but he lets his face betray none of it, the picture of impassive coldness. He will not give Aegon the satisfaction. 

“Will you let every knight and lord in the hall take a turn with her while you brood and glower?” Aegon drawls. “At this rate, she’ll forget you’re even here. Not that I can blame her, you’re as interesting as a potted plant.” 

“Why should I stoop so low as to entertain these courtly banalities?” Aemond murmurs under his breath. 

Aegon leans back into his chair with a shrug. “Before I met your dear betrothed I almost pitied you, with the way people said she favored her mother. Now though, I think she has more of Daemon than anything else. And you know what they say…” he takes a long swig of his cup and his smirk drips with wine and mischief. “Daemon is not exactly known for his fidelity. Perhaps the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree…” 

If the music wasn’t so loud, Aegon might have heard Aemond’s teeth grinding together at this point. He glares daggers into the young knight enjoying his betrothed’s company, but the pair are oblivious to it. Instead, the little vermin takes it a step further. When the dance calls for the couples to come together after an elegant twirl, Ser Grafton’s hand brushes Elaerys’ waist, a breath lower than propriety allows. 

It is a fleeting moment, just enough to test boundaries. She doesn’t seem to notice, or perhaps she does and chooses to ignore it. But Aemond is not blind to the subtle hints. The unrelenting fire in him blazes with dangerous heat. 

Aegon leans close again, voice low and venomous now. “Perhaps she does prefer the Grafton knight. He’s quite the dancer, not to mention he matches her charm far better than you could ever hope to.” He snickers. “Can’t blame her, poor girl saddled with a killjoy like you who would sooner draw a sword than take a lady’s hand.” 

That smirk, that familiar malicious gleam in his brother’s gaze, it’s nearly enough to snap Aemond out of his senses. His eye narrows dangerously, but Aegon, as usual, is uncaring of the consequences to his taunts. 

“Come now, Aemond. You could easily show them all who she belongs to. Or will you let the man walk all over you while he steals your fiancée’s attention?”

The desire to ignore his brother wars with the fire clawing up his spine, but when Ser Grafton spins Elaerys effortlessly, drawing another laugh from her pretty lips, his cool façade finally snaps. 

He slams his cup into the table with a dull thud and stands. 

Enough. 

Aemond steps down from the high table and advances toward the dance floor, his pace measured but his focus lethal. Each step across the hall is deliberate, drawing the attention of the guests sitting closest to the dais like iron to a lodestone. The music still plays, though hushed voices ripple as the crowd slowly parts for him. And while his face is marble, smooth and cold and carved in shadows, his eye burns, fixed on his target. 

As he reaches the dancing couple, it is Elaerys who notices him first. She stills when she catches sight of Aemond, her eyes widening just slightly at his unexpected presence. Aemond pauses at the young knight’s side, enjoying the way the man’s chivalrous smile falters as he stops abruptly. 

“Ser Alaric,” Aemond interrupts smoothly, all icy courtesy. 

Alaric inclines his head in a cautious but deferent bow. “My prince.” 

“If you will excuse me,” Aemond’s gaze slides to Elaerys, steady and unreadable, then back to Alaric, his voice cool as steel. “I should like a turn with my betrothed.”

It’s phrased as a polite request. It sounds like a command.

Alaric hesitates, just long enough for the silence to stretch taut, then draws back from Elaerys’ side with courtly grace.

“Of course, my prince.” He bows and steps aside, giving way for Aemond to take his place. 

The music continues uninterrupted around them, a lively tune that calls for an energetic pace. Suddenly he somewhat regrets having interrupted precisely during this set. But under the scrutinizing eyes of the guests around them, there’s nothing more to do than conceal appearances, and Elaerys knows it. Her eyes are fixed on him as she curtsies with effortless grace before him, accepting his hand. And though her smile remains polite, her gaze is not exactly pleased — not annoyance, but slight disapproval laced with intrigue.

Aemond’s grip on her hand is firm as they resume the appropriate stance. He’s not well practiced with it, but Alicent had made all her children learn every manner of courtly dances until he’d learned the steps by heart, even if he never puts that knowledge to use. 

He can feel his own stiffness as they take their first steps, a complete contrast to Elaerys. He is not fluid like the men who courted her attention earlier. His movements are precise, almost martial, every turn and clasp carries commanding presence. Around them, the whispers hum like a hive.

When she comes closer, she murmurs under her breath, “That was rude.” 

“Hmm, was it?” 

“You could have waited until Ser Alaric finished his turn.” Elaerys twirls back, she moves like a whisper of silk and steel, soft, but unyielding. It makes Aemond’s spine stiffen. 

“You seemed quite comfortable in his company,” he drawls, an edge of contempt in his cool tone. 

“I was,” she says lightly, unbothered as his gaze hardens. “As I said before, we were old friends.” 

“Quite close I take it,” Aemond says through gritted teeth. 

“Why should that matter?” She spins away to the rhythm of the music, her flared sleeves enhancing her movements in an hypnotic flow. 

“It matters not.” 

“Then why cause such a scene?” She comes back to his side, and their arms link as they circle each other. Her eyes glimmer like starlight, calm yet challenging. “I asked you to join me before, more than once. You refused me. What made you change your mind all of a sudden?” 

“Aegon talked about your admirable talents,” Aemond diverts, all rigid lines and taut control even as the music swells. “I thought I might test them myself.” 

“So this is a test, is it?” She arches a fine brow, voice lilting with irony. “Careful Aemond, with the way you approached this you might have people believe you were spurred by jealousy.”

His mouth curves into a blade-thin smile. “Trust me, were I jealous, Ser Alaric would not be standing.”

Her breath hitches, but she masks it with a startled laugh, tilting her chin. “How… reassuring.” 

He leans in slightly, voice like velvet, a dangerous murmur at her ear. “Do not tempt me to prove it, Elaerys.” 

The music draws to an end but his gaze never leaves hers. He keeps a firm hold of her hand, possessive but controlled, a clear signal to the rest of the guests that he’s not about to relinquish his place for the next set. 

“That should be perfectly unnecessary,” Elaerys says breezily. “I told you we are merely old childhood friends, if that. We are more acquaintances than anything else.” 

The musicians strike up a new piece, a slow, stately melody with an undercurrent of sensual rhythm. This one calls for a closer approach, and Aemond is all too quick to seize the moment, pulling her in as they fall into step with the next dance. 

“Are you so naive to not realize what a man’s interest looks like?” He asks, his voice silk over edged steel. 

Elaerys frowns. “Whatever do you mean?” 

“You’re a Targaryen, a drangrider, Runestone’s rightful and only heir. Not to mention you’re a comely young lady.” As their steps draw them together he places a hand on her waist, long fingers brushing the back of her hip, holding her close enough that no one could mistake the message. “Makes you quite the coveted maiden.” 

She turns away, circling around him as the dance requires. “Are you trying to flatter me, Aemond?” 

“I am merely stating a fact.” He catches her hand in his again and she twirls in the arch beneath his arm, the candlelight kissing her features with their every turn. “Any sane man with enough ambition would want your hand in marriage.” 

Elaerys’ gaze settles over him, a hint of surprise dancing in her eyes. The subtle brush of her skirts against his legs, the warmth of her skin whenever it brushes under his palm, it’s enough to fray his composure.

“I wonder if Ser Grafton mourns the loss of such an opportunity,” Aemond says, the cold edge in his voice turning dangerously sharp. “Perhaps these are his flimsy attempts to reclaim what was never really his to begin with.”

“Even if he wants more from me than mere friendship, it matters little.” Elaerys shrugs, he can’t quite tell if her indifference is genuine. “I am already promised to someone else.” 

“Precisely.” He draws her infinitesimally closer on the next pass, testing a boundary without breaking propriety. He leans in, close enough to whisper in her ear. “And you will find Elaerys, I am not one to share.” 

“Pardon?” She draws back just enough to meet his eye, heat and defiance sparking in her own. “What exactly are you insinuating?” 

“It is no insinuation, it is a warning.” His eye burns down on her, a storm barely leashed. “I will not tolerate disloyalty of any kind, regardless of whether this marriage was brokered merely for a political alliance.” His hold on her hand tightens involuntarily. “You are to be my wife under the laws of Gods and men, and I expect you to uphold those vows.” 

“Good,” she murmurs, stepping slightly closer, eyes blazing. “As long as I can expect the same from you, my prince.” 

She draws back again, spinning out of the circle of his arms, but the tension is palpable, thrumming in the air like a drawn bow, an invisible string stretched taut between them. 

“Surely you remember that it goes both ways,” Elaerys continues when he doesn’t immediately answer. “‘I shall be yours and you shall be mine’,” she recites. “You can expect it to be equally binding, or not at all.” 

Their bodies move in perfect synchronicity, her skirts brushing his boots, his hand steady on her body whenever the choreography allows him to touch her. The heat between them coils tighter with every turn, every breath shared in the space between their faces. He doesn’t break her gaze and she holds firm, undaunted in her previous demands. If it is a challenge, neither is willing to back down. 

By the time the music stills, the final note hanging in the air like a held breath, neither move to part immediately. Aemond’s hand lingers at her waist a fraction longer than etiquette allows, he does not relinquish her hand. His thumb brushes the back of her knuckles once, barely a whisper of contact, before releasing her.

“Very well.” He bows with immaculate precision, his voice low, his eye burning as he finally answers her previous statement. “I shall hold you to that… Elaerys.” 

She dips her head, but she does not look triumphant with the covert promise she’d just extracted from him. Instead, she looks at him as though she has discovered something new. Something dangerous.

Aemond feels her gaze follow him even as he walks back to his seat at the high table. He’s unsure if he relishes her attention now fixed on him more than he does the fact that he knows he’s made his claim over her abundantly clear to the rest of the hall witnessing his retreat. 

Chapter Text

Put your lips on my skin and you might ignite it.

Hurts, but I know how to hide it, kinda like it.

Bad, bad news, one of us is gonna lose.

I'm the powder, you're the fuse, just add some friction. ~ my strange addiction 

There’s a seagull drifting above, it’s squawk  drawing her attention to the clear sky stretching over the vastness of Blackwater Bay. Elaerys suddenly envies its simple freedom to fly away wherever it pleases. 

She lets out a resigned breath. 

If she hadn’t spent such a restless night, perhaps her tired mind wouldn’t be daydreaming about becoming one with the wind. But she figures that these fantasies are far better than the ones that plagued her the night before. 

As though invoked, the flash of silver hair and an intense lilac gaze flickers in her mind for a second before she vanishes the mere thought, trying to keep her attention occupied. These thoughts are not welcome any longer. 

But little else can be done when the atmosphere is so unpleasant. The air feels damp and stifling even in the early morning, the distant stench of the city only marginally masked with the briny smell of the docks. This spot is more secluded and private, reserved for the Royal Family, but still little can be done to stave off the general unpleasantness that comes along with King’s Landing.  

Rhaenyra and her family stand a few paces away, arranging the final preparations to depart, true to schedule, now that the morning after the grand feast has finally dawned. Rhaenyra had opted to make the journey by ship along with her youngest children and Rhaena, while the rest will take their dragons back to Dragonstone, horses and Gold Cloaks already awaiting to escort them to the Dragonpit. 

The sound of nearing footsteps catches her attention, and Elaerys turns to face Jace and Luke, both approaching with grins that do nothing to mask the slight pity in their eyes. 

“Well, I guess we will see each other again soon.” Jace takes Elaerys’ offered hand and attempts a polite bow over it that she finds ridiculously formal, before he discards the idea and squeezes her outstretched hand between both of his. “Time will surely fly by, we will be back before you know it.” 

Not too soon, she hopes. He seems to forget that it is her wedding the occasion that will bring them back, and that the statement hardly sounds reassuring to her. She gives him a mildly nostalgic smile. 

“I’ll miss our morning trainings,” Elaerys says. “It was a constant boost to my confidence. Who will I beat so easily at archery now?” 

Jace laughs, and Luke comes forward to shake her hand in farewell as well, before he caves and gives her a brief hug. 

“You can always write if you feel lonely,” Luke says, his concern sincere. “And we are only a short flight away if you need anything, right Jace?” 

His innocent, boyish hopefulness stings a little. Jace nods, but it is clear to Elaerys that he knows as well as she does that there’s very little anyone can do for her now. 

“Keep your guard up, Ella,” Jace says as his last parting words, while Luke gives her one last sympathetic smile before they both turn to leave. 

They are quickly replaced by Rhaenyra, trailed by the pair of nursemaids that watch over Joffrey, little Aegon and a squirming Viserys. The princess places a gentle hand over Elaerys’ shoulder, guiding her a few paces away. 

“I wanted to take a moment to thank you, Ella,” Rhaenyra says. “I know this is not exactly an easy burden to bear, but you have taken this whole situation with admirable grace and maturity.” She takes her hand, her purple eyes shining with apparent sincerity. “I realize perhaps I haven’t expressed it as I should, but I do not take it lightly. Your service to the Realm is truly invaluable and for that you have my eternal gratitude.” 

Elaerys’ brows lift in slight surprise. She hadn’t expected much from her stepmother after all this time, and she’s unsure how to take her words. 

“No need to thank me.” She gives Rhaenyra a strained smile. “I was not given much of a choice, after all, so it is really more an obligation than a service.” 

Rhaenyra’s pale eyebrows draw together. “I understand it can be rather… frustrating. The Gods know I did not take it as gracefully as you have when it was required of me.” Her smile turns a bit bittersweet. “The Realm often asks too much of us ladies, and I often find that we are given very little in return. But when I am Queen, I intend to change things for the better.” 

Rhaenyra takes both of her hands in hers, squeezing in reassurance. “With your help, Ella, we can pave the path for a better future.” 

How easy it is to merely say it, Elaerys thinks with no small amount of bitterness. How whimsical to expect it will be so uncomplicated. What good is it to think about that if she will end up sacrificed for the greater good for a future that might not even come to pass? Elaerys has no doubt in her mind that Rhaenyra truly believes this will be the ultimate solution. She halfway wishes she could be right. 

Oblivious to her despondent thoughts, the princess envelops her in a tight hug that could almost feel maternal if Elaerys wasn’t inclined to take it with skepticism, but the warm touch of a motherly embrace makes her heart ache with the emptiness of a gap that has never really been filled by anyone. For the first time in ages, Elaerys wonders what it would feel like to have her own mother in her life. Someone that would fight to protect her as fiercely as Rhaenyra does for her own children. 

In lack of that reference, she allows herself a moment to sink into Rhaenyra’s warm touch, only a second where she lets herself believe that her stepmother truly cares, then she withdraws herself from the circle of her arms with a tight smile. 

“It will get better in time, I promise,” Rhaenyra reassures. “I hope that this is an opportunity for you to get better acquainted with the place that will become your home for a while.” 

Elaerys bites her tongue and gives her an unenthusiastic nod. Rhaenyra squeezes her arm one last time in farewell before she steps back toward her awaiting children. 

“Say goodbye to your sister,” she instructs as she takes little Aegon’s hand in hers, guiding the young boy toward the quay. 

“Goodbye Ella!” Joffrey calls, following Rhaenyra, while Aegon waves his tiny hand in farewell, no longer hiding behind his mother’s skirts now that he’s spent more time in his older sister’s presence. 

Elaerys smiles and waves back, feeling a strange sort of heaviness settle in her chest. 

“I did try to convince Rhaenyra and Father to let you come with us,” Rhaena says softly behind her. 

Elaerys turns to face her. “I can imagine how that went.” 

“Rhaenyra insists that this is for the best,” Rhaena sighs, eyes downcast. “I’m sorry I couldn’t do more for you.” 

“There’s little you could have done, hāedar.” Elaerys takes her sister’s hand in hers. “Do not feel sorry for me.” 

“Just… promise that you will write,” Rhaena says, her eyes pleading. “I know it will not be too long before we come back, and that you are used to dealing with it on your own, but if it ever does become too much, send word. I’ll come for you. I swear it.” 

Elaerys gives her a watery smile before she embraces her sister, hiding her teary eyes behind Rhaena’s voluminous silver locks. She doesn’t have the heart to tell her sister it would only be for naught, there’s nothing Rhaena can do even if Elaerys ever did ask for her help. What could anyone do, really? Spirit her away before she gets dragged to the altar? Her sister’s concern at least is genuine, and she tightens her arms around her, relishing in these final precious moments of comfort. 

“Thank you,” she whispers before she lets her go. “Do not fret, Rhaena, I shall be fine.” 

“I will miss you,” Rhaena says, her own eyes spilling with a few tears that Elaerys is quick to wipe. 

“It will only be a few weeks.” She pats Rhaena’s hair gently, trying to shake the apprehension in her chest that tells her this might be one of the last moments she ever gets to share with her sister. “I promise I’ll write as often as I can.” 

Rhaena kisses her cheek in goodbye and steps away, following behind Rhaenyra and the little ones down the pier. Elaerys draws a shaky breath, trying to compose herself. It will not do, to be overly sentimental now. She will see her sister again soon enough, even if her heart aches with the weight of the sudden loss of her comforting presence after becoming used to her company. 

The sun’s reflection sparkles over the murky surface of Blackwater Bay, she focuses her attention on the gentle sound of the waves lapping at the harbor, the water splashing over the stony shore, and for a moment Elaerys has the ridiculous wish to be swept away by the sea and follow the currents already taking the little rowboat that carries Rhaena and her brothers to the larger ship waiting for them in the distance, she wishes the tides to drift her away, up north, until they carry her safely back home.

“You could always take Nyssarion and leave,” Baela’s voice snaps her back to reality, as though reading her thoughts.

Elaerys whirls around to face her sister. Baela’s wild curls sway gently with the morning breeze, her smirk slightly tinted with regret. 

“And then what?” Elaerys asks. “Spend the rest of my life on the run? Give up my birthright to Runestone? You know I could never come back if I did, Father would never tolerate such defiance.” 

“I mean if you put it into perspective…” Baela tilts her head with a grimace. “Would that really be a less appealing fate?” 

Elaerys lets out an unamused laugh, but she knows Baela is not being facetious. She has no doubt her sister would rather exile herself from Westeros than be forced to marry against her will. 

“Do you still have the dagger I gave you?” Baela asks. 

Elaerys pats the side of her thigh where she keeps it concealed beneath her skirts. “Rarely ever go without it.” 

“Good.” Baela nods, her face turning deadly serious. “Consider keeping it under your pillow at night.” 

“Do you expect someone to attack me in my sleep?” Elaerys’ lips quirk in a teasing smirk. 

But Baela doesn’t share her amusement. “I wouldn’t put it past them.” 

Elaerys’ amused smile fades. She feels a chill run down her spine. 

“I know you can take care of yourself but be careful, Ella,” Baela warns. She hesitates for a second, mulling over her words. “This game you’re playing is a dangerous thing.” 

“What game?” Elaerys frowns. 

“I’ve seen the way you look at him,” Baela says, letting out a huff when Elaerys tilts her head in confusion. “Aemond. You think I don’t notice what you’re doing?” 

Elaerys opens her mouth in protest, but before she can even utter a word Baela continues. 

“You do not know him. You do not know what he’s capable of.” Baela shakes her head, her gaze somber, insistent. “He’s not a good man. You cannot trust him, mandia.”

Elaerys has the absurd urge to argue. How much can Baela claim to know Aemond better than Elaerys? As far as she knows, the two had only ever interacted on that terrible night at Driftmark. Granted it wasn’t the best of impressions, and how could she expect her sister could form a good opinion on the man that had once mocked her twin? But Elaerys is not a naive child in need of coddling. 

After a long pause that she uses to remind herself that Baela’s warnings only come out of genuine concern for her, Elaerys gives her sister a mirthless smile. 

“I know it may not seem like it, but I know what I’m doing, sister.” She lets her hand run against Baela’s arm in a soothing gesture. “I will be fine, I promise.” 

Baela looks a bit reluctant, before she finally nods with a resigned sigh. She embraces Elaerys in a fierce hug that seems to convey all the heartfelt things Baela would never utter out loud, and finally lets go. 

“Take care, Ella.” Baela squeezes her hand one last time and turns to leave, leaving Elaerys with another sinking feeling in her chest. 

Finally, Daemon approaches, much to her surprise. She half expected he would leave without so much as a goodbye. 

“I suppose I do not need to remind you of your duty while we are gone,” her father says once he stops next to her, all pragmatic bluntness. 

Elaerys scoffs. Of course this would be his main concern. 

“Rest assured, Father, I could hardly forget my so generously bestowed duties.” 

“I see that you have already made some considerable progress,” Daemon comments almost casually. 

“What do you mean?” Elaerys frowns. 

“Last night seemed to be proof of your mounting success.” Daemon’s lips lift up with the hint of a satisfied smirk. “Should I congratulate you on your efficiency?” 

Elaerys’ shoulders stiffen, her lips pressing together into a thin line. “That will not be necessary, I am in no need of your approval.” 

“Then I shall not waste my time with niceties.” Daemon shrugs and goes directly to the point. “What have you managed to learn in this time?” 

“Aemond is not an easy man to decipher,” Elaerys deflects, turning her head back to face the bay. “And he is not easily charmed either.” 

Daemon tsks. “Not charmed perhaps, but one can easily see he is interested enough.” 

She feels her cheeks heat up in an embarrassed flush. “His interest does not equal trust, and I wouldn’t see it as interest more than him merely being… territorial.” 

“Those things are one and the same, he wouldn’t care otherwise. Be that as it may, you’ve certainly managed to capture his attention,” Daemon says with mild approval. “You’ve done well enough.” 

Elaerys chances a glance at him, somewhat surprised. Coming from her father, this might as well be praise. But his approval feels like being appraised as a piece on a cyvasse board; useful, not cherished.

Daemon nods, his eyes fixed on the horizon. “Keep him wanting. The thrill of the chase makes men careless, blind. And blind men are easy to lead.” 

Elaerys huffs. “I doubt he could ever be so easily manipulable.” She crosses her arms over her chest, feeling the odd need to shield herself. “Besides, the Hightowers are no idiots. You might be severely underestimating them.” 

Every day Elaerys has to wonder when one of them might catch on to her hidden intentions, every day feels like a dangerous game, one wrong move and she might be facing her doom. 

Daemon turns to face her again, his violet gaze turning serious. “Which is why you cannot lower your guard. You are a smart girl, you need to think ahead.”

She scowls. “It’s not like I’m strategizing for war.” 

“You might as well be, Elaerys,” he warns, all signs of his usual sardonic humor gone. 

“How thoughtful then, to leave me to it on my own.” 

She swallows heavily, feeling her throat tighten in apprehension. She doesn’t mean to show any vulnerability in front of her father, but Daemon must notice a flicker of something in her gaze, and he lifts his chin in silent assessment. 

“You shall not be left unprotected even while we are gone.” He lowers his voice, a murmur that drifts with the damp sea breeze. “Most of the Gold Cloaks are still loyal to me. Should you encounter any trouble, they’ll be sure to aid you and inform me about it. Although I doubt you will need it.” 

His gaze darkens, a strange blend of menace with something almost protective. “The Hightowers may be snakes but you are right, they’re not stupid. They know the consequences that would ensue if they dared harm a single hair on your head while you remain in the Red Keep, and what to expect from me should that happen.” 

Elaerys lifts a skeptical eyebrow, not feeling particularly comforted. She can’t tell if he’s protecting her or protecting his claim through her.

“What a generous sentiment, Father.” She gives him an insincere, sweet smile. “I did not know you cared.” 

“You are my daughter. My blood.” He frowns. “Why would I not care?” 

“Being your daughter has never mattered much,” Elaerys says, face dropping into a stormy mien. “If you really cared you wouldn’t leave me with your political enemies to fend for myself.“ 

“You will learn in time, daughter, that sometimes some sacrifices must be made to remain on top,” Daemon replies, somewhat less nonchalant than usual. “The sooner you learn how to play by the rules our precarious situation demands, the better.” 

Elaerys looks at him with fire burning in her eyes. “And I am just collateral, the spare you would willingly sacrifice to get what you want.” 

“If I didn’t believe you capable of managing this and come out unharmed I would not have put my trust in you,” Daemon says firmly, clearly losing his patience. “You are my daughter before you are anyone’s bride.” 

“I suppose I should feel honored,” Elaerys bites out. “Should I take it as praise? Be grateful that you finally noticed me?” 

Daemon huffs, rolling his eyes like she’s being a difficult child. “Elaerys—“ 

“Save it, Father,” she interrupts. His words and his reluctant approval only serve to disturb her further, and she’s already so exhausted of this. She no longer has the energy to be anything but mildly detached. “You may have my obedience while it lasts you, but once I’m married, thanks to you, I will essentially become someone else’s property; a man you saw fit to give me away to.” 

Elaerys has little doubt that Aemond sees her as such, not after last night. Once she’s married, tradition dictates that her obedience will be owed to her husband, not her father, however much she may dislike it. She almost relishes reminding her father of such a fact. 

Daemon lets out a short caustic laugh. “I would have never taken you for a submissive wife.” He lifts a pale eyebrow. “Will you so easily give your allegiance to that One-Eyed cur, is that it?” 

“My loyalty should be earned, not taken for granted,” Elaerys says carefully, aware that she’s treading on thin ice but somehow still defiant regardless of the consequences. 

“You should be careful who you see as worthy of it, then,” Daemon says, already halfway turning away. “If you’re inclined to take any advice, I would warn you to hold his trust, Elaerys, and guard your own. A man like Aemond will never see beyond his own resentment and ambition.” 

Sounds familiar, she thinks with sour amusement. 

Daemon says nothing more before he steps away, leaving Elaerys standing on the stone pier, watching as the little rowboat where her siblings and Rhaenyra sail finally reaches the royal ship that will carry them back to Dragonstone. Back to safe ground whilst they leave her stranded on enemy territory, unable to get back to her own home. 

She stays there for a long while, the salty breeze blowing on her hair, her gaze fixed on the royal vessel slowly fading into the mist, soon joined and then passed by 5 dragons coursing the sky, disappearing on the clouds far above the horizon, while Elaerys remains rooted to the Red Keep, tied unwillingly to the Targaryens left in King’s Landing. 

Standing between sea and sky, she feels the weight of belonging nowhere.

She would’ve thought she was prepared for what was to come, but much to her dismay, the morning’s farewells had left Elaerys feeling more confused than ever before. She has no desire to return to the oppressiveness of the Red Keep, nor to endure Alicent’s scrutinizing stares or the court’s curious eyes. 

Instead, she takes refuge in the only activity that will grant her some semblance of solitude. Over the next two days, Elaerys spends most of her time flying with Nyssarion, letting the sky and clouds take her mind away from her troubled thoughts. The sudden loss of her sisters, however recent, feels like a new wound in her heart. The unexpected approval from her father, brief and cold as it was, had left her feeling flayed raw, the sting of his former indifference made sharper by his unfamiliar appraisal. 

And all the while, Aemond’s sudden newfound interest in her lingers in the back of her mind, plaguing her musings, leaving her restless and jittery. 

Thus, her days are spent mostly avoiding any interaction that is not strictly necessary. She forgoes the meals usually shared with the rest of the royal family, choosing to break her fast and dine in the solitude of her chambers only accompanied by Mila, her lady’s maid. She feels grateful for the young woman’s company, the handmaiden becoming her only window to the comings and goings of court, and the rumors that the new guests staying at the Red Keep carry with them. 

The castle grounds feel suddenly overcrowded with the added highborns staying there until the wedding. Elaerys is keen to avoid any public gatherings. She tells herself it is not in an effort to evade an encounter with Ser Alaric, whose company she’s not particularly eager to entertain after Aemond’s reaction to her dancing with the knight. 

