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𝓓𝔂𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝔂𝓸𝓾𝓷𝓰 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓹𝓵𝓪𝔂𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓱𝓪𝓻𝓭 𝓣𝓱𝓪𝓽'𝓼 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝔀𝓪𝔂 𝓶𝔂 𝓯𝓪𝓽𝓱𝓮𝓻 𝓶𝓪𝓭𝓮 𝓱𝓲𝓼 𝓵𝓲𝓯𝓮 𝓪𝓷 𝓪𝓻𝓽 𝓓𝓻𝓲𝓷𝓴 𝓪𝓵𝓵 𝓭𝓪𝔂 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝔀𝓮 𝓽𝓪𝓵𝓴 '𝓽𝓲𝓵 𝓭𝓪𝓻𝓴 𝓣𝓱𝓪𝓽'𝓼 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝔀𝓪𝔂 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓻𝓸𝓪𝓭 𝓭𝓸𝓿𝓮𝓼 𝓭𝓸 𝓲𝓽, 𝓻𝓲𝓭𝓮 '𝓽𝓲𝓵 𝓭𝓪𝓻𝓴. 𓍼- ℜ𝔦𝔡𝔢 𝔟𝔶 𝔏𝔞𝔫𝔞 𝔡𝔢𝔩 𝔯𝔢𝔶
𝓓𝓸𝓷'𝓽 𝓫𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓴 𝓶𝓮 𝓭𝓸𝔀𝓷 (𝓭𝓸𝓷'𝓽 𝓫𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓴 𝓶𝓮 𝓭𝓸𝔀𝓷) 𝓘'𝓿𝓮 𝓫𝓮𝓮𝓷 𝓽𝓻𝓪𝓿𝓮𝓵𝓲𝓷' 𝓽𝓸𝓸 𝓵𝓸𝓷𝓰 (𝓘'𝓿𝓮 𝓫𝓮𝓮𝓷 𝓽𝓻𝓪𝓿𝓮𝓵𝓲𝓷' 𝓽𝓸𝓸 𝓵𝓸𝓷𝓰) 𝓘'𝓿𝓮 𝓫𝓮𝓮𝓷 𝓽𝓻𝔂𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓽𝓸𝓸 𝓱𝓪𝓻𝓭 (𝓘'𝓿𝓮 𝓫𝓮𝓮𝓷 𝓽𝓻𝔂𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓽𝓸𝓸 𝓱𝓪𝓻𝓭) 𝓦𝓲𝓽𝓱 𝓸𝓷𝓮 𝓹𝓻𝓮𝓽𝓽𝔂 𝓼𝓸𝓷𝓰 (𝔀𝓲𝓽𝓱 𝓸𝓷𝓮 𝓹𝓻𝓮𝓽𝓽𝔂 𝓼𝓸𝓷𝓰) 𓍼ℜ𝔦𝔡𝔢 𝔟𝔶 𝔏𝔞𝔫𝔞 𝔡𝔢𝔩 𝔯𝔢𝔶
𝓓𝓸𝓷'𝓽 𝓵𝓮𝓪𝓿𝓮 𝓶𝓮 𝓷𝓸𝔀 (𝓭𝓸𝓷'𝓽 𝓵𝓮𝓪𝓿𝓮 𝓶𝓮 𝓷𝓸𝔀) 𝓓𝓸𝓷'𝓽 𝓼𝓪𝔂 𝓰𝓸𝓸𝓭 𝓫𝔂𝓮 (𝓭𝓸𝓷'𝓽 𝓼𝓪𝔂 𝓰𝓸𝓸𝓭 𝓫𝔂𝓮) 𝓓𝓸𝓷'𝓽 𝓽𝓾𝓻𝓷 𝓪𝓻𝓸𝓾𝓷𝓭 (𝓭𝓸𝓷'𝓽 𝓽𝓾𝓻𝓷 𝓪𝓻𝓸𝓾𝓷𝓭) 𝓛𝓮𝓪𝓿𝓮 𝓶𝓮 𝓱𝓲𝓰𝓱 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓭𝓻𝔂 (𝓵𝓮𝓪𝓿𝓮 𝓶𝓮 𝓱𝓲𝓰𝓱 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓭𝓻𝔂) 𓍼 ℜ𝔦𝔡𝔢 𝔟𝔶 𝔏𝔞𝔫𝔞 𝔡𝔢𝔩 𝔯𝔢𝔶
𝓘 𝓱𝓮𝓪𝓻 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓫𝓲𝓻𝓭𝓼 𝓸𝓷 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓼𝓾𝓶𝓶𝓮𝓻 𝓫𝓻𝓮𝓮𝔃𝓮, 𝓘 𝓭𝓻𝓲𝓿𝓮 𝓯𝓪𝓼𝓽 𝓘 𝓪𝓶 𝓪𝓵𝓸𝓷𝓮 𝓪𝓽 𝓶𝓲𝓭𝓷𝓲𝓰𝓱𝓽 𝓑𝓮𝓮𝓷 𝓽𝓻𝔂𝓲𝓷' 𝓱𝓪𝓻𝓭 𝓷𝓸𝓽 𝓽𝓸 𝓰𝓮𝓽 𝓲𝓷𝓽𝓸 𝓽𝓻𝓸𝓾𝓫𝓵𝓮, 𝓫𝓾𝓽 𝓘 , 𝓘'𝓿𝓮 𝓰𝓸𝓽 𝓪 𝔀𝓪𝓻 𝓲𝓷 𝓶𝔂 𝓶𝓲𝓷𝓭 𝓢𝓸, 𝓘 𝓳𝓾𝓼𝓽 𝓻𝓲𝓭𝓮 𝓙𝓾𝓼𝓽 𝓻𝓲𝓭𝓮, 𝓘 𝓳𝓾𝓼𝓽 𝓻𝓲𝓭𝓮, 𝓘 𝓳𝓾𝓼𝓽 𝓻𝓲𝓭𝓮.
𓍼 ℜ𝔦𝔡𝔢 𝔟𝔶 𝔏𝔞𝔫𝔞 𝔡𝔢𝔩 𝔯𝔢𝔶
VIDEO CD: HELAFILMS @tiktok
A poem for Alicent Hightower
𝘚𝘩𝘦'𝘴 𝘢 𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘥 𝘱𝘰𝘦𝘵'𝘴 𝘥𝘦𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵. 𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘺, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘴𝘩𝘦'𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸𝘴 𝘪𝘵. 𝘚𝘩𝘦'𝘴 𝘮𝘢𝘥𝘦 𝘪𝘵 𝘴𝘰 𝘧𝘢𝘳 𝘢𝘭𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘺, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘵'𝘴 𝘤𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘱𝘪𝘴𝘦𝘴. 𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘯, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘵 𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦𝘴 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘵𝘸𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘴 𝘢 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦 𝘧𝘶𝘭𝘭 𝘰𝘧 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘦𝘴. 𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘴 𝘸𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢 𝘣𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘧𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘮𝘦𝘦𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘥𝘦𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘦. 𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘭𝘰𝘵𝘴 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘰𝘯-𝘪𝘯-𝘭𝘢𝘸'𝘴 𝘧𝘶𝘯𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘭. 𝘛𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘪𝘴 𝘢𝘯 𝘦𝘹-𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘶𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦. 𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘥𝘢𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘢𝘺𝘴, 𝘒𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘮𝘦. 𝘏𝘦𝘳 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘥𝘢𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘴 𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘴𝘩𝘦'𝘴 𝘮𝘢𝘥 𝘣𝘦𝘺𝘰𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘨𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘧, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘴𝘩𝘦'𝘴 𝘢 𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘥 𝘱𝘰𝘦𝘵'𝘴 𝘥𝘦𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘵'𝘴 𝘤𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴𝘯'𝘵 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘪𝘵 𝘺𝘦𝘵.
By @witchy-v1xen
The Taming of the Dragon, 1 ✷ Aemond Targaryen
PAIRING: Aemond Targaryen / F!OC
SUMMARY: One evening, Aemong, in dire need of clearing his head, catches a Dragonkeeper on the beach tending to Vhagar. The Queen of Dragons doesn't seem bothered by the stranger's presence. Quite the opposite. Aemond is immediately intrigued. Even more so when he discovers that the stranger is a girl who comes from the North and bears the name Snow.
-ˋˏ following chapter ✶ ao3 ✶ my inbox ˎˊ-
Aemond Targaryen was on the verge of going mad. Everyone around him, from his mother to his grandfather and even his failing father, had only one word on their lips: Rhaenyra. His half-sister, who lived in Dragonstone, haunted the Red Keep. Her ghost wandered the corridors and manifested itself on their lips. He no longer wanted to hear that cursed name, which brought with it bad omens and curses.
“She'll do anything to usurp the throne! Even if she knows Aegon is the rightful heir!’ Alicent Hightower shouted.
