Chapter Text

The Queen Alicent wore her piety like a shield against her own deviousness, but many across the years witnessed her vices and sins. Gossips reported late night visits of her faithful crippled servant Ser Larys. Other rumors alluded to Ser Criston’s curious devotion to the queen, while others didn’t quite fantasized on her lustful cravings, but much on the darkness of her soul. One of her most recalled fits of rage happened in the Targaryens’ ancestral summer residence, Summerhall.

Summerhall was a secluded castle in the southern Stormlands, home to the king’s brother and his family. Baelon Targaryen and his sister wife Alyssa birthed three sons : Viserys, Daemon and Aegon, born in 84 after the Conquest. The latter’s delivery was so complicated, that it lead to the death of Princess Alyssa six months after.

Baelon therefore raised his sons alone and according to the traditions of their house. Viserys was the wisest, Daemon the most rebellious and Aegon the most adventurous. All three of them bonded with ancestral dragons. Viserys had Balerion the Black Dread, Daemon had Caraxes and Aegon claimed his grandfather’s dragon years before he died, the mighty Vermithor. The three sons of Prince Baelon showed different characters as they grew old. When he turned 18, Aegon supported his brother’s claim to the Iron Throne alongside Daemon, and the three brothers ruled together as King, Master of Coins and Master of Laws, thus fulfilling their father’s dream.

But Viserys was too sluggish to Daemon’s taste and the latter went rogue. Aegon suggested the King to name their brother Commander of the Cityguard instead, but unfortunately, it only lead to more trouble.

The King had come to Summerhall and left behind the uproar and the overwhelming concerns of the Capital. Of course, the whole Court followed him on his journey south.

The southernmost castle of the Targaryen dynasty was a delightful residence and fitted Aegon’s character perfectly. The edifice was surrounded by splendid gardens and orchards loaded with citrus fruits. Of course, the place homed a dragon pit as well, the welcome the mounts.

Medea was the jewel of both Aegon and Summerhall. The woman was a true exotic beauty, that the prince had met in his adventurous youth. In her native tongue, asshai’i, her name meant cunning one. Medea was very witty indeed, but quite reserved and demure. Her poor knowledge of the common tongue often put her in sticky situations. She could not participate in the ladies’ gossiping during the banquets and namedays of her nephews, because of the gaps in her understanding of the language.

Most of the time, Medea was put aside by her peers. The King’s visit in Summerhall highly worried the poor woman, but Aegon was too enthusiastic to welcome his brother in his halls to see his spouse’s distress.

When the King’s cortege reached Summerhall, the prince and his wife already rowed before the palace’s doors, with their little child at their feet. The royal horse-drawn carriage stopped and its doors opened to pour Viserys’ kins. Little Aegon, eight years of age came out first, followed by little prince Aemond, who was five and their eerie sister, the princess Helaena. Alicent emerged next of the coach, with tiny Daeron in her arms. And finally the King hoped down last, but greeted his brother and his wife first.

‘Aegon !’ he familiarly calls as he gathers his arms around his cadet.

‘Was the journey good ?’ the latter inquires, as the King kisses the hand of Medea.

‘Exhausting of course, but Summerhall is worth the trouble,’ Viserys kindly chimes. ‘Isn’t it Alicent ?’

The Queen steps forwards and presents her hand to the Prince of Summerhall, who seizes it and kiss it in respect.

‘Yes, wonderful. Now I see why people speak of this place as heaven on earth. It is a true blessing to live here,’ Alicent remarks.

‘It is,’ Aegon agrees, lifting his daughter of three from the floor to present her to her royal aunt and uncle.

‘This must be our little niece,’ the King entreated, reaching for the tip of her small rounded nose. ‘Pretty little Naera.’

‘She’s quite grown since the last time we saw her,’ the Queen holds forth, playing around with the silver hair on the child’s head. ‘A little beauty, I congratulate you both.’

‘Thank you my Queen,’ Medea bubbled with her strong accent.

‘But please brother, follow me in. Our finest cooks have been busy preparing a feast for you arrival,’ Aegon proudly announced.

‘Let’s honour their fantastic work, then !’ Viserys agreed, gathering all his children and leading them inside.

All witnesses the grandness of Summerhall, the refinement of its decorated arches, embroidered tapestries and painted walls, and shared a delicious meal on the terrace. When all finished eating, Medea and Alicent and their nursemaids took the children to the pool of tepid waters in the depths of the garden, while the man remained under the comforting shadow of an oak tree to discuss state matters.

‘What news do you have of our brother ?’ Viserys asks, sipping honey wine from his crystal cup.

‘Very little, I am afraid. He and Lady Laena Velaryon are reportedly in Pentos, putting on a show for the fortunates merchants of the city with their dragons. He has at least one child, a daughter I think. But our brother carefully ignores all my letters, so I don’t know much more of it.’

‘It’s such a shame,’ the King bemoans. ‘What would our father think of Daemon’s debauchery ? What would he think of me, Aegon ?’

‘Our father knew Daemon’s true nature better that we did,’ his cadet interrupts, running a hand over his beardless chin. ‘He inherited his recklessness, just like you inherited his righteousness.’

‘And what did you inherit from Baelon the Brave, dear brother ?’ Viserys chortles.

‘I think I ressemble our mother the most, I have her calm.’

‘And her wisdom,’ the King adds. ‘Our father was an impetuous flame, but she was the hearth. She prevented the fire from spreading. Just like you did with Daemon, for a time.’

Aegon rolled the purple liquid in his cup, staring distantly into the whirl. It was true that for a time, he contained Daemon’s temerity. But no more. Now the cadet was just as impoverished as his eldest. Viserys’ words put an end to his reverie.

‘My only consolation is that Daemon is no longer heir to my Throne. Rhaenyra is.’

‘Do you intend to maintain your decision ?’ Aegon asks, raising a brow.

‘Absolutely. I did waver for some time,’ the King confesses. ‘But I believe that only Rhaenyra is fit to rule the Seven Kingdoms after me.’

Aegon gauges his older brother for a short time. ‘If they denied Rhaenys the throne, what makes you think the Lords of the Seven Kingdoms will handle it to your daughter ?’

‘These were different times,’ Viserys laughs. ‘And Jaehaerys named me heir after the Great Council, but I named Rhaenyra without the help of any assembly. All swore fealty to her, including you brother.’

‘And you know that I will never break my oath,’ Aegon assures. ‘But others will end theirs.’

‘Then it will be up to you see to it that they don’t,’ his brother replies, eyes narrowing in the sunlight. ‘Make sure no one challenges my daughter’s claim after I’m gone. Sit on that throne if you must, but keep it for her. Support me like you have supported me, Aegon.’

‘You know I would never sit on your throne. But I will make sure your daughter never leaves it, brother.’

The two sons of Baelon and Alyssa kept talking until dark. Servants brought candles to illuminate their late discussions and more victuals to satisfy their appetites. The children had played and bathed in the turquoise waters of the pools all day long and were exhausted. Their mothers had brought them to their beds and tucked them until they finally found sleep.

Apart from the two brothers, Summerhall was asleep. Or at least, that is what they thought.

A racket came from the vast salons and alerted the two Targaryens. Alicent emerged from the dark, arms loaded in strange statuettes of obsidian and clay. The Queen stopped before her husband and brother-in-law, cheeks reddened by the run or the indignation.

She opened her arms and they poured their contents from their height — the figurines shattered on the terrace floor before the brothers.

Medea emerged from the dimness of the halls in her turn, face twisted in consterantion as dismay. When she took a glimpse at her idols lying on the floor, she let a cry out of pain. Aegon swiftly raised to gather his comforting arms around her, but the pained woman only struggled even more.

‘What have you done ?’ the King asks, drawing himself to his full height with his cane is his hand. ‘What have you done Alicent ?’

‘This woman adores false gods !’ the girl answers, pointing the fragmented images on the ground. ‘See for yourself what her altar homed.’

‘These are from Asshai Viserys !’ Aegon shouts, covering Medea’s incomprehensible babbling. ‘Memories of her long-gone home.’

The King picked one of the statues and recognized a heart consumed by blazing flames among them. He recognized symbols of an alien religion, that only Asshai’i priests and bloodmages practiced back then. The man placed the precious relic in Medea’s hands and turned to Alicent.

‘Apologize at once!’

‘No !’ the Queen refuses. ‘This is an insult to our Gods, Viserys ! You cannot allow this.’

‘If the Queen is so easily hostile to fire,’ Medea spits in High Valyrian, ‘maybe she shouldn’t have married a dragon. ‘

Alicent enrages even more when she doesn’t understand the sorceress’ gibberish. ‘What is she saying ? Is she laying a curse on me ?’

‘She is not !’ Aegon cries. ‘Viserys, do something about your impetuous wife before she hurts somebody.’

The King grasped her wrist and ignored the Green Queen protests. ‘Come now, you’re making a fool of yourself.’

He dragged her inside and Medea collapsed on the floor to gather what could be saved. Tears of wrath freely ran along her cheeks now, and Aegon lowered in his turn to help her.

‘Forgive her,’ he gently advises. ‘She doesn’t know how ridiculous she is.’

The poor woman sniffed and looked at her prince husband through her tears. ‘I might forgive her Aegon, but R’hllor will not. His name cannot be so easily baffled. He will take revenge.’ Her hands trembled as she gathered the remains of her sacred statues. ‘See how they are all bruised and broken,’ she painfully bemoaned. ‘R’hollor will cast scorn on us, because we have allowed this to happen. He will come for us, he will come for them. Until we all burn.’

Medea’s words escaped her mouth with a stranger’s voice nearly, in the shape of threatening prophecy, but Aegon chose to ignore them and helped his wife carrying her poor idols inside.

Promises of doom indeed came from the Heart of Fire, but not through Medea’s lips. The Lord of Light weaved its way into their daughter’s dreams instead.

That night, little Naera, three years of age, witnessed the fall of her house in the silence of her dreams. A man in a red cape came to visit the small child in her sleep, draped in shadows. In her dreams, he was mighty yet comforting. He cupped her hands in his and stared straight into her soul. She saw rivers of blood flowing down the streets of a red city and fire melt silver spoons.

The man kneeled before her and patted her head gently. ‘I’ll visit you often, but until I tell otherwise, do not mention me. Others may think you are mad, but know my child, that you are blessed and holy.’

The man vanished into crimson shadow and the girl awoke at once, still panting from her nightmare. Her cries broke into the air and gathered both her parents at her side. Aegon held her in his strong arms while Medea stroke her head softly. Spouses exchanged a concerned look, as they lulled their daughter back to sleep.

And the little girl obeyed always, kept her visions to herself.

Years went by and distanced promises of vengeance. The Targaryens of Summerhall were forced to trade the serenity of their estate with the uproar of the Red Keep. Viserys’ health had considerably worsened over the course of time and the King was now quarter the man he once was.

His brother stood at his side as his faithful adviser and Master of Laws. Dignitaries and knights often spread the rumors that Viserys took more advice from his brother than he did from his Hand, Lyonel Strong. But in truth, the three of them often traded ideas and opinions about matters of the state and Lyonel and Aegon were quite like-minded.

Life in the Red Keep was very different from Summerhall. Back in her father’s princedom, Naera spent most of her days learning about this history of both Essos and Westeros with maesters, taught to bond with her mount by dragon handlers. The girl was quite a fearful child and every time she approached her dragon, she felt a great fear grabbing hold of her heart. She timidly repeated the handler’s commands with her perfect High Valyrian, but the beast sensed her uneasiness and refused to obey.

In Red Keep, she followed the same schedule, but was never alone with the maesters and the keepers.

Her cousins had made an habit of taunting her whenever she failed to master her dragon during their classes. The prince Aegon often boasted about being able to ride Sunfyre without a problem, though he was five years older than the girl. Jace and Luke, Rhaenyra’s sons, were more gentle to her and instead encouraged her. Aemond did not have much to brag about, since no dragon had accepted him yet. Cruelties were at times directed at him too.

Naera did her best to prove her older cousin wrong, but nerves always got the best out of her. Every time she cried ‘Umbas’ or ‘Dracarys’ at her mount, it disobeyed. She envied how easily Princess Rhaenyra commanded her dragon, or how effortlessly her father often crossed the sky.

That evening, like every evening since they lived in the Capital, the little princess returned empty-handed to her parents’ chambers. Medea gladly welcomed her with a kiss, while Aegon sat at the dinning table, already loaded with delicious food.

‘How was your lesson ?’ he considerately inquires.

‘Awful,’ the poor girl answers. ‘Moonfang is disobedient and rebellious. He never listens to me.’

‘He will ease into it,’ Aegon reassures. ‘Dragons are wild creatures, but once they bond with their riders, they rarely fail them. Try a different approach next time.’

‘What kind ?’ Naera asks. ‘I have tried everything.’

‘Have you tried kindness ?’ Medea merely suggests, spooning food into her daughter’s plate.

‘What is kindness to a dragon ?’ she pouts.

‘What is kindness to you Naera ?’ her father intervenes. ‘When I command you to tidy your room with an angry voice, do you want to obey me ?’

‘No.’

‘And how do you feel when I ask kindly ?’

‘I do it happily.’

‘Exactly,’ Aegon smiles. ‘It is the same for your dragon. Do not command, ask.’

‘I will try Father,’ she agrees, emptying the content of her plate before their eyes.

After their brief supper, Medea made sure her daughter bathed correctly and tucked her into her featherbed. All candles in her room were blown out and the little girl soon fell asleep.

Most of her nights were peaceful and dreamless, but some were more fitful than others.

She tossed and turned in her bedsheets, lids flickering abnormally.

She sees a large dragon in the distance. The creature is so big that she barely notices the woman standing next to its head. She wears a white night dress, with crimson stains at the bottom. The woman’s white hair freely flies into the wind, leaving a silver trail on her back.

Naera is terrified, but she marches towards the silhouette. The dragon looks at her and exposes its claws to prevent the girl from approaching. The woman turns to her and reveals her crying face. Naera doesn’t recognize her, but notices that the gigantic dragon is missing an eye.

The woman yells.

Dracarys.

