Chapter Text
chapter one
Viserra Velaryon ached for the dry heat of Pentos more than ever as she sat by the fire in her Uncle Daemon’s chambers. Even mere feet from the flame, and protected deep inside High Tide, she could still feel the cold wetness of Driftmark clinging to her.
“Your room is far larger than mine,” she said, unable to make peace with the silence, especially on such a dark day.
“Hmm.”
The silence suffocated her once more.
“I refuse to believe that this is what she would have wanted for herself,” Viserra said, casting the silence aside again. This time for good.
“Mm,” Prince Daemon said, while sitting in the armchair across from her, reading a book. He seemed entirely uninterested in his ward’s babbling.
“Trapped beneath the sea, suffocated for eternity. It’s undignified.”
“Viserra,” he warned softly, still paying her no mind.
“I am unable to contain my feelings on this, Uncle. It’s horrid.”
“It’s tradition,” he offered, still not looking up from his book.
“She was a dragon rider,” Viserra insisted, unable to help herself. “She should be scattered to the sky, it’s what she would’ve wanted—”
“The dead do not want, Viserra. Do you understand?” Daemon said, looking at her finally. He had had enough of her whining. “If the Lord of the Tides insisted we bury her in the shit of Flea Bottom, I would not stand in his way.”
“That is vile,” Viserra bit out.
Daemon slammed his book shut, his annoyance with her getting the best of him as it often did.
“Explain to me why I would not stand in his way, Viserra.”
Her uncle often intellectualized things instead of feeling them. It was an observation Viserra had first made several years prior—when she was initially sent to Pentos. Even so, being reminded of it on this day made her miss Lady Laena with a fierceness that bit at her heart. Lady Laena who had been kind and warm, who would sing Viserra to sleep, as though she was just as much her daughter as Baela and Rhaena were.
“I do not wish for a lesson, Uncle.”
“And yet you will receive one. Answer my question.”
Viserra huffed, throwing herself against the back of her chair. “Perhaps Lord Corlys frightens you.”
Daemon laughed at that.
“Tell me then,” she said. Although she was the child, Viserra found that she often tired of Daemon’s games before he did.
He leaned forward in his chair as if he was going to tell her a secret. “Every man—
“And woman,” she mumbled under her breath.
“—has only so many pieces to position, only so many moves to make. I would never waste a move on someone that was already gone from this world. That is not how you play the game.”
“It is not how you win the game,” she corrected.
He narrowed his eyes. “Elaborate.”
“Not everyone plays to win, but that does not mean that they do not play.”
“Mm, but those who do not seek to rise simply become the pawns of those who do, and is a pawn truly a player? Or just a pretender?”
Viserra just nodded, as she frequently did, during these lectures. Daemon’s lessons usually devolved into rhetorical questions that he posed simply to enjoy the sound of his own voice.
“And are you a dragon or a pawn, Viserra?”
This question required an answer.
She looked down at her hands. “A dragon, Uncle. Like my mother.”
His gaze softened, almost imperceptibly, as it often did when they spoke of her mother. “You will see her soon. More than a year is too long for a child to go without their mother.”
“Baela and Rhaena will be forced to go much longer,” Viserra pointed out.
Daemon picked his book up off the floor and settled back into his chair.
“It will never be as it was for them, that is true, but perhaps they will have another mother soon.”
Viserra frowned at this, in fact she found the statement so troubling that she forgot to bite her tongue: “My lady mother is already wed, Uncle.”
He scoffed. “What could have possibly led you to imagine that I am speaking of the Princess Rhaenyra?”
“Your voice occasionally takes on a wanton tone when you speak of her.”
Prince Daemon chuckled and said, “You are ten and two, Viserra, you do not know what a man sounds like when he is wanton.”
Viserra ignored him. “Although we are not close, my father is certainly not disposable,” she said, as harshly as she dared.
“Your father?” Daemon grinned, bursting with barely restrained jokes like a child.
“Ser Laenor,” she said tightly.
“Ah, yes. I am sure it will warm his heart to see how closely you resemble your cousins. Such similar complexions.”
Her uncle's jokes were tired, but the rumors were not. Viserra had been free of them these last three years, but, if his letters were any indication, her twin brother Jacaerys had only become more burdened by them.
Jacaerys had been born first. In fact, the Maesters had not even realized that Princess Rhaenyra was pregnant with twins until after Jacaerys had left their mothers body. They had both been small babes, making the pregnancy appear as any other.
As she had grown, Viserra had heard the rumors surrounding her and her brother's birth. That apparently after her brother had been born—with his head full of dark hair—every person in the birthing room had gone silent.
Now, Viserra knew that couldn’t be entirely true, because someone had to have told Princess Rhaenyra that they could see another babe coming and that she would need to keep pushing.