Her brown curls bounced with every step she took. Her incessant to-ing and fro-ing along the Small Council’s table was making his head spin.
His mother had summoned him—as if Aegon wasn't the first son—to this secret meeting where her, his grandfather Otto, Criston Cole and Larys Strong would discuss stratagems, politics, and manipulations: three things he had started to loath. His love for his mother and his sense of duty had kept him from leaving the minute she made that request.
His expression revealed his true opinion of this ridiculous spectacle which he was watching with a distracted eye. He had stopped listening a long time ago and was waiting patiently—as was expected of him—to be dismissed. These discussions had a way of boring him. They went round in circles, nothing more than paraphrases of a previous meeting. A constant déjà-vu fuelled by obsession and a thirst for power.
“Viserys will come round,” her father reassured her.
The Queen laughed, a mundane, almost inelegant, gesture that was incongruous with her status. Rhaenyra had the gift of unearthing his mother’s inner ugliness. She could turn the most important woman in Westeros into the common little girl full of rage she had once been.
“She has his favour. She is the favourite child! He won't change his mind, not even about his first son!”
And what a son! Unsurprisingly, Aegon was nowhere to be seen today. His brother had never taken to politics. He was probably busy fucking some whore in the Silk Alley or some maid in his rooms, happy to let Aemond take over the responsibilities he left vacant.
Although it pained him to admit it, Aegon was the first son and he belonged on the Iron Throne. Aemond would much rather see his brother sit there than his whore of a half-sister. Aegon wasn't evil, just a misguided soul that his mother and grandfather would set straight. He was sure of that. Leaving the kingdom in Rhaenyra's palms, on the other hand, was tantamount to condemning the inhabitants of the Seven Kingdoms. Her reign would only bring calamity.
He tilted his head back and looked up at the ornate ceiling. His fingernails beat against the wooden table as the minutes ticked by. Slowly. Much too slowly. He held back a yawn.
The tone had been raised, words had been shouted, orders, given, and in the midst of all this racket, Aemond felt like screaming. He couldn't care less about Rhaenyra, his uncle, and her brown-haired bastards.
Aemond didn't want to suffer what his birth had spared him—responsibility. The second son was merely the replacement, the forgotten one. He would only appear on stage if Death came too early.
He wanted to be left in peace until then.
A futile desire for someone bearing the Targaryen name. No ancestor of the blood of the Dragon had known peace and he certainly wouldn't be the first.
The sun had been down for at least three hours when Aemond finally escaped from the clutches of his mother and grandfather. He mourned a wasted day and headed for his rooms.
On the way, he came across Aegon, his eyes reddened, and his eyelashes still stuck with sleep. His fist itched. He felt a visceral need to bring it down on his brother’s face. Why wouldn’t he grow up? What would become of Westeros if his grandfather and mother succeeded in making him king? Aegon was an immature fool and Aemond was expected to pick up the pieces. What did he gain by doing so? No recognition, no respect, and certainly not power. He was asked to do it because it was expected of him. An unspoken rule he learned to obey from an early age.
Aemond Targaryen would forever remain the second son, obscured by the shadow of Aegon’s unworthy glory.
“Brother.”
Aegon nodded, but the sly smile on his lips threw off any semblance of politeness. Aemond remained unmoved. He would not play his game, not tonight, although a few insults came to the tip of his tongue. He clenched his jaw.
“I assume the council was as interesting as usual. I'm sorry I couldn't be there but, you understand... A pretty servant was waiting for me. Couldn’t disappoint her, you know?”
Aemond didn't reply. He had not even deigned to leave the castle, not even his rooms. His hands began to shake, and a stabbing pain seized his sapphire eye, as it did every time he was upset. Lazy bastard.
When Aemond was mastering the art of sword fighting, Aegon was swilling whole jugs of wine. When Aegon was thrusting his cock between the thighs of a whore, Aemond was immersing himself in the histories of Old Valyria.
They couldn't have been more different.
Aemond continued towards his chambers, his face tense. Behind him, his brother burst out laughing and tried to talk to him, but he quickened his pace. Tonight, he had no patience for conversation.
Soon, the large wooden doors of his rooms appeared at the end of the corridor. The relief he felt was dulled by a weight in his chest.
At the last moment, Aemond turned around and hurried back. He felt as if he were suffocating within the gigantic walls of the Red Keep. The vast corridors were no longer so. They closed in on him and whispered hissing words. They slipped into his ear and snaked into his mind to unearth his worries. Stories of legitimacy, inheritance, the throne and responsibility—everywhere he went, his duty followed and plagued him.
Aemond needed to see Vhagar. He usually avoided disturbing her in the evening. His dragon was no longer in her prime and slept more than the others. Tonight, he would allow himself to be selfish. The need was too great. He had to clear his head, or he would go mad like many Targaryens before him.
He continued walking until he came to a darkened alcove. Aemond slid his hand over the cold stones. Eyes closed, he savoured the sensation. Click. He pushed open the wall, revealing a long and abandoned corridor.
The secrets of the Red Keep were no longer unknown for him. Aemond had spent his youth wandering up and down the corridors of the building in search of them. The stories said that Maegor the Cruel had beheaded the architects, the masons, the carpenters... all the brains and hands that built this fortress. They took these secrets to their graves, secrets that only the blood of the Dragon could recognise.
After the loss of his eye—thinking of Lucerys Strong made him cringe—Aemond had redoubled his efforts to find them all. These passages had offered him the ideal refuge to escape from the gaze of others during the most difficult period of his life. This tradition had survived.
Aemond didn't even stop in front of Balerion's skull—not when his own dragon, alive on top of it, was waiting for him—and he rushed through the corridors, down some stairs, up others, turned left and then right, down some stairs again until he finally reached a door which he pushed open.
The fresh air whipped across his face. Immediately, all his worries evaporated, although his hands continued to tremble—a vestige of his wrath. He inhaled the smell of the shore, a delicious mixture of salt and air.
Aemond made his way down the stairs and onto the beach. He relished the sensation of walking on the white sand. It crumbled under his leather boots. Aemond found this instability reassuring. Nature could be unstable too. The wind had picked up and was blowing thousands of grains around. These whirlwinds, small storms of matter, calmed him and the proximity of Vhagar finished off the hurricane rising in his heart.
With a slight smile on his lips, he walked over to the dunes where his dragon had taken refuge since he brought her back from Driftmark, eight years ago. A mountain of green scales stood among the other mounds of sand. It moved with every breath. Aemond could almost feel the warmth of her breath, the hardness of her scales, and could already imagine himself riding her, hair blowing in the wind, free in his mind.
His joy was short-lived. The gods did not like to see him happy.
Aemond stopped dead in his tracks. Next to the gigantic figure of Vhagar, a small silhouette stood out. It was fidgeting and tormenting the dragon’s sleep. The short distance between the two made him clench his fists. They were close, far too close. Aemond had forbidden anyone to approach his mount. He had never had to repeat his request before. Who would be foolish enough to approach a sleeping dragon? Those who had risked it were no longer around to tell the tale. They had been burnt to a crisp and their loved ones had had to mourn an unrecognisable pile of ashes.
The stranger must have been unconscious or just mad.
Aemond stomped over to them.
“Who are you and what are you doing here?” he growled rather than asked.
He knew he was protective of Vhagar. Everyone around him had noticed. He had exchanged her for an eye, and this suffering had only redoubled his murderous impulses: Vhagar was his. Anyone who dared touch her would face his rage.
The latter rose in his chest and accelerated his heartbeat. It coursed through his entire being, leaving no part of his body untouched. His nails dug into the palms of his hands. His muscles quivered, waiting for just one thing—for him to attack.
He stepped forward, ready to confront the stranger, who jumped and turned but did not reply. This silence made him even more furious. Who dared ignore their prince?
Moving a little closer, Aemond recognised the gleaming black armour and scaled helmet of the Dragonkeepers.
A breeze of relief blew over his heart, but it didn't completely calm the agitation that had been building up inside. At least this person knew what they were doing.
Worry and anger gave way to curiosity: what were they doing here? Aemond had never come across a Dragonkeeper outside the pit. They lived there to ensure the well-being of the creatures. Like monks, the pit was their sanctuary, and nothing could keep them from their duties.
Normally, at least.
He couldn't see their face. Vhagar's massive form cast an equally colossal shadow over their body, which was further darkened by the night. It was only when he was close enough to smell the smoke coming from their uniform that he realised it was a girl and, worse still, that he didn't know her.
The last time he had ventured into the dragonpit, he had been only ten years old and had two eyes. Back when he was still Dragonless-Aemond, the place had seemed unreachable yet idyllic—the embodiment of impossible dreams. Eight years ago, he would have easily been able to name the seventy-seven keepers with the time he spent there. He came every day, waiting for the moment when a dragon would accept him as a rider.