She’s not entirely sure his jealousy is unfounded. While she’s never felt drawn to Alaric, and she can’t say she ever gave him any reason to pursue her, she cannot help but linger on Aemond’s bitter words, on the insinuation that the young knight might want more from her than her amicable companionship. Elaerys has always welcomed his friendship, but his affections —if indeed there are any— are not something she neither desires nor wants to encourage. 

And so she adopts a rather secluded routine. Ser Gerold makes the occasional visit to his niece’s quarters, but he’s mostly occupied overseeing the final preparations for the wedding and all the political implications it will carry, so their interactions are kept brief. 

After her morning schedule, Elaerys escapes to the Dragonpit, taking Nyssarion with her on a race across the skies above King’s Landing. 

The sharp wind stings against her cheeks, making her eyes water, but she still urges Nyssarion faster, pushing against the clouds like she was meaning to flee and never come back, but the burden of her duty weighs her down like an anchor tethering her to the ground, reminding her that no matter how far she flies, she will inevitably have to turn back, her destiny tied to the man haunting her thoughts. 

Only once the sun starts dipping behind the horizon, she reluctantly makes her way back to the Red Keep. She sneaks into the castle, careful to avoid the main halls, not keen on encountering anyone on her way back to her chambers. 

Elaerys is fully aware that she has been avoiding her usual spots. She wouldn’t be caught in the training yard even before sunrise, and the library has become a place out of bounds. This goes, indeed, against her former plans. She had intended to pursue Aemond’s genuine regard, but somehow, having his attention so fiercely bestowed upon her quite unexpectedly had felt like coming too close to a blazing flame, his intensity scorching. She doesn’t know what to do with it, if she’s being honest, so she would rather not deal with his presence for a while until her mind is less crowded with conflictive feelings. 

Once she returns to her chambers, she treats herself to a quick bath, washing away the smell of dragon and smoke from her skin and letting the warm water empty her mind from its lingering worries. 

Mila helps her with her night routine, as usual. Her maid’s calming presence is a soothing balm to Elaerys’ troubled mind. She comes to cherish these quiet moments with the young woman who’s become more a friend than a mere servant in the past weeks since she met her. 

Mila runs her fingers through her dark curls, rubbing scented oils into her hair with careful precision while she recounts any eventful news she gathered from the court. 

“They’re mostly still busy with talk about the grand feast,” the young handmaiden comments. “Many have been rather curious about your sudden absence, my lady.” 

“I bet,” Elaerys says, trailing her finger over the ornate comb resting on her vanity. “I hope there haven’t been any unflattering speculations about my momentary disappearance.” 

“Some say perhaps you’re overwhelmed with courtly life, and some others… well, you know how the court likes to gossip, and in the absence of truth they will make their own,” Mila says, ever polite. 

Elaerys lifts a curious brow, gently prodding her handmaiden to disclose such rumors, which she does with hesitation. As expected, the fact that she had been asked for her favor during the tourney by a man other than her betrothed left much to talk about, that coupled with Aemond’s marked attentions while she had been dancing with said man called for further speculation. 

“Word says you’ve fled from Ser Grafton’s boldness,” Mila says as she combs Elaerys’ dark hair. “Others think that you’re running a much more cunning scheme, stoking Prince Aemond’s interest by keeping him at a distance.” She hesitates for a moment before continuing. “And some, much more forward, dare murmur that you might be hiding out of affliction.” 

“Affliction?” Elaerys brow furrows in confusion. 

“Some ladies of the Vale whisper about a possible understanding between you and Lord Grafton’s younger son,” Mila explains. “They say you were often seen together in amicable company in feasts and other formal events. That perhaps there was an attachment formed before you were forced to leave the Vale.” 

Elaerys rolls her eyes with a huff. “They do have an overactive imagination.” 

“Well, he did seem a bit taken with you during the feast,” Mila comments with a twinkle in her eyes. “Not that I can blame him, you did look stunning that night, my lady, if I may compliment you. And he is a handsome man. It wouldn’t be too far-fetched to believe that perhaps… he was more to you once…” 

Elaerys lets the silence linger for a moment, a bit overwhelmed by further suggestions about Alaric’s possible feelings toward her. 

“Nothing more than a friend,” Elaerys clears up. “Sure, my uncle did push for a union between us and as far as potential suitors go, he was a promising option, loyal, steady, unthreatening.” He might have made a good husband had life turned out differently. She lets out a tired sigh. “But no vow was ever spoken, nor could there be. Whatever the court sees now, they invent for their own amusement.” 

“I am glad to hear,” Mila says with a hint of relief. “I cannot imagine how horrible it must be, being forced to marry someone while loving another.” 

“Must be a dreadful fate,” Elaerys agrees with a shrug. “Fortunately not one I am forced to live.” 

Mila nods with the hint of an amused smile. “I suppose I should have noticed.” 

Elaerys’ lips quirk up. “Why?” 

“Well,” Mila gives her a conspiratorial look through the reflection of the looking glass. “You do not ask after Ser Alaric half as much as you do after Prince Aemond.”

“Aemond?” Elaerys sputters for a second, then tries to cover it with a startled laugh. “Well I suppose it is only natural that I should want to know more about my future husband.” 

Mila nods complacently, running the comb through the stubborn tips of Elaerys’ hair. 

“Yet you do not bristle nearly as much when the court whispers about you and the Prince,” she ventures gently. 

“They can talk whatever they want about me and Aemond, it makes little difference when the outcome is bound to be the same,” Elaerys huffs. 

“So there is no truth behind those speculations either, I take it,” Mila prods carefully. 

“It is… complicated.” Elaerys bites her lip, contemplating her answer. Truthfully, she’s not yet sure what to make of her betrothed. At times she swears she feels the edge of his disdain, sharp as his blade. And then… sometimes he looks at her as though she was the only one in the room. “His sudden attention is confusing… unsettling.” 

Mila gives her a sympathetic look, her voice warm and gentle. “Unsettling, yes. But not unwelcome?”

Yes. No…? Maybe. Elaerys lets out a loud breath, running her hands through her loosened curls. “Does it matter? I am bound to be his regardless.” 

“You could perhaps discourage his interest. 

Mila tilts her head. “Some ladies prefer for their husbands to look for affection elsewhere.” She shrugs. “And Prince Aemond seems like a generally indifferent man, I am sure it wouldn’t be too difficult to dissuade his advances.” 

“Now, I do not think that would make for a happy marriage,” Elaerys says, trying to sound lighter than she feels. 

“Well if discouraging his attention is not your wish, I’d say you’re doing a wonderful job, my lady.” Mila finishes her task and sets the brush over the vanity, sending her a smile. “I for one can say that I have never seen Prince Aemond entertain a lady like he did with you during the feast.” 

That does leave Elaerys in silent contemplation while Mila finishes helping her into her nightgown and arranging her bed for the night. Once she is finished she curtsies politely, preparing to leave. 

“Thank you, Mila, you have been of great help so far,” Elaerys says, her gratitude genuine. “Do keep me informed about the rumors at court. Especially what is discussed about me.” 

So far, Elaerys doesn’t like the picture they paint of her, nor is it a particularly clear one. In fact her public image in the Red Keep seems to be made up of contradictions. To the opinion of the court, she is at once too enigmatic or too forward, too clever or too naive, a lovelorn maiden or a conniving seductress. 

“I seem to be four women in one to them,” Elaerys says dryly. 

“Whichever mask they fit to you, my lady, none have seen the true face beneath.” Mila sends her a small smile. “And perhaps that is to your advantage. You can be whoever fits best depending on the person you are talking to. The Red Keep is made up of appearances rather than truths after all.” 

She leaves Elaerys pondering over it. The chamber falls into silence, broken only by the crackle of melting candle wax and the weight of unspoken truths lingering in the air.  

Elaerys turns again beneath the uncomfortably warm covers of her bed, the sheets tangling in her legs. She lies on her back, facing the ornate canopy above, and lets out a loud sigh. It’s past the hour of the eel now and once again she cannot sleep. 

With the morning light and the day’s activities, she is able to keep her mind distracted. But when night comes the story is different.  

Every time she closes her eyes the same vision plagues her mind. His intense lilac eye, the ghost of his scorching touch lingering on her skin. Aemond is an unwelcome intruder in her thoughts she cannot banish no matter how much she tries. It shouldn’t matter so, this is precisely the direction she wanted to take him, so why does it rattle her? 

She hadn’t been expecting his zealous response, that is, nor had she planned for it. Alaric was an added factor that she had never contemplated, but he had certainly unlocked a side of Aemond that she had not anticipated. The hidden meaning of his actions wasn’t lost on her, he’d been as possessive as a dragon defending his lair, the way he’d held her, guiding her through their dance, it hadn’t been just formality, it was claiming.

She’d been prepared to expect distance, calculation, a careful game of politics in her betrothal, but not heat. Not that.

Her family’s numerous warnings drift in her thoughts; Uncle Gerold’s insistent advice, her father’s cautious words and the task he insists she carry. But above all, Baela’s anxious voice echoes in the back of her mind. 

This game you’re playing is a dangerous thing. 

Elaerys has the unsettling sensation of playing with dragonflame. She’s suddenly unsure if toying with Aemond is a risk that should be worth it. But the alternative is not an option. She can’t remain passive in this. 

She finally gives up on trying to sleep and sits up. Perhaps a bit of late night reading would help her soothe her mind. 

Elaerys purses her lips in disappointment as her eyes find the book by her nightstand. She’d finished that one last night, and had forgotten to ask Mila to fetch her a new one. There is one in particular she’d been meaning to get her hands on, but ever since she’s been avoiding the library, she hasn’t had a chance to take it. 

She bites her lip in contemplation. The hour is late, the rest of the family should be asleep by now, long since retired to their own chambers. The chances of encountering anyone through the corridors of Maegor’s Holdfast are slim to none. A little late night stroll shouldn’t hurt. 

With that thought in mind, Elaerys slips out of bed, puts on a large velvet dressing gown over the thin material of her silk nightdress and ventures out of her rooms. 

Outside, the Red Keep is eerily quiet in the depth of night, the deserted hallways dimly lit by the scarce torches lining the corridors, long shadows stretching across the stone walls, giving the space a rather ominous look. But she isn’t deterred. She relishes the silence as she ventures further down Maegor’s Holdfast aimlessly, with not one particular destination in mind. The half-moon provides limited extra light, but she contemplates its faint glow through the narrow windows, wondering if it would be too much of a risk to sneak into the gardens to enjoy a bit of fresh night air. 

But Elaerys isn’t keen on having to sneak past guards to do so, and she ultimately refrains from taking the stairs that would lead her outside. Instead, her aimless path eventually takes her to the one place her mind had been silently contemplating. 

She stands outside the great oak doors leading to the library and pauses for a moment. She could come back tomorrow or ask Mila for the book, but that would mean returning to her rooms without an added distraction to keep her mind at ease. Ultimately, she’s more likely to find the place empty at this hour. 

She slips inside quietly, careful to let the heavy doors shut behind her with a muted thud. The library is bathed in golden candle light, a low fire crackling faintly in the hearth at the center of the spacious room, shelves looming like silent sentinels in the dark. Elaerys can admit she’d missed this place, the familiar scent of ink and leather-bound parchment enveloping her in a comforting embrace. 

She steps further inside. A quick search would suffice, she need only grab the book she’s looking for and be on her way. 

She weaves through the long aisles of the library, her footsteps light and muted against the polished wooden floors. But as she approaches the section she seeks she startles, noticing the lingering shadow tucked away in the little nook by the window, barely illuminated by a hint of moonlight and the faint glow of the candles. 

Her breath escapes in a choked gasp. 

“Gods be good!” 

Aemond, of all people. What in the world is he doing here at this ungodly hour?!

He sits in a plush settee, posture composed, one long leg stretched out, a book resting on his lap. For a moment Elaerys has the wild sense that he’s followed her here. But when he looks up abruptly from the book he’d been reading, a flicker of surprise crosses his otherwise nonchalant features. 

“Elaerys,” his voice carries across the empty hall like an echoing whisper, slightly rougher than usual. “Is it not a bit late to be wandering across the Keep?” 

“Yes, I was counting on it.” She tries to slow down the wild beat of her heart, shaken enough to forget her usual lighthearted approach. “Somehow every time I’m looking for some solitude I seem to run into you.” 

“Not all the time, I’d say.” Aemond tilts his head. She feels the weight of his gaze inspecting her, lingering on her loosened hair. “You’ve been successfully avoiding me so far.” 

“Avoidance implies intent,” she brushes off with a shrug. “Perhaps I’ve simply been… otherwise occupied.”

The hint of a cynical smirk graces his lips as he rises slowly from his seat, his book now closed and loosely held in his hand as he comes closer. “And what, pray tell, has had you so occupied?” 

Elaerys fights the sudden urge to back away. There’s something that feels slightly predatory in his approach, and yet a subtle hesitance marks his pace, as if he’s testing an invisible boundary he’s not yet sure to cross. She feels like an easily startled animal he’s trying not to spook.

“What has been so important that had you disappear for two days?” Aemond prompts, drawing her attention back to his previous question. 

She swallows, standing her ground. “My peace of mind. Lately I find the Red Keep a bit crowded.” She lets her eyes wander to the shelf by her side, pretending to browse for a book. “Surely you of all people understand the necessity for peace and quiet every once in a while.” 

Her shoulders stiffen as he comes nearer, now standing close enough that she can catch a better sight of him. There’s something almost wild in his appearance tonight. His usually neatly styled hair looks windswept, a few loose wispy strands framing his temples. He wears his riding leathers, which tells Elaerys he must have been out flying on Vhagar not too long ago. 

What drives him to fly at this hour? She can’t help but wonder. Is he as restless as she is?

The warm candlelight flickers on his eye, his pupil blown-out in the low light, it traces down her face and catches on her figure, and suddenly Elaerys remembers she’s clad in little more than her nightgown, only a loose robe protecting her modesty. She feels her cheeks warm, a shiver running down her spine as his gaze lingers on the lace covering her chest. 

“You’re cold,” Aemond murmurs, a rough whisper in the close space between them. He runs the tip of his finger lightly over the loose knot keeping her dressing gown closed. She feels a flutter under her ribs. 

“I’m fine.” She tries to mask her breathlessness, clearing her throat, the odd spell between them suddenly broken as she moves to turn. “I should- I should go.” 

“You need not flee on my account.” Aemond draws back, his posture back to its usual stiffness as he straightens. “I shall not interrupt your much valued solitude.” 

He moves to walk around her, as if meaning to leave, and she suddenly feels bad for being the intruder in this space that clearly is his own little sanctuary. 

“I wasn’t fleeing,” Elaerys says, making no move to clear his way. “And there’s no need for you to leave, Aemond. I was not intending to stay. I’ll just take the book I came looking for and be on my way.”

But she pauses as her eyes suddenly catch a glimpse of the book still in his hand, the letters of the title etched on its leather-bound spine gleaming gold in the candlelight.  

“Wait, is that…?” Elaerys trails off as she reads the title; The Ninefold Songs of Valyria. She quirks an eyebrow, caught between curious and indignant. “That’s the book I told you about before! The one you dismissed as merely ‘dull, fanciful poetry’.” 

Aemond tilts his head at the mocking tone she uses to imitate the low sound of his voice as she quotes him, though Elaerys doesn’t quite care if he found that offensive. Of all the books he could have taken, did it really have to be the very one she was looking for? 

“Perhaps I wanted to see if all the fuss was really worth it,” Aemond says, unperturbed by her accusing look. 

“And?” She crosses her arms over her chest. “Did you find it worthy of your attention?” 

“I could not say, I was barely starting.” He shrugs, extending the book to her. “Here, take it if you wish.” 

Elaerys sighs, her shoulders dropping in silent resignation. “No, thank you. You got to it first, I would not deprive you of your chosen book.” The corner of her lip quirks up. “Even if you can’t fully appreciate its contents.” 

She doesn’t think she imagines the ghost of a smile flashing for a second on his face. 

“Well then, I see no reason why we could not enjoy it together.” Aemond gestures to the little nook by the window he’d vacated moments ago. “Then you can illustrate to me what exactly it is that I am missing of its supposed greatness.” 

“What, now?” Elaerys lets out a little breathless laugh, hoping it masked her jittery nerves. “I think not. That would hardly be appropriate. I’m not dressed fit for company.” 

“What difference does it make? We will be married in just a few weeks.” Aemond says, his tone low and deliberate. “Soon enough, you’ll have no need for such modesty with me.”

Elaerys feels her heart climb all the way up to her throat. She blinks, a bit overwhelmed by his forwardness, unsure on how to proceed. 

She could artfully ignore it, let the moment pass and deflect with a coy smile and a timid statement and retire back to her chambers. A perfectly acceptable and expected response from a proper lady. But she needs to be careful with the way she handles Aemond’s advances. If she withdraws now after having avoided him these past days, will she only provoke his indifference? 

Or she could play into it, stoke the embers of his interest and try to learn more from him in this secret moment that seems to be tucked away from space and time. She can hardly make him fall for her if she spends her time avoiding him, after all. 

Before she can answer, Aemond presses the book into her hands. He seems to interpret her brief hesitation for rejection, and he starts to pull away without another word. She feels the window of this unique chance rapidly closing on her face. 

“I suppose no harm could come from it when it’s just the two of us here,” Elaerys blurts out at the last second. 

Aemond pauses, his gaze fixed on her, as if gauging her intentions. Elaerys is not sure if she’s being paranoid, she has a feeling the intensity of his stare is more due to suspicion than anything to do with a budding admiration he might have for her. 

Regardless, after a moment he gestures again to the corner by the window. “After you, my lady.”  

She tells herself this is nothing more than strategy when she nods and follows his direction. The settee where he’d been lounging is just wide enough to fit the two of them, but not enough to allow for much space between them. He is close enough she can feel the heat of him when he sits next to her, to catch the scent of smoke still clinging to his riding leathers almost masking the hint of what lies beneath; a spicy blend of sea salt air and something woodsy. 

Strategy does little to explain the thrum beneath her skin, but being wary about his intentions does the trick in her mind. Must be her own suspicious caution that makes her skin break out in goosebumps. 

Elaerys places the open book on her lap, laying it closer to his side so he can see it clearly, and begins to read out loud in lilting High Valyrian. It’s an ancient collection of hymns and epic verse, one she’d been deeply interested in for its blend of prophecy, history, and lore of the Valyrian Freehold. There’s no evidence left to prove any of its anecdotes are anything but myth, fiction made up long after the Valyrians’ downfall, but she finds it fascinating nonetheless. And while Elaerys is more drawn to its poetic laments, Aemond seems to have a keener interest in its martial odes. 

They take turns reading aloud through different passages, their tones marked by widely differing styles; while Elaerys keeps a lyrical cadence to her voice, Aemond’s is all clipped precision. 

She lets her eyes wander while he reads, her attention now hyper focused on their close proximity. The dim moonlight coming from the window illuminates his profile, catching on his silver hair and his pale lashes that up close seem longer than she’d realized. The shadows in the muted light make the sharpness of his features seem more pronounced, his jaw and high cheekbones appearing almost chiseled into marble. 

She notices the way his mouth curls around the words he speaks with precision, the rough burn of it when his voice is little more than a low murmur. He has all the emotion of a rather bored guard on duty, which makes her lips quirk into an amused smirk. 

Aemond seems to notice her focus on him and his lilac eye is suddenly fixed on her, eyebrow raised in question. 

“What?” 

“Nothing.” Elaerys lets out a soft laugh. “You just read like you’re a general giving out commands.” 

“And you read like you’re almost trying to sing the words,” Aemond returns archly. “Words were meant for meaning, not melody.”

“This is poetry, Aemond,” Elaerys says dryly, amused by the way he frowns in slight affront. “This kind of lyricism is meant to be read with a certain cadence and inflection, otherwise it sounds dry and uninspiring.” 

“I’d argue that it is already mostly dry and uninspiring as it is,” he drawls with a sigh. “But very well, what do you suggest then?” 

“Try inflecting a bit more feeling to it,” she says, choosing not to take offense on his critique despite her wholehearted disagreement. 

Aemond leans back with a petulant gesture of his hand. “By all means then, do illustrate me on how it should be properly done, my lady, I am but an attentive pupil.” 

She is aware that he’s mocking her but the stubbornness in her will not allow her to retreat. Instead she leans closer, letting her arm deliberately brush against his as she pulls the book closer to herself and reads like she’s been imbued with theatrical passion. She means it in jest mostly, but as she continues reading she loses herself in the verses, forgetting about her original intent. 

After a moment, she feels the searing intensity of his gaze on her, notices the way they have gravitated nearer, perhaps on instinct, their heads leaning close together as they read from the same book, and heat creeps unbidden to her skin.

Nevertheless, Elaerys continues unfazed, until she stumbles upon a foreign word she’d never read or heard before, and her smooth recitation falters with the unfamiliar twisting cluster of consonants that catches on her tongue.

She hears Aemond’s soft, low chuckle beside her. Elaerys is caught somewhere between peeved and surprised to realize this is the first time she’s heard anything close to a laugh from him. 

“Not quite,” he says. “Like this: obūljarion.” 

He repeats the word slowly, voice brushing over the syllables like silk, the cadence rolling smooth from his lips. She tries it, but the shape of the words is unfamiliar in her tongue and she falters again. 

Aemond hums, not quite satisfied with the result. 

“Try again.” He leans closer, repeating the word almost against her ear, she swears she can feel the thrum of it reverberating in her chest. 

Elaerys does as he says, trying and probably failing to mask her sudden breathlessness, and she can tell the pronunciation is not quite what it should be yet. 

She suddenly feels a warm touch on her jaw, tilting her chin up to meet his gaze, his large hand cradling the side of her cheek, his thumb brushing lightly against her lower lip, like he’s trying to shape her lips around the word correctly. 

“Obūljarion,” he murmurs. She can feel the ghost of his breath against her cheek.

Elaerys mimics him once more, pulse racing, the sound of her voice barely above a whisper. His gaze lingers on her mouth when she tries again, and hers flickers to his lips against her will. 

“Good,” he mutters when she finally manages the word, though whether he praises the pronunciation or her persistence, she could not say.

Aemond leans down slowly, even closer now. His hand still cradles her jaw in a gentle hold, but there’s no real pressure in it, he doesn’t really need to keep her in place. She feels rooted to the spot. 

He pauses just before his skin touches hers, like he’s waiting for something. The space between them is nothing now, a breath, a heartbeat. The air grows thin between them, sparking like kindle. Elaerys tells herself to lean back, to remember herself. Yet she does not move an inch. Her lashes lower, the world narrows to warmth and the taste of smoke and risk. Her lips part, she feels herself mouth his name though whether a sound is made she cannot tell beneath the ringing in her ears. 

And then he closes the distance.

It’s not a soft thing, not tentative, not shy. Aemond claims her lips like a dragon claiming its prey, possessive and decisive, stealing her breath away. Elaerys stays frozen in a mix of shock and something else, something that crawls down from her chest to the pit of her stomach, making her skin heat up in flames, so intense and unexpected it startles her into complete stillness. 

Aemond must sense her stiffness and he draws back slightly, remaining close enough for his forehead to rest against hers, just for a moment. But there’s an invisible tether pulling her to him, a magnetic force she can’t understand. It’s instinctual, involuntary, she finds herself chasing his lips, like he now holds her breath in his own lungs and she cannot take enough oxygen on her own, like she wants to take back whatever it is he just stole from her. 

He hasn’t even put enough distance between them before he comes back for more, his lips lock with hers, holding her in a firm but delicately controlled way for a moment before deepening with a hunger so tightly leashed it feels dangerous. A hand presses lightly to the curve of her neck, tilting her closer, the other braces on the back of the settee, caging her without touching. 

The ardor behind it is so overwhelming and unfamiliar it makes her gasp against his mouth, and Aemond seizes the moment. She feels the warm stroke of his tongue brush against her parted lips, like he’s testing just how far she’d allow him to go. But there’s little rational thought left in her anymore. Elaerys melts into the warmth of his embrace, the passion of his touch, her own lips softening against his as she tentatively returns it with a clumsy, inexperienced attempt of her own, but far from minding it Aemond seems to relish in her response, holding her closer. 

Something shifts in the tightly wound energy around them. The grip on her jaw softens, his fingers slide along her cheek in a startlingly tender gesture. His lips slot against hers like the missing piece in a puzzle, and she sighs against his mouth. Their kiss slows, deepens, becomes something far too vulnerable for either of them to admit. 

That seems to startle them both back to reality. 

Their breaths mingle, harsh and shallow, when he finally pulls back just an inch, his nose brushing hers. And for the first time, Aemond sounds… unsteady. 

“Elaerys…” he breathes, but she doesn’t miss the way it catches on the first syllable of her name for just a second before he finishes like an afterthought. 

It’s the near slip that finally snaps some sense back into her. She feels her stomach twist, unsure why the almost-nickname unsettles her more than the closeness, but she pulls back regardless, placing a hand on his chest. 

“We shouldn’t… we must stop,” Elaerys says, putting as much distance between them as the settee will allow. 

“Why?” Aemond asks, he doesn’t seem inclined to move, his eye firmly locked on her, assessing. 

She straightens, smoothing her skirts in a gesture that looks polite but buys her time, trying not to look quite as shaken as she feels as her voice softens into something almost shy. “Because this is highly inappropriate. We risk being quite scandalous.” 

Aemond quirks an eyebrow. “There’s no one here to witness it.” 

“I am still a respectable lady, my prince.” She gives him a coy smile, trying to mask her flustered nerves. “I had not thought you so reckless with propriety. Do you intend to dishonor me before the wedding?” 

Elaerys moves as if to rise, half wishing she could flee the scene as fast as she can, half hoping he’ll stop her. There’s an extreme contradiction between what her mind demands and what her body wants, a back and forth that he seems to have all control over, like the pull of the tide. 

But Aemond doesn’t chase her physically when she stands, he just watches, calm and observant, mouth curving in the ghost of a smirk while his gaze remains unreadable.

“You mistake intent for recklessness, my lady. I would not dishonor you.” His tone is low, calculated, not apology, not boast — a simple truth. His gaze flickers to her lips and he lets a deliberate pause linger before he murmurs; “But I would not have stopped you.”

Elaerys feels her pulse spike again. He’s not apologetic in the slightest, but neither does he demand more in an unrestrained show of passion. He suddenly appears so in control of his own intentions, she wonders if he’s been testing her the way she’s been testing him, gauging just how much she would relent to him. 

She feels thrown out of her element quite unexpectedly, unsure if she’s been playing her cards right. Is this Elaerys provoking his desire or is it the other way around? 

Keep him wanting…

Her father’s words drift unbidden in her mind. She hates herself for allowing it, and even more so for following his advice, but she’s not about to lose her own control over the situation. 

Elaerys forces a faint smile, feigning composure. 

“Then it’s fortunate one of us still remembers propriety,” she manages, coolly. “I can imagine what your mother would think of me should she find out about what happened here. A bride should not tempt her own ruin.” 

“What does it matter what anyone thinks?” Aemond stands, and even though he makes no move to approach her she still feels his gaze like an anchor holding her in place. “It would not change what we are bound to become.” 

“Yes, I may still be your future wife,” she murmurs, her own eyes firmly holding his heated gaze. “But I am not yours to take. Not yet.” 

It sounds like a firmly placed boundary, but somehow it feels more like an enticing promise. One day, soon enough, this will not be a valid excuse to hold back his ardor, and the realization that she’s not entirely indifferent to wanting to see it come unleashed is startling enough to make a tremor run down her spine. 

“Have a good night, ñuha dārilaros.“ She dips her head just enough to seem demure, while her pulse still betrays her as she turns. 