She imagined that her mother had been quite relieved when Viserra was born with hair as blond as the conqueror himself. She’d probably hoped that she could pass off Jacaerys’s coloring as a fluke. Perhaps that had made it even more disappointing when Viserra had finally opened her eyes and the whole room had seen that they were not the purple of old Valyria, but rather a dark, strong, brown.
“I tire of this dance, Uncle.”
“What dance is that?”
“We both know you will not say it,” is all Viserra offered back.
I am a bastard.
Daemon looked at her for a moment. “No, I suppose I will not. It does not matter much to me—as you well know.”
“You cannot pull on Jacaerys’s strings the same way you do mine. His will snap.”
“I pray to the seven that I am never forced to converse with either of your brothers for this long, Viserra.”
“You never pray to the seven.”
“Then I will simply avoid the boy.”
“Perhaps it would suit you well to also avoid my mother and father then,” she tried.
Daemon seemed to have grown bored of their sparring. “I enjoy you, child, but do not attempt to control that which you do not understand. Your duty is to your mother and the realm, and that is where your focus should be also. All the pieces will move as they should, with or without your interference.”
“And am I one of your pieces, Uncle?” she countered.
He leveled her with a much more sincere look than she had anticipated. “A piece that is very dear to me, perhaps. As is your lady mother. Trust in that and leave it there.”
Despite herself, Viserra did trust that.
A moment later, the door burst in and Baela and Rhaena came running through it, finally dressed in their black mourning clothes. Viserra didn’t think she had seen them this joyous since their mother had perished only a week earlier.
“Jace and Luke are here, can we—”
“Stop, stop. Let me look at you first.”
Daemon gestured for them to come stand in front of his chair and they obeyed. He appraised them both for a moment, and then said:
“You both look lovely, the spitting image of your mother.” He touched Rhaena’s cheek affectionately. “Alright, now you may go see your cousins. The servants will take you down.” He turned his gaze on Viserra. “You go too, your mother and father will be eager to see you in one piece.”
******
Her mother pressed a kiss to her brow, and then one to her cheek, and then one to the other cheek, and then—
“I am well, Mother. I assure you.” Viserra laughed, as she attempted to disentangle herself from her mothers embrace.
“I will never let you cross the sea again, I could not bear it.”
They stood in the center of the throne room at High Tide.
Viserra had had a quick reunion with Jacaerys and Lucerys, before Lord Corlys and Princess Rhaenys had ushered them away, along with Baela and Rhaena, so that she could be alone with her mother.
Viserra sighed dramatically. “And I will resent you for it eternally, I despise this place. I wish we were in King’s Landing at the very least.”
“You prefer the smell of shit?” Rhaenyra asked, scrunching her nose in distaste. “In your years away they have still not managed to rid the city of the stench.”
“At least I would be dry. The water cannot seem to stay in the ocean here, but rather it hangs in the air to keep me eternally damp. And I find the people here particularly bothersome.”
“Are they truly so awful, my sweet?”
“They stare.” She gave her mother a meaningful look. “No one in Pentos stared.”
Her mother glanced around quickly, as if to confirm that they truly were alone in the large hall.
“Pay them no mind, they simply envy your proximity to the throne. They desire you for their sons.”
“That’s one explanation.”
Her mother did not provide another explanation.
“You truly loved Pentos, then? You were so adamant that you did not want to go.”
“And yet you sent me anyway.”
Rhaenyra pushed the hair back from her daughter's face. “You couldn’t stay in King’s Landing, you know that. My father wanted us to send you to the Vale, but I couldn’t bear the thought of you being surrounded by people you didn’t know.”
Viserra knew that her mother had had no choice, but to send her and Vermithor away. Viserra had been only nine years old when she’d claimed her dragon. Bonding with a dragon that had been ridden before was far different from bonding with one that hatched in your cradle; Vermithor was loath to listen to her at first. She couldn’t control him, she was just a child and he was a hundred years old. He was reactive—sometimes vicious—and deeply protective of her.
It had seemed harmless at first. Until, one day, her mother and father had taken her and Jace out flying all-together for the first time. Vermax had only just become large enough to carry her brother.
Viserra didn’t even know what had started it, but in one moment everything had been fine, and by the next Vermithor had been in pursuit of Vermax. Viserra had been on his back, but was helpless to stop him. It had taken the combined might of Seasmoke and Syrax to corral Vermithor and stop him. They had returned to King’s Landing immediately and Vermithor had been confined to the dragon pit.
It had been evident to everyone, except perhaps Viserra, that Vermithor couldn’t be allowed to reside in proximity to such young dragons. After Vermithor had an altercation with Prince Aegon’s dragon, the King himself had implored Rhaenyra to send Viserra and Vermithor to the Vale where there were no other dragons for Vermithor to quarrel with.
Luckily, another option had unfolded. Her mother had kept in close contact with Lady Laena over the years, and had confided in her about their predicament. Laena had told Rhaenyra that she’d had a similar struggle when she’d claimed Vhagar. She’d even offered to come to King’s Landing to try and help Viserra with her Vermithor problem.