The Dragonkeepers’ faces had clouded over with time, reduced to vague memories that the satisfaction of having claimed Vhagar had swept away. Far too large to fit in the pit, his dragon had made her home on the dunes of King's Landing and, in doing so, had made the dragonpit a bygone era of his childhood.
“State your name. Now.”
She dipped into a clumsy curtsy, perhaps the worst he had ever seen. She almost tripped on air and fell face-first into the sand. He winced. This girl was cruelly lacking in grace. No doubt the keeper’s profession had damaged her manners, which already left a lot to be desired.
"Lucella Snow, yer ‘ighness.”
His eye twitched.
A bastard from the North.
The shamelessness made perfect sense now.
These people were nothing but barbarians, made savages by the cold and their proximity with the Wildlings. They prayed to their strange, faceless gods, remnants of a primitive past, and still clung to superstitions dating back thousands of years which bore witness to their backwardness. Too limited for the political intrigues of the South, they retreated into their icy fortresses and only left them to defend themselves.
Northerners were strange and even the Starks, although not the worst of their species, were no exception to the rule.
Add to that the absence of a father to beat her and train her like a lady, which she could have become with a little effort, and you had the bastard in front of him. She was not unpleasant to look at, Aemond decided. Her pale skin, hidden under the ashes smeared on her cheeks, and the few strands of black hair sticking out of her helmet leaped out at him. If she had been born in wedlock, many suitors would have fought for her hand in marriage.
“And what on earth is a Winterfell bastard doing here?”
“I’m sorry, yer ‘ighness, but I’m afraid ‘am just a bastard frum White ‘arbah.”
Her accent struck Aemond's ears and made him wince. Syllables here and there disappeared as the vowels struggled to make themselves heard properly in this gibberish. Her voice was deep, deeper than his mother's or his sister's—the only women of his life—, and dragonfire smoke had taken the evenness out of her tone, leaving it hoarse.
He didn't like the way she avoided his question or her undeniable lack of politeness. She looked at him with jaded eyes as if he were the one who shouldn't be there. He thought he saw a flame dancing in her amber irises. A strange colour for someone from a Northerner. In these lands, eyes were only blue, grey, or black: bland colours for a land saddened by the blizzard.
“Winterfell... White Harbor... Northern towns all look alike.”
“I suppose yeh won't mind if I call you Velaryon, then? Yeh understand... Valyrians… They’re all th’same.”
His indecency irritated her. A mouth like hers belonged in a dilapidated tavern, not in a place like the Red Keep.
Northerners didn't belong here. They weren't like them.
“What is your concern here?” he asked her again.
Why isn’t Vhagar killing you? he thought.
Next to Snow, the Queen of Dragons looked peaceful. His companion was used to the presence of the keeper of the North, Aemond realised. The thought worried him. How long had this stranger been roaming around his dragon without him knowing?
The bastard pointed her gloved fingertips at a sheep carcass, no doubt ready to be charred by Vhagar, judging by the hungry look on her face. Aemond had not seen it until now.
The presence of this woman was upsetting his plans and troubling his senses.
“I’m bringing her food.”
Her 'r's rolled off her tongue.
“I already feed her.”
“Not enough. Obviously,” Snow retorted without hesitation, pointing to Vhagar's visible ribs. “Age tends t’work up their appetite. Ain’t tha’ right, sweetheart?”
She tenderly stroked the dragon’s muzzle, who let herself be petted under Aemond's hallucinated gaze.
His mount, reduced to a common pet.
His nostrils flared. He abruptly grabbed her hand and pulled her away from Vhagar, ignoring the grimace of pain on the Dragonkeeper’s face. Good. Perhaps she would understand that lurking around his dragon was not without consequences.
Vhagar, the Queen of all dragons, ridden by Visenya, had fought and survived Aegon's Conquest. She embodied the glory of House Targaryen and would not be touched by a commoner. A Northern bastard even less so.
Without a glance at her, he climbed the rope ladder and settled into the saddle.
"Sōvēs," he commanded.
Vhagar, lethargic, took her time shaking her wings before flapping them and taking flight. She sent grains of sand and stones flying. Soon, the beach was nothing more than a pale speck drowned in the thick clouds bathing in the twilight’s silver light. The icy air invigorated him, but he couldn't find the comfort he had come for. His thoughts remained stuck on the Dragonkeeper.
When Vhagar lost altitude for a moment, when the two of them broke through the cloud barrier and the beach was visible once again, Aemond saw that she had not moved and that her eyes were riveted on him.
Aemond didn't understand her expression but decided he didn't give a fuck.
The Taming of the Dragon, 2 ✷ Aemond Targaryen
PAIRING: Aemond Targaryen / F!OC
SUMMARY: One evening, Aemong, in dire need of clearing his head, catches a Dragonkeeper on the beach tending to Vhagar. The Queen of Dragons doesn't seem bothered by the stranger's presence. Quite the opposite. Aemond is immediately intrigued. Even more so when he discovers that the stranger is a girl who comes from the North and bears the name Snow.
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Lucella Snow had done her utmost to avoid the beach in the last days, for fear of finding Vhagar and her rider there. It had only taken one encounter. One encounter to remind Lucella why she had gone to such lengths to avoid Aemond Targaryen for two years.
The rumours that one’s ears picked up on the fly in taverns were true—the man was nothing but condescension and cruelty.
Lucella had taken care to establish a precise and safe routine, only approaching Vhagar when night had fallen and the dragon was enjoying a well-earned rest. Apart from a few rare occasions, the prince only took her flying during daytime. Her age forced him to control his whims. Dragons like Sunfyre or Dreamfyre were bursting with energy and could fly fast and long without tiring but the golden age of Aegon I's conquest was long gone. Centuries had passed and Vhagar had felt the effects.
It took nothing away from her greatness, but this reality—which many preferred to deny—showed that no matter how beautiful and majestic they might be, dragons too had to obey the harsh laws of nature—nothing could last forever.
Knowing this had prompted Lucella to don her armour and boots this morning. Duty had won out over fear. She hadn't even lasted two days and cursed against her lack of backbone.
Vhagar needed her and that outweighed everything else.
The sun blinded Lucella. It had already warmed the sand by the time she reached the yellow dunes. Now that the prince had caught her, Lucella saw no reason to come at night. She just hoped it wouldn't upset Vhagar. An old lady like her didn't react well to big changes.
Mealtimes would remain fixed for the same reason—three hours after sunset. The more thankless tasks, however, would no longer be hidden by the night’s thick and dark cloak but warmed by the gentle rays of the sun. This would be just as pleasant for Vhagar as it would be for Lucella, who, if she was honest, was beginning to feel the chill of the midnight wind. It didn’t take long to grow accustomed to the warm sun of the South, even for someone named Snow.
She finally caught sight of Vhagar. A smile lit up her face. Lucella would never tire of seeing her. The dragon was the last vestige of their history, a relic of war and a living reminder of a past that was no more. As majestic as she was frightening, her roars gave Lucella goosebumps.
The girl was relieved to see that the beast was alone. No princely rider to nag in her ears and complicate her already intense work.
Aemond Targaryen lacked a good education. It was obvious in the way he treated others and the way he held himself—straight, chin up, eyes fixed. Everything about him reeked of smugness. Coming out of a royal vagina—only by marriage, mind you—didn't give him the right to be so detestable.
“Rytsas, Vhagar.”
The greeting rolled naturally off her tongue. The dragon blew a puff of air in response, sending a few strands of Lucella’s hair flying with the hot gust.
Like all the other Dragonkeepers, Lucella had had to learn High Valyrian to communicate with the beasts. While her colleagues were content with only learning the commands needed to control the dragons, Lucella fell in love with the sounds, so different from their Common Tongue, and set out to learn more. The story of Old Valyria was simply fascinating. She understood why, even after its disappearance, families like the Targaryens and the Velaryons prided themselves so much in their origins. They were the heirs to a civilisation whose destruction had only strengthened the mystery surrounding it.
Lucella couldn't read complex books in the language yet, but one day she would, she was sure of it. The girl was nothing if not stubborn.
She let her bag crash to the ground. Vhagar lifted her neck to sniff at it, probably looking for her meal. She had come to associate Lucella with “food”, which worried the keeper, who had no particular desire to end up as dragon food.
Although she and Vhagar had developed a rather symbiotic relationship, the latter was still a wild animal, dictated by her instincts and desires. If she ever decided that Lucella was her enemy, the keeper would end up in her mouth or burnt to a crisp with no remorse.