Naera lets out of a cry of fear when fire consumes the woman’s flesh whole, a cry that breached through the frontiers of her vision and pierced through the walls of the Red Keep.

Aegon immediately hoped of the bed and ran to his daughter’s chamber, only to find her shrieking out of terror in her sheets. The whole castle knows about the girl’s nightmare and the Queen gathers her children in her own bed.

Medea holds the girl against her heart in an attempt to calm her daughter, but the latter cries and sniffs, and between two sobs she repeats the same word all over again.

Dracarys.

Seven days later, ravens bring the news of Laena Velaryon’s death and plunged the whole dynasty into grief and despair. Rumors stated that Daemon Targaryen had crossed the Narrow Sea with the corpse of his dead lover and two orphan daughters. All were to fly to High Tide to pay homage to the late princess.

‘She commanded Vhagar,’ Aegon starts. ‘And Daemon found her body burned to cinder on the field.’

Medea is restless, fidgeting with the rings of dark ore that decorated her delicate fingers. She thinks of that night of terror and her child shocked and trembling in her bed. Dracarys all over her mouth. She is no dragonrider, but she’s a sorceress from Asshai and knows the forgotten knowledge that sunk into the sea with Valyria of Old.

She knows tales of dreamers that shared blood with dragons.

Dracarys.

She knows the word that unleashes the flames.

Dracarys.

For the night is dark and full of terrors.

‘Dracarys !’ Naera commands confidently and Moonfang burns the goat to ashes. She smiles and relishes in her triumph, while Jace and Luke clap their hands to celebrate her victory. Aemond reluctantly congratulates her, but the joy of the moment vanishes when Old Aegon enters the Dragonpit, bearing news of death and desolation from his brother.

‘I have a gift for you,’ the Red Man declared.

This time, the man stands under the stifling heat of the sun. There is nothing but grey sands and craggy rocks around them, and the wind itself is hotter than the air.

Naera raised her eyes towards the strange visitor and politely asked. ‘May I see it ?’

The Red Man grins a little. ‘Not yet.’

The eerie desert disappears and she wakes up into the darkness of her chambers. A few hours remain before the dawn, but the little girl finds it difficult to return to bed after her unsettling dreams. She patiently waited for her parents to rise in their turn, and joined them in the main room of their apartments. When he sees her bare feet on the cold tiled floor, Aegon lifts her and sits her on his knees as they break fast.

‘No nightmares this night ?’ Medea inquires.

‘No Mother,’ the little girl answers. ‘Only sweet dreams.’

‘Good. Now eat your sliced apple while your father and I get ready.’

The obedient little girl gladly devours one of her favorite breakfasts, as her mother goes for a quick wash. Aegon stays with her, but their peace is soon troubled by a knock on the door. The prince rises and puts the child down before he opens the door. One of the maesters waits outside and Aegon closes the door before him, leaving little Naera alone in the vast salon.

‘I bring news from the Riverlands, my Prince. Harrenhal burned during the night, the Lord Hand perished as well as his son, the Commander of the Cityguard,’ the maester announces. ‘The King has requested your presence in his quarters.'

Aegon sighs. ‘Thank you, Maester. Tell him I’ll be with him in a minute.'

The Prince of Summerhall returns into his solars and finds out his daughter also went for a wash. He quickly dresses and storms out again, heading to his brother’s chambers at a fast pace.

When he arrives, Viserys is already waiting for him in his armchair. Treatments were done for this morning, and his faithful physicians are already busy bandaging his necrotized wounds. The room reeks of unguents and burned incenses, to mask the ominous odor of rotten flesh.

‘Leave us,’ the King commands. The maesters gather their instruments and swarm out of the room.

‘Sit,’ Viserys kindly engages as he tilts his head in direction of a chair.

Aegon does as commanded and sits at his brother’s side.

‘I trust the maester shared this morning’s dreadful news with you,’ Viserys begins. ‘First Laena, then Lyonel and his son. What is happening to us ?’

‘Gods often challenge our resilience brother,’ Aegon remarks. ‘It is a tragedy, but we have our own dead to mourn. Are you ready to depart to High Tide ?'

‘Yes, yes. But first, I am afraid there is something we need to discuss.’

Aegon raises a brow and nods in sign of approbation. The ill king clears his throat before he speaks, and the air goes rancid. 

‘Lyonel served me faithfully as my Hand. He was an honest man and his advice was always selfless. I need a man like him at my side. I need a man I can trust, someone that I know and that knows me as well.’ The King turns at his younger brother. ‘I need you, Aegon.’

The cadet writhes on his chair. He know it is request he can hardly turn away, but in this very moment, the poor prince just wants to run out of the castle with his daughter and wife, and fade into nothingness. The sudden death of Lyonel Strong and his son raised suspicions in the man’s mind, conjectures he did not wish to share with his brother the king at the moment. 

‘I need some time to think about it Viserys,’ Aegon mutters. 

‘You will give me your answer on our way back from High Tide. For now, we must get ready. The ship readies in the harbour as we speak. Go and get your wife and daughter, we shall leave before midday.’

Aegon greets his brother on the way out and returns to his familial chambers. Both Naera and Medea are all dressed up, and a ladymaid braids his wife’s hair. When he enters, she immediately notices his grim aspect. She follows him into their bedroom and pours countless concerned questions over him.

‘Lyonel is dead and Viserys wants me as his hand.’

‘But it’s too dangerous Aegon !’ Medea protests in the secret of their bedchamber, while their young daughter is staying with the nursemaid in the salon. ‘This fire cannot be an accident. We should return to Summerhall before we suffer the same fate.'

‘Even if I decline my brother’s offer, they will come for us in Summerhall. If I accept, perhaps I'll find a way to protect us all.’

‘It’s too dangerous,’ his wife repeats.

‘Viserys granted me some time to think about my answer,’ Aegon interrupts. ‘Let us go to High Tide first, mourn Laena at Rhaenys' side, offer our support to our kin. When we will grieve no more, I'll make my decision.’

Medea cups her husband’s face in her delicate hands. ‘I know you. Your mind is all made up already, I can see it in your eyes.’

It was Naera’ first time in High Tide, yet the crushing waves and the steep rocks brought to her mind some familiarity.

The island was quite gloomy under the grey sky and the dark clouds. The little girl walked alongside her parents into the halls of the Lord of the Tides, right behind her Velaryon and Targaryen cousins. Jacaerys turned to her as he paced at his father’s side and the both of them exchanged impressed looks.

Rhaenys and Corlys welcomed their numerous guests in the Main Hall, and all paid homage to the late Laena Velaryon. This is where Naera first caught glimpse of her uncle Daemon Targaryen and her cousins, Baela and Rhaena, his daughters.

A few moments later, all gathered near the pier. An engraved coffin lied at the very ends of the ramps and Naera easily guessed its content. Vaemond Velaryon, the girl’s uncle, spoke comforting words about his niece and when his moving speech ended, her remains sunk into the waves.

Guests then joined the terrace beneath the sea and filled their stomachs with various delights and beverages. The young prince Aegon himself emptied dozens of cups, until he collapsed in the stairs and was sent back to his chambers by his grandfather Otto Hightower.

The latter’s presence here was merely justified by the fact that he was the Queen’s father, but the man coveted an other prize. He thought that once Lyonel was removed, he would retrieve his former functions.

But the King had offered nothing to the Southerner yet.

Naera sat with her grieving cousins Baela and Rhaena on a bench apart from the loud party. The poor little girl shared her cousin’s pain without saying a word — although she struggled to picture it without having her eyes flooding in tears, she imagined how desolate the two of them must have been. She intercepted two cups of honey ice tea and gave them to her tearful cousins, in a candid attempt to soothe their pain just a little bit.

Medea spoke to Rhaenyra in High Valyrian across the terrace, while Viserys exchanged words with his two brothers.

Their reunion happened under gloomy circumstances, but Aegon was more than relieved to see his brother again. Daemon had changed over the course of years — he seemed wiser now, but one could also blame it on his grief. Aegon held him from a brief minute. All brothers shared his pain, but Daemon was particularly ungrateful and indelicate towards Viserys. He blamed him for his disgrace. After a few jabs, the exhausted King retreated into his chambers and left his younger brothers alone.

‘So this is your daughter with mine over there ?’ Daemon inquires, lips faintly wine stained. ‘She seems very kind. What is her name again ? ’

‘And she absolutely is. She is called Naera,’ Aegon answers, also turning eyes to the three little girl sitting together.

‘After the Lightbringer ?’ Daemon looks more closely to the small group and notices Naera’ resemblance with her mother. Apart from the color of her hair, she is the striking image of the latter.

‘I see you’ve learned a lot of things in Essos,’ Aegon laughs. 

‘Yes. I found all this folklore rather interesting,’ the older brother confirms. ‘R’hllor is a god of fire and flames. He seems more fitting to our dynasty than the Sevens will ever be. What are maidens, crones and smiths to a dragon ? A sorry pile of ash.'

‘Careful brother,’ Aegon warns, drawing Daemon closer. ‘I might be happy to see you home again, but many here do not share my fond sentiments. Do not give them a reason to come at you.’

‘Let them come ! I am ready,’ the latter chuckles derisively, but Aegon finds his remarks more self-destructive and driven by sorrow than truthful and genuine. Daemon narrows his eyes and lowers his voice next. ‘Have our brother asked you to be his Hand already ?’

Aegon is quite startled by the question, but he answers honestly. ‘Yes, but I plan to decline. Otto is more seasoned, he has more experience and knowledge of the matters of the state. He'll make a far more fitting Hand than me.’

‘Otto will not support our niece when the time is right, but you will,’ Daemon snaps back. ‘Don’t let him tear our house down Aegon. People despise me, but they respect you. I’ll protect you and you’ll protect our King until he dies. And when he does, we'll crown Rhaenyra and you'll keep serving as Hand.'

‘Coming from you, this sounds easy enough, but need I remind you of my predecessor’s end ?’

Daemon laughs and drops his empty cup on the nearest table. ‘Fire cannot kill a dragon. They will need more creativity.’

Rhaenyra was no place to be found and the hour was getting quite late, so Rhaenys and Medea saw to it that the children were at bed. The asshai’i stayed with Jacaerys and Lucerys and told them tales of mighty Valyrian warriors to lull them to sleep. Rhaenys instead remained with Baela, Rhaena and Naera. In the girl’s chambers, the air was rather chilly. The old princess tucked them all and stayed in the room until they fell asleep.

When all children slept peacefully, Rhaenys sneaked to her chambers and curled up in her husband’s arms to soothe her sorrows. Medea only found an empty bed when she arrived, but Aegon joined her a short time after.

Everything was peaceful.

Except for Naera’s rest.

She stood in the same grey and desolate place as before and the man sat onto the sand. Behind him lied a vast hill of some sort, with no vegetation on top of it. Only rocks and ash colored sand.

The little girl approached the familiar visitor.

‘Is this where you live, old friend ?’

The man chortled. ‘No, this is where you are.’

‘But I don’t recognize this place,’ she contested.

‘You need not to,’ he answered, patting the sand besides him. ‘Sit with me for a while.’

The girl nodded positively before seating on the sand next to him. The air was easy to breath in this time and the sand itself was quite cold to the touch. A refreshing breeze swept through the endless desert, bringing salty and earthy fragrances to her nose.

‘I came with the gift, as promised,’ the man announced. ‘Would you like to see it ?’

‘Yes !’ she answers with a great enthusiasm. After all, she's just a girl, eight years of age, and gifts are one of the many things that bring a smile on her face.

The little one cupped her small hands together and the Red Man emptied the content of his own into them. She stared at the rosy, gooey ball. ‘Flip it, it’s inside out,’ he insists.

The girl obeyed and saw a purple eyeball between her fingers.

She yells in horror and wakes up with sweat thick on her skin, her hands nervously clenched on themselves. Strange shadows flies across the room. She runs to the window and Vhagar in the air. She recognizes the huge dragon — she has seen it before.

‘Baela ! Baela wake up !’ she cries, concealing her disarray as best as she can as she shakes her newly found friend. The white haired princess emerges from her sleep and stares at Naera, completely clueless.

‘Somebody stole Vhagar,’ Naera insists, grasping onto the sheets with her little hands.

Baela hops off her bed and the two girls run to the boys’ chambers, while Rhaena is still asleep. They drag Jacaerys out his sheets first, then Lucerys, and the four of them run into the sinuous galleries of the dragonpit.

‘It’s him !’ Naera shouts when Aemond Targaryen looms out of the dark.

‘It’s me, yes !’ the boy boasts. ‘I claimed Vhagar.’

‘You stole my mother’s dragon !’ Baela yells, pushing the boy against the rocky wall.

He knocks Baela over and she thuds onto the ground. Jacaerys surges forward and jumps at Aemond’s neck.

‘You bastards!’ Aemond yells amidst the tumult. Lucerys throws himself into the battle as well, and only Naera remains aside, hands still holding onto something.

When she looks down to her hands, she holds her breath out of terror and expect to find a blood eyeball in her palm. 

She emerges from her angsty vision when Aemond lets out a terrible cry. Lucerys' knife has just slashed his face open, and now blood spills over the four of them.

Moments later, they all stand in the Main Hall with their parents at their side. Lucerys’ nose is broken, Jacaerys has a few bruises, but Baela and Naera are both safe.

The Queen curses the sons of Rhaenyra in her absence and demands for justice. She paces back and forth, while the maester sews her son’s weeping wound.

‘What happened ?’ the King inquires, but five children throw their answers at him in the same time. The Queen is more wroth with each minute passed. Rhaenyra storms through the door with Prince Daemon on her tail. Prying eyes turn to them on their way in. 

The room turns a battlefield.

Rhaenyra stands for her sons while Alicent demands one of Lucerys’ eyes. The boy cries out of despair and hides behind his big brother, Daemon stands between them and Criston Cole. It is pure chaos in here, dragons against dragons. 

Naera is curled in her mother’s arms, eyes overflowing tears and face covered in dust and scratches. Aegon is at a loss of words, he witnesses the wickedness of his kin and curses them from dragging their daughter into their madness.