But it was too late for all that. Thus, instead of arriving to help Viserra, her Aunt Laena had arrived to take Viserra home with her to Pentos; where Laena could help her learn to control Vermithor, and where the only creature for Vermithor to spar with was Vhagar—the only dragon in the known world larger than him.
Viserra only left Pentos once during her time there, about a year ago, when she was escorted to King’s Landing for a short trip by her Aunt Laena herself, but her parents had never made the journey to Pentos. Viserra had always suspected it was due to her mother not wanting to see Prince Daemon, or perhaps her father just didn’t want to accept that Pentos had become his sister's permanent home.
“I did what I thought was best, my love. I’m sorry if you disagree.”
Viserra leaned back into her mothers embrace.
“No, no. I’m not angry. Vermithor and I are as one now, I would ride him into battle on the morrow if needed.”
Rhaenyra laughed and said, “You will never see battle. I’ll make sure of it.” She gave her only daughter one more kiss on the brow.
“And where is my father?” Viserra asked, finally taking note of his absence.
“He mourns greatly for the loss of his dear sister,” Rhaenyra said. “He would be overjoyed to see you, child, but I fear at the moment he is in too much pain to feel any true joy.”
She nodded. “I understand. I too feel Aunt Laena’s loss deeply, she was,” Viserra’s voice broke slightly, “very kind to me. As if I were her own daughter.”
“She is at peace now,” her mother assured her. A moment passed between them. “And were all in Pentos kind to you?”
Viserra nodded. “Baela and Rhaena have become dear friends.”
They were not who her mother truly wanted to know about.
“And Lady Laena’s husband?”
Viserra had to resist the urge to roll her eyes. “Yes, Prince Daemon treated me very well. He taught me many things and has been my frequent confidant these years.”
Her mother looked suspicious. “Mhm, and what exactly did you confide in him?”
Viserra smiled. “I mostly told him how I missed my dear mother. I had an inkling that he would understand the feeling.”
“Viserra—”
What would’ve surely been a great lecture was cut short by the creaking sound of the great door that led to the throne room.
Viserra looked up in time to see two boys enter. One whom she recognized, and the other whom she did not recognize.
“Can I offer you some assistance, brothers?”
The one whom she did not recognize turned to walk away, seeming to be too deep in his cups to even have a conversation. Viserra realized with a start that it was Prince Aegon, the Queen’s eldest son. He was well into manhood now, and looked far different from the last time she’d seen him.
“My apologies, sister. My brother and I were just looking for our mother so that we might attend the service together,” Aemond Targaryen said.
Him, Viserra had recognized immediately. Aemond Targaryen looked the same as he had when she had last seen him. Despite being ten and four now, he still appeared as more of a boy than a man.
“Of course, I believe she is with His Grace, walking the beach.”
Aemond inclined his head. “Thank you, sister.” His gaze shifted to Viserra. “Niece, welcome home.”
“Uncle.” The scars on Viserra’s abdomen throbbed. As if warning her that the vicious boy who had given them to her was daring to speak to her.
Aemond bowed slightly to Rhaenyra, as custom demanded, and left the room. Viserra assumed he would pursue his brother before making any attempt to find their mother.
“He’s very proper isn’t he,” Viserra commented, with a bit more bite in her tone than was appropriate.
Rhaenyra laughed. “Yes, very proper. Always knows what to say and when to bow, which is good considering that Aegon seems to know less of what to do and how to behave by the day.”
“Has Aegon been injured in some way?” Viserra asked, confused. The King’s elder son had always been impulsive, but he had usually behaved in the end.
“Not injured, but perhaps shackled. My father has betrothed him to our sister, the Princess Helaena. He is acting out, most days he drinks so much that he even forgets the proper way to address the king.”
“Poor Helaena.”
Her mother made a noise of agreement.
“Come now, we must collect your brothers and say our goodbyes to Lady Laena.”
******
“Viserra, wake up. Viserra, wake up!”
Viserra jolted awake in her dark chambers. She had returned from the service for Lady Laena only an hour or two ago, and had promptly cried herself to sleep.
“Jace?”
“Yes, sister—”
“I was sleeping you imbecile,” she said, reaching for a pillow to smack him with. “I returned less than a day ago and already you vex—”
“Someone has stolen Vhagar.”
Viserra dropped the pillow and sat up quickly.
“What?”
“Baela says she is gone from where she was nesting, she does not believe that she would leave of her own volition.”
Something in Viserra’s chest seemed to cave. Vhagar had followed them all the way from Pentos, guarding Lady Laena’s body. If she was truly gone, it was because she knew Laena was too.
“Our aunt is truly gone then.”
Jace nodded. “Yes, but Vhagar was meant to be Rhaena’s dragon, and now she has simply disappeared.”