“Be patient. You'll get to eat tonight.”
Instead of a carcass—which would never have fit in her bag anyway—Lucella pulled a dagger from her bag and advanced towards the dragon, who had gone back to sleep, having found nothing of interest among the leather.
Lucella brushed her fingertips across Vhagar's scales until she was close to her ribs. She brought the dagger close to the hard skin and began to scratch between the scales. All sorts of things piled up there, from crustaceans to piles of dry earth. They soiled her coat and ruined the magnificent green that characterised it—an abominable sight for Lucella, who couldn't imagine the Queen of Dragons being tarnished in any way.
The keepers back in the Dragonpit didn't bother with such elaborate tasks. They had never understood her love for Vhagar. Too weird. Too dangerous. They kept their judgment to themselves, but Lucella wasn't stupid. She could see it in their eyes, that damned scepticism. It was easy enough for her to perceive the question that adorned all their thoughts: why? Why bother when other dragons, much more docile, much calmer, lived and breathed?
Lucella didn't even know if her companions tolerated the dragons they bred and raised. It was not unusual to overhear conversations in which they railed against the Targaryens and their mounts. While she understood the hostility towards the royal family, nothing could explain their animosity towards these beasts.
According to Lucella, this hatred was totally unjustified. Yes, many had fallen victim to the dance of flames spurting from their breath. Yes, their fangs could devour anything, even a human, in just one bite. But dragons were still animals, a fact her colleagues tended to forget.
There existed no justification in the world for cruelty towards them, no matter what they looked like. Every animal deserved to be treated with respect and love, especially a dragon.
Lucella scratched another scale. A hermit crab had taken refuge in the joint of her wing. With the tip of her blade, she dislodged it and placed it on the ground. It fled and disappeared behind the dunes.
Seeing this reminded her why Lucella bent over backwards to make the dragon as comfortable as possible. She couldn't possibly leave Vhagar like that. Just the thought of crustaceans and other small animals with too many legs crawling over her own body made her shiver. Lucella had no scales to protect her, but she thought that even with this natural armour, the sensation must not have been pleasant at all.
Vhagar suddenly tensed. Lucella was trying to scrape off a particularly tough clump of dirt, but the place— between her protruding ribs, right on a fading scar—made it a delicate operation. She rested her hand and cheek against the dragon’s side.
“'s all right,” she said. “Shh... Lykirī... Calm down.”
The dragon didn't do so until Lucella had scratched the last barnacle. Filthy little beasts. They always found a way to cling on. She had lost count of the number she removed each week. Lucella went round the gigantic body, taking care not to turn her back on the beast, and started to scrap the right side. Throughout the operation, she kept reassuring Vhagar, either in High Valyrian or in the Common Tongue. The language didn't really matter. Dragons focused on one’s intentions, not one’s words.
“Are you the only one to come here? Were no others available?”
Lucella gasped when she heard the curt voice. It cracked in the air like a whip.
So preoccupied with her task, she hadn't even heard him arrive. He was staring at her with a blasé eye, his arms crossed, and his leather coat pulled tight.
Lucella cursed under her breath for paying so little attention to her surroundings. Vhagar had this terrible habit of hypnotising her. The dragon captured all her attention and made her fall into an infinite well of admiration and affection.
“Vhagar killed a keepah three months ago.”
The prince raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised by this information. Lucella was as surprised by his reaction. He must have heard about it. He should have. She was his dragon, after all. A rider must know such things.
Lucella knew Vhagar to be dangerous and impulsive, but she did not know her to be cruel. There had been no motive for the keeper’s death. Vhagar had been fed, washed, and hydrated earlier in the day. Nothing could have predicted the attack. The dragon had burnt flesh and bone, leaving nothing but a mountain of black ashes for the sheer pleasure of it. There was no question of instinct or nature. Vhagar had revelled in his screams and would no doubt have feasted on his flesh had other guards not interfered.
Lucella remembered the screams, Vhagar deaf to their orders, the smell of burning flesh, Elder Norbert's face twisted in the ordeal of the flames. She remembered rushing between the dragon and him, standing as a barrier, ready to sacrifice herself to give him a chance to live. She remembered Vhagar sniffing at her curiously, she remembered closing her eyes, her legs wobbling, ready to face death. She remembered the wind whipping her face as the dragon flew away, leaving the guardian for dead but Astrisse intact.
She'd had nightmares about it for months. The human mind was a curious invention. It replayed the worst moments of your life to make you realise how lucky you were. Finding comfort in horror.
But terror had not been able to overcome her fascination for the dragon that had almost killed her. She had gone in search of her in a fit of stupidity and found her in the middle of these very dunes. Hypnotised by her beauty, Lucella had forgotten that she could have devoured her whole.
Beside her, the prince smiled. Lucella thought that perhaps he and Vhagar were meant for each other—two unstable beings who liked to play a bit too much with fire.
The keeper let her gaze drift to his leather eye patch, but quickly turned back to Vhagar, who growled in greeting. She scratched at yet another crustacean, perhaps a little harder than necessary when she felt him approach, but who would know? No one. In any case, Vhagar didn't seem to mind.
Lucella felt his gaze on the side of her face. Her cheek began to itch.
“'m the only one who can get close,” she finally admitted in a weak voice.
Lucella cleared her throat. There was no way she was going to look shy and fragile in front of Aemond Targaryen. He would enjoy seeing her doubt very much. She wouldn't give him any satisfaction.
“A sort o’ appointed guardian, if yeh like,” she continued more confidently.
“If you're her so-called guardian, why haven't I seen you before?”
“’cause Dragonkeepers are taught t’ be as discreet as possible.”
He laughed.
“That doesn't make any sense.”
“And yet that's wha’ we've been taught since t’ order was created.”
“King Jaehaerys I founded the order to prevent dragons from being stolen.”
“Maybe in t’ beginning,” she shrugged, “but things ’ave changed. Kings ’ave died. Others took their place. Dragons ’ave multiplied ’nd they became uncontrollable. T’ order had to adapt ’nd maintain t’illusion.”
“What illusion?”
“That yeh control yer dragons.”
The prince glared at her, but Lucella wouldn't take her words back. It was easy to “tame a dragon,” a feat the Targaryens took great pride in, when seventy-seven other people were literally burning to teach them to obey. Dohaerās. Obey me. The word made them proud. But where was the merit in riding a dragon when some lost flesh and limb to make them docile? Obedience was born in suffering and fire, two things the Targaryens delighted in handing out, godlike, without experiencing them first-hand.
The ‘blood of the dragon’, they called themselves. Lucella had almost laughed when she had heard it. The Targaryens were as much dragons as she was noble. Their 'gift' was just an illusion. The first riders of the lineage may once have had this talent, but it disappeared when the order of Dragonkeepers was created by Jaehaerys I.
Dragons had grown stronger over the years, their riders, weaker. Imbalance. Dragonkeepers were the ones to keep the harmony from falling altogether.
“How dare you spread such nonsense? In front of your prince!”
“’nd yet ‘am right, yer ‘ighness. D’ yeh honestly think yeh could tame a wild dragon?”
“Of course I can. I claimed the largest one when I was ten.”
And it had cost him an eye. Everyone knew the sob story. Surely a fair price from his point of view. Lucella shook her head, exasperated by the prince's obstinacy.
“Except tha’ Vhagar is ovah two ’undred years old ’nd ’as four riders already. Yeh really think you could’ve tamed ’er when she was just a babe?”
“If her egg had been placed in my cradle, yes.”
“It helps t’ create a bond ’tween t’ future ridah ’nd their mount, true,” she conceded. “But ’t’s not enough. A dragon might recognise yeh and not burn yeh because o’ it, but there’s no guarantee tha’ it will let yeh ride it, let alone listen to yeh. There's this dragon we're raising right now. Very young. Only six months old. We started training it three months ago. Six keepers wounded. Two others burned to death. It ’as known High Valyrian for ’alf ’ts life 'nd yet refuses t’ listen.”
“Perhaps because you are not a Targaryen.”
She sighed. It was like trying to talk to a deaf man.
“Go on then. In tha’ pit, I mean. T’ last time yeh went in there everythin’ went accordin’ t’ plan, ain’t tha’ right?”
Lucella immediately regretted her words. Elder Galladon, perhaps the oldest keeper, had told her many stories about the royal children. Dragonkeeper passed the time like that and soothed their burns with laughter. The sordid tale of sibling quarrelling, a winged pig and a little prince almost burnt alive had stuck with her.
The prince glared at her. Suddenly, she understood why so many people would talk about him with trembling voices. Lucella felt the colour drain from her face. She gripped her dagger so tightly that her knuckles turned white.
“Careful now, girl. I could have your tongue for that.”