‘Do not weep Mother, it is a fair exchange. It may have lost an eye, but I gained a dragon,’ the maimed boy intervenes.

The deafening wrangling grows distant, Naera only stares at Aemond’s remaining eye, gleaming in tears and purple. Very purple.

Flashes of the Red Man’s gift invades her brain, her eyes widen and her throat painfully shrieks. 

Into the shadows of the room, she sees two bright red eyes without pupils. A voice comes out of the dark and speaks sinister words she's the only one to hear.

‘Do you like your gift ?’

Naera is so terrified that she refuses to return with Baela and Rhaena. Her father's patience has run thin by now and he cannot stand her supplications anymore.

‘Enough Naera !’

Medea lays disapproving eyes on her husband. His exasperation has nearly brought their daughter to bursts into tears. She lifts her from the cold marble ground and holds her tightly in her arms. 'Hush, my love' she whispers into her ears in asshai'i.

Once they join their apartments, Aegon remains on the incommodious settee while Medea takes their daughter to bed. She tucks her under the cozy covers and strokes her bruised forehead gently.

‘Now sleep my Love, the night is not over yet,’ she reassures her, voice all soft and soothing. But the girl is restless and her eyes never dry from their tears.

‘I do not want to see him again,’ she cries.

‘Who ?’

‘The Red Man,’ Naera sobs. ‘I don’t want to see him ever again !’

‘Who is this Naera ? Answer me,’ Medea insists, eyes widening in fear.

‘He comes to me at night in my dreams, he takes me to scary places I do not know and speaks in riddles sometimes,’ the girl confesses, words rushing out her mouth as she speaks. ‘He gifted me an eye ! Aemond’s eye ! And when I woke up, we ran to the dragonpit and we fought Aemond, and Aemond lost his eye, and the Man came back in the Main Room and he asked me if I liked my gift.’

Medea struggles to process all the informations in her daughter's tale, but she quickly puts the pieces together. She lies next to her daughter’s frail body and gather her arms around her.

‘It’s okay Naera,’ she murmured, kissing her cheek. ‘I’m here now, and I will be here as long as you need me. Don’t be scared. Pray with me.'

‘Why would I ?’ the little girl rebukes.

‘Because R'hllor will always protect you,’ Medea replies. ‘Come on Naera, pray with me. Lord of the Light, lead us from the darkness. R'hllor you are the light in our eyes, the fire in our hearts, the heat in our loins. Yours is the sun that warms our days, yours the stars that guard us in the dark of night.'

'Lord of Light, defend us,' the little girl answers weakly, eyes already half closed. Medea kisses the top of her head softly. 'For the night is dark and full of terrors,' she ends. 

Mother and daughter easily finds the path to peaceful sleep, but Aegon is too troubled to face his own thoughts and find some rest. He stalks out of the room and heads to the King’s.

Ser Harrold Westerling stands before the door, nor sleepy, nor wavering. He greets Aegon respectfully.

‘I must speak to my brother.’

‘Prince Aegon, the hour is quite late. After tonight’s events, the King needs some rest. Wait until tomorrow.’

‘It’s rather urgent,’ Aegon pursues. ‘If the King finds out we waited until morning, he will be wroth.’

The leal Lord Commander of the Kingsguard steps aside, giving the prince free reins. He carefully opens the door to his brother’s chambers and finds him lying completely awake on his bed.

‘I’m sorry to bother you as you rest, Brother,’ Aegon begins. ‘But I need to speak to you.’

‘I’m listening,’ Viserys answers.

Aegon sits on the silken sheets next to his eldest. ‘I agree, I will be your Hand. But I suspect that darker forces are at work against us, Viserys. And I only accept to protect you from them.’

‘And who creeps into the shadows, do you think ?’

Aegon thoughts of Viserys’ own sons and their tendency to be cruel to one another. He followed their trail up to their wicked mother and her pious ways, and up again to her father, the cunning and plotting Otto Hightower. But the prince kept his accusations to himself.

‘For now, we do not know. But I intend to find out soon enough.’

‘Well Brother,’ Viserys chimes as she raises from his pillows. ‘These are delightful news.’

‘If any harm comes to me Viserys, see to it that Medea and Naera are safe. She is my only heir, make her Princess of Summerhall after me. Never give it to one of your sons.’

‘Promised Aegon, now return to your family. They need your strength,’ the King declares, thus dismissing his brother. ‘Tomorrow we sail home, we’ll arrange the details of your nomination there.’

‘As you wish, my King,’ Aegon agrees and sneaks out the room.

Chapter Text

‘Long time no see, my sweet summer child.’

A chill climbs down her spine when she hears the familiar voice of the dreaded stranger. She stands on a bridge made of stone, with cliffs and a river far down below. Wind gusts and sweeps through the structure, adding more thrill to the whole adventure.

She turns to him and sees the same crimson cape as before, so long it swallows him whole. He is taller than her, taller than most men and although she is sixteen now, she feels like a child standing next to him. The stranger hides his face under his flowing cloak, only his ginger beard and aquiline nose peek under it.

His hand comes for some strands of her silver hair, he stares into them for a while before gauging her whole. She holds her breath as he does, petrified by his presence after so many years of absence. For nearly a decade, he deserted her nights, leaving only peace in the hole left by his vacancy.

She wonders why he has come today, but the fear paralyses her and she cannot speak at all.

‘Turn again, look at what I’ve built for you.’

She obeys and she sees a tall tower of gray stone across the bridge. He grabs her arm and draws her closer to him, in a very paternal way. But she feels no security to his hot touch, nor comfort in his pretended gifts. His free hand points at the edifice. She notices the crown on its roof and its windowless height.

The tower only has one door that faces them, made of the same copper-like material as the crown. She wants to get closer, but he forbids it without a word and keeps her by his side.

‘What is in there ?’ she asks.

There is no particular expression on his face when he speaks, but she also feels some glee when he does. He is always peaceful, always serene, always composed. But when she glances at his red figure, she only sees sleepless nights and torments. An that bloody gleaming eye in the palm of her small hands.

‘Listen,’ he mutters, but she only hears the wind roaring first.

The noise slowly grows louder, like blows landing on wooden boards. A din comes from within the doors and soon, she hears whispers, whimpers, shrieks and cries.

She steps back and finds refuge behind him. But he switches positions quite quickly, and now she stands in front of him with his large and calloused hands on her shoulders, and she faces the dreadful tower.

Now the cries are twice as many as moments before and plaintive.

‘Do you know who they are, child ?’ She nods negatively.

‘The Dark Ones, Naera,’ he resumes, voice mind and soothing. ‘All your enemies. Past, present and future. Known and Unknown. Stranger or Kin. All of them are locked in here.’

He lowers his mouth next to her ear. His tepid breath smells of desert and ashes.

‘If I opened the door, would you recognize someone ?’

She thinks of Aemond Targaryen first, and his eye slashed in two by Lucerys Velaryon while she stood and did nothing. She imagines the Green Queen in the High Tower as well, despiteful and pious as she condemns a God she deems barbaric and primitive. She sees her father Otto, lurking in the shadows and plotting to get out of her.

She thinks of them all first and the Red Man reads right through her mind.

In this world made of dreams and visions only, he was the only master and she was but a guest.

‘Yes, all of them Naera. Shall we punish them ?’

‘How ?’

‘Fire purifies sin,’ he mildly replies. ‘There is no other way.’

The Tower roars from within and the crown falls through the roof. Smoke rises in the sky and the sorry pile turns into a giant chimney.

The inferno blazes inside the stones and countless cries for help break through the air. The wind itself has stopped gusting, and the whole place reeks of death and burned flesh.

She stares into the chaos with tears painting her cheeks.

‘You see Naera, how I will always chose you over your enemies. Call for me and I will always come,’ the Red Man promises. ‘For the Night is dark.’

‘And full of terrors,’ she ends.

When she wakes up, she hears hustle and bustle in the halls.

She rises from her silken sheets and feels the warm southern air embrace her whole as she does. She puts on a robe to cover her modesty and weaves through the corridors to the main room.

Aegon is there, in his silver and coal riding armor. Odor of dragonriding fills up the room and when he lays his eyes on his daughter, a large smile lights up his face.

‘How you’ve grown since the last time,’ he says as he kissed her cheek.

‘It’s been nearly a year Father, of course I have grown.’

The spark in his violet eyes fades when she reproaches his absence. For nearly eight years now, he served his brother the king as his Hand, at the expense of his own family. To satisfy his eldest’s wishes, he sacrifices months and years he could’ve spent with his daughter.

Now that she resembles a woman more than she does a child, he feels the weight of this lost years on his shoulders. When he left she was a puny and candid little girl and now she is like a stranger to him.

Although the Lord Hand tried to visit them in Summerhall as much as he could, brief stays didn’t exactly made up for his long absences. But he tried to think of this sacrifice as worthy and necessary, as he service to his long-gone father and to the realm as well.

He looked older as well — his face bore the cruel marks of responsibilities. His beard was unshaven and his hair, once slick and impeccable, now was hastily braided in the back of his head. Dark circles surrounded his violet grey eyes.

‘I have come with troubling news, I am afraid,’ Aegon resumes, eyes lowering to his half-empty cup of tea. ‘Something happened in King’s Landing and I cannot leave you here on your own anymore.’

‘What happened ?’ Medea inquires, sitting at the table next to her husband.

Aegon glances at Naera before he answers, and she feels its reluctance to say the words. ‘Someone attacked me.’

He pulls his collar and reveals a bandage over the base of his neck. Medea’s eyes widen in distress. She rises from her chair at once and rushes to the wound. ‘Is it healed yet ? When did that happen ? Are you okay ?’

‘Maesters attended to this, it should be alright they said. The blade cut clean, it bled a lot but I am alright now. Please, sit my love, everything is fine now.’

She ignores his biding and stands on her two feet instead. ‘But I need you with me in King’s Landing, where I can protect you both from whoever is trying to reach me. You must come with me.’

‘But King’s Landing is—’

‘I know how much you hate i, Medea,’ he brutally interrupts. ‘I flew here against the Small Council’s will just to make sure you were both safe. We leave tomorrow. And no roads.’

‘What do you mean, no roads ? We will not take the Kingsroad ?’ his wife asks, clueless. Her husband sighed. ‘We will fly above it. I will saddle you on Vermithor. Naera is seasoned enough to fly on Moonfang alone. We cannot linger on the road for too long.’

‘What of our belongings ?’

‘What matters the most to you Medea ? Dresses, or our daughter’s life ?’his answer was so frank, so brutal that it left his poor wife at a loss for words. ‘Pack lightly.’

He draws himself to his full height and Naera notices him stumbling a little. She does not say a word. She woke up from an unsettling dream, only to find the reality to be even more disturbing.

But she packed her most precious possessions without a single protest and after two days of preparations, Summerhall ridden of any left Targaryen.

King’s Landing is immense compared to their heaven-like domain in the southern Stormlands. The Capital lies below Moonfang’s wings, like a scarlet stain of houses, temples and towers spreading on the coast. For the first time in her life, she landed in the dragonpit. Moonfang must have remembered its cold soiled walls better that she did. As a child, she was not very fond of this place and today out of all days, the pit seemed gloomier than she recalled.

As her father shows them the way around the castle that saw him grow up and get old, she notices how everything looks smaller. And everyone bows to them on their way to their new solars.

Medea’s face is grim, although she looks splendid in her black dress with long bell sleeves. Over the years, her face has gained a few wrinkles, but her plump maroon lips and golden eyes are unchanged. Aegon looks even more older standing next to her — she is frozen in time and he is an exhausted man of fourty-three. Power has drained the life out of him.

He opens the door to their new solars. They are garnished with exotic furniture of the most refined taste. Walls of the main room are decorated with tapestries representing various scenes and leisures, and painted with a dark shade of blue. Golden mouldings in the shape of a sun crawl along the ceiling all the way to the different rooms. Naera’s bedchamber is vast enough to fit an ambassador’s solar in it and opens on a delicate garden.

‘What do you think ?’ Aegon inquires, leaning on the doorframe with his arms crossed over his chest. ‘It’s more noisier than what you are used to, but it’s your home now.’

‘Do not worry Father, I do not mind the din,’ she comforts with a smile. ‘You should rest for a bit. This journey must have been tiring, and to be honest, you look quite diminished these days.’

‘Maybe I am,’ Aegon replies with a faint smile. ‘You’re kind to me, dear daughter. And I feel like I have failed you.’

‘Failed me in what ?’

‘In everything,’ he confesses, eyes glinting with guilt and begging for forgiveness. ‘You are a woman now. It seems to me that yesterday, you were the fearful child that refused to get anywhere near a dragon if I wasn’t here to hold your hand. Just yesterday, you kneeled before the fire to pray with your mother.’

‘I think I still need to hold your hand next to Vermithor. He scares me.’

Aegon chuckles, moved by the tenderness of her words. She might be a woman now, but she is still her father’s daughter. Dainty and witty, faithful and leal, brave and willing, yet he knows she dreads the darkness and the depths of the sea, and would always put her share of roasted duck in his plate to avoid eating it.

To the rest of the world she was Naera Targaryen, Princess of Summerhall, promising dragonrider and an attractive match for the young lords of the Realm. But to old Aegon Targaryen, she was just his daughter.

Medea spent days pacing back and forth in her husband’s solars. She found it quite difficult to accommodate to the Capital, but Aegon had the brilliant idea to introduce her to the maesters. She was a seasoned botanist and studied the eastern medicine in her younger years, surely her science could enlighten the revered scholars. It quickly became her principal source of distraction.

But before that, the Queen invited the three of them to a supper in her solars. She wanted to welcome her kin properly into the Capital, thus burying the hatchet and soothing any tensions between her and the Hand’s wife, whose beliefs differed from the common custom.

All gathered around a finely decorated table, engraved with a hunting scene in the middle. Aegon sits at the right of the King, with Medea and Naera at his side. Helaena sits next to her cousin, with young Aegon and Daeron. At his mother’s side and across the table sits mysterious Aemond the One Eye.

She tries her best to not be distracted by his presence. Whenever she casts a glimpse at him, she sees a weeping wound and a purple eye rolling in the palm of her hands. She sees guilt and terror, and looks away from it all.