Viserra wavered at that. “Perhaps, brother, but dragons are not simple hounds to be passed down. Laena wanted Vhagar for Rhaena, that is true, and so I hope dearly it will come to fruition, but Vhagar became free to claim the moment Laena was dropped into the sea. Rhaena should have gone to her right then.”
“I do not disagree, but, regardless, now she is gone and I cannot imagine anyone else who would attempt to claim her. Especially not on such a dark day.”
Viserra’s heart slowed at her brother’s words.
She wished she had never been woken up, because she knew. She knew this story was done. She knew who rode Vhagar now. She knew who was desperate enough—hungry enough—to leave a funeral and immediately attempt to claim the largest dragon in the world.
She did not want to tell Jacaerys. She did not want to sit here and withstand his rage that the boy he despised most in the world had succeeded at something.
There was no one Jacaerys hated more than Aemond Targaryen.
“What can we possibly do, brother?” She asked, exasperated.
“Go looking of course. Vhagar is large and the island is small, if she has not left the island then perhaps we can search and find her.”
Viserra worried that sharing her suspicions with Jace now would only send him into a spiral of rage, and that he would be determined to mount Vermax and hunt Aemond—or do something equally as deadly and stupid.
But she also could not in good conscience let her brothers and cousins wander, aimlessly and ignorantly, into a possible confrontation with Aemond and Vhagar.
She thought once more of dear Laena, who had loved Vhagar fiercely, and racked her brain for anything helpful that might have been in the stories Laena had told Viserra of Vhagar’s early life—how Balerion, Vhagar, and Meraxes had delivered Westeros for Aegon.
Balerion and Vhagar.
Viserra knew what she had to do, although she did not want to do it.
“Alright, but we must be careful. Luke and the girls are quite young. You go ahead with them and begin your search, but leave the beaches and the dunes, I will walk there.”
Jace frowned. “Alone? Mother and Father would kill me. Uncle Daemon too, probably.”
“Aye, they would, but I won’t be alone. Vermithor rests on the cliffs near the beach for the night. He will watch over me while I walk.”
Jace chewed on his lip, a nervous habit he’d had since he was small. “Alright, but do you promise that you’ll mount Vermithor at the first sign of trouble? I do not want you harmed.”
“Of course. Now go!”
He squeezed her hand once before finally slipping out of her chambers.
Viserra fell back into her pillows, cursing the gods for making her deal with this on tonight of all nights.
She left her bed after another moment and pulled on one of her Uncle Daemons’s cloaks over her dressing gown, refusing to get properly dressed for such a ludicrous affair.
When she slipped out of her room she was slightly surprised by the absence of guards. Then again, they were in High Tide, surrounded by only family. And surely family would never hurt one another? Ridiculous.
She found her way out of the castle and down to the beaches easily enough, Viserra had always been good at going unnoticed when she so desired, and the hood of her cloak helped to hide her silver hair so she could blend into the darkness.
Viserra meandered down the beach for a while. She didn’t particularly want to find Aemond Targaryen, nor did she believe that finding Vhagar would do Rhaena any good. The dragon was already claimed, she knew it in her bones. Nevertheless, she would confront her uncle, if only to keep her brother from doing it instead.
She stopped walking when she spied a gaping cave in the distance, the one from Laena’s stories.
Vhagar was nowhere to be seen, but it was only a matter of time. She threw herself down on the sand so that she might gaze at the stars while she waited.
Many things remained unchanged from the last time she had been home, but the increased animosity between her brother and Aemond had her on edge. At Laena’s funeral, Jace had not even allowed the other boy to make conversation with him.
Viserra suspected the cause of the rift was more than just the animosity between their mothers. In fact, she suspected it was almost entirely due to the Prince Aegon.
Aegon had always been cruel to his younger brother, constantly ridiculing him for not having a dragon of his own. Meanwhile, he heavily favored Jacaerys, often choosing to train and fly with him instead of his own brother.
She suspected that Jace knew, deep down, that Aegon and Aemond were both cruel and untrustworthy; but Aegon was older, already ten and six, and was popular with the ladies at court. He had a charm to him that Aemond did not. Thus, instead of wisely hating them both, Jacaerys had fallen victim to Aegon’s charisma. Viserra assumed that Aegon’s cruelty to his brother pushed Jace to be cruel to him as well, and that Aegon’s favoring of Jace pushed Aemond to new depths of cruelty towards Jace.
A vicious cycle. She hoped Aegon would die before he pushed Jacaerys and Aemond to kill each other.
She felt him before she saw him.
Or, rather, she felt Vhagar.
A gentle breeze that became a strong wind, followed by a screech she knew well.
Vhagar landed over a hundred yards down the beach from her.
Viserra allowed a minute or two to pass before she sat up. She would not stand. The sand was comfortable and she was not afraid of Aemond Targaryen, he could look down on her for all she cared.
Another ten minutes passed before she saw a figure approaching from the same direction Vhagar had landed.
He stumbled when he saw her.