Elaerys keeps a steady pace toward the door, torn between the need to flee and the desire to follow the intoxicating pull of him, that tether that wants her anchored to him. 

Aemond doesn’t stop her, but his voice follows her as she reaches the threshold. 

“Next time, my lady, I shall not need reminding of what’s proper.”

She feels his words like a hand at her back, propelling her out of the room. And as she makes her way back to her chambers, her heart threatening to beat right out of her chest, she touches her lips, furious with herself for the tremor in her hands. She feels scorched from the inside out. The heat of his mouth lingers, burning away the thin fabric of her resolve.

Elaerys can’t decide whether she’s gained the upper hand in this game or if her control is slipping, vulnerable to his whims. Perhaps control is a flimsy illusion when she’s playing with fire. 

Chapter Text

My blood is singing with your voice, I want to pour it out

The saints can't help me now, the ropes have been unbound 

I hunt for you with bloodied feet across the hallowed ground (…) 

I want to find you, tear out all your tenderness ~ Howl 

He should notice something other than the hazy candlelight or the crackle of the fireplace that filters faintly in his subconscious, but the truth is he can’t even recall how he got here. He’s lost count of how many times he’s found himself in this same place, how many moments like this he’s shared with her. 

Frankly, Aemond could care less, when he can hardly focus on anything other than the overwhelming feeling of her invading every fiber of his senses. He feels her everywhere, in every ragged breath he takes, her warmth on his skin, her taste on his lips. And how could he not when he kisses her like this? The world is reduced to the spark she ignites beneath his skin and the way she coaxes it to a blazing inferno the longer she remains pressed to him. 

Elaerys. What a complicated enigma he’s been burdened with. She feels as intangible as mist, as fleeting as lightning. And yet, when she sighs softly against his mouth he has the feeling it’s not out of surprise anymore. He can feel the edge of desire in the way she whispers his name, a siren’s call that enthralls him beyond reason. 

And Aemond’s control hangs on by a thread that grows all the more fragile every time her body shifts against his. But now, he allows himself to act on the things he held back from the first time around. He runs his fingers through her loose hair, her soft curls feeling like running water through his fingertips, cool and silken. He places his hand on the back of her neck and pulls her closer, relishes in the gasp that parts her lips, allowing him entrance. 

It’s not enough. He wants more, he’s wanted more since the very first moment he touched her like this. Even as his tongue drags against hers, even when his hands grasp her waist, he feels an itch beneath his skin, a prickle in his veins, an untamable kind of hunger that burns his very being. But Elaerys doesn’t pull back this time. She welcomes his passion as readily as he gives it. And oh, how he is eager to take, greedy for her. 

In this place that is their own, hidden in the half-darkness of the empty library where they’ve met countless times before, he doesn’t feel like putting a stop to their rendezvous anymore. 

Aemond’s lips wander to the corner of her mouth, trailing kisses up her cheek, down her jawline, to the hollow just below her ear, his nose pressed against her neck. Her scent overwhelms him; an enticing blend of lilacs and something citrus, like a meadow after rain, fresh and earthy and wild just like her. He’s not sure he noticed the last time but it will surely haunt his mind now. 

Elaerys shivers beneath his touch, pressing closer to him, her breathy sighs like music to his ears. Aemond doesn’t miss the chance to run his hands up her waist, brushing dangerously close to the underside of her breasts. He can feel the outline of them barely brushing against his hands, making his blood run hot. 

Her name escapes his lips in a heated breath, a hoarse murmur against her skin.

He’s not entirely sure how he ends up hovering over her, but somehow he has her lying down against the settee where he first kissed her, pressed between the plush cushion and his body. Her hands wander up his chest but they don’t stop him like last time, and Aemond is not in any hurry to halt his own advances. 

The velvet robe that barely covered her body has slid open with their frantic embrace, revealing the thin nightdress beneath. Elaerys’ chest heaves with her labored breath, drawing his gaze to the enticing lace beneath her clavicle, her skin luminous in the warm light of the candles. Her cheeks flush at his poignant attention, in that characteristic blush he’s finding ever more attractive each day. 

He lifts a tentative hand, lets his fingers wander beneath the fabric over her shoulder, revealing more of her smooth flesh to his heated gaze as he slides it along her arm, low enough for the neckline of her nightgown to drag down as well, uncovering the swell of her breast. 

Aemond can’t resist temptation. He traces his lips over her collarbones, tastes the thin skin at the hollow of her throat, feels the sound of her breathless gasps in his mouth. 

“Aemond.” 

His eye meets her half-lidded gaze. Her mouth, red from his kisses, curves into that trademark smirk of hers. Elaerys lifts his jaw with one delicate finger, her hands pulling his face back up toward her, until his mouth hovers just a breath away from hers. 

“Not yet,” she murmurs against his lips. 

The sound curls through him like a command and a promise intertwined. He wants to argue, to rebel against it. Who is she to toy with his sanity like this? But his voice catches in his throat in a frustrated, guttural hum. His mouth finds hers again instead, rougher now, the kind of kiss that feels like he’s fighting against his own restraint, but she vanishes once more, like smoke beneath his hands, just like she fled the first time. 

Aemond wakes with a start, drenched in sweat, the echo of her name still lingering on his lips. He clenches his hand around a fistful of the bedsheets that stick uncomfortably to his clammy skin, as though still trying to reach for the phantom of her, the nonexistent picture that his mind conjured of the elusive Lady of Runestone. The ghost of that contact, as imagined as it was vivid, coils low inside him, unwelcome in its intensity.

He lets out an unsteady breath and realizes, with no small amount of frustration, that he’s painfully hard. 

For a fleeting moment, raw instinct urges him toward release, a private, wordless act that would empty the ache in his loins, even if he often finds it beneath him to give into his most carnal instincts. But the throbbing hunger Elaerys has provoked in him is something unlike anything he’s felt before, it gnaws at the fabric of his composure, making him feel like a taut string ready to snap. He knows even before he’s succumbed to his own desire that his hand alone will not quench this particular thirst. 

If Aemond were a lesser man he wouldn’t hesitate. Who could judge him for it, when his brother parades himself shamelessly across the Street of Silk like he has not the slightest regard for his reputation? It would be oh so easy to follow in his footsteps, get himself a whore that could alleviate this raw need inside himself and never think of it again. He has no vow to uphold and no lady to dishonor. Not yet. 

But it wouldn’t be her, and even if it wouldn’t be too hard to picture her instead when he can still feel the scent of lilacs stuck in the back of his throat and can so vividly remember the heat of her skin beneath his fingers, the act would feel awfully close to surrender. 

He is not Aegon, he won’t risk the chance of disgracing himself like his idiotic brother, pursuing a fleeting release that will not even sate his craving for her, this desire that he should have never even allowed himself to feel in the first place. 

He throws a hand over his face and lets out a deep groan.

“Fuck.” 

Even as Aemond closes his eye he can picture her violet gaze, the curve of her lips, the way her mouth felt against his. It should be insanity. He hates the twitching need it’s awakened in him, the way his pulse quickens and flows lower still, creating a bigger problem than what he cares to deal with in the early hours of the morning. 

He sits up instead, jaw tight, forcing his breath back into rhythm, disgusted at the weakness of his desire.

He shouldn’t have kissed her last night. Truth be told, he’s not entirely sure what compelled him to do such a thing, he certainly hadn’t planned on it. 

Aemond had been blindsided by Elaerys’ sudden presence, like he’d somehow summoned her merely by thinking about her; the figment of his imagination materialized out of thin air in the one place he’d come to think as exclusively his own sanctuary. His guard had been down, susceptible to the whims of his impulses. 

A part of him had wanted to chase her away, feeling like she’d very much intruded upon his valued space, irritated by the unfairness of it, when she had been actively avoiding any encounter with him the previous days. But another —more insistent— part of him had felt intrigued by that very fact. Why had she so suddenly withdrawn? Was it a game to her; to give him a glimpse of her attention only to take it away without warning, see how much it would affect him? 

And an even deeper, more secret part of him had desperately wanted her to stay. 

He is now loath to admit that it had been that weak, needy part of him, the one that had won in the end. The one that had craved their conversations, the way she challenged his views, the debates he could have with her for hours. He had not exactly expected her to stay, but when she did, sitting so close he could feel her lilting voice and searing twinkling eyes like a brand on his skin, Aemond could almost forget where the line between strategy and temptation began to blur. 

He doesn’t quite regret the act itself, the fact that Elaerys didn’t reject him at first was testament enough that he’d been somewhat successful in his plans, she was not wholly unaffected by his advances, perhaps even welcomed them to an extent. But Aemond does regret that the kiss had not been as much a scheme rather than a reckless yielding to impulse.

How had he allowed her to have such an effect on him? 

Perhaps it had been his own dominance chasing her surrender. He had been shaken that night of the feast by the interactions he’d witnessed between Elaerys and others, especially that foolish Grafton knight. Aemond realizes now he’d envied that easiness, the way she’d seemed carefree and light, the effortless smiles and sunny laughs that were coaxed from her seemingly without trying. Things Aemond had only witnessed at a distance. 

So when the opportunity arose, he’d felt the overwhelming pull of her, the urge to claim her as his own before anyone else could, even if she’d already been promised to him. A betrothal in word alone had not been enough. If he could not have her laughs and genuine smiles then he could conquer her passion. 

And Aemond had indeed provoked her, whether it had been fear, shock, or something else that froze her at first, it had somehow morphed when he had her gasping against his lips with something dangerously close to wanting.

It should feel like victory, a step closer to gaining domain over her, but it doesn’t feel like it, not when he inadvertently gave as much as he took. If Elaerys is a pawn in his own schemes, she has a concerning amount of sway over Aemond’s restraint. She has gravity to her, and he’s orbiting closer than he means to. 

Worse, he thinks, is the fact that she took hold of her own composure far easier than he did. That look in her eyes when she finally stepped away, half-defiance, half-confusion, had Aemond wondering the extent of his influence over her. 

I’m not yours to take. Not yet

Her words echo in his mind, haunting his memory, as much a promise as it is a warning. Her submission to him is directly tied to his legitimate claim over her, and even then it will not be easily given, more out of duty than choice. 

Aemond supposes if push came to shove he could conquer her easily. Once Elaerys is his by law there would be little to stop him from imposing his command over her. But the part of him that thrives on that manipulative control wants her surrender freely given. He wants her to think the terms are her own to set. 

He feels the contradiction like a blade’s edge. The flicker of his frustration is underlined by a darker thrill singing in his veins. The chase is a game of wits, and she’s the only opponent who’s ever made him forget he’s meant to win. But where is the satisfaction in forcing a pretended triumph through sheer power when he can so sweetly coax it of her like he did with that kiss and have her fully give into him?

However, Aemond is well aware of the dangerous line he’s treading. The conquest cannot come at the price of his own surrender. This reckless loss of his restraint cannot, must not, happen again. Not like this. Next time, he vows, it will not be her stealing his composure. He must be the one to make her falter.

With that resolve, he steps out of bed and goes to his vanity, the cold water from the basin hitting his face and chest like a reprimand, washing away the burning embers of his lust. After that, he dresses quickly in his training leathers and leaves his chambers like he’s escaping the clutches of his unwanted dream. 

By the time he reaches the training yard, his body obeys him again, though the traces of her remain lodged in the back of his mind. The sky is still violet-grey, too early in the morning for even the stablehands to be out and about. Aemond welcomes both the solitude and the chill in the air, the bite of it on his heated skin a needed distraction.  

He begins going through the motions of his usual training with practiced precision. The rhythmic sound of steel slicing air replaces the sound of Elaerys’ voice in his mind. He moves through advanced sword forms, fluid, relentless, punishing, like he’s beating the remnants of his unwanted passion, replacing it with disciplined focus. 

He’s allowed himself to slip, to lose sight of the end goal. This farce of a marriage is nothing if not strategy, a way to manipulate the odds in the coming war for the throne. And though the throne cannot be his by birthright, if there is one thing Aemond can count on is Aegon’s certain failure to measure up. 

He may loathe the idea of Aegon as king, but Aemond could gain an influential role at court once his brother is crowned, a seat in Aegon’s council. After all, Aemond has little intention of settling into his lot in life as a second son, he will not end up like his uncle; a glorified consort even if Daemon would like to believe himself more. 

Later, when his sloth of a brother inevitably falters in his duties as King, it shall be Aemond the one to prove himself worthy, reliable and indispensable. The better fit. Perhaps eventually, he shall get the position of Hand of the King.

Power shall lie in the puppet strings that will inevitably control Aegon, and the Hand controls the realm, perhaps even more than the King, even without a crown atop his head. His grandfather has proven as much already. 

And unlike his rogue uncle, Aemond has both the discipline and the wits to keep his position close to his own brother, bide his time. 

But first, he must win Aegon the throne. 

And for that he must get rid of these banal distractions. 

With that newfound focus in mind, every swing of Aemond’s sword is an act of repression, denial, rebelling against his own instincts that keep bringing Elaerys to the forefront of his mind. He rejects every reminder; of her mouth, her warmth, her echoing words.

Not yet. 

Every strike he lands on the practice dummy before him is a way to erase her, every stockade a bar in the cage he’s built around the memory of her to keep her locked away.

Aemond relishes the growing ache in his arms and shoulders, the pain is a welcome distraction. He drives himself until breath burns in his throat, and with it a plan forms in his mind. 

He must start acting. Learn where the most prominent Houses’ loyalties lie, which might align more easily through fear, honor, or ambition. He should lend closer observation to the City Watch, find out if any guards remain loyal to his uncle and cleanse it from the inside. 

Between movements, fragments of these thoughts crystallize, and within them his role in his own upcoming marriage. Elaerys’ words seed the thought that grows into strategy. 

Not yours to take.

Not yet, that’s right. But eventually. Both the power of the Crown and Elaerys’ trust and loyalty shall be his. The same patience he must learn with her is the one he will need to wait for the crown’s shift of power, for neither can be conquered through careless force. 

It must be earned. 

And Elaerys must be his strongest ally; with the might of the Royce’s bannermen, the influence of her connections to the Vale, her dragon as part of an army, Aemond cannot squander these assets. But if there’s one thing he’s figured out in the time he’s known her is that she is as unpredictable as the changing tides. She is the bridge between Rhaenyra’s faction and his, and her current neutrality is a potential knife at either’s throat, one wrong move and it can be turned either for or against him. 

No, Elaerys is far too perceptive to be tricked into surrender, and a forced dominance will only provoke her rejection. A willing ally is far more useful than a resentful wife, and she has resentment enough for Daemon at the very least. 

Her affection, her belief in Aemond, those will bind her tighter than duty ever could.

She must think he sees her as equal, that he appreciates what her own family never could. Make her guard drop, and when the time comes, he will have her loyalty and her dragon on his side, not through dominance or even seduction, but through disguised affection, a gentle siege instead of a forced conquest. 

And yet, beneath his careful reasoning, her image refuses to vanish. When he pauses to catch his breath, the memories come, unbidden, her presence haunts these very grounds with the reminders of her time training with him.

Aemond’s grip tightens around the sword hilt until his knuckles pale. He exhales, forces the thought away, drives himself until sweat soaks through leather. Until he feels like he’s exorcising his own soul, cleansing it of any weakness she’s provoked. 

“It’s unusual to see such zeal so early in the morning.” Criston Cole’s voice suddenly interrupts his train of thought, making him falter. “Are you expecting a duel any time soon, my prince?” 

“If one does not train to prepare for a confrontation eventually, then I fail to see the purpose of the exercise.” Aemond turns, twirling his sword in his hand. “Shall we?” 

They begin their usual routine, but this time, Aemond feels the simmering energy flowing through his veins, fueling the strength behind each calculated blow. 

Criston raises a curious eyebrow. “Is there something bothering you, my prince?” 

“Should there be?”

“You are taking this sparring a little too seriously.” Criston parries Aemond’s powerful strikes with surprised difficulty. “It seems your mind is elsewhere.” 

“It is exactly where it must be. Focused.” Aemond delivers another harsh blow, forcing Criston a step back. 

“Focus and frustration are not the same thing.” Criston shifts, his footwork steady despite Aemond’s offensive advances. “And frustration not properly channeled can lead to purposeless violence.” 

“Do you speak from experience, Cole?” Aemond says, slightly taunting. 

Criston remains outwardly unruffled, yet his movements begin to match Aemond’s energy. “‘Tis merely an observation.” 

“A needless one,” Aemond returns coldly. 

They continue for a while, but beneath Aemond’s sharp focus he begins to losen the tightly wound reins of his aggression, the swings of his sword becoming almost lethal, their sparring growing more violent than a mere training drill. 

When Criston blocks a blow harder than necessary, both realize how close Aemond came to losing restraint. It could be a win if Criston had yielded, positioned as he is, with Aemond’s sword at his throat and his own shield barely holding him off, but Aemond senses this has been enough. 

He lowers his sword at last, and Criston studies him, uncertain.

“Well fought, my prince.” Criston says, lowering his own weapon. “Although a little too energetic for a mere training session. You need not prove yourself so harshly every morning.” 

“Every dawn is one less before war,“ Aemond says, quiet but deliberate. “One of these days, it might not be mere training anymore. And when that time comes, I mean to be ready.”

“Maybe so.” Criston nods, sheathing his sword. “But then I suggest saving that violence for the right time, when it matters the most, lest you risk wasting it beforehand.” 

Aemond merely turns without a word, letting his breath even out as Criston steps away, preparing to leave. 

The sun is already peaking over the horizon, marking the end of his allotted time for sparring before he’s summoned for breakfast with the rest of the family. Aemond glances toward the hazy morning sky, jaw tight, and the faint echo of a dragon’s call drifts through the air. He catches a glimpse of a pearlescent, sinuous silhouette striking across the clouds, the unmistakable hint of Nyssarion, probably escaping the confines of the Dragonpit. 

He doesn’t feel the slightest bit comforted by the sight. 

“Control is a weapon too, my prince.” Criston calls as he departs. “Wield it wisely.”

“I intend to.” Comes Aemond’s barely audible reply. 

His own sword slides into its sheath with a soft metallic click. Aemond doesn’t have to wonder if he will find Elaerys at the breakfast table this morning. The sight of her dragon racing through the skies is answer enough. 

Still, Aemond hates that the thought even crossed his mind for a second. 

“Aemond, nice of you to finally join us.” 

Alicent’s smile tightens at the corners. His mother’s subtle way of admonishing his tardiness. Aemond merely hums as he takes his seat at the table. He doesn’t care to explain that the need for a prolonged cold bath made him take longer than usual. 

“I had a busy morning,” is all he says, his eye trailing around the table. 

Viserys is unsurprisingly absent. There’s a half-full plate in the place where Otto would usually sit, and Aegon’s chair remains notably empty, making Helaena the only other company his mother had this morning. 

“Are we to wait for Aegon?” Aemond asks with a certain edge as he reaches for a pitcher of water. He’s not exactly appreciative of the way he gets called out for his lateness when Aegon hasn’t even deigned to show his presence. 

Alicent sighs. “He was certainly summoned, same as you.” 

“Must be exhausted from his late night activities,” he murmurs dryly, spreading a generous amount of blackberry compote on his toast. 

“A more important inquiry would be if the Lady Elaerys will join us for breakfast this morning,” Alicent comments. 

Aemond pauses on his movements, shoulders tense. “How should I know?” 

“She is your future wife, you should make it your business to know.” Alicent’s voice hardens slightly. “She has been notably absent these past few days.” 

“She prefers the clouds, as do I,” Helaena says, drawing their attention. Alicent’s eyes squint in silent confusion. After a prolonged pause, Helaena finally elaborates. “I’ve seen Nyssarion’s shadow on the horizon every morning. They make a pretty picture, don’t they brother?” 

Aemond turns his gaze toward his plate, jaw tightening. 

“Regardless,” Alicent says dismissively, drawing a deep breath. “As a future princess of the realm, she has a duty to attend court events. Her hiding away now all of a sudden seems rather… perplexing.” 

It is precisely this moment that Aegon chooses to stumble into the room, hair a disheveled mess, clothes askew, as though he’d just tumbled out of bed and made his unsteady way here, clearly either thoroughly hungover or still slightly inebriated. He flops onto his seat with less grace than a lumbering boar and proceeds to load a plate full of cold meats and cheeses without even glancing up. 

Alicent’s lips pinch into a pale, thin line. 

Aemond takes a sip of bitter tea, hiding his smirk behind the rim of his cup. “I would say, Mother, as far as public opinion goes, there are more pressing matters to attend to.” 

Alicent dabs her lips with a linen cloth, Aemond doesn’t miss the tightening of her hands around the napkin. 

“As I was saying,” she continues, glaring daggers as Aegon reaches for the wine decanter. “I find Lady Elaerys’ absence a bit concerning. Perhaps she finds King’s Landing… unwelcoming.”

Aegon chuckles into his wine cup with evident sarcasm. “Can’t imagine why when she has Aemond here for company.” 

Helaena murmurs absent-mindedly, “She hides like a butterfly in winter. Waiting for warmth to return.”

“Well, she might just hide away forever then,” Aegon says around a mouthful, making Alicent’s patience finally wither away, delivering a harsh verbal reprimand that has Aegon sulking into his plate like a chastised child. 

Normally, Aemond would silently relish this display of divine justice, however his mother’s scrutiny is redirected at him a moment later. 

“You could ease her adjustment to her new lodgings, Aemond. Show her that the Red Keep can be home, not a cage. If you mean to earn her trust she must feel safe and welcome here.” Her tone softens slightly but the command beneath it is clear. “Walk with her. Speak with her. Attend court together. She must be seen, and so must you.”

“I agree, Mother, the court’s opinion is of utmost importance,” Aemond deflects, hoping to steer the topic into one more of his  present interest. “And now that we have important guests from most of the more powerful Houses, it seems like an opportunity we should not squander.” 

Alicent starts to agree, but Aemond continues. “Which is why I think we must act now. Learn where their loyalties lie, whether they respect the crown and ancient tradition. If they agree with my father’s declared successor or can be persuaded to question it.” 

Alicent blinks, seemingly perplexed by this turn in their conversation. Meanwhile, Helaena starts murmuring under her breath in that odd way of hers. 

“Those are matters that should not concern you for the time being,” Alicent finally says, a hint of a gentle smile gracing her lips. “Your father still lives, Aemond. His rule remains law. Besides, his health seems to be improving lately. There’s plenty of time still for him to change his mind about the succession. I think your upcoming marriage has really boosted his spirit.” 

Aemond stares for a moment, somewhere between disbelieving and baffled. Is his mother truly this delusional or does she merely take him for an idiot? 

He resists the urge to scoff. “He can barely remember my existence most days. I doubt my marriage is of any consequence to him.” 

“Do not speak so, Aemond, your father does love you all dearly,” Alicent argues, though she looks less convinced than she did before. “He is just afflicted by his condition most of the time.” 

Even Aegon lets out a little, mocking laugh at that absurd statement. 

Aemond can’t suppress a sardonic smile. “Of course, his affection is as evident as his miraculous recovery.” 

Alicent’s eyes harden into a warning stare. “I do not appreciate that tone.” 

“We have a unique opportunity to act, to start moving the pieces in our favor, and you’d rather just wait until the inevitable comes to pass?” Aemond asks, his usual smooth aloofness shriveling. 

“Whatever strategies must be made, best believe that they are being considered, however that is none of your concern,” Alicent says with finality. “You are still young, Aemond, and inexperienced. Let your grandfather deal with the necessary politicking that he deems appropriate. For now, your duty lies elsewhere.”

“And where would that be, Mother?”

“With your betrothed.” 

“My marriage will not win us the throne.” 

“No, but it might win us peace, which is far more important!” Alicent’s voice turns harsh. “What kind of kingdom do we intend to rule if the realm ends up torn apart by war?” 

“It is salted land, no matter where the wind blows.” Helaena’s soft voice interrupts their growing argument, making their heads snap toward her. “No more fire, barren ashes upon ashes.” 

There is a momentary pause at the table, only broken by Aegon as he sets his cup down with a muted thud and a confused frown. As usual, none of them seem to make sense of whatever riddles Helaena’s just spoken, but for some reason her words now send an uncomfortable chill down Aemond’s spine. 

Alicent sighs, seemingly deflating. 

“Enough of this talk.” She turns her brown eyes back to Aemond, her tone laced with resolute finality. “I want you focusing only on your upcoming wedding and future bride, that is exclusively where your duties lie.” 

Aemond bites his lip, his composure brittle. “You would have me parade her around court like a trophy then?” 

“I would have you keep the illusion of peace within our Houses,” Alicent snaps. “Do whatever you deem necessary to make that happen.” 

Aemond bites back a scathing retort, choosing instead to focus on his plate. “As you wish, Mother.”

This seems to finally put an end to the conversation, which Alicent seems thoroughly relieved with. 

Beside him, Aegon leans back in his seat with a sleazy smirk. 

“You know, you could have it worse.” He chuckles. “I mean, if you won’t have her, perhaps I might. She seemed lively enough when she smiled at me across the hall—”

Aemond’s knife halts mid-motion, shooting his brother a withering glare. “Mind your tongue.”

“Enough, both of you!” 

The quiet authority in Alicent’s voice silences them, making him feel like a child again. They resume their meal, a tense hush settling over the table, the sound of metal on porcelain the only thing interrupting the stillness although it still feels too loud, grating on Aemond’s nerves. He admires the opulently crafted tableware and can’t help but think derisively that it’s not very dissimilar to himself. He’s been reduced to insignificance, an ornamental piece of irrelevant status value. A mere groom, not a weapon. 

Only, at least the silverware can be admired for its beauty. Meanwhile, Alicent sometimes looks at Aemond with the same kind of wariness she looks at the dragons she calls their beasts, like she’s waiting for fire to spout out of his mouth at any given moment whenever Aemond shows even the slightest hint of his simmering temper. 

He realizes that, within the iron grip of Otto’s influence over this court, Aemond’s mind is not trusted, his opinion not wanted, his will subdued. But he’s more than an object to be brokered for allegiances. And If he is to be ignored in peace, then perhaps only war will prove his worth.

After a while, Aegon yawns and excuses himself, taking the entire bottle of wine with him. Meanwhile, Helaena drifts out with a soft hum. Only Aemond remains seated a moment longer, jaw set, fingers tense around his cup. Forever the dutiful son. 

“Do not brood, Aemond,” Alicent adds softly, without looking up from her plate. “The success of this match is as important as any royal diplomatic mission. And perhaps it will even be a good thing for you. Let it temper you.”

He stands, voice clipped. “Temperance has never conquered kingdoms.”

He leaves before she can answer.

Aemond wonders if perhaps his conundrum is providing the Gods some sordid entertainment. How absurdly ironic that he had hoped his newfound purpose in strategy would silence the memory of Elaerys, and that she, the one person he’s trying not to think of, is now the only command he cannot disobey.

He finds himself taking longer flights on Vhagar lately. Aemond usually prefers the cover of night, a more appropriate time to avoid sending the smallfolk into a panic with the sight of his dragon’s intimidating shadow coursing through the skies over King’s Landing. He’s been on the receiving end of Otto’s admonishments more often than not over it. However, today he needs Vhagar’s grounding presence to quell his tumultuous thoughts after his conversation with his mother. 

It is a dangerous thing, to take to the skies when he’s not in complete control of his emotions, when his seething wrath threatens to burble to the surface. Somehow, his bond with Vhagar seems to connect her temperament to his own, she senses his innermost feelings, fueling her own primal instincts.

Whenever Aemond loses his temper, Vhagar can be expected to rage as well, much to the detriment of whatever comes to stand in her way when she’s dangerously close to unleashing her own fury. 