Dishes of roasted ducks, suckling pigs and games flow from the kitchen alongside other victuals, mostly rich soups, pies and slow-cooked vegetables. The Queen ordered the finest feast for the occasion and demanded for the finest wine as well to be brought from the cellar. Cup bearers fill their cups of the dornish nectar every time they find it empty.

Naera doesn’t drink much of it. To be fair, she finds it hard to eat or drink when she feels a lonely eye prying on her. She tries her best to hide her discomfort, but her uneasiness takes away the rest of her nerves. His stare is so insisting she can follow its trajectory without a single effort. Whenever her eyes meet a violet pupil, she eludes. That single eye stares right into her soul and she’s scared of what it mind find — memories of maimed flesh and a lidless globe in the palm of her hands.

But something strange enough happens and brings her attention elsewhere.

The small talk around her grows more distant and gibberish, and she hardly finds enough clarity to answer to Helaena’s words.

The light progressively dims into the Queen’s apartments, until it’s nearly pitch-dark. She hears a faint murmur and feels a cold breeze on the back of her neck. She turns, but only find the shadows.

The candles in the middle of the table start to dance, to flicker, to weaken. She understand now, whispers come from the flames. But their message is too feeble and too cryptic for her to seize their meaning. She focuses even more and sees eerie shapes in the flames.

Something is staring at her.

Something round.

An eye.

Helaena lands her hand on her shoulder and Naera startles to her touch.

‘Do you want cake ?’ she repeats, her worried eyes laid upon her face.

‘No, I—,’ she stammers. ‘I don’t feel well.’

The young girl turns to her mother and speaks in their secret tongue. ‘I don’t feel very well,’ she repeats.

Medea agrees with a kind smile. ‘Return to your chambers and rest my love, there’s tea in my bedside if you need some for the sleep.’

‘Thank you,’ she whispers as she rises from her cushioned seat. ‘May I be excused your Grace ?’

‘Naera doesn’t feel well, my King,’ Medea holds forth. ‘It’s the first time she rides so far on her own, she is exhausted.’

‘Then go and get some rest, sweet child,’ Viserys assents. ‘Have a good night of sleep to soothe your mind and body.’

‘Thank you. Your Grace,’ she bows before leaving the room.

The hallways are even darker than the Queen’s quarters. She hates obscurity, but she feels too weak to care. Guards insist to escort her to her father’s solars, but she dismisses them all and ventures in the maze on her own.

She holds onto the walls as she walk and struggles to dispel the visions that flood her mind. She sees shapes in the flames of the torches. She sees blood everywhere : on her hands, on her gown, on her skin, on her hair, on the walls and thinks she is slowly surrendering to madness.

‘It is a dream,’ she murmurs to herself as she paces through the shadows. ‘A dream. Only a dream.’

But there is no Red Man to lead her through the labyrinth this time.

Her steps make strange sounds on the floor, they stick to it and her feet are drenched in something. She glares at them and discovers a river of blood instead of the usual tiled pavement.

Something emerges from the terrifying darkness and grabs her arm. She lets out a fearful cry and her legs fail her, she falls against something leathery and smelling of roasted meats and bonfires.

Please R’hllor, come to me.

Dreadful tears of terror freely roll down her cheeks and her breath is still panting from her erratic race. She looks like a total wreck. Her silver hair sticks to her forehead, her eyes are red from all the crying and her limbs are half numb, half tense. Two arms swiftly hold onto her frail body, until she gathers her spirits again.

‘Are you alright ?’ a soft voice inquires.

When she finally sees through the blurry tears, she catches glimpse of slick white hair and a black eyepatch.

‘I didn’t mean to scare you, cousin,’ he insists, but she does not immediately replies. His lilac eye darkens to violet. ‘I only wanted to see if you were alright. You seemed quite flustered earlier.’

She pulls back from his embrace and straightens her spine. With the tip of her fingers, she arranges the most rebellious strands of her hair and tries her best to maintain appearances.

‘I stumbled,’ she mumbles.

She tries to peek above his shoulders to see if some guards are around, but they are all alone in this part of the castle. The hour is quite late already, most servants have already gone to sleep. She gulps with a great difficulty and avoids his intrusive stare.

‘You sure ?’ he maintains, but his voice only sounds like a threat to her.

She steps back, hitting the cold stoned wall. But he doesn’t corner her.

‘Let me walk you to your quarters.’

‘No,’ she refuses, but the silver-haired prince ignores her wishes and grasps onto her arm again.

She reluctantly follows him through the endless halls of Maegor’s Holdfast and when the door of the Hand’s solars takes shape in the distance, relief delivers her from her anguish.

He reaches for the doorknob and opens it for her.

‘Rest well Princess,’ Aemond snaps. ‘And mind your steps next time.’

She doesn’t answer, nor thank him and slams the door close as soon as he turns away. She rushes to her bedchamber and removes her clothes as fast as she can. She runs to the basin of fresh water than the servants readied for her and splashes her burning face at once. The fresh water brings her back to her senses, but the memory of the dancing flames and whispering shadows crushes her spirits.

She sits on her bad and gathers her knees against the throbbing chests.

‘The night is dark and full of terrors, and they are all coming for me it seems,’ she bemoans, resting her head on her folded knees. ‘I called, but you never came.’

King’s Landing turns into a prison a bit more with each day passed.

Aegon is quiet, but the more he tries to hide his concerns, the more they come through. Medea is restless, she keeps her mind distracted from her own misery but she withers here in the Capital. She doesn’t pray her God of Fire every night like she used to, for she dreads the consequences of her rituals. She adores him in the secret of her heart, but never displays her devotion. She draws her only bliss from helping the king get better. His health has considerably worsened over the course of time and only asshai’i unguents relieved him from some of his pain.

But the flesh kept rotting anyways, Medea’s medicines only helped with the suffering, but they could not stop the disease from spreading. Sooner or later, the King would succumb to illness.

The delightful gardens and orchards of Summerhall seemed out of reach now. They belonged to the past, to a fantasy that Naera no longer cared to maintain. Although she was unhappy here, she tried her best to keep her distress hidden from her parents. She swallowed her despondency, as women were expected to.

She didn’t want her melancholy to burden them in any sort. Her biggest fear was to be another weight on her father’s shoulders.

He was half the man he was before.

His face was emaciated, devoured by grief for his agonizing brother and drained by the demanding nature of power. He never wanted to rule this kingdom in his brother’s place — he never desired influence at all.

In his youth, Aegon was a free spirit. One day, he left for Essos on Vermithor’s back just to fly across what remained of the Valyrian Freehold. He travelled to each of the Free Cities and relished on their specificities, on their unique characters and richness. He fucked a woman in every stop he made and left them wanting for more than one night of feverish kisses and drunken leisures.

His last step was Asshai’i. Because he was a Targaryen prince, most dignitaries of the cities he went to battled for his favors. They would bow to him and offer hospitality. When he stayed in Asshai-by-the-Shadows, he did so under Loth’s roof.

Loth was a strange man, but to be fair, people in Asshai were all strange in comparison to Westerosi or Essosi. They were one-of-a-kind folks, with a culture of their own based on magic and the mysteries of this world. When Valyria collapsed, Targaryens escaped to Westeros and knowledge to Asshai. Bloodmages from the doomed civilization must have found a way into the city of shadows and shared their sacred science with them.

Loth was one of these mighty warlocks the town harboured. In Asshai, there are no words for magicians, sorceresses or wizards. One may only call them “priest” or “priestess’. All are devoted to revered gods, but the most adored of all is R’hllor. Loth was a guardian of a temple to his glory and Medea, his faithful disciple. When Aegon met her, she was only 17. He saw her golden eyes peek through her red veil first. Loth had no desire for women, only for holiness.

Yet, Loth gave away his beloved disciple against a few coins of gold. She was willing to go with Aegon of course, but the priest demanded compensation for her absence. To which Aegon agreed and married her before the flames.

Medea was the most haunting beauty he had ever met. No women from all the Free Cities couldn’t rival her charms. R’hllor watched as Aegon son of Baelon, Prince of the Seven Kingdoms, forsook the Father, the Mother, the Smith, the Maiden, the Crone and the Stranger all at once to marry his bewitching princess.

Viserys enraged when Aegon came back with a stranger to his arm, whose belly was swollen with babies, but forgave his brother just the same. The King never had a resentful nature.

Naera came to this world after the death of her twin brothers before her. The two lost their lives to disease and monstruous mouths at Court whispered it was punishment from the Seven. Others speculated that Medea might have sacrificed her offspring to her dark lord of flames willingly, but none ever dared to confront the grieving prince about this.

Along with the years, people forgot about Medea’s beliefs. Except for Alicent, that relentlessly besought Aegon to force his wife into the Faith in the Seven, but the latter kept refusing.

And now, Naera could not walk in her forebears’ halls without feeling prying eyes on her. All spied on her whereabouts to report them to the Queen, or gauged the way she dressed or styled her hair. Most of the time she ignored them all : her head was already too busy with her own thoughts to deal with those of others.

She is alone with her dreams.

The Red Man doesn’t visit her often, but he sends her dreadful visions instead. They are usually blurry and disorienting, as if she was a drunk walking in the streets of a crowded city.

But tonight, it’s different. Images come to her with a certain clarity to them. She is transported somewhere else, away from the comfort and the lavish of her bedchamber.

She is in front of another tower, so tall that is pokes through the sky. There is no wind, no particular temperature, no weather of some sort — the sky is gray and drops of water seem to be suspended into the air. The place is tremendously calm.

She tilts her head upwards and tries to glimpse at the summit. She sees nothing but clouds and a silhouette falling from it.

At first, she does not identify it.

Everything happens so fast.

The corpse of a young boy drops from the height, she can see it clearly now.

But when the shape hits the ground, it disappears and a bloody head rolls to her feet instead.

She cries at the top of her lungs before she wakes up.

And again, she finds no answers in the darkness of her room, only furniture she knew too well, books, tapestries and blown out candles.

She pushes the sheets away and attempts to do the same with the intrusive flashes in her head. But she desperately needs fresh air to do so.

Naera draws herself to her full height and leaves the warmth of her bed. The nights of the Capital are quite chilly, but she ignores the cold air and removes her nightdress at once. Instead, she puts on her riding attire, all made of leather and silver plates.

She sneaks out of her parents’ solar with the stealth of a shadow. Her muffled steps move away from their door and walk towards peace of mind.

The path to the dragonpit is deserted. Ladymaids and other servants are still asleep. When she leaves the Red Keep, dawn is still one hour away.

Dragon keepers are surprised to see her at such an early hour, but they do not question her whereabouts or commands. Moonfang emerges from the darkness of the cave, scales glinting under the moonlight as she does so. Naera climbs on the beast and her lungs fills up with chilly air. She tastes freedom again.

She whispers ancestral words to her dragon and the prodigious creature leaves the ground with a strangled groan. The princess revels in the chilliness of the morning air, gusts of wind biting the skin of her cheeks every time Moonfang bats her large winds.

She is high in the sky and feels closer to the gods than she does to men. Perhaps, that is why small folks compared dragonriders to deities walking among them. Their dragons are a door to divinity. They soar high in the sky and they are no longer common mortals. The blood running through their veins makes them special, capable to bond with these marvellous creatures and be masters of the ethers.

Moonfang is faster than most living dragons, swifter and nimbler than the larger ones. She freely dances among the celestial bodies, pierces through the clouds and cares little for the earth beneath her winds. Naera and her dragon are alike. Both belonged in the sky.

On her back, Naera is like a shooting star : free and unpredictable. Her unbound hair leave a trail of silver behind her and her skin glows under the moonlight.

She confesses her most dreadful fears to the moon and rides until day breaks.

When Moonfang returns on solid ground, it is nearly midday already.

Naera climbs down from the majestic beast and rests her head against her neck, stroking the scales with the soft palm of her hands. ‘Thanks for the flight, my beloved,’ she whispers into Moonfang’s ears, before leaving her to the careful hands of the keepers.

She removes her leather gloves as she heads out of the caves, but she hears words of discord in the hallways of the pit and slows the pace of her steps. It’s difficult to recognize the voices, but the dispute is quite heated. Naera carefully steps forward and peeks behind the tall arch.

Young Prince Aegon is there, facing his younger brother with anger. The latter is rather calm, but every time he speaks, his scathing ripostes rob his elder of bits of his patience.

Aegon surrender to his rage and lands a first blow on his brother’s cheek, drawing blood from both his nose and mouth. Aemond could have effortlessly dodged that one, but he did not. Instead, he spits blood on the floor and venom to Aegon’s face.

And Aegon hits him again.

Naera steps out of the shadows and both brothers turn to her out of surprise.

“What is the meaning of this ? Aren’t you a bit old to fight like reckless little boys ?” she yells, surging between the two.

“This is none of your business Naera,” Aegon begins, eyes flushing with wrath. Now that she is closer, she can smell the rancid fragrance of wine in his breath. “Fuck off and return to your father.”

She is startled by the hostility his tone homes and his cruel lack of respect, but she does not wince, nor flinch. She leers at him and pours all her hatred and spite in her eyes for him to see.

“Don’t make a fool of yourself Aegon,’ she mutters. “No more than you already did. Go and get some sleep, cousin. You smell of embarrassment rotten grapes.”

Aegon rises his hand to strike her but Aemond stops his arm amidst its race. “No more, brother.”

“She had it coming,” Aegon spits. “She’s obnoxious.”

“And you’re pathetic,” she snaps back. “Sober up a little and find a way out of your disgrace. You are a wreckage.”

Naera steps away from the two of them, and spits last bits of her poison to her cousin. “Do not ever speak to me the way you did today, cousin. Or you’ll find yourself sorry for it.”

She does not know where such threatening words came from, but she utters them anyway. Unaware of the consequences they might have later, she ignores the way Aegon’s face twists with bitterness. Aemond steps back in his turn, and stares at his brother with lots of disdain.

They have nothing in common.

Aegon is thickset and lanky, with silver hair short and tousled, red circled eyes and wine stained lips. He has no poise when he speaks, nor dignity when he acts.