“Wha’ I mean,” she continued, undeterred, “’s tha’ any dragonkeeper could ride a dragon.”
They wouldn't. Of course. The crumpled ego of a Targaryen burned hotter than the fire of the dragons they rode.
“That's not true and you know it.”
“O’ course, ’cause I dunno wha’ ’am talking a’bout, right?”
Her words were laced with sarcasm.
“Exactly.”
She nodded. A forced smile tugged painfully at her cheeks.
“Keep believing tha’. I don't giv’ a fuck what yeh think.”
Lucella turned back to Vhagar and continued to scrape her scales. The back of her neck grew hot under the prince's piercing gaze. For a while, she managed to ignore him. She cracked on the fifth barnacle. Her hand slipped and the dagger fell to the ground. Her shoulders dropped. Lucella sighed.
“Why did yeh come here, anyway? Except to keep me from me work, tha’ is.”
Aemond Targaryen raised his only visible eyebrow and replied that he had nothing to answer for, least of all when it concerned his dragon. He insisted on the ‘his’, anxious to remind Lucella that she had no place here. She rolled her eyes.
If Lucella were honest with herself, she would find his undeniable love for Vhagar almost touching. But the prince annoyed her, and she would never dare to associate anything positive with this awful character. She preferred to let herself fall into a pit of hatred and annoyance. These emotions were familiar to her, far from the beat her heart missed when she let her eyes linger on his harmonious—no, royal—features.
She looked away with warm cheeks and scraped away the few remaining marine intruders.
Lucella caressed Vhagar's green flank one last time. The dragon shook her head in response. The girl walked over to her leather bag and slung it over her shoulder. Dagger in hand, Lucella left without a glance for the prince.
Her work was done here and he couldn't make her stay, Targaryen or not. Returning to Dragonpit was more important than entertaining a prince who was as mad as he was lonely.
“I did not say you could leave.”
“Well I am. Good’day, yer ’ighness.”
Lucella walked past him and they found themselves side by side. She pulled the thick leather of her trousers as best she could and bowed low in a mocking curtsy. When she straightened up, Aemond was still staring at her. Head held high, she turned and left without a glance for this prince who was seriously starting to piss her off.
✷ THE TAMING OF THE DRAGON ⸺ an Aemond Targaryen fanfiction
PAIRING: Aemond Targaryen / F!OC
SUMMARY: One evening, Aemong, in dire need of clearing his head, catches a Dragonkeeper on the beach tending to Vhagar. The Queen of Dragons doesn't seem bothered by the stranger's presence. Quite the opposite. Aemond is immediately intrigued. Even more so when he discovers that the stranger is a girl who comes from the North and bears the name Snow.
⸻ WORKS / IN PROGRESS:
1. A Bastard from the North
2. Barnacles and Dragons
3. A Matter of Water, Snow and Fire
The Taming of the Dragon, 3 ✷ Aemond Targaryen
PAIRING: Aemond Targaryen / F!OC
SUMMARY: One evening, Aemong, in dire need of clearing his head, catches a Dragonkeeper on the beach tending to Vhagar. The Queen of Dragons doesn't seem bothered by the stranger's presence. Quite the opposite. Aemond is immediately intrigued. Even more so when he discovers that the stranger is a girl who comes from the North and bears the name Snow.
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How ironic for the House of Fire and Blood to concern itself with Water.
Driftmark and its succession haunted everyone's thoughts. A blue thorn in the back of those who held the kingdom together.
Aemond’s last vision of Driftmark had been one of blood and pain. Crimson waves had washed away his admiration for the endless sea and the sunny horizon. The only cherished memory he held close to his heart was Vhagar. The rest, he preferred to forget. His eye, hidden under his leather patch, seemed to burst into flame. The pain, petty and merciless, reminded him that he would never be able to get rid of this evening.
Lucerys Strong deserved neither Water nor Fire, and certainly not Driftmark.
The blood fever that kept Corlys Valeryon bedridden cured Aemond’s eternal suffering. Boiling water calmed the dragon's fire which, for ten years, had never stopped dancing and burning those who got too close. He was already looking forward to seeing his nephew's shoulders slumping, his chin drooping and his brown eyes glistening. The only sea he would rule would be that of his tears. Aemond had no regard for the succession of the island—the affairs of the Valeryons had long ceased to interest him—but the prospect of seeing the sadness and disappointment painted on his bastard nephew’s childish face would bring him more joy than any present.
For Lucerys Valeryon would not win, not when Otto Hightower sat on the Iron Throne in his father’s stead.
His half-sister, armed with her usual gall, would parade her bastards around shamelessly, proclaiming loud and clear that Driftmark was rightfully theirs. He laughed, alone in his quarters.
Lucerys Valeryon was not a leader and certainly not a lord. He remembered the little boy who always hid behind his older brother, always involved in Aegon's tasteless pranks. Lucerys Valeryon—no, Strong—was just a rag doll with no backbone, given life and the desire to rule by the stupid words his whore of a mother had insisted on pounding into his head.
“Your Highness, your mother the Queen asks that you join her at the gates.”
Aemond dismissed the servant with a nod and took one last look at his mirror. His violet eye lingered on the piece of leather that crossed half his face—the continuation of the scar on his cheek. No. Lucerys Strong didn't deserve Driftmark.
He turned and stomped off towards the entrance, leaving behind him the glimmering shadow of a blade which, that evening ten years ago, had blinded him as much as the blow.
The prince left his chambers. He could already see himself in the throne room, tired of listening to the pleas of people whose blood was supposedly as pure as his own. Vaemond and Rhaenyra would strut into the Red Keep and then into the throne room, chins up, shoulders straight—the very image of pride—to fight for a bloodline that was doomed. The dynasty of Old Valyria, tainted by the vices of a woman and the obsession of a man. The blood in their veins did not bleed red; their wrongs had blackened it.
Like many other houses, the Valeryon dynasty would kill itself, leaving behind only bastards and stagnant water. Aemond would feast on their demise in silence but with a certain jubilation.
“Do you know why I have been summoned?” he asked his sworn protector.
“Your sister the princess has arrived, Your Highness.”
His only eye twitched with anger. Of course she had. He took a deep breath but continued walking. The corridors of the Red Keep flashed by with his hurried steps.
The sooner he greeted them, the sooner he could leave.
Aemond soon reached the great doors. They alone separated him from his past. The swollen skin of his eye throbbed. It seemed to boil. Water had defeated fire once. He clenched his fist. Sometimes he felt like ripping off half his face. The pain had never subsided. It lay dormant, waiting for the right moment to leap up and paralyse him.
The sapphire in his eye socket had done nothing to appease his sorrow nor his pain. It was just a way for his mother to forget her son was now just a crippled. Its colour would always remind him of Driftmark. He carried the sea in his eye and, when he dared to face his reflection in the mirror, was reminded of it daily.
At the sight of him, the soldiers posted on either side of the doors opened them. He held his breath and rushed outside. The cool wind whipped across his face, calming for a few seconds the storm that was growing inside him. A few soldiers were training here and there. Others were making their rounds.
Aemond looked around but didn't see his mother, his grandfather and certainly not his father, confined to bed by illness and old age. This impotence had brought them this far. Vaemond Valeryon would never have dared contradict the King if he could still defend his beloved child.
Viserys was the cause of many things.
A roar made him raise his head. The long body of Caraxes twisted to land in the courtyard. Its red scales reminded Aemond of the flags his mother had had removed and replaced with the symbols of the Seven. His uncle, Daemon Targaryen, as proud as ever, dismounted nonchalantly, Black Sister swinging from his belt. Aemond dreamed of touching, even brushing his fingertips against, the legendary sword.
A relic of the Conquest.
Aemond did not feel the same visceral hatred for his uncle that sometimes paralysed him. Admiration and respect for Daemon mixed with rage to create an intoxicating concoction.
He only felt that way with another person, whom he preferred to leave to the beach and the night.
Syrax's yellow scales sparkled in his field of vision and tore the thin smile that had so far tugged at Aemond's lips. Vermax and Arrax, small as they were, enraged him to no end. One by one, the dragons landed and shook the ground. A dust storm whirled around and reached Aemond at the top of the steps. He rubbed his black tunic with his hand and gloated when he saw that none of their mounts compared to Vhagar, not even the Blood Wyrm. The prince felt a deep sense of satisfaction at this. It ran through his veins and soothed him.
Aemond, in a rare childish whim, refused to pay the slightest attention to Luke. The pain in his eye seemed to intensify at the mere proximity of the boy. He resisted the urge to cup the left side of his face and straightened his shoulders. The rustle of a cloth drew him from his thoughts. His mother stopped beside him and gave him a thin smile. Worry deepened the wrinkles that, over the years, had multiplied around her eyes and her lips, which were always pursed.