But over the years, Aemond has learned his dragon has a will of her own that is sometimes difficult to maneuver. He used to think it was his own inexperience and her ancient age what made her stubbornness exceptionally hard to sway. However, he now wonders how much is Vhagar’s own willfulness, and how much is Aemond’s fire feeding her bloodthirsty nature, if they are twin flames burning together, and Vhagar simply knows exactly what he needs to let out his repressed violence. 

He can feel it now, simmering through his veins, rumbling dangerously beneath the heat of Vhagar’s scales. She lets out a mighty roar that will surely resonate all across King’s Landing, but Aemond can’t be bothered to try to temper her vexation, not when her thundering call is an echo of his troubled soul. 

The Queen of all Dragons must make her displeasure known to the world. A warning to anyone who dares cross her now, and unlike Aemond, she cannot be contained. 

What a sight she must make to whoever gets to witness the looming threat of her temper. She must put the fear of the Gods in the heart of whoever dares face her. And what a ridiculous paradox, Aemond thinks with contempt, that he should ride the largest, most powerful dragon in the world, that he should train with the most proficient knight of the Kingsguard, that he should spend hours studying the histories of their ancient House and educating himself on politics and military strategy, all for what? 

To be delegated to groom-in-waiting, at the beck and call of whatever Aegon’s reign might need without agency of his own. 

And when are his efforts rewarded? When is the debt he is owed paid? He loses an eye at the hands of Rhaenyra’s bastards and the world goes on spinning without consequence while his life is permanently altered. He demands a payment in blood and his mother seeks to compensate with peace, give him a pretty wife to settle the score and call it even. 

No duty, no justice, no vengeance in sight. 

Vhagar lets out another powerful growl that tears through the air with the same strength of her beating wings. 

Aemond can’t help but be fueled by the hazard, this thrilling yet perilous dance, akin to navigating a tempestuous storm, striving to command the ocean’s relentless waves fully aware of the utter futility of it. Vhagar will do as she pleases sometimes, but the danger is that what pleases her is an echo of what he himself desires, deep in the darkest corners of his soul. 

Riding through the skies like this feels like flying over a steaming volcano ready to blow up, and Aemond commands the eruption. How easy it would be, to let it burble to the surface and rain chaos all around him, just a glimmer of the raging storm within himself. 

And it gets to his head despite what little resistance he offers, the thrill of it, the potential for damage, of having this much restrained power ready to unleash with the darkness of his own ire. 

Aemond doesn’t give out the command, yet Vhagar does as she will, spouting fire into the sky from her snapping jaws in a formidable flare, the clouds around them tainting red like a raging inferno. 

She races through the smoke like cutting through silk, undaunted by the blaze. He knows even this display is carefully contained in the vastness of the firmament above them, the clouds the only thing at risk from her flames. Even a single shot from Vhagar’s blazing fire could set the Kingswood alight. 

And what would they do then, if he dared to show what he’s capable of? If he displayed even a hint of his potential to unleash devastation upon anyone who ever dared to humiliate him before? 

He won’t. Not yet. Even if he feels the exhilarating call from Vhagar’s might through their link. They can wait. 

His dragon has enough patience for the both of them. She’s laid dormant for years, waiting in the shadows, content in times of peace, but no less powerful for it. And if she chose Aemond as her rider, if she considered him worthy of her, it must be for a reason. He’s destined for greatness, bigger than whatever mediocre plans his grandsire and mother might have for him. 

The time for brutality will come eventually, and when it does the world will remember exactly why Vhagar is a conqueror’s dragon.  

And conquer he will. 

Far above within the clouds, flying over King’s Landing, with Vhagar’s razing fire aimlessly bursting into the sky, Aemond finally feels like he’s found release. 

He doesn’t return to the Red Keep until he feels like his composure has safely snapped back into place, and by the time he does the late afternoon sun paints the stone walls golden. 

The gates open for him without delay, and Aemond directs his horse with leisure pace. The courtyard is alive with busy motion, grooms tending to the royal stables, servants sweeping about, the clang of armor echoing faintly. The air carries the leftover warmth from midday, a tepid breeze that lends some relief from the earlier heat.

He dismounts without difficulty and hands off the reins to a passing stablehand, when a familiar glimpse of luscious dark curls catches his attention. 

Elaerys. 

She walks along the perimeter of the courtyard like she’s just made her way here, a mousy haired young woman that Aemond assumes is her handmaiden trailing closely behind her. His fiancée wears a far simpler outfit than the last time he saw her in public; a muted, blue-grey dress that cinches at her waist and flows loosely below her hips, her soft curls gathered in her favored half-up style, a few loose tendrils framing her face. And yet, the memory of what she looked like the night before —wild hair loose and tumbling down her back, a thin nightgown barely covered by her robe— flashes before Aemond’s mind. 

Perfect. Just when he thought he’d finally buried the thought of her beneath carefully controlled discipline. 

It doesn’t look like she knows that he’s here, although she’s clearly looking for someone. For a fleeting moment, Aemond considers slipping away before she notices his presence. But then her violet eyes land on him and a surprised look strikes her features for a moment before she rearranges her expression into a mild smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. 

He doesn’t miss the blush that subtly colors her cheeks, although Aemond wonders if it is merely a trick of the light. 

For a moment they both stand there, frozen like two stricken dears caught unaware. But given the several witnesses that can scrutinize their odd interaction, it seems there’s not much else to do than to get over their initial awkwardness. 

He inclines his head politely as she approaches with hesitation, like she’s unsure exactly how to proceed around him now. 

“My lady,” Aemond greets, voice smooth but a note too controlled. “What a pleasant surprise to see you out in public again.” 

“My prince.” Elaerys curtsies before him, and Aemond can’t help his amusement at the formality when just the night before he’d had her lips against his. “I was not expecting to find you here.” 

He lifts an eyebrow. “Disappointed?” 

“Not at all,” she says lightly. “I thought I saw Vhagar across the sky earlier. Did you have a pleasant flight?” 

Gods, he hates these stiff pleasantries propriety demands they engage in. 

“Pleasant enough,” he answers either way, although his tone is a tad clipped. “Were you going somewhere?” 

Elaerys hesitates for a fleeting moment, and Aemond realizes the uncommon nature of the situation they find themselves in. He had seen her witty and sharp, teasing and bold, but not uncertain. Now, she seems momentarily off-guard, as though waiting for something, though she masks it well.

She attempts another pleasant smile. “Not really. My uncle sent for me, said he had a surprise waiting here.” 

As if summoned, Ser Gerold’s booming voice reverberates across the courtyard. 

“Ah, there you are, niece! You took your sweet time.” 

Elaerys whirls around, and her face softens at the sight of her uncle approaching with brisk pace. 

“My prince,” Ser Gerold bows as he catches sight of Aemond, though he notices the wary look the older man shoots him, hidden beneath courtesy. “What a gracious surprise. We were not expecting the honor of your company.” 

Ser Gerold looks around, slightly doubtful, and gives his niece a subtly inquisitive look. “Am I interrupting something?” 

Elaerys shakes her head a little too emphatically. “No, not at all. Prince Aemond and I just ran into each other.” 

“Ah well, he’s certainly welcome to join us.” 

Elaerys’ gaze shifts back to Aemond, her grin turning a bit strained. He briefly wonders if her usually perfect mask of courtly charm has momentarily slipped or if he’s just getting better at reading the subtle changes in her expression.

“I’m sure the Prince is busy with far more important things to do, we should not entertain him longer than necessary,” Elaerys excuses for him. 

Aemond is inclined to disagree, interest piqued. “I am actually not otherwise occupied at the moment.” 

“What perfect timing then,” she murmurs, then turns to address her uncle again. “Anyhow, what did you wish to show me, Uncle?” 

Ser Gerold’s usually stormy mien softens at the inquiry. “I have a surprise for you, in honor of your upcoming wedding. Of course, there will be other far more splendid gifts I shall give you for the occasion, but I thought this one would be of more sentimental value.” 

He snaps his fingers, calling for a stablehand, and a moment later a magnificent horse comes into view, a dappled, light silver mare with a soft-looking white mane that gleams like freshly fallen snow beneath the sunlight. 

The gasp Elaerys lets out can only be one of astonished glee. Her eyes widen, sparkling like amethysts with her utter excitement, and her whole face brightens with a large, unrestrained smile that Aemond had never seen before.

“Zephyr!” 

She practically skips as she rushes toward the horse, all ladylike poise forgotten, and once she closes the distance she touches the mare’s dark grey muzzle with a tenderness that Aemond had never witnessed from her, petting the animal with evident affection, like greeting an old friend. The horse, for her part, looks equally pleased, nuzzling her snout close to Elaerys’ shoulder and pushing with excitement, a soft snort showing her good humor. It makes Elaerys let out a vibrant laugh, uninhibited with something close to childlike joy that’s almost contagious.

“I missed you too, girl.” She buries her face against Zephyr’s neck, murmuring softly as her hand strokes the mare’s sleek coat. And for a moment, all courtly pretense vanishes.  

Aemond stands rooted to the spot, unable to look away. He has the odd feeling that he’s never caught even a glimpse of the real girl behind the perfect facade of poised astuteness until now, and what shines beneath is so luminous it feels blinding. 

He feels something stir inside him that he cannot immediately name, an unfamiliar tightening in his chest that’s neither envy nor desire. He’s never quite acknowledged this strange hollowness in him that seems all too evident now as he watches Ser Gerold’s eyes soften at the sight of his niece’s utter delight.  

Aemond has the sudden, uncomfortable realization that he’s never experienced something like this, never known the kind of tenderness Elaerys shows to this creature that’s clearly so dear to her, never been the subject of the same kind of fondness with which Ser Gerold looks at her, the way a true guardian looks upon a child he’s proud of. All he’s ever known is duty without affection, respect without warmth.

And that stirring in his chest roars to life with something awfully akin to yearning.

Aemond averts his gaze before anyone can read what flickers across it.

Elaerys turns back, cheeks flushed with happiness. “I thought I wouldn’t see her again until I returned home.” 

“She certainly didn’t make it easy. You know how she refuses to let anyone beside you mount her, stubborn thing that she is, just like her rider.” Ser Gerold chuckles. “We had to load her into a cart and carry her all the way here.” 

“Thank you, Uncle.” Elaerys’ eyes shine with genuine gratitude. “It means a lot to me.” 

“I thought it would be a good thing, to have something to remind you of home while you’re gone,” Ser Gerold says. 

“And that is the best possible gift you could’ve given me.” Elaerys’ smile turns a bit wistful. “Thank you.” 

Before they can continue this heartfelt exchange, Ser Gerold is pulled aside by one of his men with matters that need his attention and he excuses himself for a moment, leaving Elaerys with her beloved horse and a lingering Aemond for company. 

Her lady’s maid still waits far enough away in the sidelines like an impromptu chaperone, and the courtyard is busy with people, leaving little room for privacy. Aemond thinks about leaving as well, not really keen on intruding in this moment longer than he already had. And yet, something keeps him anchored to the spot. 

Zephyr nuzzles against her rider’s shoulder as she smooths a hand down the mare’s neck. Elaerys’ laughter still lingers in the air, light and unguarded. But then, as if she suddenly remembers where she is, who is watching, the sound trails off. 

A faint color rises to her cheeks and she withdraws half a step, composure sliding back into place like armor.

“I apologize for the display.” She clears her throat. “You must think me foolish, all this over a horse.”

Aemond tilts his head with a noncommittal hum. “She clearly is a special horse.” 

“That she is. Zephyr has been with me since she was a foal. She was born to my mother’s own mare.” Elaerys reveals, her attention back on the silver horse as she strokes her mane gently. “Took a while to break her in. The stable master said she was too wild to be tamed. But I think she just needed patience and a loving hand.” 

Aemond can’t help but think there’s almost a fateful similarity there. It seems the horse’s nature suits her rider. 

“So she is a connection to your mother?” Aemond ventures, his voice dips, testing carefully. 

She twists her lips, contemplative. 

“Perhaps. I never knew my mother.” Elaerys shrugs. “It seems silly to attribute anything to someone I can’t even remember.” She gives him a faint smile, almost self-conscious. “It should be impossible to miss something that I never had to begin with, and yet sometimes… well.” She averts her gaze. “I suppose it’s only human, to find meaning in things that might not be all that special.” 

The way she says it sounds like deflection, but Aemond hears it; the faint tremor behind her poise. It strikes a chord inside himself, a reflection of something so buried in his own soul he would’ve kept it hidden in the depths of his being had she not brought it to the surface. The way he understands what she means is almost instinctual. 

Aemond sometimes wonders what happened to the mother of his childhood, the Alicent who would’ve stood in front of him with a knife drawn, demanding retribution, ready to draw blood to defend her injured son, even if it meant going against the Princess of Dragonstone and the King himself. He wonders if she ever existed at all, if the memory is just his half-hearted attempt to find a morsel of the affection that his mother failed to give him when he was a boy. Does he miss that Alicent or just the ghost of the mother he yearned for and never even had?

He doesn’t even realize he’s unconsciously moved closer to Elaerys until he finds himself standing right alongside the magnificent silver mare, but neither the animal nor Elaerys seem to mind his proximity. Aemond tilts his head slightly, studying her as she keeps her attention on Zephyr, stroking her snout with gentle fingers. 

“I used to ride her through the hills of Runestone every morning,” Elaerys says absently. “You could go for miles without meeting another soul. The wind there is cold and fresh, smells of salt and pine. You can hear the sea below the cliffs, crashing against stone.” 

Her gaze grows distant, voice softening with evident nostalgia. “It’s nothing like this place.” 

Aemond can almost see it clearly in his mind. For a heartbeat, she’s no longer the charming, witty court lady he’s known this entire time, but the girl she once was, free and wild, galloping through the Vale’s misty landscapes like a forest nymph.

“You miss it,” Aemond says, a statement rather than a question. 

Elaerys lets out a wistful exhale. “I do. You can’t exactly do the same here. Everything seems so… stifling.”

“Then it’s fortunate you’ll return in due time.” It’s a lackluster attempt at comfort but it’s the best he can do. 

It draws her gaze to him anyway, a hint of curiosity glinting in her eyes. 

“I suppose that makes me exceptionally lucky.” The ghost of a smile tugs at her mouth. “How peculiar, isn’t it? Normally a lady must say farewell to her home forever once she’s wed. But for me it’ll be the opposite.”

She tilts her head, dark eyebrow arching inquisitively. “Do you think you’ll miss it? King’s Landing?”

Aemond’s eye drifts toward the horizon beyond the courtyard walls. A wry sneer ghosts his lips. “Would you miss it?”

“I never grew up here.” Elaerys shrugs. “It isn’t my home.”

Home. The word rings hollow in his ears. Aemond wonders if he’s ever known such a thing. He thinks about the city he’s known his entire life, and glances at Elaerys with a thoughtful frown. 

“What’s there to miss?” He says after a pause. 

“I don’t know,” Elaerys’ voice is gentle but there’s a hint of something searching. “Your family perhaps?”

For a long moment, Aemond doesn’t answer. He tries to find the words that fail him as he contemplates the concept of the things he’s never truly experienced. What aspects of his family could he find himself missing? Aegon’s perpetual mocking? Otto’s overbearing presence? His father’s indifference or his mother’s frigid attempts at maternal concern? Perhaps he’d miss the approval he’s constantly seeking in her, and Helaena’s gentle demeanor, even if she’s often more absent than not, lost in her own world. 

He looks away again, jaw tightening. When he finally speaks, his voice is low, deliberate.

“I suppose it matters little.” His gaze finds hers, meaningful and intense. “I’ll have a new family of my own eventually.”

A soft stillness falls as his words settle over them. It’s not a boast, not even a promise, just a statement, quiet and certain, inevitable like the rising of the sun each morning. And yet, a distant, hidden part of him is aware that it carries the faintest tremor of longing.

Elaerys’ face softens into something he can’t quite place, surprise flickering beneath her usual good-humored expression. She studies him in silence for a moment, as though trying to gauge just what he’s playing at with this statement, far more personal than anything he’s said before. 

Her voice, when she speaks, is even gentler than before. 

“Yes, I suppose we both will.” She smiles, a soft, bittersweet thing, half wistfulness, half wry humor. “I can only hope it’s a better one than the ones we had.”

Aemond looks at her, like he’s looking at her for the first time, and something in his gaze darkens, deepens, as if the world has narrowed to her alone. 

She holds his stare for a moment too long, he can feel the same pull he’s been feeling around her for longer than he cares to admit, that hypnotic call that draws him closer without meaning to. 

And suddenly, Ser Gerold’s voice booms across the courtyard as he calls for his niece again, breaking the spell. Elaerys whirls around, her attention now elsewhere. 

She murmurs a quick excuse with a polite nod, intending to go toward her uncle, but as she steps to pass by Aemond she walks a little too closely, the soft skin of her knuckles brushing against his hand in a whisper of contact. Whether it was deliberate or not goes unnoticed by Aemond, it still sends a spark through his body, snapping his mind back into instinctual chase. 

Aemond’s fingers close reflexively, just enough to brush hers before he catches himself. 

They both pause. The contact is fleeting, the flutter of a butterfly’s wing. He still feels it all the way up to his lips, a ghost of warmth that lingers there like the memory of their kiss. 

Elaerys draws a quiet breath, her eyes flicking up to meet his. Aemond can’t quite place the subtle shift in her gaze, not open invitation, rather guarded awareness.

But she doesn’t pull away. 

“My lady.” Aemond nods. It could pass for a polite farewell. But his gaze lingers, and his fingers finish the journey they started, closing around her delicate palm. 

Elaerys hesitates for a moment, her eyes now fixed on the hand he clasps loosely in his. She gives him a graceful bow. A perfectly courtly exchange. 

He could let her go now. He should. 

Instead, he lifts her hand just slightly, enough to brush his lips against her knuckles in a gentlemanly gesture that hides beneath it the phantom heat of the way he kissed her last night. 

Not a lover’s kiss this time. Measured. Controlled. The reclaim of his self-possession and the subtle conquest he means to pull on her. 

The smile that tugs at her lips now hides something dangerously cheeky. It’s not demure or sweet, but rather the knowing, subtle smirk of someone who knows how to play his game. 

“See you around, my prince.” Elaerys withdraws her hand.

Then she turns and walks toward Ser Gerold, who waits at the end of the courtyard, her steps composed but quicker than before.

Aemond watches her go, thumb absently brushing the place where her warmth still lingers on the back of his hand. And as she walks away, Aemond feels that strange ache again, part hunger, part something softer he refuses to name.

He tells himself it’s for the best, to bury that unfamiliar pang with purpose. He knows he’s just witnessed something dangerous; a glimpse of Elaerys’ heart, unguarded. And the danger is in himself as much as it is in her. 

Because he wants to see it again. He wants to steal into it, slip beneath the cracks of her ribs, make a home in there before she notices the intruder in him.

And once he’s there, she will finally be his, to sway her ambitions, nurture her resentments and grievances and her dangerous potential to his will. 

Not yet. But soon enough. 

Chapter Text

Babe, there's something wretched about this

Something so precious about this

Where to begin?

Babe, there's something broken about this

But I might be hoping about this 

Oh, what a sin (…)

Honey, you're familiar, like my mirror years ago 

Idealism sits in prison, chivalry fell on his sword 

Innocence died screaming, honey, ask me, I should know ~ From Eden 

“Lady Elaerys, I am glad you could finally join us this morning.” Alicent’s voice, though warm enough, is laced with the faintest hint of censure that doesn’t go unnoticed. 

Elaerys puts on a polite smile as she curtsies with all the grace she can muster. When Mila came into her chambers this morning with the Queen’s summons, she had not been under the impression that she had much of a choice in the matter. 

“I thank you, your Grace, for expressly inviting me.” She returns the greeting, feeling very much like she’s walking into some sort of trap. “Indeed it is always an honor to share your company.” 

Alicent nods with a faint smile and gestures for her to join them at the table. She’d asked for Elaerys’ presence in Helaena’s chambers, a private gathering to break their fast together and share much needed company between ladies, or so she’d said. 

Helaena’s solar is bathed in the hazy morning light that filters through the gauzy curtains covering her windows. It should lend some cozy warmth to the place, but Alicent’s imposing presence makes the room feel slightly claustrophobic. The only thing that breaks the tense atmosphere is the distant, quiet laughter of Helaena’s children playing in the far corner of the room, closely watched by their nursemaid. 

Elaerys takes the vacant seat saved for her, trying to mask her slight discomfort. The small table is modestly set for three, a silver tea set steaming beside the assortment of untouched fruit and bread, waiting, surely, for her arrival.

Alicent immediately engages her in polite conversation as they indulge in the food prepared for them, it would otherwise bore Elaerys out of her mind if she wasn’t immediately suspicious of the banality behind the Queen’s small talk. She notices Helaena seems more withdrawn this morning. She sits quietly to Alicent’s right, distant and somewhat fidgety, her absentminded gaze constantly flickering between her children and the window.

After a while, it seems Alicent deems it appropriate enough to finally address what truly concerned her to begin with. 

“I can’t help but notice that you’ve been scarce at court lately,” she says, her tone deceivingly casual. “Is there any particular reason why?” 

Elaerys takes a sip of her tea, trying to find a reasonable enough answer that doesn’t involve avoiding an encounter with the Queen’s favored son who so happens to have been occupying a great part of her thoughts lately. 

Her lips tingle at the mere reminder of him, and she stubbornly fights down a blush.

“I confess I’ve felt a bit overwhelmed,” Elaerys says, trying for a bashful, apologetic response. “With the wedding fast approaching, I needed a bit of time to myself.” 

She doesn’t expect Alicent to approve and the slight furrow between her brows doesn’t surprise her. 

“The court must not see indifference where there should be eagerness,” she says, just stern enough to make the statement sound like a faint reprimand. “You will soon be the wife of a prince, and such unions demand presence. We are meant to set an example for the realm, the court must look at us and find the height of decorum and grace, the image of piousness and duty. Any misstep will be scrutinized, and as a princess of the realm, you will also be the image of the Crown. They must not see you falter.” 

Elaerys blinks, feeling the sting of rebuke, like a naughty child being chastised for misbehaving. 

“I apologize, your Grace,” she says lightly, trying to break the tension with a self-conscious smile. “I am still growing accustomed to the rhythm of King’s Landing.”

Alicent doesn’t look the slightest bit moved. Instead, she lifts her eyebrows in a faintly warning look. 

“Then I suggest you accustom yourself swiftly,” the Queen says coolly. “I understand the court at the Red Keep must be nothing like what you are used to at the Vale, but I think I’ve been sufficiently generous to give you more than enough time to accommodate yourself. I expect you to step up to the demands befitting a lady of your station.” 

“Of course, your Grace,” Elaerys says, adopting a demure air that feels wholly disingenuous. “I understand the importance of this union. Trust that I will not take my duties lightly.” 

The words taste like ashes in her mouth, she suppresses the urge to recoil at her own feigned submission. But it seems successful enough to appease Alicent. The smile the Queen gives her is a bit pinched but it breaks the vaguely stern mien that had dominated her face until now. 

“Excellent. I expect to see you at dinner tonight then?” She says, tone still slightly clipped but courteous. “We will be entertaining the Baratheons and Lannisters this evening. You’ve already missed the last couple engagements with other noble Houses, which I’m sure they won’t take lightly, but there’s still enough time to course correct. I shall arrange for a soirée with them to compensate for it.” 

“Certainly, my Queen, I shall not miss it.” 

With her obedience now secured, Alicent continues with their breakfast in a much more affable state. Helaena remains mostly quiet throughout the remainder of their meal, her teacup cooling beside her, plate largely untouched. 

It’s not long before Alicent finally rises to leave, excusing herself with matters that need her attention, not without first bidding Elaerys to attend several appointments throughout the day concerning wedding preparations. 

Before she leaves, Alicent pauses at Helaena’s shoulder with a faintly concerned frown.

“Try to eat, my dear. You’ve barely touched your food.” She touches Helaena’s shoulder lightly, making the princess tense immediately. 

Alicent withdraws a second later and continues on her way out with a quiet, resigned sigh. 

Elaerys can’t help but notice the air feels instantly lighter in her wake, though the silence that follows is delicate, uncertain with unspoken words that shouldn’t be aired. 

“You’ll get used to it eventually.” Helaena’s soft voice draws her attention. “She can be a bit demanding sometimes.”

“I see.” Elaerys clears her throat, trying to bring back some lightness into the otherwise gloomy atmosphere. “Let’s not dwell on it though. It is a lovely morning after all.” 

Helaena perks up a little, visibly less tense now. She smiles shyly and gestures toward a folded bundle on a nearby chair. 

“I wanted to show you something.” She hands the bundle over to Elaerys, the fabric feeling heavier than she’d been expecting. “It’s for your wedding. A gift, from one sister to another.”

Elaerys unfolds it carefully, revealing a beautiful long cloak made of fine velvet and silk, the intricate brocade design woven in crimson thread, creating a pattern detailed with Targaryen motifs that stand out like fire against the bronze velvet that makes up the base of the cloak’s fabric. The hem and neckline are carefully decorated with runes embroidered in gold thread, coming to meet at the center in an ornate, bronze wrought clasp, a decorative moonstone on its cusp, engraved with a simple rune.

A maiden cloak for her wedding, perfectly tailored in both her Houses’ colors. 

Elaerys lets out an astonished gasp as the underside of the cloak catches her eye. The lining is made of fine silk, a dark red that contrasts greatly with its predominantly bronze outer layer, but what really takes her breath away is the beautifully detailed threadwork decorating the center of this hidden side. 

Two dragons are depicted facing each other, one silver-blue, the other a green so deep it could nearly be black. Their bodies twist in a spiraling circle, almost forming a knot, tails intertwined between each other like vines, jaws open, tongues of flame curling toward one another. They seem to be locked in something between a battle and a mating dance, true intentions undefined. Around them, an array of fragmented embroidered stars fall like broken pieces of the heavens. 

Elaerys realizes this scene is eerily similar to one Helaena had absently described not too long ago, sitting beneath the shade of a great oak tree in the royal gardens. 

“Oh, Helaena, did you make this?” 

“I asked Mother if I could help with the embroidery.” Helaena nods, her gaze growing a bit distant as she says quietly, “It seemed important that I do it. Do you like it?” 

“It’s beautiful,” Elaerys breathes, running her fingers across the delicate stitches. “How did you manage it? It must have taken you ages!” 

“I have been working on it for the past weeks, almost since the moment you came to the Red Keep.” 

“It’s exquisite…” Elaerys turns the cloak this way and that, admiring how the light catches on the fabric, making the outer layer almost shift color between deep bronze and red undertones and the intricate design on the inside shimmers with each turn, giving the illusion of motion, as if the dragons were caught mid-flight, circling endlessly. “I almost wish I could wear it inside out.”

“Not yet. It isn’t the time.” Helaena gives her a subtle smile. “Some secrets are like seeds; they must not be unearthed too soon, lest they spoil and never give fruit.” 

Elaerys blinks, a bit confused by the vague words, but she shakes her head with a grateful smile of her own. 

“Thank you, Helaena.” She says, feeling her heart squeeze with sudden tenderness. “This means a lot to me.” 

She’s debating whether a thankful pat on the shoulder would be well received knowing her soon to be good-sister is not fond of physical contact, when a loud, thunderous sound catches their attention. A deep roar echoes from beyond the walls, making both Helaena and Elaerys turn to the window. 

She glimpses Vhagar cutting across the sky, her imposing shadow rising high beyond the Dragonpit visible in the distance. 

“She’s been restless lately,” Helaena says, a faint frown etched on her face. “She does that whenever Aemond is upset about something.” 