Aemond is calm, distant and tall, so tall he looks down on every one around. He is haughty and elegant, cold as ice and stealth as a shadow. He has little honour, Naera knows of it, but he keeps his depravity to himself.

He has secrets, but Aegon has none : he displays his weakness for the world to see, as if he tried to show how undeserving he was of that iron throne.

“You’re a freak !” Aegon snarls, voice cracking. “You are pretty cunt, but you’re a freak.”

Aemond grasps Naera’s arm and drags her out of that pointless battle. “Ignore him,” he mumbles as they hasten to the Red Keep. He walks so fast she is almost running to keep up with his speed. When bitter Aegon is long gone behind them, he drops his hand and steps aside.

“I apologize for his behaviour.”

Naera hears the curse of the second sons in his voice. How unfair it must have seemed to him to be born after that wreck of a man, doomed to watch him stand next in line for the Crown and having to suffer his every fits of rage.

But compassion vanishes from her mind the moment she returns to her senses and remembers it’s Aemond Targaryen next to her.

The One-Eye.

Every time she glances sideways at him, she sees a reminder of that abominable night in High Tide. She sees the little boy of ten agonize on his chair, hands clawing at the wood as the maester sewn his face back together, forever closing his eye.

She stares and sees her own failures — that night, she allowed her kin to tear down each other.

Standing next to him is enough to send a chill down her spine and his silence doesn’t help at all. He doesn’t even look at her. He walks, and walks, and walks so rapidly that she struggles to keep the pace.

“Are you hurt ?” she asks.

He doesn’t turn to answer. “I thought you cared little about that, since you never troubled yourself to ask before.”

His word cut through her plated leather, all the way to her heart. He remembers then. Of course he does, she thinks*, how can one forget the night where his flesh was maimed and forgive those who stood there and did nothing.* Although she was not the one holding the knife that night, she feels crippled by guilt.

Drops of blood drip on the tip of his chin and she cannot ignore them.

“Aemond, you’re bleeding.”

He runs his sleeve along his wounded face and smothers the crimson all over it. But he does not stop walking, and drops do not stop dripping.

“Aemond, please stop !” she insists, but he denies her every answer. Out of spite, annoyance or resentment maybe, but he ignores her all the same. Blood of the dragon boils in her veins and a second later, she seizes his arm without the single shadow of a doubt. When their skins collide, flashes of an eye rippling in the flames invade her brain.

He halts and she comes forward. Blood freely runs out of his nose and weeps over his face, but he cares little. He has known suffering greater than his brother’s punches. Knife cutting neat through his skin and slicing his eye in half, for instance.

“It’s nothing,” he mutters with his sullen and arrogant voice. “I’ll wash my face and the pain will flush down the drain.”

“It’s unwise. Your skin will bear the marks of your brother’s stupidity for days, it will hurt and bruise. People will ask questions. Come with me, I know a way.”

“I care very little about their questions, and very little about your kindness,” he jabs, stepping aside. “It’s too late for that.”

“It wasn’t me Aemond !” she cries in protest.

“What does it matter ?” he replies, staring right into her purple eyes. “You woke them up. You stood there. You attacked me. You watched.”

She reminisces of that bloody purple eyeball rolling in the palm of her hand and a searing pain takes over her chest. Do you like your gift ? two beacons murmured in the cover of the shadows, forever burdening her shoulders with culpability.

“I have never hit you,” she denies. “I have never attacked you.”

“And have never defended me as well.”

He uses his words to carve punishment into her skin. He blames her for everything, only because she is the only one standing there. Had it been Baela or Jace or even Luke in her place, he would’ve been equally as cruel and merciless. She understood his anger, but she refused to pay the price of an other man’s mistakes.

“I thought you took pride in your difference,” the silver haired princess declares, matching her contempt to his. “I thought you considered this a fair exchange. An eye for the largest dragon alive.”

He glares at her, eye burning in equal parts defiance and offense. He has grown into a fearsome warrior, but she is not scared of him. She has fought battles of her own and left the puny child behind.

“You shouldn’t blame me then, Aemond Targaryen. You should thank me,” she spits, displaying the finest insolence.

His hand trembles resisting the urge of grasping her pretty head by the hair and show her the cost of her brattiness. But he thinks of the mighty Hand of the King and dispels any violent wishes.

She is more fierce and daring that he expected her to be. When he followed her out of his mother’s quarters that night and found her tottering in the hallways with her face aghast, he never imagined her frail body harboured as much effrontery. He saved her from the ghosts of the Red Keep and thought of her as mad and fragile, when in truth, she is impudent and reckless.

“I’ll certainly find a way to show some gratitude,” the one-eyed prince sneers, smirk on his lips.

“I’ll gladly welcome it, cousin. But in the meantime, follow me to my mother’s. We’ll clean these nasty wounds.”

She turns heels and leaves only her back and prancing silver hair to his contemplation. Adrenaline dissolves into her blood and soon, she is regrets her impertinence. She ignores Aemond’s eye lingering on her lithe figure and stalks out this damned path once and for all.

In truth, she’s fleeing the consequences of her careless words more than anything else. She believes him wroth, on the verge of imploding. But when she turns and cast a glance at him, he is as composed as ever, pacing peacefully on her tail.

When she opens her solars’ doors, he enters without a word. He does not touch anything, nor look around to contemplate the refined decoration of the place. He is used to grandness and splendor and is lonely eye is no longer impressed by beauty.

They are alone in here, and although she dreads standing in the same room as him, she feels bad for his bloodied face. She points the wrought-iron chairs circling the table and he sits when she invites him to.

For a moment, she disappears in her mother’s chambers and returns with a clinking small chest. She puts it on the glass made table and unfolds the various trays of the coffer. Aemond watches silently as she reaches for clean cloth and a little flacon of green colored liquid. Her hands smell of fresh flowers, he guesses she has washed them before touching her mother’s instruments.

She pours some liquid onto the piece of linen, some water on the other one and the air fills with a strong odor of alcohol and herbs.

“I’m sorry, but this is going to sting a little,” she warns.

“It’s alright,” he answers, faintly nodding.

Her cold fingers hold the nape of his neck, slightly guiding his head upwards. He stares into her deep violet eyes, but she’s too focused to notice it. She gently presses the water imbibed compress against his skin, washing the blood out of it with great gentleness. Once it’s all cleared up, she throws the small piece of fabric on the table and touches his face with her delicate fingers again.

“Tell me when it hurts,” she commands, finger pads running along his cheek and nose.

“There,” he replies when she lines the bridge of his nose.

She dabs it bit more here and there, examining with a remarkable concentration. “It’s not broken,” she concludes.

“Good,” he answers, still distant and cold.

She grasps the other pack, loaded with the smelly mixture and pressed it against his lips. It stung as much as predicted and the prince winces a bit when the potion eats the blood of his wound.

Her fingers are caressing his lips with their healing touch, but it is not soothing, it is burning hot. Each stroke sets his chest ablaze, but he maintains the appearances. He remains cold and unruffled on the outside.

When she pulls away from him, the prince feels some relief and clears his throat, hoping this would ridden his desires of their fires. She slightly bends over the table and cleans the mess she made with his blood, and his eye lingers on the exquisite curves of her body.

He thinks of the girl that ran away from his mother’s chambers and scrambled in the hallways.

He thinks of the girl that stood there and watched when Lucerys Velaryon butchered his eye.

He thinks of the girl that fought his brother earlier in the pit and did not flinch.

He thinks of the girl his mother used to call a pagan, a mistake, a stain on the Crown’s honour.

But he when he glances at her now, he finds a stranger. He sees a completely different person and wonders what secrets and other knowledges that silver head harboured. He wants to understand here more and trace back to the source of her newfound bravery. She seemed so fearful just months before, and now she was a dragon made flesh.

Perhaps, she has always been a dragon.

He rises from his seat and puts a hand of her shoulder. She quivers to his touch.

“Thank you cousin,” he mutters before he stalks out of the room and leaves her to her exotic elixirs.

Old Aegon sits at his brother’s council and yet, he finds his chair empty of his presence once again. A queen all dressed in green occupies his seat in his place. Had it been Alicent Hightower the King of the Seven Kingdoms, Otto would still seat at her right side as her Hand.

But Viserys chose his younger brother over the old serpent.

All members sits around the table and begin to discuss matters of the state. Finances are brought to the table, than important weddings to come and some words about trade with the Free Cities.

But the Hand of the King assents it all without paying much attention. Sitting across the table, Otto Hightower, Master of Laws and leal servant of the crown, watches as life seeps out of the prince. He relishes in his growing weakness and while others blame it on the burdens of power, Otto knows very well what evil devours the man.

For he has called upon this punishment himself.

“There something important we must discuss,” Aegon begins. “Corlys Velaryon is gravely wounded and his brother Vaemond fears for his life. But it seems that the Seasnake’s brother has other concerns. He sends a request to us. He intends to claim Driftmark after the passing of his brother.”

Members let out a noise of shock when the news come to their ears. Alicent Hightower gathers her hands and intertwines her fingers before she speaks.

“Then we will hear his petition as well as others,” she announces. “Now excuse me, gentlemen, but I must prepare to welcome our guests.”

A storm of green sweeps from the table to the door, leaving the men alone with their records, reports and parchments.

She stands at the edge of a cliff and stares into the crushing waves below. She listens to the song they sing, bewitched by their dance. Her lilac eyes do not leave the sight of the mountainous sea and she thinks about nothing else.

She doesn’t think of her sick father. She does not think of her fanatic mother. She does not think of the one-eyed prince that haunts her steps. She does not think of her mount, waiting for her in the pit. She does not think of R’hllor, watching her every move. She does not think of herself, jaded and lonesome and driven to madness by night visions.

Only the sea.

But she’s robbed of her newfound peace by a voice in her back.

“How does it feel to stand at the ends of the world ?”

She knows this tone very well, it speaks for itself. Sharp and disembodied, soothing and terrifying. Naera does not turn to peek at the man, she need not to. The Red Man is back.

“I like silence and quietude,” she answers, eyes losing themselves in the immensity of the sea. “Don’t you ?”

He stands behind her and his voice winds up her hair, his hot breath crashes in the nape of her back. It sends a chill down her spine and suddenly, she feels like a child.

“Long time no see,” she adds. “I thought you had abandoned me.”

“Never,” the Red Man replies, voice echoing into nothingness. “Never have I.”

He rubs his burning hot hands on the bare skin of her shoulders, rolling his thumbs in circles. He pauses for a handful of long minutes and she doesn’t break the silence.

“And never will I.”

As he utters his words, he lets go of her frail body. He pushes her into the precipice, but she does not shudder. She does not fear death. The ground gives away under her feet, but she does not weep for he prematurely lost life. The sea welcomes her with its frozen waves and she embraces her end, but Naera never enters the deadening waters.

When she wakes up, it is morning already. Sun rays peek through the curtains of her bedchambers and bathe her face in a warm, comforting light. She hears noise coming from the main room and guesses that her parents are already up. Much to Naera’s chagrin, the three of them scarcely shared moments together these days. They avoided each other on purpose, eluding to battles no one had the courage to fight.

She puts on a silky robe over her nightshift and joins them at the table. Aegon is quiet, plate empty before him. She sits at her father’s side and keeps her eyes from his face — she does not want to suffer the sight of power hollowing his cheeks and carving wrinkles into his skin. She grabs his hand to greet him and he offers her a smile in return, but whenever his dark violet eyes land on her, she only feels coldness and absence.

“Good sleep, my love ?” he asks.

“Yes Father, thank you.”

Their conversations rarely went beyond this small-talk. He would ask her about her night on the morning, and her day in the evening. She would answer with her endearing eyes and healing smiles, and he would rise from his chair and stalk out of the room. They were going in circles. Since they he left Summerhall and agreed to become Hand of The King, they grew into strangers. Aegon didn’t understand his daughters needs and dreams, she didn’t understand his twisted sense of duty.

As predicted, Aegon leaves their solars and kisses his daughter’s forehead before he does. “Be careful today and greets your cousins for me. I’ll be with the King all day long. Perhaps I will see you tonight.”

“I will,” Naera answers, sipping on flaming hot tea. He pats her head once more and she watches as he retires.

Medea is too absorbed by her prayers, she forgets her daughter is here. Her golden eyes stare right into the fire, as she sings words of magic to the dancing flames, voice shrill and ululating. She holds her hands above the brasier and does not fear the burns — fire is a blessing to the disciples of R’hllor, not a punishment. “Welcome the flames Naera, and never fear the darkness ever again,” Medea always use to say, back when she was a child and frightened by the shapes emerging in the shadows of her room.

Naera leaves the room in her turn and the ladymaids come to fulfill their daily tasks. They pour a hot bath for her and scrape the sleep out of her limbs, they comb through her silver hair and braid it to her liking. They bring in a grey pearly gown, hem embroidered with red and black beads of the finest material. They circle her delicate neck with hexagonal chains and rubies, bringing out the whiteness of her hair and the red hue of her lips.

She leaves the room in time to meet her cousin and uncle in the courtyard. Heads turns at her in the hallways ; the ostentation of her garment surprises them all, they are used to riding attire and sober gowns. But today, she is dazzling.

Daemon stands near Rhaenyra, a young boy in his arms. Lucerys and Jace are here, as well as Joffrey and the little Aegon. The Black Princess welcomes her with a warm smile and an even warmer embrace. Motherhood looks wondrous on her.

“I would have wished for happier circumstances,” she begins, cupping Naera’s cheeks with her long fingers. “But you are happiness enough to me, little Naera. How is your father ? How is my uncle ?”

“Yes, how is my brother ?” Daemon inquires, leaning over to kiss her cheek as a greeting. “I have heard concerning rumors.”

“He is waiting for you in the King’s solars,” Naera simply announces. “I fear rumors might be true, dear uncle. My father is tired these days, power has drained the life out of him.”

Rhaenyra and her husband trade troubled glares. The latter clears her throat, dispelling uneasiness as she does.

“We shall meet my father and uncle at once then.”