Jacaerys dismounted his dragon. His nephew, though still plain-looking, had grown. His build had thickened and reminded him of a certain Harwin Strong. He chuckled. His mother placed a hand on his forearm. A warning. He didn't care. No one could deny that his sister's first three children were bastards. Even a blind man wasn't naive enough to believe the sweet lies that his whore sister's angelic face spouted.
“Embrot.”
“Inkot!”
“Jātās! Jātās I said!”
Orders in High Valyrian rang out.
A horde of dragonkeepers, covered head to toe in their black armour, surrounded the newcomers and busied themselves around the restless beasts.
Dragonstone, carved out of cold stone, was warmed only by the fire of the wild dragons that populated the island. There were no keepers in this fortress. The dragons knew only their riders and would kill anyone who dared approach them. Arrax tried to char one of the guards, completely ignoring Luke's panicked cries.
If he couldn't control his dragon, how could he hope to rule Driftmark? The Blacks’ nerve could not erase reality—they were undeserving.
Aemond's eyes feasted on this spectacle of incompetence, but his smile soon faded when he spotted a female figure, a whirl of pale skin and brown hair, among the guards.
Snow.
He frowned and watched her walk towards Vermax. She raised her arms towards the dragon, palms outstretched, to calm it down. Beside her, Jace, instead of following his family as they gradually drew closer to Aemond and his mother, began to talk to her. Their heads came closer together. Aemond watched Lucella throw her head back and laugh, all under his nephew's satisfied gaze.
The prince clenched his fists. Why was she there? Wasn't she his dragon's appointed keeper? Vhagar needed her more than that miserable Vermax.
As if she could hear his thoughts, Lucella suddenly met his gaze. She frowned and turned back to Jace, who noticed the exchange and raised an eyebrow. An unpleasant sensation lodged in Aemond's chest and made him itch.
Two bastards together. He laughed at the thought, but his hilarity painfully hit his throat. A lump had got stuck there and was choking him. Why did he feel the need to come between them, to pull Lucella away from his nephew? His hands tingled. Thousands of small needles were screaming at him to do something, not to let the snow be contaminated by water.
The dragon's fire blazed in his chest, burning away any sense of sanity.
He wanted Jacaerys to perish in the flames of his rage.
Aemond hadn't seen her for a week. Yet her face and the contours of her lips had never left him. She haunted him. In the evenings, her accentuated voice echoed in his thoughts.
Since their eventful meeting, Lucella and Aemond had crossed paths several times on the beach. Their shared love for Vhagar prevented them from killing each other, although he often felt like doing so, for Lucella Snow couldn't keep her mouth shut. The few times they spoke, her sharp words, as sharp as a blade, cut into the cage around his chest.
This cordial understanding soothed his senses and prevented him from dreading his visits to the beach. He had given up going out alone at night, for Lucella Snow never left his side, even when she wasn't there. He couldn't ride his dragon without thinking of the keeper.
She kept looking after Vhagar. The carcasses of charred sheep and game piled up on the beach, staining the white sand with their blood. The dragonkeeper avoided him. He didn't know why. Nothing had changed in their exchanges. Their duels of words, the winner of which always varied, had retained the same tenor, the same intelligence.
What had made her run away from him?
Lucella Snow had blended into the background, disappeared into the shadows, and escaped his blind spot. Aemond should have been happy. No more northern bastard with an unpleasant accent raging in his ears and insulting him at every turn. Yet something prevented him from rejoicing at this absence. He felt he was losing control and hated it.
Across from Jacaerys, Lucella burst out laughing.
He had never made her laugh. His insults sometimes drew a smile, though it was always tinged with resentment, and, more rarely, a snort. Lucella Snow didn't laugh. She would glare and insult you.
Lucella Snow was no laughing matter. You had to decipher her Nordic gibberish, which— intermingled with the insults and stubborn retorts to always have the last word—became particularly irritating.
And yet, Lucella Snow was laughing out loud with his nephew. His plain nephew. Aemond railed against the bastard who, like his mother, stole everything that didn't belong to him. Driftmark, the Iron Throne... And now Lucella Snow and her laugh.
That melodious sound, so clear, so different from her hoarse voice, stayed with him all day. He nodded absent-mindedly to his half-sister and her bastards. Neither Vaemond's nor Rhaenyra's plea echoed in his eardrums. All he could hear was her laughter, and all he could see was her face, her pink, stretched lips revealing astonishingly white teeth. Her hair went round and round in his mind.
He closed his only eye and prayed for a moment's respite, but the Gods turned a deaf ear to his plea.
His father burst in, reaffirmed Driftmark's succession to Lucerys, Vaemond dared to say what everyone else was thinking and lost his head in the process. His sister yelped; his brother turned his head; Aemond remained motionless for that damned laughter never left his thoughts and drove him mad.
He clenched his fists as his eye stared blankly at Vaemond's decapitated head.
Lucella Snow was driving him mad, whether she was there or not.
That evening, she still hadn't left his thoughts. He kept seeing the image of her, head back, smiling. Happy. Happy to talk to Jacaerys. Jacaerys, sitting next to Aegon—who was already drowning in wine—and his betrothed, was talking as if nothing had happened. As if he had not encroached on Aemond's territory. This made him furious. He sank into his usual silence but felt flames dancing in his chest. He waited and waited.
It was Luke's sneer when the roast pork was served that made him snap. His hand came down on the table and shook the glasses. Aemond took hold of his, still full, and raised it in the direction of the only two brown-haired boys, yet another example of their difference, their defect.
“Final tribute. To the health of my nephews. Jace… Luke… and Joffrey. Each of them handsome, wise… hm… strong.”
“Aemond.”
“Come... let us drain our cups to these three… Strong boys.”
“I dare you to say that again,” said Jacaerys, whose cheeks had become flushed.
The echo of a laugh resounded in his skull. The ghost of his nephew leaned towards Lucella. Aemond’s eye twitched. His thoughts darkened.
“Why? ‘Twas only a compliment. Do you not think yourself Strong?”
The bastard dared to punch him. Aemond threw one back and was delighted to hear his jaw crack. Their mothers stepped in as Aegon grabbed Luke by the hair and slammed his head against the solid oak table. Aemond could not contain his chuckled. He was reborn in the chaos and the pain of his nephew. His nephew who had dared to speak to Lucella, his dragonkeeper. Who had dared to make her laugh.
His mother dismissed him. He happily complied. Another second in Jacaerys' presence and he would have had to deal with much more than just a punch in the cheek. The fire that was burning every inch of his flesh—and whose first spark had ignited in the remnant of his eye—was not subsiding.
The flames intensified. They would consume him if he didn't get out of here.
Once outside, Aemond automatically headed for the Dragonpit. Fight fire with fire. He would feed off the dragons’ chaos and rejoice in their hot breath.
The prince didn't dare dwell on why. Why hadn't he headed for the beach, where he was sure to find Vhagar? Aemond kept quiet about this question—the answer to which he knew but didn't want to admit—and rushed into the pit.
His heart missed a beat and seemed to speed up at the same time.
Near the stairs where the Pink Dread had appeared years before, Lucella, staff in hand, was leading the dragons of Rhaenyra's clan forward. The eminent departure of the heiress to the throne had been quickly made known. The decision had been taken in haste. Rhaenyra would return to Dragonstone, where she reigned over her vices. King's Landing would no longer be contaminated by bastardy and manipulation. His grandfather and mother had made sure of that.
“Lykirī, Caraxes,” Snow's husky voice drew him from his thoughts. “Calm down. I don't want to use that.”
She shook her long wooden stick. Aemond had never seen Lucella use one. The other guardians never parted with it. They pricked the dragons' sides shamelessly and hit them when the creatures dared to rebel. Lucella did not stoop to such barbaric techniques. Her voice alone was enough to tame the most savage beasts. She had, after all, managed to bond with Vhagar.
Dragonkeepers forgot that the creatures in their care deserved respect and admiration. Only Snow understood this.
She grazed rather than poked Caraxes' rib.
Reluctance to hurt.
Without being able to explain it, Aemond felt a certain satisfaction in knowing that she didn't need a stick when she was looking after Vhagar. The bond between the Northwoman and his dragon was unique. The first non-Targaryen to be able to touch her without dying.
A Northern girl who could tame dragons. She would inspire the minstrels of Flea Bottom, whose songs would overflow with metaphors about snow and fire. Lucella was a conundrum that Aemond couldn't decipher.
He hated not knowing. He had prided himself on his intelligence ever since he lost his eye. Luke had taken away his beauty, he would shine with his mind. Philosophy, science, nothing held any secrets for him except Lucella Snow, who symbolised everything her native land was not.