“Must be the wedding fast approaching,” Elaerys comments. She can certainly understand why. 

Helaena twists her lips, tilting her head. “I don’t think he’d be particularly upset about that.” 

Elaerys wouldn’t be too sure about it. Aemond has sought out her company, shared his interests and his favored spaces with her, kissed her lips, and yet she’s not entirely convinced he doesn’t see this union as the utter disaster waiting to happen that it truly is. She would be delusional to think he holds any kind of eagerness or tender feelings for the prospect. 

But somehow, Helaena seems to think differently. She gives Elaerys a knowing look, lips faintly upturned. “You two are alike in that way. Chasing away your troubles in the sky.” 

Elaerys arches a brow, somewhat amused. “You’ve noticed?” 

“I’ve seen you from this very window. You and Nyssarion.” Helaena shifts her gaze down to her lap, fingers fumbling like she’s in need to grab something. “You seem to return calmer.” 

“I’ve always been fond of flying,” Elaerys agrees, looking out the window to the spot where Vhagar slowly disappears high up in the clouds. “It helps to keep me grounded, ironic as it sounds.” 

“I understand.” Helaena’s gaze turns a bit contemplative, as though lost in her own thoughts. “I used to go on long flights with Dreamfyre all the time. I think sometimes I spent more time up in the sky than down here.” 

Elaerys is surprised to learn that. In the time she’s been in the Red Keep, she can’t remember ever noticing Dreamfyre flying across the city. 

“What made you stop?” She asks tentatively. 

It feels so fragile, so delicate; this budding trust they seem to build between them. She fears that the slightest push may crush it before it even has a chance to cement. 

Helaena doesn’t answer for a moment. She simply lets her gaze wander back to her children, still playing rather quietly in the corner of the room, oblivious to anything the adults in their life discuss. 

Elaerys doesn’t need words to understand, but Helaena elaborates after a while, her voice soft, distant like a whisper beneath wind. 

“Mother forbade it when I was with child. She said it could be dangerous for the babe.” Helaena says quietly. The smile that pulls at her lips is a melancholy thing, as sad as it is sweet. “After they came… I don’t know… I guess I dislike being parted from them for too long. Sometimes it feels as though I might never get enough time with them. And yet I miss the skies so dearly.” 

The room feels quieter now, Vhagar’s roar has now faded into the stillness that permeates Helaena’s solar but the echo of it remains lodged in the pit of Elaerys’ chest. The children’s soft giggles seem distant, dimmed beneath their mother’s tender gaze. 

“Don’t you regret giving that up?” Elaerys asks carefully, but what she really wonders is if she resents it every now and then. It seems like such an insurmountable sacrifice. 

“It’s not an easy burden to carry,” Helaena says, a gentle admission, and yet there’s no hint of bitterness beneath it, eyes full of a unique kind of fondness as she looks at her twins. “But what can a mother do but love them anyway?” 

Elaerys feels a sudden rush of compassion twist inside her. She can’t imagine going through what Helaena was forced into, tied to a husband who seems to hold little else than indifference for her, who constantly defiles his marriage vows without a care, and still being forced to carry his children, love them like only a mother could, and hold not an ounce of resentment against any of them. 

“You were so young when you had them…” Elaerys murmurs, aghast at the mere thought. To be forced to bear children when she was little more than a child herself must have been a special kind of horror. 

“Grandfather said it was my duty,” Helaena says simply. “And Mother said it is the burden every noble lady must bear, even if we may not like it at first. She called it a worthy sacrifice.” She smiles with what looks like sad resignation. “But I don’t think she was ever really happy bearing such a burden herself.” 

Helaena looks down at her hands, fidgeting with the stitches along her skirts, her voice fading into a murmur that seems to be more for herself. “Maybe that is why she is the way she is. I know she tries but…” She runs a delicate finger along the edges of her teacup, long since cooled. “Can one really force duty into devotion and expect it to fit?” 

Elaerys listens, contemplative. She doesn’t have an answer but she suspects Helaena wasn’t looking for one. 

Suddenly some things click into place, and she realizes —with no small amount of sympathy— how deeply fractured this family is. Beneath the seemingly perfect surface that Alicent and Otto try to present to the world, the cracks run deep, perhaps so profound they might be unbridgeable. 

Is that why Aegon prefers to turn to his wine and whores for comfort? Why Aemond seems so cold and unreachable? Why Helaena drifts away into her own mind? Elaerys can’t help but wonder what this environment will do for herself, how it might twist and shape her into something else. How can one be expected to thrive under these conditions, with affection curdled into obligation, love turned brittle by piety and politics? 

Will she crack right along with them as well? 

“It isn’t so bad once you get used to it. And I understand them, all of them. Why they do the things they do.” Helaena turns back to the window again, her gaze a million miles away. “The way we love… it’s never gentle. It’s twisted. It bends until it breaks and bleeds and mends itself back wrong. Feels closer to madness than tenderness. The kind that makes us do unthinkable things.” 

Her purple eyes find Elaerys’ again, and there’s something ancient dancing in the sparkle of her irises, something whimsical about the understanding she finds there beneath the melancholy. 

“It lives beneath our skin, burns like a disease. But it’s still love even when it doesn’t seem like it.” She smiles, a woeful thing that seems wise beyond her years, her distant stare now focused on her kids again. “You’ll understand it too, one day.”

Elaerys feels her words land like an ominous warning, sending a chill down her spine. 

How could she ever understand such a thing? Would she gain some perspective once she becomes a mother herself? Can she love any children she might be forced to have unconditionally and wholeheartedly, even despite their father? Or, absurd as it might seem, could she ever come to feel any kind of genuine affection for her husband despite the nature of their marriage? What kind of misshapen love could ever grow from such a union? 

“What if I don’t?” Elaerys can’t help but ask, somewhat, pathetically desperate. “What if I can’t?” 

How much room is there for genuine love to grow when it’s so overburdened by duty, when it’s cloaked beneath secrets and imminent betrayal? 

“We don’t get to choose how these things play out.” Helaena only looks at her like the answer is quite simple. “It just happens. Whether you will it or not, it’s how it’s meant to be.” 

Elaerys contemplates this with an unhappy frown. The thought of being completely removed of agency in the course of her own life is as unappealing as the future that’s been written out for her already. She isn’t meant to be passive. 

If this is the way Targaryens show familial love, she wants little to do with it. 

But there’s a niggling fear in the back of her mind that whispers that no matter how far she runs, how much she tries to escape it, she’ll wake one day to find herself already trapped in the cage of their making. 

“No,” Elaerys determines, almost to herself. “Surely there’s more to this than merely settling for sacrifice disguised as honor and duty.” 

Helaena’s expression softens, her tone lightens slightly as she looks at Elaerys with something close to amusement. 

“It might be the case for you.” Helaena looks out the window again, to the distant spot where Vhagar disappeared before. “He wasn’t always like that, you know. Aemond.” 

Elaerys can only stare, surprised by this revelation. 

“He was always a quiet boy, too serious at times, but ultimately just shy.” Her lips lift up, a hint of nostalgia tainting her eyes. “I think most times people mistook his timidness for aloofness. It suited him just fine, he was too proud to admit to it. But underneath that he used to be sweet, even gentle, with the ones he chose to be.” 

Sweet and gentle seem like oxymorons for the man Elaerys has come to know, she can’t imagine that side of him that Helaena apparently remembers so clearly given by the tender look in her eyes. 

“He used to help me catch insects for my collection when we were children, even when he found them disgusting most of the time,” she laughs lightly at the memory. “One time he brought me a butterfly, the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. But he’d been too rough with it, broke her wing. I cried the whole afternoon when it died.” 

Helaena’s soft expression grows a tad sad, a hint of regret in her gaze. “I remember telling him he was too rough to handle such delicate beings. He was determined to prove me wrong. So the next week he brought me a chrysalis, intact, said he’d been careful enough to handle it and promised that a butterfly would come out in time, perfectly healthy.” 

Elaerys finds herself surprised by the soft smile that tugs at the corners of her own lips as she pictures a young Aemond, stubborn frown firmly etched on his brow, presenting his gift to his older sister like a cat proudly showing off his hunt. 

“I was appalled that he’d taken it out of the gardens, and tended to it for weeks hoping that it wouldn’t die.” Helaena continues with a shake of her head. “And surprisingly enough it finally hatched some weeks later. Only, what came out was a moth rather than a butterfly.” 

Helaena chuckles softly at the childhood tale, her airy laugh contagious, and Elaerys can’t help but join her in her reminiscent mirth. 

“Aemond was dismayed to find out,” Helaena says between giggles. “But I thought it was quite the pretty moth, all things considered.” 

“Did he ever find you a decent butterfly?” Elaerys asks, traces of laughter still lingering in the air. 

“No.” Helaena shakes her head. “He was so disheartened by his failed attempt he never tried it again. I think he was more upset with himself than at the thing that crawled out of that chrysalis.” She sighs. “He always thought too much, felt too much.” 

Elaerys thinks about their kiss, the vague hints he’s let slip about himself and his relationship with his family, the way he immerses himself in his books and his training, and feels something in her chest twitch. 

“He still does, I think,” Elaerys murmurs, more to herself, her mind drifting to his intense reaction that night of the feast. 

“He can be a bit too protective as well. It’s in his nature, to guard the things he cares about,” Helaena says absently, almost as if knowing where Elaerys’ thoughts have gone. “When Aegon and I were married, Aemond warned him that if he ever hurt me he would answer for it. He was barely more than a boy himself, what harm could he have done then?” Suddenly her face drops, fond nostalgia replaced by a worried frown. “But now he’s a man grown, and his temper has grown with him. Sometimes I fear that darkness will consume him.” 

“What changed then?” Elaerys asks, trying to make sense of this hidden glimpse of who her betrothed used to be. 

Losing an eye was certainly a major thing but she can’t help but think that it’s not the only source of such a change in demeanor. What happened to turn a quiet, mostly timid boy into a hardened, cold man that can seemingly snap at the barest provocation? 

“This place isn’t gentle to those of us who don’t conform to their expectations,” Helaena says, her tone the one of quiet resignation. “He was a Targaryen prince without a dragon, the only one of us who lacked that bond, and then he was a boy without an eye…” she fidgets with the beads of her bracelet, fingers running along its butterfly charm. “The walls of the Red Keep can only breed resentment when shifting powers are at stake.” 

Her eyes meet Elaerys’ again, almost imploring. “But I know that gentle, shy boy must still be there somewhere. I think perhaps, he just needs a little warmth to thaw his tough exterior, wake that part of him again.” 

Elaerys blinks, a bit bewildered, trying to wrap her head around what Helaena has just revealed. 

“I hope you are strong enough to bear the fire long enough to reach it.” 

Elaerys bites her lips, trying to mask how Helaena’s words unnerved her with a light, breathless laugh. 

“I think that’s asking a bit too much from a union formed merely for political reasons.” She tries to wave off. “How could I ever do that?” 

Helaena stands, walking to the side of her room, and stops before a counter full of odd trinkets and glass cases displaying collections of pinned insects. 

“‘Tis a fickle thing, fire,” she murmurs absently. “Too little and it dowses into embers, too much and it grows into an inferno. It must be just enough. One must not mistake the burning for warmth, but sometimes it can’t be helped.” 

Helaena runs an idle finger over one of the cases, dark, smoky wings pinned against the canvas backdrop; moth wings. “It eats what it loves.” 

Elaerys squints her eyes, thrown by the odd string of disconnected thoughts. “What does? Moths?” 

Helaena turns to face her again, her focus returning, as if she’s just woken from a dream. She approaches her, letting her fingers gently brush against the intricate stitches that make up the underside of the maiden cloak that still rests carefully over Elaerys’ lap. 

“You’ll make a beautiful bride,” she says softly. 

Then, she smiles faintly and turns to her children, walking toward them like drifting into a different dream, letting the moment pass like a quiet breeze. 

Elaerys stares blankly for a moment, unsettled by the bizarre exchange. There’s a vague feeling that tells her Helaena’s seemingly random riddles must have some deeper meaning. But she’s unable to make sense of it and doesn’t have the time nor the energy to try. 

She thanks Helaena sincerely and stands to leave. As she turns back, she sees Helaena now seated by the windowsill, frame outlined by the soft morning light, her twins’ childlike giggles echoing faintly. The picture they paint is serene, almost idyllic, a harsh contrast to the one she’d walked into earlier. 

For the first time, Elaerys can’t help but doubt what exactly she’s entering with this marriage, if she’s walking into some tragic, hidden beauty warped by duty, or something truly monstrous, just waiting in the shadows ready to swallow her whole. 

The King has organized a hunt, both to celebrate his son’s upcoming wedding and to entertain the growing number of guests they’re receiving in King’s Landing. Given his delicate health, Viserys himself would not be attending, but as it turns out, Otto had made it quite clear that Elaerys’ presence would be expected at the celebration as he announced this arrangement the night before during dinner. 

Not that Elaerys could complain, she’s used to accompanying her uncle on such events back in Runestone. However, she’s not particularly keen on being kept inside the Queen’s royal pavilion with the rest of the ladies of the court while the men make all the necessary preparations for the hunt. 

As she sits now, sheltered beneath the crimson shade of the spacious tent, lavished in opulent cushions and fancy rugs, Elaerys can’t help but feel slightly suffocated. 

The Queen sits on the other side of the pavilion, entertaining the more senior matrons of the court while the younger ladies of marriageable age are delegated to their own circle, mingling in small groups that Elaerys is expected to join. 

She wouldn’t have much of an issue with the forced niceties and fake smiles she’s required to give if she didn’t find her current company quite so hypocritical. 

“You’ve kept yourself rather enigmatic, Lady Elaerys,” Lady Staunton comments lightly. “But I dare say it was a smart strategy, letting all of us wonder what had become of you and then making a striking reappearance.” She lets her doe eyes wander over Elaerys’ attire in a once-over that she’s not sure how to interpret. “I’m sure you will catch many an eye.”

“Indeed, you wear bronze so nicely, my lady.” Lady Redwyne joins on the evidently sycophantic flattery, her smile just on the edge of patronizing. “So very distinctive, not everyone can wear such a bold shade.” 

Her tone is polite, but Elaerys can’t help but feel like it was delivered like a backhanded compliment. Either way, she smiles graciously and matches their courtesy with poise. 

“A much more suitable color than green in my humble opinion,” says Lady Hayford, her shrewd gaze not quite hidden beneath her courteous nod. “I do hope you’re not forced to change your entire wardrobe once you’re married. But in any case, black is always an elegant shade.”

Elaerys doesn’t miss the subtle meaning in those words. Mila’s reports have not been able to glean more clearly where exactly allegiances lie within these noble Houses, but this little conversation might just give her a hint. 

“I’m quite sure my wardrobe choices will not be of much concern to my future husband.” Elaerys waves off with an amused grin. “I can’t imagine a man like him would have much of an opinion on fashion.” 

A light ripple of laughter bursts between the gathered ladies. 

“And what a grandiose change it will be,” Lady Fell gushes, a little more genuine. “A Princess of the Realm! You must be beside yourself with joy.” 

Elaerys inclines her head with a neutral hum. “It is indeed an honor to be recognized as part of the Royal Family.” 

“Quite an opportunity one must not squander,” Lady Redfort agrees, a keen sparkle in her eyes. “Although we had been quite sure House Royce would’ve chosen to tighten ties within the Vale. But I suppose royal bloodlines are a far better prospect.” She takes a sip of her wine, a hint of dark amusement in her subtle smirk. “Even slightly damaged goods hold far greater appeal when gilded with gold.”  

Elaerys bristles internally, feeling her cheeks tighten as she tries to hold her graceful smile. She’s not sure what irks her more, the clear dig at Aemond, or the subtle implication of her being an opportunist. 

“Indeed,” she lets her smile sharpen as she arches an eyebrow, letting the Redfort lady see she will not be cowed by graceless jibes. “What is one missing jewel in a crown full of gemstones?” 

Elaerys takes a generous sip of her own wine, enjoying how the other lady’s lips thin in slight chagrin. 

“And what an unexpected union it was,” Lady Sunderland comments lightly, her probing tone a clear giveaway to her curiosity. “We were all sure, back in the Vale, that a match with the Graftons was all but a given. You can imagine all our surprise when that didn’t come to pass.” 

“Pity. Ser Grafton is certainly a handsome man. He seems charming and kind.” Lady Fell sighs wistfully. “It would’ve been a fortunate match.” 

“I do hope there was no mourning in the loss of that potential union, my lady.” Lady Sunderland says with affected sympathy. “You would not be the first one of us who had to bear such an unfortunate fate. To be sure, you would have all of our deepest condolences if that were the case.” She lowers her voice as she leans in with a conspiratorial murmur. “Should we commiserate with you?” 

“I assure you, Lady Sunderland, there’s no need.” Elaerys is quick to shut down once and for all the rumors that might have been spreading with an unaffected laugh, making it clear she is not the heartbroken lady they might have painted her to be. “Nothing was lost in that pretended union. There was no previous understanding that I could have possibly mourned.” 

“How fortunate,” Lady Redwine says. “It certainly makes your situation easier to bear, although I confess my lady, I do not envy your position.” 

“It is said Prince Aemond has quite the difficult temper. Must need a strong lady with enough forbearance to manage his tempestuous moods,” Lady Staunton adds, her casual delivery not masking its gossipy nature. She turns to Elaerys with a deferential nod that she couldn’t find more disingenuous. “I am sure, no one could be more ideal than you for such a task, Lady Elaerys.” 

“And to think it could have almost been you Maris,” Lady Fell says with a light laugh, all mock innocence. “That would have surely been disastrous.” 

The group hums with thinly veiled intrigue, all eyes turning to Lady Maris Baratheon, who’d remained quietly observing the exchange, her deep blue eyes sparking with clear interest over an amused smirk.

“It could have also been any one of my sisters,” she dismisses with a seemingly indifferent shrug. “The Lord Hand never did get to pick who he wanted for his grandson.” 

Elaerys’ brows draw together in confusion. “What is that about?” 

Maris Baratheon takes a deliberate sip of wine before smiling at Elaerys, her sharp tongue cloaked beneath lethal beauty. 

“Indeed, my lady, Ser Otto Hightower was in serious talks with our father about a potential marriage between one of us and Prince Aemond,” she says, an edge of something insidious dancing in the blue of her eyes. “Of course the arrangement never came to pass. Our father was furious about the abrupt change in plans but alas, the Queen must have found something far more… useful in House Royce.” 

She lets her words hang in the air, polite yet vaguely venomous. Elaerys instinctively feels her hackles rise at the obvious bait, the meaning clear; that she’s a mere pawn in a bigger game. Like she doesn’t already know this union is nothing but convenience, as though she could easily be hurt by the suggestion that no real feelings are involved in a game where the bigger players pick and choose the more powerful connection. 

But what she does wonder is, what exactly was Otto looking for in the Baratheons? 

Regardless, Elaerys keeps her serene poise perfectly intact. 

“Useful is an odd word for such a union, Lady Maris.” She says, tilting her head with graceful unconcern. “Perhaps it was the King who saw the Blood of the Dragon as far more worthy a match for his son.” 

A few ladies titter and Lady Maris’ smile tightens as the words land for what they are, a reminder of her lesser rank compared to Elaerys. 

The ladies drift into lighter chatter, but Elaerys grows quiet, turning her gaze toward the other corner of the pavilion where Alicent attends her own circle with her ever-present serious grace. She wonders what machinations the Queen must be silently maneuvering, where the extent of her influence lies. 

Every smile in this court is laced with poison, every seemingly innocent inquiry is a dagger in disguise, ready to draw blood at the barest slip. An invisible web extends between every highborn kneeling at the Queen’s feet, ambitions cloaked in flattery and fake loyalty, threads carefully weaved by Otto Hightower and his greed. 

All of it is a vicious game, and Elaerys must learn to play it before it plays her. 

As the sound of laughter floats lazily through the pavilion, Elaerys excuses herself with a polite nod, her need for fresh air suddenly overwhelming. 

She can feel Alicent’s intense stare following her retreat. 

The stop back in her own private tent is a brief retreat. Elaerys takes a quick moment to collect herself, exchange her dress for more fitting riding leathers and her bow and arrows to prepare for the hunt, knowing she will not be persuaded to bear the stifling chatter of the Queen’s pavilion the whole outing, however much Alicent may disapprove of her preferring to join the hunting parties.  

Elaerys steps out of her tent, the warm light of early morning hitting her face. As she takes a deep, grounding breath she welcomes the smell of leather, fresh soil, and pine drifting through the air, letting it soothe her slightly frazzled nerves. 

She is just turning the corner when she almost collides with a tall figure coming the opposite way. 

“Oh! My apologies.” She startles as she feels a pair of strong hands at her shoulders, steadying her before she stumbles. 

“Ah, my lady of Runestone always did prefer the open air,” a familiar cheery voice chuckles, breaking through her quiet moment of self-reflection. “I was beginning to wonder where you’d disappeared to.” 

She takes a step back, tilting her head up to meet Ser Alaric Grafton’s charming smile and twinkling eyes. 

Elaerys feels her pulse quicken, her spine stiffening as she forces a composed smile, silently cursing her luck. 

“Ser Alaric.” She inclines her head politely, widening the distance between them. 

She is aware of how compromising it might look to be found alone with him, especially knowing what the ladies of the court have been whispering behind her back. But to bolt would be equally rude, and so she is forced to stand a bit awkwardly as the young knight bows in a chivalrous greeting. 

“My lady,” he says, warm as ever. “A pleasure to see you again. You have been absent from recent gatherings.” 

“I have been busy with wedding preparations,” Elaerys deflects with slightly distant courtesy, eyes shifting anxiously around them. 

“Of course,” his smile grows a bit strained, but his tone remains affable. “A pity, I would have hoped we could have shared some time together, like old times.” 

“I fear that would’ve no longer been well received,” she says lowly, running her hands through her long leather vest as though straightening imaginary wrinkles. 

“Right.” Alaric clears his throat, a bit subdued now. He trails the movement of her fingers, and a faintly fond smile graces his face. “You’ve not changed much. Still every inch a Vale huntress posing as lady, though I suppose Princess will soon be a more fitting title.”

“I don’t imagine any change of title might ever persuade me to give up my roots,” Elaerys waves off with polite restraint, her feet itching to move. 

“Good.” Alaric takes a tentative step closer, still an appropriate distance away, but close enough to breach comfort. His tone softens as he looks at her with something wistful sparkling in his eyes. “I do hope that never changes in you. This court will surely try to make you something else. I’d hate to think the woman I knew back in the Vale could ever vanish beneath all those fake pleasantries.” 

Elaerys’ breath hitches in her chest, unsure of how to take his words. She suddenly recalls Mila’s suggestion that Alaric might hold affection for her, and —quite frustratingly— Aemond’s voice drifts into her thoughts, his incensed warnings playing in the back of her mind; 

Are you so naïve to not realize what a man’s interest looks like?

She can’t help but wonder whether that interest is affection or ambition. Does that hint of regret in Alaric’s gaze is him mourning her, or merely the lordship he feels slipping from his grasp? He’d never made any feelings he might have for her apparent before. Why now? 

Elaerys settles for a pinched smile, careful not to appear overly warm. “The woman you knew has long since accepted her fate, Ser Alaric. The realm’s demands leave little room for sentiment.”

He laughs, a bitter sound that unsettles her. “Ah, but sentiment is all that makes duty bearable.”

He holds her gaze, and Elaerys has the sudden urge to flee under its intensity. 

“In any case,” he continues, regaining his usual easy charm. “I’m glad we had this chance to talk more privately. I could not part without wishing you well, my lady. May you find all the happiness you deserve in your marriage.” 

“Thank you,” she breathes, torn between the fond memories of their innocent childhood friendship, and the apprehension that finding him again now brings her. 

“But, if ever that place you’re forced into feels too heavy a burden to carry…” Alaric hesitates, then lowers his voice into a soft murmur. “Know that you still have a friend beyond these walls.”

She feels the air thin around her, the offer toying a treacherous line between kindness and danger. She would rather not take the risk of further misunderstanding. 

“I thank you Ser,” Elaerys says with a gracious, but detached smile, quickly placing a decent barrier to break the precarious warmth he’d raised between them. “Your friendship honors me. Truly. But I’m sure I’ll be able to manage that burden.”

Alaric straightens, masking the flicker of hurt with a stoic composure. “Then I wish you fortune, my lady, and peace, if such a thing can be found in the Red Keep.”

He bows before her, the galant gesture more personal than formal.

Elaerys inclines her head, feeling something in her heart squeeze, fluttering between gratitude and unease. 

“Thank you, Ser Alaric,” she whispers, sincere despite her clear dismissal. 

He departs toward the edge of the encampment without further insistence, and as she watches his retreating form she lets out a harsh breath, relief and guilt curdling in the pit of her stomach. The unexpected encounter leaves a faint tremor beneath her ribs, something she wishes to chase away, riding through the forest. 

But as Elaerys turns to head toward the gathering hunting parties she catches a glint of silver and polished leather, and her heart lurches in her chest with sudden dread. 

Aemond. 

He stands in the distance, perfectly still next to his horse and the mingling lords preparing for the hunt, his single lilac eye fixed on her, expression unreadable. 

But she has no doubt he saw enough. 

The air thickens in her lungs, every sound muffled but the slow burn beneath her skin. And Elaerys realizes how easily that innocent exchange might be misinterpreted, how dangerous it is to inadvertently provoke Aemond’s territorial nature again.

She doesn’t get the chance to approach him though. Before she can decide whether that’s even a good idea he is already leading his horse back into the tree line, where the gathering men prepare to leave. 

Elaerys huffs, making her own way to the makeshift stables where she last left Zephyr. As she leads her silver mare back to the clearing, a booming voice halts her movements. 

“Ah, there you are Ella,” Ser Gerold approaches in an awfully good mood, already on his horse. “And here I was beginning to think you would rather have tea with the Queen than come with your old uncle.”

Elaerys laughs. “I think I would rather face a boar’s tusks than another hour of court gossip, Uncle.”  

The sound chatter and bustle of squires and servants scrambling to prepare their lord’s horses is cut by a familiar, amused drawl. 

“So, is the Lady of Runestone about to show us all up with her skills with a bow?” 

Elaerys turns to find Aegon coming closer, flanked by his brother, both mounted and clad in fine hunting leathers, although one could not look more different from the other. While Aegon leans a bit haphazardly on his horse, clearly already tipsy, Aemond appears his usual pristine self, the picture of controlled austerity, lean figure imposing over his brown stallion.

Elaerys dips her head politely, schooling her expression as she registers Aemond’s inscrutable gaze. His demeanor is perfectly nonchalant, but his single eye lingers on her just long enough to unnerve her a little. 

“The princes will be joining our little hunting party today,” Ser Gerold explains with a diplomatic grin. “A fine honor, wouldn’t you agree, Ella?” 

“Oh! How fortunate indeed,” Elaerys says, her lips curling up in wry amusement as she watches Aegon struggle with his horse’s reins. “Surely the woods will tremble in anticipation.” 

She shares a look with her Uncle, who chuckles subtly under his breath, clearly catching on her sarcastic quip. And as she turns to Zephyr she catches Aemond’s eye again, a glint of dry amusement flickering in his gaze, so fleeting Elaerys isn’t sure if she imagined it. 

She moves to mount Zephyr and waves off the squire that tries to offer her a helping hand, easily hopping onto the mare with one swift movement. 

“I wonder, cousin,” Aegon grins, accepting the waterskin his squire hands him and taking a generous swig of what Elaerys is certain is anything but water. “Are you as talented on the field as you are in the training yard?” 