Naera nods to agree. The silver haired princess and her similar husband leave with their newborn children to greet the King, but Jace and Lucerys do not follow. Joffrey is handled by a nurse, while the eldest turn at their cousin. Rhaena is there as well, as calm as she is beautiful and the striking image of her late mother. Only Baela is missing.

Jace surges forward, circling Naera’s figure with his strong arms. “How comely you’ve grown dear cousin ! We’ve missed you in Dragonstone.”

“Living here on your own must have been terrible,” Lucerys mutters, embracing her after his brother. “How did you manage to survive ?”

“Come on,” Rhaena intervenes. “She has Helaena and Daeron.”

Naera cannot bring herself to reveal what has happened and shatter Rhaena’s good hopes. She has frightened the first and the second is like a stranger to her. The silver-haired princess thinks of wounded lips and bruised bleeding nose, dispute with a brother and comfort with another. But she meets Lucerys’ dark blue eyes and it sends Aemond’s name away from her lips.

“Books are of great company as well and the library has plenty of them,” she laughs. Jace chuckles and rounds her shoulders with his arm as they walk. “Don’t worry Naera, we’re here now.”

The merry bunch weave the halls of the Red Keep and breathes life into it. The boys remember of their childhood between those walls, while the girls laughs at their jests. Their adventures lead them to the courtyard, where the princes used to train with Criston Cole and the regretted Harwin Strong. Jace recalls of heated fights aloud, but Lucerys doesn’t quite share his enthusiasm.

The Red Keep has dreadfully changed in their absence ; it is grim and bleak now, all splendour has abandoned Maegor’s Holdfast. As they approach, they hear the sound of clashing swords and muddy steps. The four of them emerge from the corridors and their spirits dampen when they catch sight of a silver-haired prince.

Ser Criston Cole wields his mace at the prince’s face, shatters his shield, forces him to dodge dangerous blows. Aemond dances around him, driving his instructor crazy. Jace watches with his mouth agape. The one-eyed has grown into an intimidating young man, taller than the rest of his siblings, with broad shoulders and slick silver hair draping them. The way his sword rolls and rotates between his fingers is terrifying. He drives his shiny blade at the guard’s neck and Cole yields, mace thudding at his feet.

“Well done my Prince,” the selfmade man congratulates, smile tinted with pride. “You’ll be winning tourneys in no time.”

Aemond moves his sword away, smirk stretching his thin lips.

“I don’t give a shit about tourneys.”

Lucerys hides behind Jace’s height and shudders. The prince’s lonely eye sweeps across the field and lands on the bunch of kids. He meets lilac eyes and his grin enlarges.

“Nephews,” he sneers. “Come to train ?”

Sweat is still thick on his forehead when he triumphs over Criston Cole. Aemond relishes on his master’s praises, but the sight of his pretty cousin next to the one that butchered his eye tarnish his joy. She lifts the ends of her skirts to save the precious fabrics of her dress from the mud, like a princess in distress and Aemond only dreams of stealing her away.

Jace stands before them all and he sees Rhaena’s hand seeking refuge in hers. They all fear me, he thinks. And suddenly, they are in High Tide again. Four against one. They stand as one and he is alone, but this time he is prepared.

He will come for Lucerys’ eye in time as well.

Under the grey skies of the Capital, the Red Keep looks more maroon that crimson. The gardens are gloomy, bushes loaded with dew and paths muddy under their feet. Daemon walks alongside his brother and curses the Gods for claiming his eldest and cadet at the same time. Aegon’s steps are faltering, weak and trembling. But he refuses any cane or help. He blames his feebleness on the poor weather, but his words betray the anguish wrapping around his heart.

“Our brother’s agony reaches its limits,” he confesses, sparing no unspeakable truth. Daemon and Aegon have always been very honest with one another, sugarcoating is not one of their habits. “I know he will succumb sooner or later and when he does, I’m afraid of what might follow.”

Daemon walks with his eyes lowered on his feet, head tilted downwards and hands joining in his back.

“War, you mean,” Daemon says, voice raspy and sullen.

“My influence here is very limited. I am the Hand, but the Greens are the fingers, the arm, the body. They control everything. They feed Viserys with the milk of the poppy until he sleeps the day away and he is not king of anything now. I am not Hand of anything as well. I am but the seal on the letters, the assent on the treaties. None of us is ruling the kingdom, they are Daemon.”

“And Viserys’ death will not stop them you think ? Rhaenyra is heir, Aegon is not. Alicent cannot rule after his passing, according to law.”

“Nothing will. They are not planning on leaving our brother’s seat anytime soon,” Aegon sighs. “Ready yourself Daemon. I’ve heard rumors.They plot on our backs to put young Aegon on the throne, I am sure of it. They will disown Rhaenyra.”

“We must act before they do then. Strike first, brother,” the Rogue Prince mutters, fist hitting the palm of his hand as he speaks.

“Their roots dig too deep here in the Capital as well as in the South.”

“We shall rally allies to our cause then. Corner them in their den,” Daemon suggests. “We will send envoys in the North, the Eyries, the Riverlands. Every place we can reach.”

“It would be wiser to wait until it’s done. Intimidation will not work, we cannot risk a Civil War. We must wait until they start one,” Aegon insinuates, hands scratching his rough beard. “In the meantime, there are other things I must discuss with you.”

The Hand halts and turns to his brother. Although he is the youngest son of Prince Baelon, Aegon Targaryen looks older than all his siblings. His grey hair is loosely braided at the back of his head, his eyes a darker shade of purple and his face more wrinkled than Daemon’s. He has narrow eyes and a grey beard running along his jaw and chin.

Daemon does not recognize his brother when he looks at him.

“I’m all ears,” he responds.

“Daemon,” Aegon painfully starts, looking away. “If any harm comes to me…”

“None will ever come for you,” Daemon interrupts.

“But if it does brother, I need your oath. I can’t find sleep at night these days, I toss and turn in my bed at the idea of leaving Naera and her mother undefended. The Queen despises them both and I fear for their lives everyday of mine. Swear to me Daemon.”

The latter stares into the eyes of his younger brother, diving into their purple sea for hints betraying his weakness, searching for knowledge he keeps to himself. But the prince only finds fear and despair in the Hand’s look.

“Swear, Daemon,” Aegon insists, glare more intense than never and hands pressing over his leather doublet, right on his heart. “Swear to me that you will treat Naera like your own daughter. That you will keep Medea safe.”

Daemon Targaryen offers his hand to seal the deal.

“I swear it Aegon,” he solemnly declares, grasping his kin’s feeble fingers. “I swear I will protect them both. Anyone who harm them will pay the price with fire and blood.”

“Fire and blood,” Aegon echoes, glancing vacantly at the vastness of the gardens. “Why does it always comes down to fire and blood ?”

Daemon draws his brother closer, smile decorating his lips.

“Because that’s all we know,” he whispers into his ears. “Because that’s what we are made of.”

Jace and Lucerys have abandoned the girls to join their mother in her quarters, but on the other hand, Baela has joined the two of them. They drank tea all afternoon, fleeing the rain outside and spoke of everything they have missed in each other’s life. The Princess Rhaenys later came along, dispatching kind smiles and good advice to the girls. But Naera felt like an intrude amidst their reunion. Rhaenys had not seen Rhaena in years and although the twins adored her, the silver-haired princess choose to leave them.

After a ton of heartwarming hugs, Naera hauls out of the comfortable quarters and heads to her parents’ solars. She yearns for their protection, thick walls keeping undesirables away.

In the solitude of the hallways, she thinks about Prince Aemond. How fast her heart has throbbed in her chest when Cole’s mace skimmed at his face, winding up his silver hair. How her cheeks flushed from pink to red when he laid his lone eye on her, fixing his gaze on her dress and face. He must have witnessed the effects of his presence. Perhaps he has enjoyed them all, she thinks.

Every time he was around, her chest was uncontrollable. Her heart raced unreasonably, pounding loud in her ears. She dreaded him, more than she dreaded death. Every time his elongated fingers came for her skin, she only prayed for salvation, for a way out of his deceitful traps. He feasted on her disarray, devouring her whole with his lonely, threatening, violet eye.

More than once, he has stared right into her soul and robbed her of any courage.

Yet, she has been closer to him before, healing the wounded scales of his dragon skin with gentle touches and stingy presses. But even then, she dreaded his eye. Standing next to the beast made her soul scream inside its prison of flesh. Run, it cried, run, run, run. No God of Flames, no father, no uncle, no dragon could protect her from Aemond the One-Eye. He was ruthless and revengeful, carved into the same matter as the shadows.

Once again, she remembers hearing his voice behind the closed doors of the burning tower, the Red Man standing behind her as she watched the flames devour the soul of her enemies. “If I opened this door, would you recognize anyone ?” he once asked, and Aemond’s face came first to her mind. Eye gleaming in the darkness of her thoughts, round as the moon, bright as the sun. A permanent reminder of her weaknesses.

“Rubies look wondrous on you.”

She halts in the middle the hall, heart suspended in time.

Pale hands reach for the gems rounding her neck and she holds her breath, ogling the fingers running on her skin. Aemond stands before her and her soul abandons her body.

“A true Targaryen in red, silver and black. Truly ravishing,” he adds, finger pads lingering on her collarbones and ringing the metal chains around her neck. She raises her eyes and finds a violet gaze, deep and devoted. “You are our house’s dearest delight, sweet cousin. I understand now why you are the apple of your father’s eye. He knows very well.”

“And what does he know, my Prince ? Enlighten me,” she snaps back, wielding her insolence as a shield against his cruel torments. He removes his daring fingers and grins. “He knows what us men think when you are near by, what we want to do to your beauty.”

She looks away, flustered and rebuked when she hears his scandalous insinuations. But he continues, stepping closer. “They all eye at you. Aegon, Jace. Other boys, squires and knights alike, servants and lords. They see those silky hair and that pretty face of yours and they want to ruin their father’s name for you.”

“And you think I would ruin mine ?”

He laughs, hot breath smelling of pride fanning over her lips. He leans forward, nose grazing at hers. His untamed fingers run around her cheeks and draw the line of her jaw. She has stopped breathing again. Run, her reason begs her, run as far as you can. Strong fingers claw the roundness of her cheeks and capture her whole being. Eye stares into her purple gaze and wipes out slight chances of escape. “Wouldn’t you ?”

“Let me go,” she commands, leering at that pointy nose and contemptuous eye. But the dubious prince has no intention of doing so, in the contrary, he enjoys seeing her cornered and distraught.

“I could ruin you,” Aemond murmurs, half-addressing the darkness of his thoughts. “Like you’ve ruined me all those years ago. This would make a fine punishment for your nosiness.”

“Take your revenge now and be done with it,” she spits, eyes ignited by fury.

“No,” the one-eyed prince gushes, delighting in her impassioned expression. His fingers release their tight grip over her face and returnto the rubies showering her graceful neck. Her breath is short, sporadic, faltering. She wants to grab his fingers and break them one and by one.

A cold kiss lands on her cheek and she feels the urge to wipe it away. He withdraws from his prey, a self-satisfied smile sitting on his face. “See you tomorrow, dear cousin.”

Aemond vanishes in the distance, his leather coat flying behind him like a dragon’s tail. Once he is completely gone, she sighs in relief and her lungs grasp air again. Her cheeks still bear red marks of his grip, neck stained with red as well, wherever he preyed on her skin minutes prior.

She thinks about his words and the air becomes unbreathable again.

They see those silky hair and that pretty face of yours and they want to ruin their father’s name for you.

Naera Targaryen never thought of herself as a menace, as an object of desire, as a price to be won. In truth, she often forgot that there was a world outside of her dreams, that people had eyes to observe her. Cryptic visions busied her days and her nights, crippling her social life while girls her age lounged about in the gardens or the boudoirs. Prophetic horrors yet to be deciphered robbed her of an innocent childhood, yet she doesn’t feel like a woman grown. She feels like a child, discovering the world with each steps walked.

When she catches glimpse of her frail body in the mirror, she sees a lonely child trapped in a girl’s envelope.

She sees a princess capable of premonition, but uncertain about her own future.

She sees a weak human being disguised as a dragon.

All she sees are cruel ironies and macabre presages.

Aemond Targeryen thinks about her and sees a ravishing young princess, awakening his most primal appetites. He sees desperate calls in the shape of rosy lips, silent wishes pouring from her eyes. She is holy, yet her whole body in an invitation to sin, curves dragging him down into the Seven Hells. Traits carved into marble by a God of Fire plague his life with greed, haunt his steps, doom his soul. Memories of mending fingers erasing wounds out of his face sets his soul ablaze.

He spoke about spoiling her, defiling her, ruining her father’s name. But she is too precious, too treasured to be sullied.

Tormenting her is a distraction, conquering her is a folly he is yet not ready to attempt. Aegon shuts his eyes while Medea prays her demons, his mother has said many times*. Their daughter is a pagan, whose soul is promised to the Seven Hells.*

He wonders what pious Alicent Hightower would say if her son confessed his most private desires, confessed his hunger for a dragon-like maiden, whose psyche he could not quite understand. Would she scold him ? Would she disavow him ? Would she blinds herself to his sins like she did with his brother Aegon, like she did all those years ? Would she despise him if he admitted coveting a pagan princess ? Questions he would only find answers to if he gave in to temptation.

He wants to venture in the dragon’s lair and see what secrets lurk in its shadows.

He wants to claim Naera Targaryen like he has claimed Vhagar before her.

But he must be patient and clever in his hunt, dragons are not creatures easily swayed.

Chapter Text

Night after night, she keeps dreaming about a boy falling from the sky, but does not understand the meaning of this strange vision.

Day after day, Aegon distances himself from his wife and child. He spends endless hours in his office late at night and returns to his solars when everyone is asleep. He keeps his frailty to himself, makes a secret of his weaknesses and walks the halls of the Red Keep like he is a dragon in its full might. He doesn’t give satisfaction to any of his retractors.

But Otto Hightower knows.

The graceless Otto haunts his every steps, comforts him with words, soothes his mind, tries to lower his guard. But Aegon is no fool. He knows of Otto’s disgrace, of his depravity, of his appetite for power and influence.