The first time he had seen her, he had put her relationship with Vhagar down to luck. Perhaps his dragon, just as curious as he was, had become attached to this mongrel from the North. The days had passed. They had met again and Aemond had had to admit that the keeper knew what she was doing. He even dared to use the word “gift”, for no other dragon keeper possessed such an ability to tame beasts as she did: with love and respect.
For the first time in the history of Westeros, snow resisted fire. Ever white and strong, it extinguished flames.
Aemond did not move. He remained at the entrance of the pit and watched from a distance as Lucella calmed Caraxes with great gestures. The red dragon twisted in all directions to avoid her hands, but she was not discouraged. Her voice became firmer. He stiffened as he heard her order Daemon's dragon not to move.
“Lucella!”
The woman turned her head. One of the keepers appeared on the staircase. She was reluctant to leave the Blood Wyrm in the hands of one of the Elders. He had to pull her arm away from it. The Elder grabbed her staff and struck a clean blow into Caraxes' side. The dragon roared. A few waves of smoke escaped from his snout. A warning. Lucella clenched her fist and looked as if she wanted to say something to the Elder, but the other keeper called to her again. She joined him, shoulders tense, eyebrows furrowed.
Aemond watched them talk. From here, he couldn't tell what they were saying, but it seemed serious. They whispered urgently and glanced at the staircase. The keeper pointed to it. Lucella nodded. Aemond watched the girl disappear down the stairs. Something urged him to act. He pushed against the unpleasant memories—a winged pig and a dragon ready to char him— and followed.
Aemond could not see a thing. The dragons' only source of light was their fire. The guards armed themselves with torches to navigate this labyrinth of great galleries and endless corridors. Lucella strode with disconcerting ease in the complete darkness. A few torches here and there illuminated their surroundings, but he had to squint to make out Lucella's silhouette walking at a hurried pace.
Seeing that dragons were condemned to darkness, Aemond was glad that Vhagar didn't have to live in there. His gaze remained fixed on Lucella. She walked without hesitation. The pit held no secrets for her. She knew exactly where she was going and why. His guide in the dark.
“I have not seen you on the beach for a long time. Are you not supposed to be tending to Vhagar? The dunes and the fresh air are probably more pleasant than this… rat hole,” he glanced around wearily.
Lucella flinched, as she did every time they met. A small smile stretched Aemond's mouth. She was almost cute, startled out of her wits. He instantly chastised himself. Lucella Snow was not cute: she was an angry and sarcastic woman who constantly made inappropriate remarks.
The keeper rolled her eyes.
“What are yeh doin’ ere? Don't yeh ‘ave princely duties to attend t’?”
She had quickly abandoned all politeness. Had she ever had any? Their first encounters had exuded a certain reserve that annoyance had swept aside with a wave of its hand. The North and its lack of manners had quickly caught up with her. Aemond still couldn't understand why she spoke to him as if he were a commoner and not the prince, son of her king. The North may have worshipped their Warden, the Starks, but the Targaryen monarchy and power did not stop at the Neck.
“Vhagar don’t need me all th’ time,” she finally said when she saw he wouldn't answer. “She ‘as a rider. Would be good if he remembered. ‘ave neither t’ desire or t’ patience to carry dead sheep on me shoulder every day.”
“You are a dragonkeeper. The crown houses you, feeds you and gives you money to look after dragons.”
“Aye! Dragons. Not just one. Vhagar can look aftah ‘erself for a few hours. She survived Aegon's conquest, she'll survive three hours withou’ a pat on t’ ribs. Sunfyre needs me, Dreamfyre too. ‘nd wi’ Rhaenyra... Four more dragons is nah mean feat, let me tell yeh tha’. Not tha’ it matters anymore. People say you've lightened me workload. I thank yeh for tha’. I don't s’ppose dinnah went well? Was the meat not cooked to yer liking, yer ‘ighness?”
Lucella curtsied ungracefully. Her favourite mockery. Each time, she reminded him that she didn't care about his royal title.
“It concerns you not.”
“Hm… Well,” she shrugged. “I guess wine will loosen yer brother's tongue soon enough. Th’ Street of Silk is t’ best place t’ learn royal business. Everyone says so.”
She turned left into a seemingly endless corridor. He didn't know exactly how long they had been walking or the reason for this expedition.
“Just wish I could’ve looked after Vermax a litt’ longer. Tha’ an interesting character right ther’”
He laughed. It sounded bitter.
“His rider as well, I suppose?”
She turned and stared at him but said nothing. Lucella continued to advance into the pit. Aemond followed. An unpleasant feeling weighed down his shoulders. He opened his mouth several times but could not come up with something satisfactory to say. The image of her laughing at Jacaerys flashed in his mind. How had he done it?
“Do you not miss working in the pit?” he finally asked.
“Nay. It's not healthy t’ be so immersed in the dark. Some o’ t’ guards ‘ave gone mad. Even the North ‘s more welcoming. The dark always passes. Not ’ere. I prefer t’ beach, even if it means yeh’re there,” she glanced over her shoulder at him. “Vhagar is happier than any o’ those dragons. It's awful, t’ way they're treated. If I ‘ad me way, they'd be flyin’ free over King's Landing. A dragon is no slave that can be chained up in t’ dark ‘nd taken out when its rider wants t’ get some fresh air. I've always– Look out!”
Lucella pulled him out of the path of the flames. A dragon, illuminated by the blaze, appeared in his field of vision for a few seconds and disappeared into the darkness just as quickly. His heart pounded against his chest. His hands trembled. He saw himself again, ten years earlier, in the same position. He closed his eye.
“Fuck!”
Lucella screamed in pain. The distinctive smell of charred flesh rose to his nose. Aemond looked down. In the darkness, he could make out the keeper’s burnt arm. She yelped. The sound tore at Aemond's heart.
A rumble sounded, followed by a second. One by one, the dragons awoke. Lucella swore.
Despite her injury, she pulled the prince towards the exit. He followed her like a puppet, with no resistance in his limbs.
She was touching him.
For the first time.
They left the darkness behind them. Aemond's violet eye fell on Lucella's arm. Her armour had taken the brunt of the attack, but leather was no match for the Dracarys of an enraged dragon. Iron, dragonglass, Valyrian steel... The fire nibbled at everything, leaving nothing but ashes. The usually pale flesh of the female keeper was now nothing but a jumble of black and pink. Melted leather had mixed with the raw wound. He grimaced. It would leave a scar. Only now did Aemond notice that, unlike the other guards, Lucella's face and body had not been marred by the flames.
Before him and his careless mistake, a small, petty voice whispered to him. He did not try to quiet it. It was right. Because of his stupidity, she was suffering. A lump caught in Aemond's throat.
They went out of the pit, onto the open arena. Lucella grumbled under her breath. She berated him for having followed her and distracted her.
“Princes ‘ave no business in the pit! Yeh always want t’ play great lords… saviours… Whatevah! And yeh expect people t’ pick up the pieces yer idiocy caused! The nerve of yeh!”
Hatred took over and soothed her suffering. He let her scream. Perhaps that was the best remedy, for, no doubt, the adrenalin would soon evaporate and leave her weak and feverish.
“We must treat the wound as quickly as possible. I will summon Maestre Mullynn. He'll know what to do. He's the one who stitched up my eye, so he'll probably be able to–”
“Leave me be. Yeh’ve done enough. Go do what princes do. Fuck a whore, play knight, whatevah... I don’t give no fuck. Go.”
For once, he didn't comment on her vulgarity and simply repeated what he had just said. If she didn't see a Maester and treat her burns immediately, she risked much more than a simple scar. Aemond dared to put a hand on her shoulder.
The feel of her skin against his made him lose his train of thought. In his heart, a flame different from the others ignited. He leaned into this pleasant, softer, warmth.
Lucella jerked away from his grasp and stomped on the flame, leaving him cold as stone. She held back a cry of pain through clenched teeth and pressed her arm against her chest. One eye wasn't enough to hide the tremors that shook her arm. He clenched his fist. He would carry her all the way to Maestre Mullynn if he had to. Lucella had to treat that arm.
“I must insist... He–”
“Get lost, for fuck’s sake!”
Aemond stood still, surprised by the explosion. He was not facing a Northern bastard, but a dragon. A dragon ready to destroy everything in its path. In her amber eyes burned the flame of resentment. She had become the Stranger and promised death to anyone who dared stand in her way. Aemond had come close to Death many times. It had never looked so frightening.
He watched her walk away helplessly, her hand trembling on her fragile arm.
His eye itched. He didn't understand why.