“A lady must never boast, my prince.” Elaerys shrugs. “I should let my abilities speak for themselves.” 

“Wonderful. I say we make this interesting,” Aegon says, slouching on his saddle. “A wager, perhaps? Let’s see who brings back the grandest trophy.” 

Ser Gerold laughs indulgently, and Elaerys plays along with a mild tease. 

“I see you are quite confident in your own skills, cousin.” Elaerys directs Zephyr closer to Aegon, eyebrow raised. “But I accept, let it never be said that I am one to back down from a challenge.” 

“Calling that a challenge might be too generous.” Aemond’s voice cuts in, sharp as a blade and eerily quiet as he comes to flank his brother’s other side, almost caging him between his own stallion and Zephyr. “And that is assuming my brother can even hold his spear straight long enough to aim.”

Aegon scowls for a brief moment, letting his smirk sharpen in dark amusement. 

“Here, you would benefit from this every once in a while.” He waves the waterskin toward Aemond. “It might help loosen that stick up your ass.” 

Before Aemond can retaliate, a horn is blown signaling the start of the hunt, and the gathering group marches forward. As they ride out, the large crowd slowly divides loosely into smaller clusters, leaving their party reduced to the four of them and a few of Ser Gerold’s trusted friends. 

Ser Gerold falls slightly behind with his men, leaving the younger trio to remain near the front.

Elaerys would normally enjoy the focus of the hunt, but it’s hard to concentrate on the forest sounds when Aegon’s loud voice constantly cuts through the stillness. 

She wonders if he’s doing it just to see how long it will take Aemond to snap. 

“I don’t understand the need for this much fuss,” Aegon says. “Why would Father insist on all these theatrics when he can barely stand longer than ten minutes without keeling over?” 

“As opposed to you…?” Aemond drawls, lifting an eyebrow. 

Aegon shoots him an unamused look. “What I mean is, he’s too ill to join, so why even organize this in the first place?” 

“Because, brother, an entertained court makes for complacent Houses,” Aemond sighs. “And the Crown must cultivate its alliances. Father surely understands that, as far gone as he is already.” 

Elaerys can’t help but silently wonder if Viserys truly was the one who insisted on this courtly outing. 

Aegon rolls his eyes with a groan. “And why must we be the ones to entertain? Shouldn’t this diplomatic nonsense fall on his precious heir?”

“I suppose our dear sister has far more important matters to attend to than her future subjects,” Aemond says with icy dryness. “It makes one wonder, if the Princess of Dragonstone is disregarding her courtly duties now, how much more will she neglect once she sits the throne?” 

Elaerys chances a subtle look over her shoulder, glancing back and meeting her uncle’s shrewd gaze, clearly paying close attention to this exchange. 

“Ah, one of the many things I couldn’t give less of a shi—“

“Aegon.” Aemond interrupts sharply. 

“Apologies,” Aegon laughs, sending Elaerys an insolent smirk. “I forget we have more delicate company.” 

“Don’t stop on my account, cousin,” Elaerys waves off. “These delicate ears are not quite so sensitive.” 

“Anyway,” Aegon rolls his eyes. “What do I care what Rhaenyra does when she sits the damn throne, if she ever does,” he grumbles. “Why should we be the ones to bear this while she sits in the comfort of Dragonstone? It should be us who enjoy the laidback life.” 

“Must you keep whining like a child? You laze around often enough, drinking to your heart’s content.” Aemond finally loses his patience, his nose wrinkling as he looks at his brother with evident disapproval. “One single court engagement will not kill you, Aegon. Let Rhaenyra falter in her duties if she pleases, the realm must be assured others are there to fill the void.” 

Aegon’s answering cackle hides something dark within its sharp mirth. 

“Ah, there comes the dutiful son, ready to pick up the slack is it? And what has it gained you?” Aegon’s lips twist in a taunting  smirk, eyes sparkling with insidious mischief. “Tell me, Aemond, has being such a prig ever got you Father’s notice? Does Mother’s approval taste any sweeter now that she’s used you as she pleases?” 

Aemond’s face remains carefully impassive, but his eye narrows minutely with a fleeting shadow that darkens his gaze, far too quick for her to decipher. 

Elaerys glances between the brothers, sensing danger under the scathing humor, the way their barbs cut a little too close to home. This isn’t the typical brotherly banter, they use words like blades, and Elaerys can sense the storm simmering beneath Aemond’s steel surface. 

“I care little for approval,” Aemond says, in that cool low murmur that reminds her of a snake’s warning hiss. “And as for notice, there will come a time for it. But far be it from me to expect you to understand it.” His lips lift in a sneer. “Leave the hunt to me brother, you can nurse your wine all you like.” 

Aemond snaps his reins and urges his horse in a brisker pace, advancing to the lead. 

The forest begins to close in around them, shafts of sunlight barely cutting through the canopy, the rhythmic thud of hooves filling the silence after that tense exchange. Elaerys rides slightly ahead, catching up to Aemond and slowing once she falls into step beside him. 

She feels Aemond’s gaze flicker to her, but neither acknowledges the other for a moment, simply focusing on the trail, even though she can still feel that shrouded, restrained energy coiling beneath his cool demeanor. 

It isn’t long before they’ve put some distance between them and their little hunting party, Aegon’s loud quips now a faint sound in the distance. 

“So are you leaving your uncle behind?” Aemond finally speaks. 

“At this rate, your brother will end up driving all the game away.” She shrugs. “I have to put some distance between us if I mean to actually catch anything, and someone must unfortunately entertain Aegon.” 

“We might have to compensate Ser Gerold handsomely for his noble sacrifice then,” Aemond says dryly, making Elaerys’ lips quirk. 

“He’ll live.” 

She urges Zephyr forward, concentrating on spotting any visible tracks in the underbrush. 

“You mean to lead then?” Aemond says, and Elaerys notices she’s moved slightly ahead when she has to turn back to look at him. “Do you know where you’re going?” 

“I’ve never led a hunting party before,” Elaerys says lightly, despite her dislike for his skeptic tone. “Might be a fun opportunity. Contrary to what you may think, I actually know how to track prey.” 

“Ah, I didn’t know you were quite so familiar with the Kingswood,” Aemond remarks, clearly sardonic. 

Elaerys lets out a small huff. “I thought the art of hunting requires stealth and quiet.” 

“Apologies, my lady.” Aemond nods with mock deference. “I shall strive to remain perfectly quiet. Would that be more to your liking?” 

“That depends.” Elaerys pretends to consider it, letting her mouth quirk in a teasing grin. “I find I quite enjoy the sound of your voice when you’re not acting like a condescending jerk.” 

Aemond seems a bit thrown by the statement, teetering between amusement and offense. He settles for both, Elaerys supposes, rolling his eye with a shake of his head, but she still sees the way his lips tug down against a smile. 

They continue on their way in relative silence, and Elaerys finds she doesn’t mind his quiet, steady presence by her side. They trade places leading ahead, depending on who spots a trail first, moving through the woods in seamless rhythm and exchanging the occasional opinion on the best way to continue, with predictably differing views. 

But the once drawn tension that strained between them seems to loosen the more they travel. 

After what feels like ages without much progress, Elaerys finally catches a faint huffing sound amidst the call of birds. She turns, glimpses a hint of movement across the trees, and as she carefully directs Zephyr just a step closer she spots it; a massive, dark creature rooting through the undergrowth, tusks contrasting against its thick coat. 

A boar. 

She signals to Aemond silently with a raised hand and a quiet gesture of her head. He reins in immediately, matching her stillness. 

They move in sync without speaking, as if instinctively attuned, silently closing in on the animal, oblivious to their approaching presence. 

Elaerys nocks an arrow, focus sharpening on her target. 

“I’ve got it,” She breathes, bow drawn and ready. 

She can feel Aemond’s close presence right next to her, his almost imperceptible murmur  behind her shoulder reaching her like the wind against her cheeks. 

“Then hit true.”

She releases. 

Her arrow slings past her with a hiss and hits its intended target on the ribs. The boar lets out a loud shriek, wounded and panicked but nowhere near injured enough to be easily knocked over. Instead, it tears through the underbrush with a furious roar, coming directly towards them. 

Zephyr rears at the sudden commotion, ready to bolt, but Elaerys holds firm. And Aemond spurs his stallion forward instantly, spear ready in his hand as he charges at the wild beast, making it change course. 

The forest’s previous stillness breaks with the sound of hooves clomping, branches snapping, and the boar crashing through leaves while Elaerys rides after Aemond, bow drawn again, the two weaving through the trees like mirrored figures in a dance.

Aemond gallops ahead at breakneck speed, closing in on the fleeing boar, corralling it while Elaerys comes closer behind. She looses another arrow, this one grazing the beast’s flank.

The boar screeches, loses momentum at the new hit. It changes course abruptly, and Aemond maneuvers ahead, his spear angled downward with the practiced precision of a warrior.

Their eyes meet across the blur of motion, a flicker of silent communication. She knows what to do without further prompting.

Elaerys veers left, cutting off the beast’s escape while Aemond strikes forward, impaling it through the shoulder.

A successful trap. The boar collapses between them with a loud thud. 

Aemond dismounts fluidly, his spear still lodged in the creature. Elaerys hops off from her horse too, breath heaving, bow still drawn and ready to strike if the boar moves again.

For a heartbeat, silence descends between them, only broken by their labored breathing, their eyes locked over their kill.

“Well,” Elaerys heaves. “I’d call that a successful hunt.” 

Aemond nods with a contemplative hum. “Impressive, I must say.” 

She tries to fight down the heat rushing to her cheeks at his intense gaze, feeling something akin to pride flutter beneath her ribs at his wholly unexpected praise. 

The rest of the hunting party catches up to them a few moments later, and Ser Gerold cheers loudly at the accomplished hunt, prodding them for details about the chase. 

But Elaerys and Aemond remain strangely still, caught in the quiet aftermath of their unexpected teamwork. She can’t help but fixate on it; that seamless coordination, the silent understanding, as though they’d done this a thousand times before, their precise actions made perfect in their cohesive instinct. 

When Ser Gerold asks who is to claim the kill, Elaerys and Aemond’s gazes meet. 

“I suppose this means the wager is void.” Elaerys breaks the spell with an arch grin. “A tie?”

Aemond smirks faintly, lowering his spear. “I would’ve taken you for someone more competitive to settle for a tie.” 

“Well, one must learn to win gracefully.” Elaerys shrugs, her eyes firmly fixed on him. “And also when to cut their losses.” 

“That seems too close to admitting defeat.” Aemond takes a step closer. “I don’t believe in ties.” 

“Then perhaps you should learn the fine art of humility, ñuha dārilaros.” 

She expects it might have irked him, but instead Aemond looks almost amused. His eye trailing over her leather-clad figure like he’s measuring her up.

He leans closer, his voice almost a murmur. “Or perhaps I should teach you to be more unyielding.”

He turns, making his way back to his horse as he calls over his shoulder, perfectly nonchalant. “The kill is yours, my lady. Own it proudly.” 

Not exactly what she’d been expecting. Elaerys is left to stare after him, more than a bit baffled. 

As Ser Gerold’s men prepare the game to bring back to camp, Aegon stumbles closer congratulating Elaerys with a broad grin that feels just a tad too irreverent to be sincere, and promptly turns his attention to his brother. 

“Well done, Aemond!” Aegon claps him on the shoulder with a rough shake. “All that time spent in the training yard has finally paid off! What can you do, some men are meant to be legendary warriors and others… well,” he chuckles. “Others have to settle for pigs.” 

He cackles like it’s some sort of inside joke between them, and it’s clear that his jeers must have some hidden meaning by the way Aemond immediately tenses, lips disappearing into a thin line as his fists tighten around his horse’s reins. 

But Aegon looks completely oblivious, his loud giggles sounding mean even to Elaerys’ ears. 

“Ah, come now brother, don’t look so sour.” Aegon lips pull in a mocking pout. “Our grandsire will surely be proud of your prowess, you do exactly what he expects you to do. Perhaps the tall tale will even make Father remember your name for once!” 

Elaerys can’t hide her scowl at what she witnesses, feeling her chest tighten with some unexpected affront that shouldn’t belong to her. 

Aemond doesn’t rise to the bait, simply mounting on his horse with an impeccable mask of cool indifference, as though he finds Aegon’s taunts too far beneath him to even acknowledge. 

As they turn to ride back toward camp, Elaerys glances at him, expecting the façade to crack at some point and finding not a single weakness. He rides beside her, silent and composed, but there’s something she can’t quite decipher in the depth of his icy stare, something that rings familiar. 

She wonders, not for the first time, whether this man’s hidden fire could ever be contained into a manageable spark to match her own, or whether it blazes too intensely to be controlled, bright enough to consume her. 

Dusk is falling rapidly in the Kingswood, the smoky scent of roasted meat still lingers in the air, laughter from the gathered crowd celebrating and drinking in honor of a plentiful hunt drift throughout the scattered tents. It’s clear the spirits are high as evening approaches, and Elaerys supposes she should feel flattered that more than half the toasts are made in her honor. 

Yet her eyes keep searching the crowd, constantly sweeping across the encampment like she expects to find him there. 

But apparently, her betrothed is nowhere to be found within the mingling guests. 

She can’t say she blames him. If she didn’t have Alicent’s careful gaze constantly hovering over her, Elaerys might have also made a disappearing act herself. Her cheeks already feel stiff from all the smiles she’s been forced to keep, but now that the sun is setting over the horizon, she finally has a feasible reason to excuse herself and retire. 

But she has little intentions to hide within her tent just yet. 

She walks leisurely across the clearing where they’ve settled, until she finally spots Aemond at the very edge of the encampment, half-shrouded between the tree line and the dying light of late afternoon. He tends to his horse with an icy calmness that feels bizarre, not least because she knows there must be some available footman or squire who would normally do that for him, especially when a prince would be expected to indulge in the festivities thrown in his honor. 

And yet, it would seem he’d rather stand apart in quiet isolation. 

Elaerys hesitates for a moment before she approaches, some unexplainable pull drawing her to him, despite the heaviness she still feels lingering in the air after the hunt. 

“I wouldn’t have expected to find you here,” she says with tentative breeziness. 

Aemond doesn’t turn to acknowledge her, his movements sharp and methodical as he keeps unfastening his saddle, the set of his jaw tight.

“You keep finding me despite your wishes,”he answers stiffly. “If I didn’t know any better I’d suspect you’re purposely trying to.” 

Elaerys chuckles, drawing closer as she takes out an apple she’d sneaked from the feast table into her pocket, and extends a hand toward Aemond’s horse. 

“May I?” 

Aemond’s attention finally settles on her. He nods with a slight furrow of his brow. 

“I reckon he should be rewarded for doing such a wonderful job today.” Elaerys runs a gentle hand over the horse’s brown muzzle, feeling its whiskers brushing her palm as he happily feeds on the treat she offered. “And so did his rider.” 

Her eyes drift to Aemond, but she finds little warmth in his lilac gaze. 

“You as well,” he returns, short and clipped. 

She fumbles for a moment, a bit thrown off by his cool detachment. She would’ve thought his usual icy demeanor was starting to thaw a bit around her by now. 

“Shouldn’t you be joining the celebrations then?” Elaerys ventures again with a wry smile. “It feels a bit weird being the only one of us showing her face when this was held in honor of our engagement.” 

“Does it?” He asks dryly. “Didn’t feel like such an inconvenience all that time you disappeared.” She doesn’t miss the bitterness in his tone as he turns. “In any case, I’m not in the mood.” 

“Is this because of Aegon?” She furrows her brow, trying to catch his elusive gaze. “You shouldn’t let whatever nonsense he spouts trouble you so. He’s only trying to get a rise out of you.” 

Aemond whirls to face her again, the cutting edge in his voice startling her. “And what exactly would you know about what troubles me, my lady?” 

“I only meant to say—“ 

“Spare me the pretend niceties,” he snaps, a mocking sneer on his lips. “They will serve you better with the court, you seem to be thriving amongst them quite splendidly.” 

“What is that supposed to mean?” Elaerys scowls, feeling the sting of affront. “If you intend to insult me, you might as well say it plainly.”

“I’ve no need to insult you. It is only an observation.” Aemond tilts his head. “You can’t seem to make up your mind on what it is you want, so which is it, Elaerys? Do you actually mean to seek me out or does it keep being a funny accident to you?” He takes a step closer, flinty gaze narrowing on her. “Is the game entertaining enough?” 

Elaerys feels the spark of indignation flare in her chest, making her blood pulse. 

“That’s rich coming from you,” she spats right back, refusing to back down. “Perhaps my approaches would be more consistent if you didn’t make it such a hassle! How am I meant to have any meaningful interactions with you when you barely even acknowledge me every time we are in a public setting.” She throws her hands up in a frustrated gesture. “A block of ice would be warmer than you.” 

“I apologize then, if I didn’t live up to your expectations,” Aemond says lowly, lips curling with marked disdain. “But you seem to have no trouble finding the kind of warmth you seek elsewhere.” He draws nearer, cold eye sparking. “Ser Grafton seems like an ideal choice, doesn’t he?” 

Elaerys’ breath catches in her throat. Any guilt she might have had curdling with her utter disbelief that he would have the audacity.

“I beg your pardon?!” 

“You heard me.” Aemond doubles down, unashamed, crowding her space now. “You two seemed rather cozy together. Perhaps you prefer men who smile easily and speak sweetly. If that’s the kind of flattery you’d expect I can perfectly understand the disillusionment.”

“What am I, an airheaded, vain minx?” She feels her cheeks heat up, righteously incensed. “Is that what you think of me?”

“No. I think you know exactly how to cloak your true self behind that charming smile.”  His voice softens dangerously. “And you might fool everyone else, but you can’t fool me, Elaerys. I see what burns beneath it.” 

She steps even closer, seething and ready to snap. 

“You’re insufferable.” 

“And yet here you are.” 

Aemond frowns. Rather than smug, he seems almost bewildered by her persistence, which makes it sting even more.

Elaerys scoffs. 

“I’m not going to run for the hills just because it suits you better. You think you can cow me into submission?” She snaps, voice trembling with barely controlled anger. “With that arrogant sneer thinking you know better than everyone else. Well you’re wrong. If you mean to intimidate me, you’ll be sorely disappointed.” 

Her chest heaves with the intensity of her rant, not sure if her slip of temper would provoke his rage, but rather than appear insulted Aemond looks oddly… pleased. 

“There she is,” he breathes, lowering his head closer to her level, gaze flickering with something she can’t quite decipher. “How does it feel to finally let that fire you’ve been hiding loose?” 

Elaerys blinks, bemused. 

“Wh—“ 

“Tell me, Elaerys,” Aemond’s voice drops to that dark, velvet murmur she knows well, so close to her their chests almost brush against each other. “Does your charming knight make you tremble this way when he’s near you?”

Her answering sharp gasp lodges in her throat, the heat of her indignation fluttering low in her belly. 

“How dare you—!”

“I dare because I’ve seen that look in your eyes when you think no one notices,” he cuts her off, she can almost feel his words against her mouth. “I’ve seen it when you look at your target. When you’re ready to strike.” 

Elaerys lifts her chin up, undaunted. “And what is it you think you’ve seen?”

“The same fire I see in the mirror.” His blazing gaze flickers from her eyes to her lips. “You and I… we burn alike. And you know it, don’t you?” 

A tense silence lingers between them; the flint to their flame. 

She’s not sure who moves first, frankly she doesn’t care. Elaerys feels his rough hands on her waist almost at the same time as she pulls on the collar of his doublet, and suddenly the energy simmering between them explodes in a bursting flare, their lips crashing together like violent waves breaking on shore. 

There’s nothing sweet about this, she doesn’t feel the same hesitant warmth she’d felt when he first kissed her. It’s furious, raw,  the mutual need to dominate, a clash of teeth and tongue meeting in a frenzied kiss that leaves her breathless. 

It feels like battle. 

Elaerys feels his grip tighten on her hips, pulling her closer. She bites his lower lip in retaliation, eliciting a low sound from him that makes some unexpected heat pool on her stomach. 

If his kiss is fire she’s not sure whether to add kindle to the flame, letting it burn them both in its destructive wake. 

But Aemond pulls back before she can decide. 

His chest heaves against hers, harsh breaths mingling together, but whatever cracked in his careful control slips back on like armor, making him take a deliberate step back from her, leaving her cold and reeling. 

“That was… ill-advised.” 

Aemond’s face is drawn taut, unreadable. Elaerys feels oddly torn between the need to pull him closer and the urge to throttle him out of sheer frustration. 

“Indeed. Perhaps you should work on your flimsy judgment, my prince.” She lifts her chin, biting her lips despite her defiance. “I’m not usually so forgiving.”

His answering faint smirk is as bitter as it is mocking. 

“I shudder to think what that entails.”

He walks away without another word, leaving her standing there, pulse hammering, the taste of his lips still lingering on her tongue; ashes and smoke.

She hates it, hates how rattled he leaves her, how easily he disarms her. Elaerys wonders how it is possible to feel like both archer and prey in this dance between them.

Chapter Text

I have a feeling you got everything you wanted

And you're not wasting time stuck here like me

You're just thinkin' it's a small thing that happened

The world ended when it happened to me ~ We Hug Now

The morning of her wedding dawns faster than she could’ve imagined. Elaerys wakes before daybreak, pulled out of a restless sleep with the fuzzy blue-grey light of predawn barely filtering through gauzy curtains, long shadows cast over her walls like ghostly fingers reaching into her bedchamber. There’s no use in trying to go back to sleep, no use pretending this a morning like any other. 

Mila enters only a few minutes later, accompanied by two more handmaids who are to help her get ready for the day. They move with all the precision of seasoned warriors preparing for war, methodical and brisk as they prepare her bath, filling the copper tub they brought with them with steaming buckets of water while Mila helps her out of her nightclothes. 

Elaerys goes through the motions feeling strangely numb. She steps into the bath, the water warm enough to make her skin flush, but she welcomes the heat, lowering herself into the flowery scent of the water infused with crushed lilac blossoms and dried lavender, letting it sink into her and wash away the remnants of some now forgotten dream. She barely feels the hands scrubbing her flesh raw, the salts melting into the tub, the fingers running through her dark curls as they wash her hair and rub some fragrant oils to keep it luscious and soft. 

Already she doesn’t feel like her body belongs to her anymore. It belongs to them; to the maids that will get her ready, to the eyes of the realm that will judge her worthy or not, to the family that will sink their clutches into her, to a husband that shall claim her soon enough. 

After they’re done rinsing her hair with scented water and moisturizing oils, they let her step out of the now lukewarm tub and dry her gently with warm linens, dab her in perfumed lotions that make her skin feel supple and luminous and entirely too much like a pampered princess. Elaerys supposes such treatment was to be expected. A Targaryen Prince must receive an appropriately preened bride. 

The process of dressing her doesn’t feel any less invasive and much more stifling. A soft, cream colored shift makes the first of the numerous layers they keep adding on her, wrapped beneath stockings, petticoats and stays that are fastened too tight on her body. 

As the maids go to retrieve her dress, Mila makes quick work of redoing the laces of her boned corset, letting her breathe a little easier. 

“Now, much better. Any tighter and you might’ve fainted before you reached the sept,” Mila jokes. “And then what would the Prince do with an unconscious bride?” 

“Might like her better actually,” Elaerys says dryly, lifting her arms as the maids return to don her on the bodice and heavy skirts of her wedding gown. “I could still end up passing out before the ceremony. Perhaps you could tighten the corset again?” 

Mila laughs, but the sound rings hollow in her ears. “Nonsense m’lady, you will face this like you’ve done everything else.” She smooths over the large patterned fabric of her skirts. “With your head held high and a confident spirit.” 

With the layers of her elaborate wedding gown finally in place, Elaerys takes a moment to silently appreciate the magnificent piece. 

The fabric is a cream colored damask embroidered in shimmering bronze thread that travels from the hem of her skirts all the way up to her bodice in swirling patterns akin to dragon wings that curl up like flames, with embroidered ancient runes lining the bottom. The tight-fitted bodice sits snug over her waist, cutting a slender figure, made of delicate Myrish silk woven with the same intricate pattern that swirls from her skirts and embedded with beadwork meticulously arranged in flowing designs that enhance the fine embroidery, glinting in shades of flaming red. It ends in a V-shaped neckline trimmed with lace, framing her collarbones in an elegant silhouette that extends to her arms, sleeves tightly fitted down to her elbows before blooming into dramatic bell-shapes of sheer silk, finely embroidered in that same bronze thread. 

“I dare say, my lady, you shall leave your prince speechless once he sees you.” Mila smiles proudly. 

Elaerys’ own answering grin feels more like a grimace. “Aemond is a man of few words. If indeed he found himself speechless I might not even be able to tell the difference.” 

A gasp reaches her ears, and she whirls to face the door, where Rhaena stands, wide-eyed and grinning. 

“Oh, Ella, you look like a fairytale princess,” she breathes, clearly delighted. 

“One could almost wish the dress was saved for a different occasion, wouldn’t you agree?” 

Elaerys walks toward her vanity where Mila already prepares to do her hair. She thanks her sister with a genuine smile, feeling a bit lighter now that she has the twins back in the Red Keep, ready for the wedding. 

Rhaenyra and her family had arrived the evening before, and Elaerys can already feel the growing tensions between both Targaryen families rising again. 

It’s good to have a moment of peace with Rhaena before the whirlwind of the wedding celebrations sweep her away. Her sister walks over to her and opens the tiny wooden chest she carries in her hands, revealing an assortment of glinting jeweled hairpins, garnets and pale moonstones shimmering as they catch the light of dawn. 

“I wanted to help with your hair,” says Rhaena, sliding next to Mila, who’s already combing through Elaerys’ wild curls. “Baela doesn’t have the patience for these things. She said she will come once you’re ready.” 

“I’m glad to have you here, Rhaena.” Elaerys smiles through the looking glass over her vanity. 

“It’s good to be back, even if only for a little while.” Rhaena’s delicate hands run through her dark tresses, a soothingly gentle touch. “It can sometimes get a bit lonely in Dragonstone, especially back when I didn’t have Baela. I must admit, I quite enjoy talking with the ladies of the court, it’s a welcome change from my usual company.” 

Elaerys lets her jaw drop dramatically. “The ladies of the court? Rhaena, you can’t be serious! Most of them are a bunch of simpering sycophants. They’re vipers dressed in silk.”

Rhaena lets out a startled laugh. “Don’t you think that’s a bit dramatic?” 

“I assure you I have never been dramatic a day in my life,” Elaerys declares, her head tilting a bit to the side as Mila works on parting her hair in perfectly symmetrical sections, tugging her roots a bit too tight. “Lady Maris Baratheon, for example; she all but bragged that Otto originally meant for Aemond to marry one of Lord Borros’ daughters before I came along and ruined it, all with a very polite smile of course.”

Rhaena’s fingers still in her hair, clearly surprised. “The Baratheons? Gods, can you imagine such a match? Aemond paired with a Baratheon’s temper, now that would be a disaster waiting to happen.” 

Elaerys hums. “Perhaps that’s what Otto was counting on.” 

Rhaena frowns, placing the jeweled pins carefully along the braids Mila works through Elaerys’ hair. “Otto Hightower strikes me as someone who wouldn’t appreciate chaos.” 

“He seems to me like a man who would create that chaos if he can then sweep up and claim to be the one who controlled the damage,” Elaerys counters.  “What exactly was he looking for in the Baratheons, I wonder.” 

“They are a respectable and powerful House. And our families have been successfully matched before.” Rhaena shrugs. “Not that I could see Aemond paired with any of Lord Borros’ daughters though, they seem a bit...” 