Aegon holds on for the sake of his agonizing brother, but he is just a shadow now. A spectre in Maegor’s Holdfast, walking among countless others.

Naera notices her father’s pain, she feels it in her bones whenever he is near. He speaks empty words of kindness, with eyes empty of any gleam, with limbs empty of any strength. He is no man of power, he is a slave of his own functions. A slave of that cursed crown, of that cursed dungeon, of that cursed dynasty.

Medea keeps her eyes away from all of this. She prays to R’hllor for a quick return to Summerhall, but Naera knows her mother is delusional. She has always been.

Faith blinds her the same way it blinds Alicent Hightower. She blames the shadows for her sorrows and thanks the flames for her joys. She married a dragon made a man, because the warmth of his skin and the flames in his lilac eyes were hotter than the temple’s brasiers. She devoted herself to that third son of a dead prince, thinking of him as the closest thing to holiness that has ever walked this earth. In his young days, Aegon was nothing but fire and Medea adored this about him.

But now, Aegon was made of cold ashes. He doesn’t ride his dragon anymore, nor carries his sword around — it is too heavy and he is afraid he cannot wield it.

To stave off boredom, Naera spends her afternoons with Helaena Targaryen, the little princess.

They sit on the grass of the gardens for hours while her children are with the nurses. They talk about everything and nothing — it does not matter what they say, it only matters to elude the idea that this place in a prison without bars.

They are princesses and their lives are sweet, they eat juicy fruits from the basket and drink honeyed wine until dark. Helaena returns to her children before supper and Naera returns to her books. Helaena has a mother there, a husband, brothers, ladymaids to talk to. But Naera only has Helaena to go to. Her father is more absent with each days passed and her mother is a servant of her faith, fervent and devoted. She knows only of her god these days, and cares little about profane matters.

Although they speak of everything, Naera doesn’t tell her about Aemond and his bruised face.

She purposely skirts around the question and never bring his name to her lips. He seemed quite docile and composed when she attended to his wounds, but deep inside, she knew of his resentment. “I care very little about their questions, and very little about your kindness,” he had said, cutting her good faith into pieces with the sharpness of his words. A kind gesture could not erase her past mistakes. Her life would forever bear the mark of guilt, and his skin, the scar of his missing eye.

But one day, Helaena tackles another delicate matter and Naera is completely caught off guard.

“Who is the Red Man ?” Helaena asks, eyes vacant of any sentiment.

“What ?” Naera exclaims, in pure disbelief. But the princess lands her faded glare on her and questions her soul. “Where did you hear that name ?”

Helaena is a dreamer as well, always mumbling riddles and strange rhymes. Words of madness hanged to her lips and weaved the fate of the world around her. People cared little about her cryptic propheties and erratic murmurs, but when she mentions the man that haunts her dreams, Naera is petrified. She shudders at the idea that someone else knows about him — it makes him terribly real, thus excluding madness as a possibility.

If the Red Man is real, it means that every thing is. It assents every think she has always rebuked. It makes her a dragon dreamer. A seer, a mouthpiece, a witness of events to come.

To be asked about the him feels like an intrusion. Helaena has gone through her skin and bones, explored her core and dug out the truths her soul terribly kept away from the light.

“In the Sept,” Helaena replies. “Walls whisper his name.”

Naera’s eyes widen in stupefaction. Words from her mother haunt her mind. “The Seven are a farce, Naera, false idols that hide the truth of our savior. They will try to deceive you, but fire burns in your heart and keeps you alive. You are a child of the flames, you are born of R’hllor and to R’hllor you will always belong.” She thinks of the statues, uttering the Red Man’s true name in the dimness of their temple. She thinks of Helaena, praying at their feet and witnessing their lament. She thinks of this mystic madness and it makes her dazed and dizzy.

Helaena’s insisting eyes harbour no answers, only questions.

“Who is he Naera ?”

“I don’t know Helaena !” Naera bursts out, holding back tears of anguish and distress. “I don’t know what you are talking about !”

Helaena rears back, startled and fearful. Her trance has vanished and now, she looks like the frightened little girl she has always been. A princess made of porcelain and straw, decked out in lavish garments and jewels that shadowed her beauty. She was too innocent, too fragile for this world and yet, Gods did not spare her from its cruelty. She married the mediocre young Aegon, birthed his three children in terrible suffering, with no affection or gratitude received in return of her services.

“I’m sorry,” the poor princess stammers, already scrambling to get on her feet. “I didn’t mean any offense.”

She leaves the gardens in a hurry, probably mortified and ashamed, and does not look back at Naera. The latter rises in her turn when the shock of the conversation has passed and leaves these glorious gardens, too noisy to her taste.

And from that day onwards, Helaena abandoned Naera to her shadows and red men.

Now that she is walks alone, she seeks refuge in the Godswood. The place is a deserted island amidst the castle. Rare are souls that come under the tree looking for peace of mind and contemplation. Rumors spread of the Queen’s desires to cut the crying tree, but until then, the weirwood survived her relentless crusade against anything that is not seven-pointed.

Naera sat under the scarlet leaves for hours, devouring books in the serenity of the place. No one came to bother her, not even the prying eyes of the Queen’s spies. The sacred tree welcomed her, relieved her heart from their burdens, tamed her wild thoughts. Silence quickly turned into an addiction.

In here, everything was quiet.

She dreaded the night, for it meant she would have to return to her miserable life. It meant that she would have to leave this sanctuary of hers and face her mother’s confusion, her father’s absence and the depths of her own conscience. She longed for freedom more than anyone else. The halls of the Red Keep emprisoned her, but every time she soared with Moonfang among the stars, she didn’t return to solid ground for the beauty of her home, but for the love of her parents.

They kept her in here. The Red Keep was her cell and her parents were the guards.

The Godswood was escape enough to her for now.

One day, she falls under the tree and does not notices the sun setting, the day turning into night. She lies between two roots on the grass, book casted aside her legs in the process.

Sleep claims her whole and she dreams of a vast lake.

Calm waters gleam under the setting sun. There is not a sound to be heard, the place is strangely quiet. She walks barefoot on the grass and the gravels, exploring the surroundings with adventurous eyes. She has never been here before, but when she catches sight of a lonely island amidst the tranquil waters, she presumes this must be the God’s Eye.

There is not a bird flying in the sky, not a fish swimming in the lake, not a soul living except hers.

Not even a sign of the Red Man, leal fellow traveller in this world of dreams.

She roams around this inland sea, feet dipping in its fresh waters. It’s dusk, but the sun never sets. Time refuses to follow its usual course.

The eerie place is suspended in time and she does not understand why. She walks for hours and the sun does not flinch, nor fall, nor fade. This lake is in a constant crepuscule, trees and waters always tinted of gold and maroon.

Strange shapes emerge from the depths of the lake, hills of scales and horns. But these are not mountains, she thinks, these are dragons. She runs to them and only finds death and desolation. The red creature misses an head and the bigger one has a saddle on its back, but no rider on top of it.

Giants lie in the gleaming waters and this lake is their tomb, their cemetery.

“What is this place ?” she wonders aloud. “What happened here ?”

Echo returns her questions to herself. Wind rustles the leaves of the trees nearby and she interpret this as a sign to follow. She jumps into the darkness of the forest, eyes slowly adapting to the dim luminosity. When they do, she sees limbs sticking out behind a large tree. Where the silhouette lies, the grass is brown and soil smells of vengeance and steel. Blood.

She goes further into the depths of the eerie forest, drawn by this rotting corpse among the trees.

But she never reaches them.

Prince Aemond has attended to all his lessons, honoured his every duties for the day. His mother has summoned him into his solars, to discuss private matters.

His muscles are sore from all the training and the punishing hands of his master of arms have bruised his skin, reopened old wounds. When he enters his mother’s solars after their seance, she runs to him and quenches the blood dripping from his wound with an handkerchief.

They sit together and Alicent continues to stroke his face, her touch comforting and soothing in the same time. She speaks of Velaryons tearing each other apart, of a rogue brother claiming a throne he has no claim on and wonders if Alicent Hightower would refuse him the throne one day. If she would put Aegon’s son instead of him. If she deems him so unworthy of the crown, like she does with Vaemond Velaryon right now.

The problems of other second sons do not interest him. Aemond barely listens to his mother.

He is distracted by her hands brushing over his face. They remind him of somebody else’s, attending to his wounds and slowly walking a path to forgiveness. Hands so pale they are kissed by the moon, running at the surface of his skin to spread their miracles. He finds himself wonderings what other things her magical touch is capable of, what other gifts the Gods have blessed her with and his chest thrills with the idea of such discoveries.

He remembers lilac eyes shaped like almonds and silver hair, unbound and free. He remembers the scent of foreign medicines filling up his nose and the faint sting of alcohol seeping through his wounds. He remembers the roundness of her impudent lips, and the urge he has felt to bite into their tender flesh.

Alicent pulls back and the absence of her touch brings him back to reality.

“Of course, Rhaenyra Targaryen will come and petition for her son. She arrives in a week, along with your uncle Daemon. Her sons will follow as well,” she begins, staring into her son’s eye. “Lucerys Velaryon will come to defend his claim, Aemond.”

Lucerys Velaryon.

The boy that robbed my eye.

Aemond hears the boy’s name and sweet reveries turn into vivid anger. Alicent’s sorry eyes beg for peace and he is so eager to please his mother, that he muffles the battle cries of his own rage. His long-gone eye demands for revenge, his hands are hungry for blood, but the queen condemns revenge. Once, she had claimed Lucerys’ eye in return of his, but her wroth had vanished over the years. If he gifted her in eyes now, she would weep in despair, not shed tears of joy. She has forsaken every desire of vengeance.

“I will behave Mother,” he simply replies, rising from the comfort of the cushioned chair.

She agrees to his promise and kisses him goodnight. Aemond stalks out of the room, heart wrapped his the poisonous clouds of hatred. He paces up and down the castle’s halls to tame his demons.

Something seems to call his name in the dark, like whispers of his name in the wind. The gusts come from the Godswood and roar when they passed through the tall arches of the Red Keep. He follows their trail to the sanctuary. Perhaps the Old Gods would ease his hard feelings, quench the flames that consumed his heart.

When he steps in the sacred place, it is pitch-dark. No one dares to light torches in the sanctuary, Gods do not like to be bothered while they rest. The moon bathes the woods in silver and the breeze rustles in the leaves.

A frail silhouette is lying under the tree, pages of an orphan book twitching in the wind. She is motionless and tranquil, only a few strands of her rebellious hair weave in the air, like serpents carved into the finest silver. Her face gleams under the moonlight, as if it was carved into white marbles and he swears she is not from the same kind as him.

He kneels at her side. His faltering, yet reckless hand, ventures in her hair to tame their wildness. He tucks them behind her ears, but she does not bat an eye. His lonesome eye lingers on the salient line of her collarbones and the curves of her cleavage, wondering where she found the daring to become such a beauty. In days gone by, she was a fearsome and sickly child, but like a serpent she has shed her skin. Days before, she had shielded him from his brother’s cruelty — and a decade ago, she watched while Lucerys Velaryon maimed his flesh.

His fingers rub her silky skin, running along the base of her neck.

She feels his hot touch and startles, purple eyes opening wide as she is pulled out of a dreams.

“Aemond ?” she rasps, rising from her bed of white bark roots and grass.

“You fell asleep,” he mumbles, escaping her accusing glare as he looks away.

She sits on her makeshift mattress, silver hair draping her shoulders like a cape and gathers her knees against her chest.

“What are you doing here ?” she inquires, voice low enough to preserve the Gods’ tranquility.

“Same as you dear cousin, I went out for a walk.”

Naera doesn’t quite buy his pitiful excuses, but he does not allow her to question his motivations for too long. The one-eye prince closes the book she was reading some hours prior and gets on his feet. He keeps it under his arm and offers a helping hand to his bewildered cousin.

When her fingers intertwine with his, his draws her to his height and resists the terrible temptation of drawing her even closer. He does not know what soothes his ardours the most, the holy sanctuary or her presence.

As soon as she’s on her feet, she rears back and brushes the creases out of her lavish grey gown. Bits of dried grass still hang to her tangled hair and Aemond surrenders to allurement. His hand comes to pick up the unwanted twigs out of her hair and she watches in complete stillness as he does so. Her hair is soft to the touch, silken and strong. But her body is tense and nervous, her breath is short and panting. She is scared of me, he thinks. I desire her, and she dreads me.

“Come,” he commands, grasping her arm as he ignores the cruel truth. “Let me bring you back to your mother.”

She wants to protest, but he strips her of that privilege when he drags her out of the sacred woods. She does not say a word as they weave through the halls on their way to her parents’ solars. There is something troubling about her silence. He remembers her ferocity the other day and wonders where her effrontery has gone. Is she more scared of him than she is of Aegon, or does she fear he might take one of her eyes instead of Lucerys’ ? He uses her fear as a shield against her charms and dismisses his unrequited desires.

When they stop before her door, his hand tightens its grip around the book. He knows she is going to battle for it, and he wants a little challenge before he leaves her to the peace of her chambers.

As predicted, her delicate fingers come for the precious volume. It is leathery and heavy, with letters of gold engraved on its cover. He flips it and reads the high valyrian title out loud.

“Songs of fire and blood, the Doom of Valyria of Old”

She presses her fingers against his, attempting to release their hold over the book but to no avail. Her pretty face frowns and he smirk comes to his lips.

“I’ll return it to you soon enough,” Aemond whispers to protect the secrecy of their encounter. “This title is very promising.”

“It’s mine !” she protests, lowering her voice as well.

“I thought that your God was a god of kindness,” he sneers. “Lend it to me and be a good girl.”

When R’hllor’s name escapes his mocking mouth, a bolt of fury crosses her violet eyes. But Aemond ignores her frustration and leans forward, his breath mixing with hers as they forehead nearly collide.

“Sleep tight pretty cousin, and find another book to keep you company tomorrow. But if the library has nothing interesting enough to offer, you know where to find me.”