As he passed through the gates of the Red Keep, Ser Criston Cole summoned him to the Small Council Chamber. His mother told him that his father, the King, had died and that Aegon was to be crowned.
A tear rolled down his cheek. He was not sad.
heyy!! i saw that your reqs are open ans i was wondering if i could ask for an "cregan stark x fem reader" in which the reader is giving birth but she ends up having complications during the birth (blood loss or the baby simply taking too long to come out) and she ends up being unconscious for a while... if that's not ok please ignore it, thank you!! <3
-Cregan Stark x reader
{The birth of your son Brandon Stark was nothing but stressful, and it makes Cregan face some horrible realisations}
CW// descriptions of blood/ reader is giving birth
Hope you enjoy my lovelies!! 💕
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It was early in the morning when it began. You were eating breakfast with Cregan when the sharp shooting pain erupted through your lower stomach, it took your breath away and you couldn’t help but reach over to clutch onto his arm with a gasp.
He stops mid-sentence as he watches your face contort with an awful look of discomfort, panic rising in his chest when your eyes meet his.
“My love? What is it?- what happened?” He asks, standing up from his chair. He helps you up, wincing as you scream out in pain. Cregan guides you to the bed his hand soothing your lower back in hopes it’ll relieve your discomfort, but his attempts are fruitless when he notices the tears that fall from your eyes and his heart drops.
You shake your head, squeezing your husband's hands as you try your best to ignore the blood that pools between your legs, “The maesters- please” You gasp between breaths and Cregan doesn’t need to be told twice as he rushes out the door.
It isn’t long before people start to barge into the room, orders being thrown around as the midwives lay you down on the bed pressing a cold wet towel on your forehead.
Your body aches as a hot flush wash over you, and every sensation is far too overwhelming, it certainly doesn’t help that your skin is sticky with sweat. You can hear Cregan outside your shared bedchambers before walking through the wooden door, much to the dismay of the nurses.
“What is happening?- please” his voice is strained and he can’t bear to look down at you, the sound of you hyperventilating is enough to make him feel sick to his stomach.
The maester looks up at him, “She has started her labour early lord Stark” he takes a deep breath, watching the worry that deepens within Cregan’s eyes, “You must let us work”
Hours have passed since then, the late afternoon sun is peaking behind the curtains and Cregan hasn’t left your side as your clammy hands squeeze his. He chokes back a sob every time you let out an agonising cry, your face pressed into the sweat-soaked pillow as you grit your teeth.
The nurses tell you when to breathe then push, breathe then push and you know for a fact that your body cannot handle much more pain, exhaustion is creeping through your already weak body.
“Almost there lady Stark, almost there” one of the nurses promises, as she switches your cold rag for a new one, and Cregan doesn’t miss the worry in her eyes as she glances down to the blood-soaked sheets beneath you.
“You hear that my love? Almost there” He leans down to press a kiss to your damp hairline, pushing back the wet strands.
His thumb caresses the space under your eye, wiping your tears away as he holds your cheek. “I can’t- Cregan I can’t” you sigh, trying your best to smile up at him.
He shakes his head, pressing his forehead against yours “Yes you can. You are the strongest woman I know” he whispers.
You nod, taking a deep breath before squeezing your eyes shut, pushing one last time as the nurses and maesters all shout praises. “A boy!” You hear someone gasp but they seem miles away, and then you hear your baby cry as the midwives move quickly to clean him, wrapping him up in a clean blanket.
The noise of the room seems to bleed together, muffled as if you were underwater and with it goes your sight, then everything seems to stop and for a moment, for the first time in the last seven hours, there is clarity and the ache in your body ebbs away as your eyes flutter close.
The moment your grip on Cregan's hand loosens his heart stops, and the sight of your limp body covered in sweat makes his whole world come crashing down. He can’t think straight and the feeling only grows stronger as his eyes drift to the blood-stains all over your legs and bedsheets.
There’s a lump in the back of his throat that chokes him, and all the words he wants to say, needs to say, die on his tongue.
“My wife- is-” he isn’t able to finish the sentence as the Maester hands him his son, his cries hit Cregan's ears, a painful reminder that no matter what happens to you he has to carry on, a harsh reality that he can’t bare to face.
Before he has time to even look down at his child he’s already being whisked away from his arms, wet nurses attending to him. It’s almost as if the world has slowed down, and he can’t breathe.
“She has lost a lot of blood, my lord,” The maester says, his tone soft and gentle as he cleans up, taking out some strong-smelling herbs. “The best we can do is let her rest, if she doesn’t wake within the hour hold this under her nose” he nods about to leave the room.
“She’ll live?” Cregan's voice is weak as he gently holds your hand.
“Of course my lord, as you said, she is a strong woman” he smiles before leaving the room, and it’s only when the door closes that his tears fall so effortlessly from his eyes, and he pleads to any Gods who are willing to listen to him that you’ll be okay.
Cregan doesn’t leave your side once as the hours pass by. His hand gently lays over the top of your heart. The feeling of it beating beneath his palm gives him hope. He gently pushes your hair back, tucking the strands behind your ear as he waits on bated breath for you to wake up.
He watches your eyes flutter and immediately sits up, shuffling to sit closer to you. You groan something incoherent, but he can tell from the way you sound it’s out of nothing but pain. He’s quick to hush you, guiding you to lay back down, to your dismay.
“Y/n, please- relax, my love” he pleads with you as you grab ahold of his hand.
“Our son? Is he-?” You panic, voice hoarse as you try to sit up, ignoring the pain that seizes your body.
“He’s fine, I promise-” He whispers, watching your panicked eyes flicker frantically around the room, "But you, my love- please you need to rest” The way his voice trembles with worry makes you listen, that and the unbearable ache in your bones.
You look up at him, tears in your eyes as the heaviness of the situation finally weighs upon you. “I want to see him, please?” You whisper, and the hoarseness in your voice makes his heartbreak.
He wipes away the tears that fall from your eyes, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead. “You will, I promise.” His voice calms your nerves. “Let’s get you cleaned up, yeah? He’s not going anywhere” Cregan smiles as you nod.
“Okay. I do need a bath” You let out a raspy giggle, relief washing over you as Cregan chuckles beside you.
“Of course, my sweet wife” he smiles, his hand gently caressing your cheek before disappearing off, but not without looking back at you, a sad look clouded over his tired eyes.
The water is pleasantly warm against your skin, your hands grasping onto your husband’s shoulders as he helps you into the wooden tub. There’s a thick layer of silence that falls upon you both, it almost feels suffocating.
Cregan doesn’t mutter a word as he washes you. The water sloshing around, and the harsh wind is the only thing you can hear. It’s you who breaks the silence, catching his hands within your own.
You bring his hands to cup your face, “I’m okay. Cregan? Look at me, please?” You plead, noticing how he hasn’t been able to keep eye contact since you woke up.
There are tears that build up in his eyes, a dam of emotions that burst out of him. “I thought I lost you” he whispers, voice strained as he breaks down completely, the last hour finally catching up to him.
“But you didn’t Cregan, I’m right here” You don’t bother trying to hide your own tears, and he’s quick to wipe them away.
He leans to rest his forehead against your own, “I know” his voice is so quiet that if he were sitting any further, you wouldn’t be able to hear him, “But you almost weren’t, and I can’t live without you” he presses his lips against yours in a gentle, loving kiss.
“You don’t have to, I am right here, my love,” you tell him, kissing him once more before he pulls away. “I love you” you smile, as he goes to start washing your hair.
“I love you more… more than words could ever express” he finishes washing you. His touch is overwhelmingly gentle, so full of love that it makes your chest bloom with warmth.
The way his fingertips graze along your arms, how his lips feel as they press kisses along your shoulders. Small whispers of sweet nothings shared between you both in the candle-lit bathroom only ever to be heard by the pair of you.
You lean on Cregan like a crutch as he helps you from the bath, drying you off and changing you into fresh clean sleep clothes. Your bedchambers have been aired out by herbs and incense, and the bed sheets have been changed.
It feels so heavenly as you climb into bed. The sun was well and truly set. “I have a visitor for you” Cregan smiles, walking into the room with your son in his arms, wrapped in a blanket.
You gasp as he hands him to you. He stirs from his sleep with the movement. His tiny fingers wrap around your own as you admire him. “He’s perfect” You press a kiss to his forehead. Cregan sits beside you on the bed, the back of his fingers caressing his son's cheek.
“Brandon Stark” you whisper, looking over to your husband as he glances over at you with nothing but tenderness in his eyes.
You lean your head against his shoulder, smiling when he wraps an arm around your shoulders, bringing you closer, before pulling the sheets over your legs. “Brandon Stark” he repeats with approval, and you both chuckle as your son gurgles up at you with wide eyes.
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