“Too much,” Elaerys finishes what her sweet sister wouldn’t dare say. “Borros lacks male heirs as of yet.” 

“Lady Elenda is still young. She may yet bear him a son.” 

“And until then this hypothetical heir would be too young for a time. If anything were to happen to Borros...” Elaerys continues, weaving the threads of what she’s been ruminating since the day of the hunt. “A willful daughter at the head of his House with a husband with a tempestuous character to match… now that would be a fearsome thing to have commanding the might of the Stormlanders, wouldn’t you agree?” 

Rhaena pauses again, her eyes finding Elaerys’ through the mirror as she finally grasps what her sister has been hinting at. Otto had ulterior intentions with that match, and Elaerys wasn’t fool enough to believe his designs were much different with his grandson’s change of bride. 

“Then it’s a fortunate thing that Westeros will never be subjected to such a thing.” Rhaena resumes her ministrations, decorating Elaerys’ intricate braids with the ornate pins. She sighs, a bit wistfully. “If only you had been so lucky…” 

Elaerys chews the inside of her cheek. She should be inclined to agree. Would that she’d managed to escape the machinations of both sides of their family and avoid this ill-advised match. And yet… There are times she doesn’t feel quite as discontent as she should whenever she’s forced to spend time with her betrothed. Worse than that, her own body had betrayed her more than once, making her stomach flip with what she can’t quite fool herself to believe is disgust when his lips had touched hers. 

She doesn’t want to think about it, doesn’t want to acknowledge the insistent fluttering in her chest during those times, the treacherous way her eyes seek Aemond, the fact that he’s barely acknowledged her since their heated encounter and that his frosty indifference should be a welcomed relief but it only makes her all the more anxious. 

What would her family think about this development? Surely Baela would think she’s losing her mind. And Rhaena…? 

Rhaena wouldn’t be quite so judgmental, she believes. Perhaps she’d understand, give her a sensible bit of advice. 

“I kissed him,” Elaerys blurts out, quite out of nowhere, almost as if she can’t control the words spilling out of her mouth. 

Rhaena nearly drops the wooden chest with all the bejeweled hairpins. She blinks, eyes widening in shock. Beside her, Mila continues her work, discreet as ever, evidently trying to blend herself into the background like an added piece of furniture.  Not that Elaerys minds her listening. 

“You kissed… Aemond?” 

“No, a stableboy — yes, Aemond! Who else?” Elaerys huffs, hating how her cheeks heat up. “Well, I mean he kissed me, or… I let him kiss me and then let it happen again… and I might have reciprocated.” She looks at her nails, keen to avoid Rhaena’s incredulous gaze.

“Well,” Rhaena tries for a delicate tone, clearly trying to make sense of this sudden revelation. “He is to be your husband… I suppose it is to be expected, it was bound to happen eventually.” 

Elaerys bites back a groan, voice laced with a hint of distress. “He’s supposed to be merely a political match. He’s not meant to be my lover, or…” she waves a vague hand. “whatever this is.” 

Rhaena’s eyes glide in a pointed yet covert glance toward Mila, but Elaerys merely gives a subtle nod, indicating she doesn’t mind her handmaiden listening. 

Rhaena’s lips purse in a contemplative frown, chewing on her next words. “Isn’t that what Father wanted? For you to charm him, get close? Surely that’s the ideal approach for a successful marriage.” 

Rhaena is careful to make her words vague enough not to divulge much of their father’s hidden agenda, just a hint of his designs. 

Elaerys scoffs, her tone riddled with bitterness. “Oh yes. I’m sure Father will be thrilled to know his little pawn plays her role so well.”

“It matters little what Father thinks,” Rhaena sets the little chest on the vanity, firm, yet gentle as her eyes search Elaerys’ gaze. “What matters is how you feel about it.”

Elaerys sucks in her lower lip, contemplative. Truth be told, she finds herself at a loss. A myriad of mixed feelings threaten to burst out of her chest, the combination of both bitterness and temptation, defiance and curiosity. She can’t agree with this forced marriage on principle alone, every fiber of her being rebels against the idea, and yet… the unknown and unexplainable pull she feels sometimes when Aemond is near her is intoxicating, thrilling even, the faintest hint of what she’s glimpsed in him sometimes feels like a kindred spirit, a mirror of her own. A hidden secret just waiting for her to reveal it. 

And the possibility of what she might find entices her as much as it terrifies her. 

“I…” her voice falters, catching in her throat like a confession she refuses to acknowledge. “I don’t know how I feel.” 

Rhaena sighs, resuming her work on Elaerys’ hair with a faint furrow between her brows. 

“Well, I suppose as long as you are happy…” she begins carefully, clearly trying to sound neutral and somewhat failing. “I can’t say I understand the appeal though…” 

She’d feel a bit offended but in all honesty, Elaerys can’t say she does either. Perhaps she is truly losing her mind. 

“I guess you could say he’s an acquired taste…” Elaerys shrugs, scrunching up her nose in a slight grimace. 

Rhaena stares at her through the mirror, a bit baffled. The silence hangs between them for a second before they both burst into a fit of girlish giggles, the moment so simple and silly it makes the tension lift from Elaerys’ shoulders. 

After their laughter dies down, a softer calmness settles over the room, the atmosphere lighter now. 

Rhaena finishes with the last hairpin and trails her fingers softly through the loose curls hanging down Elaerys’ shoulders. 

“I may not understand, but if there is any choice to be made, Ella, I hope you choose the one that eases your burden.” Rhaena smiles, wistful and kind. “I’d rather you find happiness with him… even if this marriage wasn’t exactly what you wanted. I’d hate to see you bound to someone you resent, holding a grudge that was never yours to take.”

Her sister’s smile falters as she takes her hands in hers, the worried frown coming back to her face. 

“But do be careful, mandia. I’ve seen first hand the cruelty Aemond is capable of.” Rhaena’s lips purse. “If you must give him your heart, do so only once you’re certain he won’t break it.” 

Elaerys is no fool, she’s seen hints of Aemond’s cold-hearted nature as well, the fire that feels too scorching for comfort, his words that cut like ice. If she finds him intriguing, she thinks it’s only as one would find a foreign dragon fascinating, better appreciated at a distance. 

She lets out a soft laugh, waving away Rhaena’s concerns. “Don’t worry, sister, my heart is well guarded. I don’t think it could ever come to that.” 

Behind them, Mila clears her throat discreetly to announce she is done. Elaerys’ eyes finally contemplate the reflection of her handmaid’s work in the looking glass. 

Mila has styled her hair in a fashionable half updo, the top half is swept back into a series of intricate fine braids that weave from her temples, wrapping elegantly around the back of her head like a regal circlet and finally meeting at the middle in a thick crown-braid that coils around itself forming an elaborate bun. The rest of her hair cascades down in loose, luscious curls tumbling down to her mid-back. Several slender accent braids are woven subtly through the loose length, adding delicate texture, while the fine gold and bronze hairpins that Rhaena brought crafted with small deep-red gemstones and moonstones are scattered along her thick dark hair, glinting like starlight as they catch the light when she moves. 

Elaerys is left a bit astonished by the overall look, she doesn’t think she’s ever looked quite so polished. 

“That suits you beautifully, you look absolutely stunning, Ella.” She hears Rhaena’s thick voice somewhere at her side, and her gaze shifts to find her sister’s eyes welling up with unshed tears. 

Elaerys springs to her feet, her face softening. “Rhaena, why are you crying?” 

Rhaena tries to wave it off, blinking back the tears that stubbornly end up falling down her cheeks. 

“It’s nothing, it’s just…” her voice breaks behind a sniffle. “From this day on, you will be his wife. Someone else’s family. Someone else’s sister. And I… I barely had time with you as it is.” Rhaena wipes at her cheeks, choking back a sob. “I fear we will never get you back. That we are truly losing you forever.” 

Elaerys feels her heart squeeze as her sister’s face crumples, turning away to hide her tears. She doesn’t hesitate to pull her into a tight embrace. 

“Listen to me, hāedar,” she pulls back, her hands holding Rhaena’s shoulders firmly. “Whatever happens after today won’t change what we are. You are my sister. You and Baela and Uncle Gerold, you are my family, the only one that matters to me.”

She wipes her sister's tears gently. “No marriage will take that away.” 

Rhaena gives her a watery smile, her arms wrapping around her in a soulful embrace, shoulders shaking, and Elaerys holds her sister like she’s afraid to let her go despite her previous reassurances, like once she does, Rhaena’s fears might come true. 

But the day must go on and Rhaena reluctantly parts with a heartfelt blessing and a promise to see her at the Sept. 

She’s barely left before Baela comes right behind her, sweeping in like a whirlwind, already dressed in her elegant attire for the ceremony. She carries a heavy-looking wooden box that she sets down with a thunk that startles Mila. 

Baela straightens, arms crossed over her chest, her eyes trailing over Elaerys. 

“Well, don’t you look like a Valyrian goddess?” She smirks. “Come to torment mere mortal men with that deadly beauty. I do hope your groom is the first casualty.” 

Elaerys laughs with a shake of her head. 

“If that were the case I’d be a rather unconventional one. I seem to be missing enough key features to be considered a true Valyrian. The hair for one…” She quips dryly. “Not to mention that dragonlord arrogance.” 

Baela’s smirk widens. “Oh no, you have plenty of that one, actually.” 

Elaerys rolls her eyes good-naturedly, she’s about to retort, but Baela’s attention is now focused on her handmaiden. She eyes Mila for a moment before addressing her with polite but firm authority. 

“Thank you for your help. If I could have a moment alone with my sister now please? That would be deeply appreciated.” 

Mila hesitates for a moment, glancing at Elaerys and waiting for her nod of approval before curtsying and leaving quickly. 

Elaerys quirks an eyebrow. “Mila was still helping me get ready.” 

“We needed a bit of privacy.” 

“She need not leave for that. Mila has my utmost trust.” 

“That’s not enough, not for this,” Baela says, a bit enigmatic. 

Elaerys’ face falls, her brow furrows. “What’s wrong?” 

Baela sighs, coming closer to take her sister’s hands in hers. “I admire your commitment to the bit, Ella, truly. But are you certain you want to go through with this farce?” 

Elaerys draws back, taking a bracing breath. “It’s not like I have a choice. Father made that perfectly clear from the very beginning.” 

“Father may keep his own delusions if he pleases, he can get another pawn to do his bidding,” Baela says. “But you do have a choice now, if you wish to take it.” 

She digs into a pocket in her skirts and pulls out a folded piece of parchment that she presses into Elaerys’ hands. 

“What is this?” Elaerys asks, puzzled, as she inspects the inside of the parchment, her eyes drifting over what looks like a map. 

“Maegor’s Holdfast has secret tunnels hidden within its walls, your chambers have a concealed door right here that can lead you to them.” Baela points at the map. “Jace and Luke helped with the map, they chose the ideal route, so you can trust its accuracy. This path will lead you out of the Red Keep, just follow along the trail I marked. I can arrange for a horse to wait for you at the gate. From there you can ride to the Dragonpit, take Nyssarion and leave. Everyone’s attention will be focused on the Sept, where you are expected. No one will know until it’s too late.” 

Elaerys blinks, her brain struggling to catch up with what Baela suggests. “I highly doubt no one would notice a whole dragon cutting across the sky, escaping from the Dragonpit.” 

“Oh they will, but we can buy you some time,” Baela insists, unfazed by the outrageous plan. “Jace and Luke already agreed to help if needed, and Rhaena won’t be hard to convince. We can create a distraction, just long enough to let you escape. By the time they notice you’re gone you’ll be halfway across Blackwater Bay, and Nyssarion is fast. It would take Father a while to get to the Dragonpit and have Caraxes chase after you.” 

Elaerys lets out a disbelieving, breathless laugh, eyes shifting from the map to her sister, hardly believing what she hears. But by the look on Baela’s face, Elaerys realizes that her sister is dead serious, and the incredulous look freezes on her face. Her heart flutters with a mix of both treacherous hope and dread. 

The choice is right there for her to take if she so wished it, and a reckless part of Elaerys feels tempted to do so, just like she’d been tempted the night Aemond offered her the same choice what feels like ages ago. And both times, she could almost taste the freedom in her tongue, feel it so close within her grasp. But the circumstances remain the same as they’d been back then, and that sliver of hope dies in her chest like a snuffed out candle. 

“Baela, do you realize what you’re suggesting?” She asks, soft and resigned. “This is insane. Even if I managed to escape, Father would know that you all helped. Can you imagine the consequences? What this would do to the family?” 

“Why should it matter?” Baela scoffs. “As long as you’re safe and far away from the Greens’ clutches, what do I care about consequences?” 

Elaerys’ chest warms, feeling oddly touched by her sister’s vehemence and fierce loyalty. But she can’t let the few people that truly matter to her take the fall for her, the price of her freedom would be far too steep to pay.

“I appreciate the offer, sister, truly.” She takes a step closer, her lips twisting in a downturned smile. “But I can’t in good conscience take it and let you all face the aftermath of whatever disaster is left behind.” 

“But—“

“It’s alright Baela, I’ve already made peace with my fate.” Elaerys says, trying to convey every bit of resigned calmness she doesn’t really feel. “Running won’t save me. It’ll only aggravate whatever conflict is already brewing within our House. I’d loathe to give them a real reason to act on their grievances.”

“You can’t really believe this marriage will fix anything between them, can you?” Baela frowns, crossing her arms over her chest. “Really, Ella, peace, with him? With them?” 

“Well, leaving Aemond stood up at the altar won’t really help settle matters much will it?” Elaerys sighs. “I’m not naive, Baela, I know this will hardly change anything. But I won’t run away like a craven. If this is my lot in life I will face it head on.” 

Baela’s lips purse in a familiar gesture that reminds her of Rhaena. She lets out a huff, but ultimately nods in reluctant acceptance. 

“Fine, do what you must.” She whirls around and takes the heavy-looking box she’d come with in her arms, placing it over a side table near them. “But then take this, if nothing else.” 

“Take what?” 

Elaerys draws closer, curious. She watches Baela open the box and take out a beautifully carved portable writing desk, which she promptly hands over for Elaerys to inspect. 

“My wedding gift,” Baela declares without much ceremony or over-sentimentality. “So you don’t forget to write to us and can do it wherever you please.” 

Elaerys smiles, taking in the opulent craftsmanship of the small piece of furniture with appreciative attention, inspecting all the little nooks and crannies and compartments that open to reveal writing supplies. “It’s beautiful, Baela. Thank you.” 

“That’s not all.” Baela takes a small key tied to the side with a velvet ribbon. She opens the lid atop the desk, where parchment and writing tools would typically be stored, and places the key on the inside walls. 

Elaerys watches in silent fascination. There is no keyhole or visible lock, rather the key attaches itself as though glued to the wooden surface. 

“A lodestone,” Baela reveals before Elaerys can ask. “That’s the only way to open it.” 

Baela pulls on the key and an expertly hidden drawer opens with the movement, a perfectly concealed compartment within the inside of the desk. Inside, there’s an opaque, simple glass bottle, no bigger than the palm of her hand. 

A niggling feeling settles in Elaerys’ chest as she contemplates this unexpected addition with bewildered eyes. “Baela… what is that?” 

“A fail-safe,” Baela says simply, not doing much to answer Elaerys’ question.  

Her sister takes a deep breath, taking the tiny bottle in her hand. 

“I pray that you will never need this, mandia,” she says, her eyes firmly settling over Elaerys with a seriousness she finds slightly alarming. “But if the day ever comes when your husband turns every bit as cruel as I fear he can be… if he ever hurts you in any way, if there is ever any need for you to escape, you can use this.” 

Baela presses the bottle in Elaerys’ hands, and though the glass is light, she feels the weight of it like lead. 

“They call it Tears of Lys,” Baela says, her voice barely more than a whisper, and Elaerys’ growing apprehension turns into barely masked horror as realization dawns on her. “Just a few drops in his wine should do. He will be gone within the next few days, if not sooner. The poison leaves little trace, and it’s deadly swift, if you sparse it in small doses, it can pass for a sudden illness. No one shall suspect a thing.” 

“Baela…” Elaerys fumbles for words, too shaken to form a coherent thought for a moment. “This is treason.” She finally says in a harsh whisper, as though afraid the very walls might hear. 

“Which is why you must keep it hidden.” 

“No.” Elaerys starts to decline, handing the bottle back with a firm shake of her head. “No, I don’t need—“ 

“It’s protection, Ella.” Baela closes her hand around Elaerys’ own, clutching the bottle within her reluctant grasp. “Please, keep it. I couldn’t bear to part with you without knowing you have a way out of this. This way, should it ever come down to it, you will not be trapped. You will not suffer.” 

“I couldn’t—“ Elaerys’ breath hitches, feeling like the tiny bottle burns a hole through her fist, fear creeping into her voice at the mere thought. “I can’t. I could never do that.” 

Baela’s grip on her hand tightens into a fierce hold.

“You don’t know that, and I hope you never have to, but you don’t know what kind of monster he might be hiding. I’ve heard stories, Ella, the horrid things Aegon does on the daily. Who’s to say Aemond is not the same?” Elaerys can hear the desperation seeping into Baela’s voice, the distress in her eyes suddenly clear and raw. “If he turns out that way or worse, you must survive him.”

Elaerys bites her lips. Faced with Baela’s evident concern for her safety, she can do nothing but reluctantly nod to appease her sister’s mounting worry, her own dread curdling in her belly. 

“Fine. I’ll keep it, if only for your peace of mind,” she finally agrees half-heartedly. She places the bottle back in the secret compartment and closes it hastily, eager to keep it forever out of sight. 

Elaerys hears Baela exhale a shuddering breath, looking equal parts relieved and devastated. She comes closer and cups Elaerys’ face in both hands, her touch so different from Rhaena’s sweet embrace.  Her twin, in contrast, holds her with a visceral protectiveness, as though she could shield her from harm through sheer will alone. 

“I know what a burden this Keep, and this court, and this family is. You deserved none of it.” Baela runs her thumb beneath Elaerys cheek, brushing away the single tear Elaerys hadn’t even realized she’d shed. “I’m so sorry, Ella.” 

Elaerys’ lips lift in a tremulous, bittersweet smile. “Do not pity me, hāedar. I’ve long since come to terms with this. I can handle it.” 

“I know.” 

Baela envelops her in an unexpected hug, a tight, crushing embrace that makes her feel like she’s about to head into battle. In a way, she might as well be. Elaerys lets herself lean into it for a moment, letting the weight on her shoulders fall onto her sister just for a second in which she can draw all the comfort and strength she needs. 

Baela’s voice is a soft but firm whisper in her ear. “Don’t you dare let them break you.”

Elaerys presses her forehead to her sister’s. “I won’t. I promise.”

Baela steps back, her face once again a hardened mask of icy composure. She gives her one last encouraging nod before she exits the room, leaving Elaerys to ponder on the weight of the secret she now keeps hidden in that inconspicuous writing desk. 

She is still contemplating Baela’s gift like it’s a wild contained flame that might just end up exploding at any given moment, when a soft knock at her door startles her out of her anxious reverie. She calls out, allowing her visitor entrance, thinking Mila is back with the last details to finish her wedding attire, and is surprised to find Princess Rhaenyra and the Queen crossing the threshold instead, both dressed in contrasting styles that set them apart markedly. 

Rhaenyra looks the picture of majestic splendor, her gown a deep shade of purple so dark it could almost be black, her jewelry shimmers in the early morning light, amethysts, garnets and diamonds adorn her entire body, from the beading in her bodice to the rings on her fingers, all the way up to her long, elegant neck, making her sparkle like a shooting star and bringing out the stunning color of her eyes.

Queen Alicent, in contrast, is dressed in her usual deep emerald green, and though the cut of her dress is much more conservative it looks no less regal for it. Intricate gold-thread embroidery accentuates her long skirts in elaborate patterns, her auburn hair obscured by a sheer silk veil that flows from the gold head-piece resting atop her head, a severe look that bequeaths all the authority fitting for a queen of the Seven Kingdoms. 

Elaerys feels their eyes inspecting her with varying degrees of approval, making her feel rather like a pig they’re appraising, judging if it’s well-fed enough for the slaughter. 

“A most fitting wedding gown,” Rhaenyra says with a smile. “What exquisite work.” 

“I instructed your handmaiden to fetch the tiara I commissioned for you,” Alicent nods her approval. “It should be a nice finishing touch.” 

“You honor me, your grace, my princess.” Elaerys drops in a deep curtsey, feeling slightly overwhelmed by their presence. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” 

The women share a dubious look, Alicent’s serene smile turning a bit pinched while Rhaenyra’s hands shift somewhat awkwardly. 

Elaerys briefly wonders what fresh horror she is about to be subjected to. 

“Normally, it would be the duty of your lady mother to instruct you on what is to come for you now that you welcome married life,” Rhaenyra starts hesitantly. “And the marital duties that will be expected of you from this day on.” 

“Regrettably, your own mother isn’t here for that, so that duty now falls to us.” Alicent finishes, gesturing toward an armchair near the fireplace. “Perhaps you should take a seat, make yourself comfortable.” 

Elaerys follows Alicent’s bidding a bit stiffly, wondering if she should interrupt before the queen starts droning about duty and honor. She’s perfectly aware of her duties, the same that would be expected of any other lady; she is to give her husband heirs, preferably male, a steady line of hale and strong children that will carry on his name and inherit his titles and lands, or rather her lands in this particular case. But Rhaenyra interrupts her line of thought before she can make up her mind. 

“Ella, how much do you know about what transpires in the marital bed?” 

Elaerys feels her skin warm in an embarrassed flush, from the tips of her ears all the way down to her neck. Truth be told, she doesn’t know much. Her septa had explained nothing but the very basics —rather hurriedly and quite awkwardly— back when she’d first flowered; how her moons blood would come with every turn of the moon unless a man’s seed takes root in her womb, for which it was imperative that she remained chaste and unspoiled by a man’s touch until her wedding day. 

Back then Elaerys hadn’t understood what her septa had meant with all that, and she wouldn’t for a long time, but she’d had quite the unfortunate luck of having to experience the poor woman try to explain it again with just the barest of specifics when her uncle had started to look for potential suitors for her, at least just enough to understand what a man’s “seed” was and how on earth it could possibly end up in her womb. 

Needless to say she’d been left puzzled and slightly horrified. 

She explains this to the princess and the queen, but it’s clear by the knowing look the two women share, full of resignation, that whatever knowledge Elaerys has on the matter is not nearly enough to grant her the relief of avoiding this conversation. 

Much to her misfortune, it’s Alicent who takes it upon herself to start.

“A marriage… is consummated in the joining of husband and wife in the sight of the Seven.“ She clasps her hands together, expression solemn, as if she’s about to deliver a prayer. “Furthermore, a marriage is only truly legally valid after consummation, for which it is imperative that this is indeed done on your wedding night. It is your duty to yield to your husband. A good wife bears her obligations with grace and obedience.”

Alicent goes over the specifics of what is to be expected with a sort of clinical detachment that makes it seem like she’s discussing gardening techniques instead. It makes Elaerys struggle not to show her growing distaste, and Rhaenyra to look over at her with a perplexed expression. 

When she’s done Elaerys can only stare, blinking in overwhelmed confusion. Alicent has provided only a bit more context to what her septa had already explained before. Now, Elaerys isn’t so clueless as to feel surprised by this, she has after all occasionally seen dogs and horses mating in passing within Runestone’s grounds, but she’s always thought the whole process seemed rather…beastly. Somehow, she’d been expecting some less dreadful variation perhaps. 

“That sounds… unappealing.” 

Alicent’s pinched expression softens marginally. 

“Well, it is not precisely pleasant I’m afraid. But you must not resist. It will only make it worse.” She gives her a sympathetic look. “Your husband’s… desires… should be met without hesitation. The more you cater to his needs and the more pleased he is with you the quicker he’ll be done. If he is sufficiently satisfied it will be over rather swiftly.” 

Rhaenyra’s face is already twisting like she’s swallowed a lemon.

Elaerys arches a brow. “…so, I take it doesn’t generally last too long?”

Alicent nods, primly. “That is the mercy of it.”

“Does it hurt?” Elaerys can’t help but ask, twisting her hands together in a nervous gesture. It certainly sounds like it might be painful. 

Alicent sighs, her voice turning a bit softer. “It might, especially the first time. It is not uncommon to feel some slight discomfort afterward, but it can get better if you relax and let him do what he must.” 

Rhaenyra shakes her head and steps forward like she’s physically unable to let this talk continue.

“Gods, Alicent, you make it sound absolutely unbearable.”

Alicent bristles at the interruption, and Elaerys blinks, her doubtful gaze turning from one to the other. 

“It doesn’t have to be as horrid as all that.” Rhaenyra turns to face Elaerys, her smile gentle and reassuring. “It can be perfectly bearable, pleasant even. It all depends on you and your husband. How comfortable you feel with him, how gentle he is with you, and whether he takes care to prepare you appropriately.” 

“Prepare me how?” 

Rhaenyra falters a little, her pale cheeks blooming with color as she tries to find the appropriate words. “Well… ideally he must give you some attention… get you sufficiently ready for him.” 

“Ready?” Elaerys shakes her head, confused. “How would I know I’m ‘ready’?” 

She hears Alicent let out a scandalized breath, while Rhaenyra fumbles for words. 

“Well, for the… joining… to feel good rather than painful,” she clears her throat, looking more than a bit flustered. “Your body must be… awakened. Warm.”

Alicent shuts her eyes briefly and murmurs a silent prayer under her breath, looking absolutely mortified.

Elaerys tilts her head, mulling over Rhaenyra’s words. She fails to see how warmth would make the whole ordeal feel any less unpleasant, but perhaps it’s like warming the muscles during training to make them feel less stiff and more cooperative, like when her legs feel less rigid after a long morning ride, the muscles of her thighs getting better acquainted with her saddle after a few hours. 

It sounds rather unconventional, and she can’t imagine she’ll have any time for a quick warmup in the training yard, but perhaps there might be other alternatives. 

“Perhaps a warm bath beforehand might be enough?” She voices her hesitant suggestion, making Rhaenyra’s brow furrow. “Shall I keep my warmest nightgown on? That should keep the warmth, surely.” 

Rhaenyra coughs, lips turning down like she’s stifling an amused smile. 

“No, that’s not— ah,” she trails off, looking for the right words and probably coming up short, for she shrugs and finally says rather bluntly; “Your body warms when you’re… aroused, Ella.”

“Oh…” 

“Seven preserve us,” Alicent murmurs, lifting her hand up to her face. 

Elaerys can feel her blush return with renewed intensity. Half of her feels like she would like nothing more than for the ground to open up and swallow her whole, but another insistent sense of newfound curiosity takes hold of her. If it isn’t Rhaenyra who can provide answers, who else could she possibly ask? So she swallows her embarrassment and blurts out her doubts. 

“So if he takes care to make me feel… aroused… it won’t feel quite as unpleasant? How would he do that?” 

A stunned silence is all that meets her tentative question for a moment. 

Alicent stares at the wall, her usually stoic face blazing red, while Rhaenyra looks at the ceiling as if seeking the appropriate answer through divine guidance.

“We are not discussing… specifics.” Alicent murmurs harshly, quietly scandalized. 

“Well we must, unless you want her walking into the marriage bed like a lamb to the slaughter,” Rhaenyra argues dryly. 

“She already has more than enough information to know what is to come. Certainly more than a septa would deem appropriate to discuss for the ears of a maiden.” Alicent’s eyebrows pinch together in disapproval. “The marriage bed is for duty, finding any enjoyment in it is not a requirement as long as they both do what they must and produce an heir.” 