She had positioned herself on the part of the beach that she knew he’d need to pass to get back inside of High Tide. She still sat on the sand, looking out into the sea, refusing to give him the satisfaction of acknowledging him first.
“It’s you,” Aemond said, finally, his voice hoarse. He stood only steps from where she sat.
Viserra wondered if he’d been screaming as he rode Vhagar.
“It’s me.”
“I saw your mother send you to bed, she’ll be angry when I tell her I’ve found you out here.”
“Did it feel like you thought it would?” She turned her face towards him as she asked, looking upon him for the first time since he’d approached.
His hair was tangled, his eyes were wild.
He considered the question for a moment.
“It used to make me angry when people would say that dragonless Targaryens were not true Targaryens,” Aemond said, finally. He met her gaze. “They were right. ”
“We cannot be gods if we do not have dragons.”
She was goading him with the ‘we’, waiting to see if he would recoil at being grouped in with a bastard.
He did not.
“I kept waiting to feel your claws as I climbed her,” he admitted.
She smiled wide. “Are you still afraid of me, Uncle?”
That angered him.
“Stupid cunt,” he spit out, face red. “I was never afraid of a child. I maim—”
“You maimed me, yes.” The scars on her abdomen throbbed as she said it. “But I mounted Vermithor and you did not. A fair exchange, I think.”
Viserra had never told anyone how she got the scars. Four angry lines running diagonally down the right side of her stomach.
They’d been spending the summer on Dragonstone, when her mother had first broached the topic of her dragon egg. For, by then, her egg had sat in the dragon pit for nine long years and showed no signs of hatching. It was time for her to consider approaching an unclaimed dragon, if she felt ready.
Unfortunately, they did not spend that summer on Dragonstone alone. Queen Alicent and Prince Aemond had sailed in unannounced one evening. Neither shared what had spurred the trip, but it was obvious to all. Aemond was ten and one with no dragon, and it was rumored that every dragon in the pit had rejected him.
Looking back, announcing her intention to mount Vermithor on the morrow while at family dinner had been an unwise plan, but she had only been nine. And there was an order to these things, the dragon keepers had to be notified that she would be entering Vermithor’s cave, everything had to be arranged.
But Aemond had not cared for order.
Perhaps she and Vermithor had been bonded before she’d even truly claimed him, because that night she had known—she had known—that something was wrong. Only a child, and thoroughly barefoot, she’d crept from her bed and made her way all the way to the cave Vermithor favored.
That’s where she’d found Aemond, already halfway up Vermithor’s back. Viserra hadn’t hesitated—she hadn’t even for a moment wondered if she should cede to Aemond—Vermithor was meant to be hers. She had run at Aemond, scrambling up Vermithor’s ladder behind him, until she had been close enough to claw at his ankle and drag him down.
They’d fallen together, and then proceeded to punch, claw, and kick at each other for the honor of riding the Bronze Fury. Despite the age difference, they’d been about the same size. After a vicious knock of her elbow into his teeth, Viserra had pulled free of his grasp and dashed to make the climb.
Aemond had followed her once he’d regained his senses, but it’d been too late, she was too far ahead. When Viserra had swung herself into the saddle, Vermithor had roared in approval, but Aemond Targaryen would not let go without leaving his mark. He’d released the ladder and made a mad grab for Viserra herself, instead.
Her nightgown had been gashed in the center during their fight, and when his hand had made contact with the bare skin of her abdomen he’d held on. His rough, dirty fingernails had bit into her stomach, deeper than she knew possible, and as Vermithor had taken flight and shaken Aemond off, they’d sliced across her skin, as sharp and deadly as a dagger.
Viserra had never told her mother that Aemond had done it. She’d simply marched back into Dragonstone the next morning, triumphant and soaked in blood. Alicent and Aegon had been nowhere to be found.
“Fair or not, it doesn’t matter now,” Aemond said. “Now I ride Vhagar, the largest in the world.”
“Yes.”
“Even larger than Vermithor,” he pointed out.
She nodded. “Yes, Vhagar is the larger beast. And so beautiful, too, covered in holes. Almost as a constant testament to her long, long life. How intact is her mind I wonder?”
“Intact.”
“Yes, I’m sure. Like yours.”
“You—”
“They wait for you in the tunnels, I imagine,” she cut in, uninterested in what he wanted to say. She was sure of the fact that, after searching, her brothers and cousins would have retired to the tunnels to lay in wait. “I would remind you that they are only children and they suffered a great loss today. Rhaena had hoped Vhaagar would be hers.”
“If Rhaena had wanted Vhagar then she should have fought for Vhagar.”
Viserra sighed. “I don’t disagree, I only hoped the knowledge might move you to kindness. Or at least away from violence. Nevertheless, your quarrel with them is your own, I simply wanted to ensure that I confronted you first so that they did not stumble upon you while you still mounted Vhagar. I would not have my brothers burned just because you have not yet mastered control of your dragon.”