Rhaenyra appears to be utterly against that idea if her deep frown is anything to go by. “It can be more than that. It should be more than that.”

Alicent’s jaw tightens, her eyes shrouded in skepticism, it’s clear she cannot fathom the concept.

“Don’t fret Elaerys.” Rhaenyra turns her attention back to Elaerys, her gaze softening in an attempt at comfort. “If Aemond cares even a fraction for you, he will try not to hurt you.”

Elaerys isn’t quite sure that provided much reassurance. She finds it hard to believe he actually cares. But then again, he’s never been particularly cruel with her, and even in their short, fiery encounters, he was never forceful. Passionate, perhaps, but not violent. 

“My son was raised with the values of the Seven, he was taught to be gentle with a woman and treat her with respect.” Alicent says, a bit primly, but in her gaze Elaerys sees the hint of doubt. If Aemond was raised with such morals, why did Aegon turn out the way he did, she wonders. 

Surely a similar thought crosses Alicent’s mind, for she reverts back to her moralizing views, voice tight. “In any case, whether he cares or not is irrelevant, you must accept what comes. A wife’s virtue is obedience, not indulgence.”

Rhaenyra looks over at the Queen, and her eyes flicker with a hint of pity beneath the outward disapproval. 

“No wonder you always look tense,” she says under her breath. 

Not low enough to miss the Queen it would seem. 

“I beg your pardon?” 

Elaerys would much rather be anywhere else at the moment. She lets Rhaenyra and Alicent continue their petty argument, while her mind ponders over how her own marriage might turn out after today. 

Will Aemond turn ruthless and rough with her once he claims her? She can’t imagine any of the gentleness or patience that Rhaenyra talks about to make the experience feel less terrible. The man she knows as her future husband is harsh, determined, unrelenting, some say even cruel. And while he’s never turned those characteristics against her, she doesn’t know what to expect once the pretenses of courtship fall away. In a few more hours, she will essentially belong to him. What will he do with her then?

“And… what if I… disappoint him?” Elaerys can’t help asking, hating how small her voice suddenly sounds. 

She has a sneaking suspicion that disappointing a man like Aemond wouldn’t be a matter easily dismissed. Other men might seek their pleasure elsewhere, with whores or chambermaids or paramours, choosing to neglect their wives, perhaps to the lady’s relief. But much like Alicent, Aemond takes pride in his unrelenting commitment to duty. He wouldn’t accept anything short of a perfect wife. 

Not to mention, Elaerys’ most important goal for the foreseeable future is to be able to seduce her husband and win his genuine affection eventually. 

Unsurprisingly, it is Alicent who answers her question first. “Then you must try harder, at least until you fulfill your role and give him heirs.”

Rhaenyra rolls her eyes. “Or he must try harder to please his own wife, gods!”

Elaerys fidgets in her seat, not at all satisfied with either answer. “So… do I just… lie there? Do I—do I do something?”

Alicent turns pale, looking like she might very well faint after this mortifying conversation. 

Rhaenyra lets out a soft laugh. “Don’t overthink it. Your body will know what to do when the time comes.” 

“Whatever happens… you must endure it with grace,” Alicent says, oddly distant and almost gentle, her gaze a bit sorrowful as she regards Elaerys with a hint of melancholy. “We must remain strong, unperturbed, let them know that we are ready to bear the role of a royal wife.”

She briefly wonders if Alicent is talking to Elaerys or to herself. Either way, the Queen doesn’t say much more, just gives Elaerys one last reassuring, tight smile before she exits the chambers with a quiet blessing. 

Rhaenyra, however, remains behind, taking Elaerys’ slightly trembling hand in her own. “They may frame it however they like, but no matter what they say, you are not his property to do with as he pleases. You are meeting him as an equal. He’s not entitled to your fear.”

Elaerys lets out a breath. “He might not see it that way.” She nods toward the door where Alicent walked out just moments ago. “He was raised by her after all.” 

Rhaenyra’s smile is bittersweet. “I like to think she doesn’t mean ill most of the time. Alicent just…” she sighs, shaking her head. “She’s different. She looks at life through the mindset of her faith. She doesn’t understand the way us Targaryens think. The fire in our veins, the passion that comes with it, the calling of our own kin, it’s all foreign to her.” 

She pats Elaerys’ hand before letting it go, her gaze reassuring. “But it is there, it has been there for centuries. The Blood of the Dragon runs hot and unyielding, and like calls to like. I do believe Aemond is likely to be more receptive to you than he would be with a different bride who wouldn’t share this ancestral link.”  

Elaerys twists her lips, contemplative. “He is a proud man. Possessive, I dare say. I don’t believe he could be gentle.” 

“Then use that passion to your advantage, you need not sacrifice your own satisfaction,” Rhaenyra advises. “Meet it head on, like treading water. Desire is a useful language to speak, especially with men, one they will always understand, even when they pretend to be above it.” 

Elaerys recalls her father’s own words, so eerily similar. But she’s not entirely sure Aemond is built like most men. 

“What if he doesn’t care to listen?” She asks, skeptical. 

For a moment, Rhaenyra looks a bit at a loss  for words. She seems to be thinking over her words carefully. 

“It is a possibility, that you may never find a mutual ground with your husband, that you might not stir each other’s passion,” She says after a while. “But if that were to be the case, you should feel free to seek it on your own. Gods know men do it all the time and no one bats an eye, why shouldn’t we do the same? Why remain miserable in a union that brings us nothing?” 

Elaerys thinks about the rumors regarding Rhaenyra’s eldest sons, the ‘Velaryons’ Aemond mockingly calls Strong boys, and she’s now certain that Rhaenyra did follow her own advice. She certainly looks far happier than the Queen, trapped in a clearly unhappy marriage that looks as miserable as it does stale. And while the contrast is much too convincing, Elaerys wonders if it was the wisest decision for Rhaenyra after all. 

“I can’t imagine the Queen would approve of that,” she jokes half-heartedly. 

Rhaenyra lets out a soft laugh. “What Alicent doesn’t know won’t kill her.” 

“She might know much more than she lets on,” Elaerys says vaguely. “Pious she may be but she’s as politically adept as her father.”

Rhaenyra seems taken aback by this turn in their conversation. She tilts her head in question and Elaerys elaborates. 

“You should come to the Red Keep more often,” she suggests plainly. “That way you’d see it, the way she moves through court, she doesn’t merely host, she commands it with precision, and all of them dance to the tune of the Hand’s bidding. They both move unchallenged.” Elaerys lets her words linger for a second, letting them sink in. “And people grow bold when they’re left unwatched for too long. Take Aegon for example.” 

“What of Aegon?” Rhaenyra asks warily. 

“He speaks too carelessly, heedless of discretion and whomever may be listening,” Elaerys says, not divulging much detail. “He’s not shy about what he thinks of his own family, extended or otherwise, not the best look for familial union.” 

Rhaenyra frowns. “And what do you make of him?” 

Elaerys shrugs. “He’s uncouth, sleazy, lazy…lacks ambition.” She winces, not really having intended to blurt out all his defects, but oh well, he might as well be as harmless as a pesky vermin. “I don’t think he’s much of a threat to you or your future reign, to be honest.” 

Rhaenyra looks marginally relieved, but her scrutinizing eyes remain on her, assessing. “And what about Aemond?” 

Elaerys lowers her gaze, shoulders tensing. 

“He’s the complete opposite of his brother.” She answers carefully, letting those words imply what they must. “Lucky me, I suppose.” 

But Rhaenyra doesn’t return her rueful smile, her gaze distant, thoughtful. 

“I know it may not seem like it to you right now,” she starts hesitantly. “But I still believe this is the best solution to keep the peace within our family. I am aware of the kind of sacrifice I am asking from you.” She takes Elaerys’ hand in hers again, impossibly gently. “But know that it wasn’t a decision taken lightly. It was the very last resort, and not done without thorough thinking. I’d hoped, perhaps foolishly, that my brother’s temperament might be a good match to your own.” 

She must read something in Elaerys’ expression, for she hurries to explain further. “Now, I know that was presumptuous of me considering I’ve not spent enough time with either of you to know that for certain, but in the brief time that you have gotten to spend together, is there not a single part of you that might feel a bit partial to him now?” 

Elaerys remains silent, refusing to show any hint that Rhaenyra might be right after all, if only to keep her pride intact. She’s not yet ready to admit that even to herself. 

“I have seen the effect you seem to have on him,” she continues. “It’s my dearest hope that, with time, whatever connection you two are building already might grow into genuine affection. And then…” she heaves a deep sigh. “Perhaps those stronger bonds will withstand the strain of what is to come once I ascend the throne. I don’t wish to have Aemond or any of my siblings, my own blood, as my enemies.” 

Part of Elaerys feels a tiny piece of her heart thaw with Rhaenyra’s heartfelt words, but the stubborn fire in her, that little thorn of resentment that’s been lodged in her chest ever since the Princess announced her intentions to betroth Elaerys quite against her will, it rages and writhes against the notion of forgiveness. 

She may understand, but she can’t easily forgive. 

“You all let me grow up without Targaryens by my side, like the black sheep of the family. Not one of you could be bothered with me until it finally suited you,” Elaerys says, eerily calm. Resignation now feels hollow in her chest. “And I was fine with it, happy even.” Her eyes meet Rhaenyra’s, firm and unyielding. “Why couldn’t you just leave it like that?” 

Rhaenyra looks stricken by her words. She reaches out, hesitates, then thinks better of it and settles for running a gentle and careful hand over Elaerys’ loose curls. 

“Oh, sweet girl, I’m so sorry,” she says, sounding sincere. “It was never intentional, and I assure you it was not done out of malice or premeditated neglect. It was just the way it was settled between your guardians, what they both thought would be the best for you.” 

Elaerys frowns, suddenly affronted, feeling her temper stir. “What are you talking about?” 

“It doesn’t excuse the way things were handled,” Rhaenyra tries to explain. “But when you were no more than a babe, Daemon wasn’t fit to be the kind of father you would’ve needed. He was reckless and wild and eager to prove himself, constantly banished from court for one scandal or another. Your uncle never trusted him with your upbringing, and I can’t say he was wrong.” 

Elaerys scoffs. “He chose to leave me in the Vale all but abandoned. His own daughter!” She tries not to let her voice break with emotion but it’s hard to remain as impassive as she would’ve liked. “And then he went ahead and had more children that he conveniently never left behind. Was that the best for me?” 

Rhaenyra grimaces. “I am not trying to excuse the frankly deplorable way he’s handled fatherhood with you, Ella. But there were many factors involved in why he did what he did.” 

“Well it seems pretty clear to me,” Elaerys says, aware of the bitterness in her own voice. “He never cared for my mother and therefore never cared for me either. And since Daemon could hardly be bothered with me, why would any of you reach out over the years?” 

“I don’t think it was as simple as that,” Rhaenyra counters gently. “My father did try, for one. He insisted more than once for you to be fostered in King’s Landing, where you could grow with your own kin.” 

That does shock Elaerys into speechlessness for a second. 

“He did?” 

Rhaenyra lets out a weary breath. “Your uncle was adamant to keep you safe in Runestone. His reasons were his own, but I can’t say they were unwise. He insisted you must be raised in the place you would grow to rule over eventually, know your people and your lands. And how could any of us argue against it? Not even Daemon would be that senseless. To take you with him to Pentos would’ve only done you a disservice in the long run.”   

Elaerys mulls this new information over with reluctant calm. She’s not sure if she’s already so desensitized by Daemon’s abandonment or if her hollow acceptance is a way to protect her own heart. 

“He could’ve visited more often.” She bites her lips, fiddling with her fingers. “What exactly was his excuse once he came back to Westeros?” 

“I don’t think he and Ser Gerold will ever be neutral enough to bear each other’s presence for a long time,” Rhaenyra says ruefully. “Your uncle is fiercely protective of you, perhaps to a fault. And I can’t blame him, certainly. I never approved of the way Daemon handled things concerning your upbringing, but that was not my place to judge.” 

Elaerys purses her lips, still largely unconvinced. Rhaenyra must notice her skepticism, for she continues softly. 

“For what it’s worth, he did fight me tooth and nail to prevent this marriage, you know?” 

That does catch her grudging attention. “Did he?” 

Rhaenyra nods. “He said he’d have you marrying a Hightower over his dead body the first time I brought it up.” 

Elaerys is so baffled by the widely disconcerting notion she can’t even wrap her head around the idea. So disinclined she is to let go of her long-held bitterness, she doesn’t let the knowledge soften her much. 

“Well… he certainly yielded easily.” 

Rhaenyra tilts Elaerys’ head up gently, making her meet her eyes. “All I can vouch for is his genuine love for his children. He’s far from perfect, I know, but he does care.” 

Elaerys eyebrows draw together in a skeptic frown. “He has a funny way of showing it.” 

Rhaenyra draws in a breath with a resigned shake of her head. 

“Daemon loves fiercely, but only in ways he alone understands.” Her lips lift in a wry smile. “The Gods know I’ve been trying to decipher it for half my life.” 

Elaerys lets out a small chuckle at that. 

Rhaenyra pulls her into a soft, motherly embrace, and Elaerys’ spine stiffens for a moment, before letting her comforting warmth seep through her. She’s never yearned for her own mother half as much as she does at this moment. 

“I hope this marriage grants you the family that you longed for, Ella,” Rhaenyra says. “Whether that be through a closer union between us, or a family of your own making, I wish it fills that void you may have felt in your heart before, and that whatever happens, it keeps you safe.” 

Elaaerys’ voice is soft when she replies, simple and honest. “I was already safe. Just… alone.”

She feels Rhaenyra drop a soft kiss on her brow before she leaves, and it should feel comforting but all it does is remind her of the kind of affection she never had growing up. 

Gaining a bit more perspective doesn’t return the choices that have been stolen from her. 

Mila comes back a few moments later, and Elaerys already feels flayed raw, exhausted before the day has even started. She doesn’t think she can handle a single more heartfelt conversation or further preening. 

“Please, if anyone else comes, send them away. I’d like to be left alone now,” she instructs her handmaid. “I’ve had quite enough of this overly emotional morning. No more visitors, or surprises for that matter. Let’s just get this over with.” 

Mila pauses halfway through the room, her hands tensing over the two small boxes she carries. She fidgets in her place, looking unsure of where to put them. 

Elaerys lifts an eyebrow. “What is it?” 

Mila hesitates, biting her lip. “I’m afraid I come bearing just one more surprise.” 

Elaerys huffs, shaking her head in disinterest as she turns back to the vanity. “Perhaps it can wait. I want to be done with this already.” 

“I rather think this one’s important, my lady,” Mila insists, a bit nervously. 

“Fine,” Elaerys sighs. “From whom?” 

Mila places the larger box over the vanity and the smaller one she hands to Elaerys with slight hesitation. “I was told to give you this. A wedding gift from the prince.” 

This gives Elaerys pause, her hand freezing halfway up as she reaches for it. “Which prince?” 

“Prince Aemond.” 

She’s not entirely sure whether that knowledge eases her tension. Either way, she accepts the offered gift. The box is leather bound, smooth to the touch. 

Elaerys’ lips lift in a dry smirk, letting out a short, incredulous breath. “I wonder, is it really his… or did his mother have it sent in his name?”

“I couldn’t say whether Queen Alicent urged him to do it,” Mila says carefully. “But he gave it to me himself. He specifically requested that you wear it today.” 

She’s a bit surprised by the admission. She didn’t even know Aemond was aware of Mila’s existence. 

Elaerys inspects the slender box in her hands, oddly curious now. It’s largely unadorned and bears no sigil, nothing that particularly sets it apart as a wedding gift. She opens the lid, unsure of what to expect. 

Inside, she finds an elegantly crafted necklace. The chain is wrought in white gold, slender but finely worked. Yet the real eye-catcher is the single sapphire that hangs at its center, cut in a long teardrop shape that catches the light in deep, shifting shades of blue, dark as ink at its heart. The stone is cradled by a swirling sweep of metal that curves around it like a protective embrace, set with only the faintest dusting of tiny white zircons along its edge.

Elaerys is so caught up in the simple beauty of it, she almost misses the little note inside the box that accompanies this unexpected gift. 

For today, and the days to come. A reminder that whatever passed before does not change what you now become, despite what stands between us. ~A. 

Her eyes sweep over the neat penmanship, over and over again, trying to make sense of what kind of meaning he intended with this. Was it some sort of half-hearted, bland apology for the way he’d treated her after the hunt? A trick meant to manipulate her into believing he has any care for her at all? Or was it an order, a threat, something meant to bow her to submission and his claim. Was it merely done at his mother’s behest? 

She settles for the most glaring detail. 

“A sapphire?” She fingers the stone delicately. “Why this? I’m not wearing any blue. Will it not clash with the rest of my dress?”

“I think it goes quite well with the tiara the Queen sent for you, my lady.” Mila opens the remaining box. 

The tiara is crafted in pale gold with subtle bronze filigree accents, rising to a gentle central peak. A deep blue sapphire sits at its center, flanked by the sweep of open, silver-gold filigree that flows from each side all the way to the end curve of the crown, designed in a way akin to abstract dragon wings. Two small teardrop sapphires are set along the sides, with small rubies surrounding them, shining like glowing embers. Faint bronze enamel veining decorates the base, encrusted with the tiniest moonstones that make it gleam like starlight. 

It’s not overly big, the airy design delicate and meticulously ornate without looking too grand, which suits Elaerys just fine, the perfect blend of her two ancestries, Targaryen and Royce. 

“It’s beautiful,” Elaerys says through a soft breath. “I wouldn’t have taken Queen Alicent to have a taste for something like this.” 

Mila gives her a conspiratorial look. “If I may be so bold to assume, my lady, I don’t think her grace had much input behind the design.” 

Elaerys cocks her head to the side, prompting her handmaid to elaborate. 

“My brother is close friends with the master jeweler that the Queen commissioned for this piece. He says it was the Prince who made some deliberate adjustments to the original design the Queen wanted.” 

“Oh…” 

Well, no one could deny Prince Aemond has a taste for the refined. Elaerys blinks in slight bemusement, trying to make sense of this unexpected revelation. 

“Very well,” she takes the necklace delicately in her hands. “It wouldn’t do to disappoint my husband on the first day of marriage, now would it?” 

She lets Mila help her don the final pieces of her ensemble. The necklace glints against her skin, the sapphire hanging below the hollow of her throat, just above her sternum, while the tiara adds the final touch of regal beauty to her elaborate hairdo. When she turns to face the mirror again, Elaerys no longer looks like the girl she’d woken up that morning. She can barely recognize the young woman that had left Runestone what seems like a lifetime ago, full of naive optimism and juvenile pride. 

She’s never looked more like a true Targaryen Princess as she does now. 

She wonders if the image will stick beyond this day, and the prospect feels unsettling. How much more of her true self will she have to mask to survive this union? How much of herself will be left behind? 

Mila smooths and fusses over her hair and dress one last time before she sends Elaerys out the door amidst well-wishes and blessings for her future, and Elaerys feels more like she’s one step closer to the chopping block as she steps over the threshold of her chambers. 

Surprisingly, it’s Ser Gerold who waits outside her rooms, ready to escort her outside on the way to her new life. Elaerys tries very hard not to tear up as her uncle lifts the maiden cloak Helaena had gifted her, placing it securely over her shoulders like a protective embrace. 

“Now, that’s an exceptional garment,” he says approvingly as he secures the moonstone brooch. “Fitting for a fine lady like yourself.” 

She thinks, a bit forlornly, that she doesn’t feel like a fine lady. A decorated asset perhaps, masked in fine silks and jewels, all to hide her lack of power and autonomy. But a fine lady wouldn’t crumble, and so Elaerys doesn’t let her despondency show. She merely straightens her shoulders, ready to face what is to come. 

“Your mother would be proud of you,” Ser Gerold says. 

The statement makes her throat tighten, and she lowers her gaze in an attempt to hide how it feels like a blow to her composure. 

“Why would she?” Elaerys says tightly. “I’m ending up in the exact same situation she loathed. I can’t imagine she’d be very happy about that.” 

“And you are handling the situation with the grace and wisdom befitting a strong woman.” Ser Gerold places a heavy hand on her shoulder, making her look up. “That speaks grandly of the fine lady you’ve become, Ella. That is the woman your mother would be proud of, just as I am.” 

She feels it hit like a whirlwind, a storm of mixed emotions that she’s been struggling to suppress now come forth, lodging in her throat, blurring her vision. The fresh wave of resentment at knowing it was her uncle the main reason she’d been isolated in the Vale, why she was never allowed to have any connection to her Targaryen kin, the frustration at realizing the extent of his overprotectiveness, the lengths he’s taken to keep her sheltered, not letting her grow into her rightful place as the ruling lady of Runestone. 

But mostly, overlapping everything else, the sheer gratitude she still feels toward the man, for even caring enough to keep her safe despite his flaws. Whatever bitterness Elaerys may feel at his having taken those choices from her can’t outweigh the genuine love she feels for the only parental figure she’s ever had. 

She can’t put any of it into words, nothing would be enough to convey it, so Elaerys lets it overflow in a sudden fierce embrace, her arms wrapping tightly around her uncle’s large frame in a rare sign of vulnerability she doesn’t usually show. 

She feels him return her hug, his hand gently patting the back of her head. 

“It should be you the one who walks me down the aisle,” she says, voice shaking with emotion. 

“It may not be my place,” he says, drawing back slightly to look her in the eyes. “But trust you will have my support, even beyond the Sept.” 

He places a hand on her cheek in an uncharacteristically tender gesture. “These Targaryens may claim you by law now, but that does not erase who you are,” he says, firm and proud. “You are a Royce, the Lady of Runestone. They can’t take that away from you.” 

Elaerys nods, letting his courage feed her own. When she enters the Sept and faces her future she shall not do it like a cowering maiden, she will have the strength of her mother’s legacy backing every step she takes down that aisle. 

The walk down to the courtyard is a quiet one, but she doesn’t let the silence unsettle her spirit. Ser Gerold remains a steady presence by her side, escorting her all the way to the ornate wheelhouse waiting for her in the courtyard, ready to take her to where her destiny awaits. 

When they part, there is no more need of heartfelt words or teary goodbyes, only a firm nod of encouragement to see her off as she steps into the litter and lets the curtains draw close. 

She can hear the busy hubbub of the city as they start the ride toward the Great Sept, the loud cheers of the crowds and the music from bards that sing their praises, but Elaerys doesn’t draw the curtains open to admire the view. She lets her mind drift into a blank, letting the limited peace of the empty wheelhouse settle her nerves. 

The journey seems entirely too short and before she knows it her presence is being loudly announced by a footman as a guard opens the door to the wheelhouse and helps her out. The base of the stairs leading up to the Great Sept rise directly before her, a path of pale stone that seems all too daunting now. 

She takes them with deliberate ease, making her smooth way up with her spine straight and her face drawn tight. 

As expected, Daemon awaits at the top of the stairs, standing tall before the grand oak doors of the Great Sept, his attire all polished, Targaryen black. 

He greets her with a nod of approval. 

“You look ready.” 

“I am ready,” Elaerys confirms, keeping her gaze firmly on the closed doors. 

“Good.” Daemon steps closer, and lifts her chin up with a finger, his grip surprisingly gentle, yet deliberate. “Keep your head held high, daughter. Let them not forget who you are.” 

Elaerys lifts her gaze, two pairs of identical violet eyes meeting in a firm stare. 

“You are the Blood of the Dragon, my firstborn. No less than he is,” Daemon says.  “Let him be aware of your worth, which is certainly far more than he deserves.” 

“And yet here you are, about to give me away.” She lets the snide remark hang between them with all the bitter resignation it is due. 

If what Rhaenyra says is true, what does it matter that he actually cares, when he wasn’t willing to fight for her? 

Daemon’s jaw tightens. 

“It brings me little joy. But you know what this is,” he says with finality. “What must be done.” 

His ever present nonchalance in the face of her anger makes that spark of frustration simmer in her chest. 

“I’m all too aware.” Elaerys lets her gaze drift away, voice dripping with irony. “I’m surprised you’re now willing to take this more traditional paternal role. You’ve always avoided it to the best of your abilities when it came to me.” Her lips lift in a sardonic smile. “How fitting that you take it now to surrender me.” 

“Not surrender. Strategy,” Daemon corrects with an irritated breath. “And it was for the best.” 

“If abandoning me at the Vale was for the best, you might have left me there.” 

“You may resent it however much you like, Elaerys, but Runestone shaped you into the lady you had to become.” Daemon says, his tone betraying his thinning patience. “This place would’ve broken you young.” 

“And now?” She rounds on him, brow set in a defiant frown. 

“Now you’re strong enough to endure it.” Daemon’s gaze is firm and unrelenting against the fire in her eyes. “And I trust that you will.” 

Elaerys lets her face harden into an icy mask. “I intend to.” 

“Good.” Daemon nods. “Remember what the true goal is. You must succeed, for the sake of your siblings, and your own home, and the rightful order of things.” 

She doesn’t need a reminder of what’s at stake should she fail, nor does she need his encouragement or presence when it now comes much too late. 

“Worry not, Father,” Elaerys says, her voice cooling into indifferent detachment. “When the time comes, I shall remember what matters most.” 

It’s not deference, and Daemon is perceptive enough to notice that wording. His nostrils flare as his eyes harden into what most would interpret as threat. 

“Choose wisely then,” he says, vaguely ominous. “They may try to break you, shape you into what they want. But you’re stronger and sharper than they think. Let that be their undoing, and you shall make your family and your House proud.” 

“Fine words,” Elaerys says, her soft voice not masking her acrimony. “I’m glad my sacrifice shall make you all proud. Am I finally a worthy daughter to acknowledge now, Father?”  

Beneath the bitterness, there’s a fine glimmer of the pain she tries to keep hidden. Once upon a time, her father’s attention was the dearest thing she’d craved, and a treacherous part of that little girl who’ve been forever puzzled by his absence surfaces now, despite her best attempts to smother it, the one who’d thought she could get his notice by excelling in the things he’d valued as most worthy. 

It had never been enough then, and whether it is now, she can’t let herself care. 

Elaerys turns back to face the door, not waiting for an answer. If a flicker of something akin to regret softens his gaze, she lets herself believe it was imagined. 

Daemon doesn’t word his answer, if there even was any. He lifts his hand and fumbles briefly with the neck of her cloak, straightening it with a fleeting touch. 

“Stand tall,” he instructs coolly. “Let them know you’re not easily intimidated. And, should things take a turn for the worst eventually…” he pauses, a held breath that turns her attention back to him. But he meets her searching gaze with the same cold detachment she’s used to expecting from him. “I trust you’ll know how to maneuver it.” 

Elaerys nods wordlessly. If she’d been expecting him to offer his protection she should’ve known better. After all, he’s always been good at disappointing her. But the fact that she could sense his hesitation, the near slip, his choice in stifling it, that hurts more than his silence.  

He does care, somewhat, in his nonsensical, emotionally stunted way. Just not enough to choose her happiness over what the realm of his own ambition demands. 

Somehow that realization is more upsetting. 

They say nothing more, there isn’t much more to acknowledge between them after all. Elaerys places her hand around the crook of his elbow, for appearance’s sake if nothing else. Daemon’s hold around her hand tightens briefly for a second. 

The bells announcing the ceremony swell, clanging loud at the top of the bell towers, the doors loom heavy and daunting before her but she doesn’t falter. 

Once they open, Elaerys faces them head on. 

There was a time she’d dreamed of freedom, of long flights over the rocky landscapes of her home and the power she’d someday wield as a strong ruling lady, of the rare autonomy that she’d once been promised along with her birthright. Now, as she crosses the doors of the Great Sept, she lets go of that dream.

She can only move forward.