He ignored her implication that he might’ve struggled to control Vhagar if he’d been approached by Jace and the rest, and instead asked: “You laid in wait for me. How could you have known where Vhagar would land?”
“I knew Lady Laena well and she loved Vhagar dearly. She knew all of her history, and used to tell it to me as bedtime stories. Everyone thinks that the only spot in Blackwater Bay where the dragons rest is Dragonstone, but Lady Laena told me once that, a long time ago, sailors would see Balerion and Vhagar flying along Driftmarks’ edges. No one thought much of it until, many years later, they discovered a great cave worn into the cliff edge, and inside they found a hundred fossilized dragon eyes.” Viserra looked at Aemond again, who was watching her with rapt attention. “Balerion and Vhagar coiled and nested in that cave down there for a hundred years. I thought coming here might be a habit for her now, and I knew you’d have to walk up the length of the beach to return to High Tide.”
He stared at her for a moment.
“I don’t appreciate being followed.”
“I spend little time ruminating on what you might appreciate, Aemond.”
His face twisted into a glare and he began to walk past her.
“Uncle,” she called after him.
He slowed.
“There’s a certain harmony to it, I think, I am as wise as Jahaerys and you are as viscous as Visneya.” Viserra laid back onto the sand as she said it. “You may take your leave now.”
******
Aemond Targaryen had never been so eager for pain.
He had refused the milk of the poppy that the maester offered, despite his mothers protests, and instead found peace with the needle being threaded in and out of his face.
He was a true dragonrider now, with scars of his own.
“You swore oaths to protect and defend my blood!” The King was yelling at Ser Westerling and Ser Criston.
Aemond did not think he had ever seen his father pretend to care about him so convincingly.
His mother was kneeling next to him, her face pale as she clutched his hand in hers. Aemond did not like to see her afraid. He squeezed her hand tightly, if only to make her believe that he needed her there.
“It will heal, will it not, maester?” She asked.
“The flesh will heal,” the maester said, pulling the needle through his skin one last time, “but the eye is lost, Your Grace.”
His mother gasped and Aemond gripped her hand tighter. He was not keen to lose his eye, but he felt disconnected from the emotions of the moment, he still rode the high of mounting Vhagar.
A fair exchange, I think.
He watched, as if from a great distance, as his mother ridiculed Aegon; as Lord Corlys and Princess Rhaenys entered and went to their trueborn grandchildren; as his sister entered and went to her bastard sons.
Once the finger pointing started, he felt compelled to yell, “They attacked me!” It did not matter if it was true, it was what he was expected to say.
The squabbling continued until the King finally yelled out: “Silence!”
A shadow in the corner of the room caught his eye. It seemed as though Aemond was the only one who’d even noticed her slip in.
Viserra was as quiet as a ghost as she skirted the edge of the room. She reached her family after a moment and came to stand behind her mother, he watched as she bent down to examine Lucerys’s face and broken nose.
Lucerys leaned in to whisper something to his sister and that was when her burning gaze found Aemond’s. Her anger seemed to falter slightly as she finally took in the gruesome state of his face.
Aemond hadn’t noticed how ridiculous she looked when they had spoken on the beach. She wore an absurdly oversized cloak over her nightgown, so large that it pooled at her feet.
“Aemond, I will have the truth of what happened. Now.”
His father’s demand forced his attention away from Viserra. Aemond did not dare answer him, what could he say that would not implicate himself or his mother?
The adults continued to squabble and Aemond found himself compelled to turn his glare towards the Prince Jacaerys. Gods, how he hated him. At ten and two he had an entitlement that rivaled Aegon’s. He was a first son with everything that Aemond deserved, and a bastard on top of it all. The Prince glared back, his lip curled in dislike.
Aemond wished that it had been Jacaerys who had taken his eye so that he could have an excuse to feed him to Vhagar.
It was another moment before the King pulled him back into the conversation once more: “You tell me boy, where did you hear this lie?”
He looked to his mother instead of answering the King, not because he intended to blame her, but rather to discern what to do. She was speaking to the King, trying to deflect the question, and her face was filled with fear.
His gaze settled on the Prince Jacaerys once more, a first son. Aemond hated first sons. Jacaerys, Aegon—Aegon.
His father questioned him again: “Aemond, look at me. Who spoke these lies to you? Your King demands an answer.”
He had to resist the urge to smile.
“It was Aegon,” Aemond said.
“Me?" Aegon spluttered.
“Aegon! Tell me the truth of it,” his father demanded, and, for a moment, Aemond almost wondered if the King would finally have to admit the truth about Rhaenyra’s children.
A stupid thing to wonder. Aemond knew that his father loved his grandchildren more than he loved his children by his second wife.
“We know, Father. Everyone knows. Just look at them,” Aegon said.
His words only seemed to enrage the King further.
“This interminable infighting must cease, all of you! We are family! Now make your apologies and show good will to one another. Your father, your grandsire, your King demands it!” Viserys let out a heaving breath, as if the effort of his speech had taken a toll on his whole body.
The King began to walk away, but Aemond watched as his mother went to him. Her face was full of horror at the lack of punishment.
“That is insufficient,” his mother whispered. “Aemond has been damaged permanently, my King. ‘Good Will’ cannot make him whole.”
Aemond felt more whole with Vhagar than he ever had with two eyes.
“I know, Alicent, but I cannot restore his eye.” His father sounded tired, and that, more than anything else, made Aemond angry. He was the one who had been maimed, and yet his father was tired?
“No, because it has been taken,” his mother said, and Aemond felt a rush of affection for her.
“What would you have me do?”
“There is a debt to be paid.” The room was deadly silent. “I shall have one of her son's eyes in return.”
Everything erupted.
Lucerys began to scream.
Viserra pushed him behind her.
Rhaenyra pushed her daughter behind her.
The Rogue Prince had abandoned his leaning position and had his hand on his pommel.
“Alicent—” The King began, horrified
Aemond could not stand the look on his father’s face. As if Aemond’s maiming had been inconvenient for him. As if his wife’s love for their son exhausted him.
“He is your son, Viserys. I demand recompense. I demand Lucerys’s eye.”
Aemond could see Aegon snickering in the corner. Mommy’s boy, he’d always called him.
Aemond would show him.
He was Aemond Targaryen, the son of the king. He rode the largest dragon in the world, he did not need his mother to fuss over him.
“No.” Aemond’s voice cut through the chaos, stronger and steadier than he felt.
His father eyed him suspiciously. This wasn’t entirely unusual, the King usually regarded him as a pest instead of a son.
“Speak, son.”
It was that word that did it. Yes, I am your son. And suddenly, desperately, Aemond wanted the King to see him as a son. He wanted him to see that he was wise and measured and had what it took to lead.
He cleared his throat. “You must calm yourself, Mother. You let your emotions rule you. I do not require, nor do I desire, my nephew's eye.”
“Aemond—” His mother began.
“Quiet,” his father demanded, and he was looking at Aemond the way he usually only looked at Rhaenyra. Like he cared what he might say next.
“To mend our families and pay this debt I would…” He trailed off, unsure of what to say. He was only a boy, he did not truly know how to fix this problem in a way that would serve himself.
His father looked away, disappointed.
The room broke into whispers once more.
Prince Jacaerys was smirking at his failure. Aegon was laughing. His father wasn’t paying attention.
Aemond wanted to make his father proud. Or, rather, he wanted his father to see him, and regret the years he spent ignoring him. Moreover, he wanted to wipe the smirk of Jacaerys’s face.
Then he saw her.
Her wide brown eyes.
“I see the solution now, Father.” He began again.
“I tire of this, Aemond—” The King was sagging, most of his weight placed on his cane.
Aemond stood. “To heal this wound in our family—”
“Spit it out,” Jacaerys muttered under his breath, though the whole room heard him.
Aemond looked at him, he wanted to see Jace’s face when he said it.
He couldn’t resist smiling when he finally said:
“I would request—rather, I would demand—that I be given the hand of the Princess Viserra as recompense.”
True silence fell across the room for the first time.
Jacaerys’s face twisted with rage.
And then:
“Her hand?" the little Lucerys whispered, horrified. “I would sooner give up my eye than allow you to take my sister's hand.”
Daemon came up behind Lucerys and placed a hand on his shoulder.
“I believe Prince Aemond is talking about marriage—not dismemberment,” Daemon said, amusement dancing behind his eyes. “Please correct me if I am wrong, Nephew.”
Aemond reddened slightly at Daemon’s jest. A stark reminder from the gods that he was still a boy and not a man.
“I—yes, Uncle. I request a betrothal.”
He avoided looking at Viserra. He was surprised that she had not voiced her disapproval yet.
“I will not allow it,” Rhaenyra said, voice low and furious.
“I did not make the request to you, sister. I asked His Grace.”
“She is my daughter—”
“And he is the father of the realm.”
His mother came to stand beside him and whispered loudly, “My love, it is admirable what you seek to do, but do not lower yourself—”
“My daughter is far above his station, Alicent,” Rhaenyra cut in, voice sharp. “It is her who should not have to lower herself.”
Alicent ignored her. “What about the Lannister girl? We’d been discussing a betrothal with her family for months—”
“I would not marry someone with common blood,” Aemond bit out, angry now. “I am of Old Valyria and my wife will be also.”
His mother recoiled from him and he immediately regretted his word choice.
Jacaerys opened his mouth to speak, his face full of fury, but Rhaenyra smacked the back of his head before he could get the words out.
Good.
Aemond looked at Viserra finally. Her face was pale and she now held Lucerys in her arms, although he was far past the common age of being held. Aemond could not tell whether it was anger or disgust dancing behind her eyes. Perhaps both.
Prince Daemon stood directly behind her. A heavy hand on each of her shoulders.
So that was why she had not spoken.
The Rogue Prince was playing a longer game.
Aemond turned to the King.
“What say you, Father?”
The King considered him for a long moment.
“You are sincere in this request, Aemond?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“And what compels you to ask this?” The King asked.
Aemond tried to say what he thought his father would want to hear. “I want to do all I can to fulfill your wish and end this infighting.”
“So this is an act of selflessness? And yet you called it recompense. A demand.”
His father was looking right at him, and Aemond had to resist the urge to look away. He needed to offer the King a bit of honesty if he was going to get his way.
“I am your son,” Aemond said, doing his best to make his voice sound firm and imploring, instead of bitter and angry like he truly felt. “I refuse to be insulted with a marriage that would not honor the tradition of my Valyrian ancestors. Aegon is to wed Helaena. Rumors abound of Jaceaerys and Lucerys’s anticipated betrothals to Rhaena and Baela. Viserra should be mine by right, but if that right is to be ignored then I will demand it instead. Hear me now—I will not marry some common girl and dilute my ancient blood.”
“She is not a broodmare.” Rhaenyra cut in.
The King sighed at Rhaenyra’s protest. “I cannot fault the boy for his request, Rhaenyra. He would be doing me a great service by joining the families, and he has lost much tonight, he is deserving of a reward.”
“A reward—” Rhaenyra began hotly, but then Jacaerys cut in and said:
“I would offer an alternative.”
Jace had pulled himself together enough to speak calmly, but his expression was still angered and his jaw was tense.
The King looked worn, but he motioned for Jacaerys to continue nonetheless. “Very well, speak.”
“I would offer Baela for Aemond to wed,” Jace said, before looking at his sister, his gaze uncomfortable. “And I would request that I wed my sister instead.”
Aemond’s heart jumped into his throat. He had not been expecting that.
No, that would not do.
His gaze flicked to Viserra and he was pleased to see that her nose had scrunched up in distaste.
Princess Rhaenyra looked slightly relieved. “Yes, Father. That would do nicely—”
“It would not,” Aemond cut in, scrambling for a way to regain control of the situation. “Yes, that would fulfill my request for a Valyrian bride. However, it would not fulfill the King’s need to heal this division between your children and my mother’s children. And, above all, I serve my King.”
He had won. He knew it.
There was a moment of quiet.
The King came to stand in front of Aemond and reached a hand out to touch his face. “Nothing could please me more than knowing that someone else in this family is working for unity and not animosity. I have raised you well.”
His mother scoffed.
“Father you cannot be serious,” Rhaenyra pleaded, “He has just levied vile insults against my sons. Who is to say he will not treat Viserra the same?”
The King fixed Aemond with a more serious look. “She is my only granddaughter, Aemond. You must swear to me right here that you will always treat her kindly.”
“I swear, Father. Of course,” Aemond assured him. Resisting the urge to point out that while Viserra was the King's granddaughter, he was Viserys’s son.
“And who is to say he does not lie—”
“My son does not lie,” his mother all but snarled.
“Rhaenyra,” the King said with a smile, “this is good news. All this fighting can cease now, you shall see.”
“Father—”
“It is done, Rhaenyra. This is my decree. They shall be wed.”
Rhaenyra set her jaw and turned her face away.
Aemond wondered if this was the first time their father had ever told her no.
“I must retire now,” his father said, his brief energy clearly fading quickly. The Kingsguard rushed to offer him their aid as he began to leave the room. He looked back once, “You have made me proud today, Aemond.”
“Thank you, Father.” Aemond whispered.
His mother grabbed his arm. “The maester says the wound must be cleaned now, my brave son. Come, let us go to your chambers.”
Aemond did not protest, but rather allowed himself to be guided out of the room.
He spared one glance back for Viserra.
His betrothed.
She looked as though she was plotting his murder.
Good, the more she raged the more it would twist the knife in Jacaerys’s gut.
Once they were in his chambers his mother knelt down before him.
“It was smart what you did today, my son. Your father was impressed.”
Aemond needed to assuage her—he had essentially declared to everyone in their family that he found the prospect of marrying someone with a lineage similar to his mother below him.
“I did not mean what I said, I only wanted to secure my position and yours.”
It was not true, but it was what she wanted to hear.
“Of course, my smart boy. And I promise you, on my life, I will make sure you do not have to marry that vile girl.”
******
Viserra sank to the ground once she was finally alone with her mother and Daemon.
“The King cannot be serious,” she whispered.
“Hush, child,” her mother cupped her face in her hands. “His sense will return.”
“It could be worse,” Daemon mused. “He could have decreed that she was to marry someone common.”
“I would rather marry an Andal than him,” Viserra seethed.
“My sweet girl, I promise you, on my life, I will make sure you do not have to marry that vile boy.”