He pulls back, book locked under his arm still, and leaves Naera alone with her anger. She storms inside of her apartments and he relishes on her little pout when she does so. The door closes on her frail back and he weaves in the dark halls of the Red Keep all over again, easily finding the way back to his own bedchambers.

It is morning already, but Naera doesn’t have the will to escape rest. She is trapped in her soft covers. Sheets stick to her skin and stop her from getting out of the featherbed.

She has lied awake nearly all night long.

Images of cursed princes and forbidden touches kept the visions from coming. She has only dreamt of that damned eye, leering at her, lurking in the shadows of her room, waiting for the perfect moment to take her down.

She is obsessed by the coldness of his lips on her cheeks, half-rebuked, half-fascinated. She remembers his fingers dancing on her skin like it is their home already, free of any bounds, free of any laws. The way they have claimed their milky surface without a warning.

Naera’s rage burns bright, anger mixed with blood of the dragon pulsing through her veins. She tosses and turns and with every move, every breath, every thought she curses him a bit more.

Yet she has her own guilt to dealt with. She has fought him with words, but never with actions. She has never spurned his advances, nor removed his wandering hands when they ran along the lines of her shoulders and neck. She thinks about her absence of reaction, her silent consent to it all and she enrages even more. Pathetic, she scourges herself, finding her own weakness regrettable.

Yet she cannot fight him, not this way. Every time his his touch comes to her, she is too eager to feel it, to see how far he is capable to go just to punish her. Every time he comes close, she smells the dragon in his hair and faint wine in his breath. She tosses and turns, only this time she is ashamed of her own pleasures.

The hour is late and Aegon wonders why his daughter is still asleep. He knocks on her door, but thinking it was the ladymaids, she does not answer. Her father’s patience runs thin and he enters without permission.

“Naera ?” he asks, voice stern. “Are you up yet ?”

She crawls in her large featherbed, groaning.

“Get up !’” Aegon snaps, removing the sheets. “We cannot be late.”

Naera opens her eyes and faces her father, already dressed in his formal attire. He wears a black leather doublet and burgundy sleeves, buckles of his garment made of the shiniest silver. Medea stands in the frame as well, hands lingering on the wooden arch. “Come on,” she commands, sharp in her maternal tongue.

The poor daughter abandons the softness of her bedding and greets them both with a kiss. Medea also wears a red and black attire, both her colours and her husband’s. There is something uncanny about her beauty — her golden eyes are too shiny to be real, her face is triangular and her nose pointy. She is hauntingly beautiful, fashioned after foreign idols and distant gods. Raven ringlets flowed over her shoulders and her neck bore rubies, jets and obsidians. Naera glances at her mother and sees the Red Man dressed in the flesh of the woman. Medea is a Red Priestess, sacred and bewitching. Mouthpiece of a God of Flames and Light and Shadows, that haunts her daughter’s dreams and overburden her with dreadful omens.

“We have brought you a gift,” Medea resumes.

A maid enters the room, arms loaded with a large box. She drops it on the covers and Naera stares into it, wondering if she is allowed to tear the package open. Aegon nods and her small hands come for the paper.

A red fabric lies in the box, velvety and creased.

“The greatest tailors of the city have been working on this one day and night for a few days now,” Aegon explains. “It is made of the finest silk of all Essos.”

“And we have this as well,” Medea adds, putting a smaller box before her eyes.

“It’s too much,” Naera stammers, smile riveted on her rosy lips. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

Aegon reaches for her hand and holds it firmly, rubbing his finger pads along her warm skin. “You deserve it. I have put you through hardships many times that I care to count. I’ve missed your smile Naera. Plus, you are a Princess of the Seven Kingdoms. You should dress a bit more like one some days.”

She nods as a promise and opens the little box. A satin cushion holds a necklace of the highest refinement. Rows of rubies fall from the center like sun rays, and flowers of silver and clear gems unfold their white gold petals to reveal their obsidian hearts.

She embraces both of her parents in her arms, showering their cheeks with grateful kisses.

“Get ready now, as I have said, we cannot be late,” Aegon says.

Medea and her Lord Hand husband leave the room, and five maids replace them. They perform their art at an unreasonable rhythm. One washes her skin while the other styles her hair. One dresses her and the other pinches her cheeks. One pours hot tea in a cup for her and the other places the jewels around her neck. Less than half an hour later, she stands in the main room before her parents’ eyes and Aegon barely has the words to praise his daughter.

Medea grabs her hand and kisses it tenderly. It is the way of mothers to express unconditionnal love without a single word. The Red Priestess is silent, yet Naera feels her warm affection unravel and wrap around her heart. She feels safe between them. Aegon is dignified and strong, Medea is captivating and caring. Both her father and mother were made of fire and blood, birthed by the flames and blessed by the light.

“Little rascal,” Aegon murmurs, eyes and smile both glinting in pride. “You have your mother’s charms.”

The Throne Room is crowded with several factions. All chat and trade heated opinions. They speculate on the outcome of this masquerade, tongues soiled with vile rumors and ominous conjectures. Rare are the lords and dignitaries present to defend both claims — many came for the beauty of the spectacle only.

Vaemond stands alone on his side of the room, few were the supports that travelled from Driftmark alongside the second son.

The Princess Rhaenys Velaryon keeps her granddaughter Baela closely to her side. Although it is her house’s future that is to be discussed here, she remains quiet and patient, hands joined and face unexpressive.

Rhaenyra Targaryen has gathered her eldest sons at her side. Jace and Joffrey are quite overshadowed by their brother Lucerys. The silver-haired princess keeps her hands on his shoulders. He stands before her with a curious expression on his face, a mix of apprehension and shame. It is the legitimacy of his birth that is loudly put to question here, not the simple succession of Driftmark. Vaemond’s petition, if it was to be assented, would ruin both the reputations of Lucerys Velaryon and his mother. The stain of her sins would never leave them, nor allow Jacaerys to one day sit the Iron Throne.

Daemon is at his wife’s side, silent yet not quite serious. His stance is relaxed, his face grinning. His eyes, violet and punishing, dare anyone in the room to question the legitimacy of his stepsons.

The Queen Alicent also presides the audience, alongside her four children. She is dressed in the darkest shade of green, seven pointed pendants decorating her lavish attire.

In the absence of the King Viserys, it is not Alicent Hightower that sits the throne, but Aegon Targaryen, Hand of the King and Protector of the Realm.

Seated of his namesake’s throne, Aegon looks like a conqueror himself. Although he has always dreaded and rejected power, it suited him more than any man. Aegon gathers rare virtues. He is an honourable and cunning man, gifted with a sharp mind and a great sense of justice. Under his rule, the Seven Kingdoms have become a slightly better place.

But now, he must accuse his niece of adultery and the thought of it brings disgust to his mouth. He introduces both parties and the matter, voice unmarked by judgement or partiality.

His speech is too long and too boring to Aemond’s taste. In fact, he takes little interest in the succession of a gloomy island amidst the Narrow Sea. He cares little about Lucerys Velaryon’s honour. The boy is a bastard, he thinks, and his mother a whore.

Aemond Targaryen resents the boy. He has taken his eye, maimed his flesh, scarred his face forever and yet he runs free. He stands here and claims his throne made of twigs and shells, with the support of his kin. Except for his mother Alicent, no one had defended him when Lucerys Velaryon claimed his eye, nearly a decade ago. No one sought justice. No one brought punishment, nor satisfaction to him. And now, all this hatred consumes the one-eyed prince. Go and kill him, his darkest thoughts suggest, take his eye now.

An eye for an eye.

But Aemond cannot allow his urges to dictate his actions. Days ago, he has promised his mother to behave and he intends to honour his oath.

He must find a way out of this resentment, a distraction for his eye and mind. He sweeps across the room and finds his salvation dressed in crimson, showered with sanguine gems and silver hair.

The tall doors of the Throne Room open to reveal a crookbacked, lame king. He wears a mask of gold to hide his disgrace and the crown on his head shakes with every step. Aemond looks at him and sees no king, nor father. He sees a deadman, with bones poking through necrotized flesh and sheer skin. He looks away from it and denies the truth of it all — deep inside, Aemond Targaryen is still a boy, battling for the attention of a father that is already gone.

The Hand rises from the throne and rushes to help his royal brother. Daemon joins as well. Viserys dismisses them both, but when Jaehaerys’ golden crown rings loudly against the floor, he welcomes his brothers’ help with an open heart.

Viserys sits on his throne, made of thousand blades melted by dragon fire and the room holds its breath. No one dares to speak or utter a word. Aegon and Daemon step down, joining their family’s side and the dying King expresses his confusion.

Aemond’s attention eludes again the unending speeches and his eye finds its way back to Naera Targaryen. Her garment is quite exotic for the Court— it circles her breast with large red pieces of fabric, embroiders resembling a dragon’s ribcage underlining her small waist. Long hemstitched sleeves shower her arms in scarlet while a squared collar reveals her appealing shoulders.

A glorious pendant of rubies and obsidians rounds her pale neck and Aemond fights the tremendous urge of tearing it all down. He wonders how long his little game is going to last. How long she would endure his little torments. How long would he suffer the sight of her spellbinding beauty.

But he is not the only one to stare at her.

When he glances around him, he sees Aegon and Daeron’s eyes on her, as well as Jace’s. The thought of them prying on her amuses him. Had they ever felt the electrifying touch of her fingers of their faces ? Had they ever ran their own on the silkiness of her skin ? Had they ever wandered so close to her lips and kissed the softness of her cheeks ? Probably not. They all dreamt of her favors, but none ever dared to do what Aemond had done. All feasted on her looks, but none has tried the luscious taste of her skin.

Aemond returns to the audience when Vaemond Velaryon gets out of breath with angry insults. He curses the Black Princess and unspeakable words come to his demented lips.

Bastards. Whore.

The next moment, his head rolls on the floor. The audience lets out a cry of shock and horror when Daemon cuts clean through the perjurous vassal. Helaena seeks refuge in her mother’s arms, Daeron and Aegon look away but Aemond does not.

Naera neither.

She does not flinch when Daemon wipes the blood off his blade, nor when it pools under the corpse. She does not even wince.

Aemond stares and wonders what horrors her eyes have seen before to not be startled by this horrendous vision. He recalls her first night here in King’s Landing and the way she has screamed out in fear when he came for her in the hallways. How her face was twisted by terror and her muscles tense. She cannot be so brave now that treacherous heads rolled to her feet.

Lucerys Velaryon is reaffirmed as the next Lord of the Tides and the room empties before his eye.

“What a day,” young Aegon sighs, still in shock.

“Indeed Brother, what a day,” Aemond echoes, grin decorating his thin lips. “What a day.”

Crowds pour out of the Main Room and the halls surrounding it are flooded with whispering mouths. Amidst the loud clamor, Naera looses any sight of her parents. Many lords have rushed to them to collect their impressions concerning the unspeakable event, preying on their precious opinions.

She looks in every directions and searches for a red dress and jet-black hair, but she finds nothing promising. Only a mass of spectators, glad to gossip and speculate once more.

“Missed me much, cousin ?” serpent voice murmurs into her ear, kissing her rosy cheeks. She freezes, limbs stiff and reluctant to his touch.

“What are you doing ?” she stammers, breath cut short.

Aemond circles her waist from behind and shoves his face in the nape of her neck, his pointy nose rubbing against her soft skin. She grasps onto his locked hands and tries to make them falter or loose a bit, but they do not concede any terrain.

“Ruining you,” Aemond laughs into her ear, caressing her shoulders with his predatory fingers. “But no one sees us. A shame, if you ask me. This dress of yours is a blessing. You are glorious.”

Each time his viper tongue slaps close to her ear, she flusters a bit more.

“Let me go,” she implores, struggling in his embrace. “I command you.”

“Command me ?” he echoes. “Very bold.”

The one-eye prince tightens his hold and leans forward. She feels his breath following the fall of her shoulders, from their end to the base of her jaw. “Devil” she curses. “Yes,” he answers, stealing kisses from her pale skin. “Retribution for your sins,” he continues, torturing her with his flaming touches. She scourges his name with all her soul and begs R’hllor to save her from his punishing gestures. But Aemond’s lips run free along the curves of her shoulders, spreading heat and penance on their way.

He raises his gaze and catches sight of Medea’s figure in the distance.

“See you tonight, dearest one,” he leaves against her ravaged skin. The prince lets go of his firm embrace and steps back from her. She turns to him and meet violet proud eyes. He grins a little, before disappearing into the teeming masses.

When her parents rush to her side, he is already long gone. Naera gathers her spirits the best she can, dispelling the fever that takes over her body. She erases it all with a polite smile and keeps walking, as if nothing had ever happened.

As if Aemond’s lips had never known the taste of her skin.

A dinning room has been prepared just for the occasion in one of the empty chambers of the King’s wing. Narrow windows and painted walls decorated it, along with various sculptures and relics of times past. In the middle, servants have place a rectangle table, large enough to welcome all of the King’s kins.

All unfolded at his sides, King sitting in the center and presiding over the group from his large chair. He was slouched in his makeshift throne, weaker than never. But the perspective of spending a few hours with his family soothed his pain and breathed life into his lungs.

Dishes pour from the kitchens and flood the table, but Aemond eats none of it. He plays with his knife at the very ends of the table, rolling it between his long fingers and staring at Lucerys Velaryon, cheeks stuffed with roasted games and savory garnitures.

Lucerys is still a child, facetious and cheerful. Whenever he crosses Aemond’s eye, he either chuckles or strangles his laugh. But Aemond remembers of the promise made to his mother and keeps his revengeful urges at bay.

Naera sits just across the table, next to Rhaena. Braids run alongside her head and die in the silver torrents of her hair. This time she wears black instead of red, but Aemond recognizes the rubies rounding her neck. Every time he glances at her, her lilac eyes run away from his.

He doesn’t know if he is flustered or satisfied when she does so, but either way, she never allows herself to meet his purple gaze. She talks to her cousins with endearing smiles on her lips. She burst out laughing when Jace jests and her cheeks redden with the wine. Aemond stares and witnesses how happy she is when he is not around.

Something crumbles inside and a subtle pain spreads through his chest.

Daemon and his brother the Hand exchange fond memories of their youths and the whole group laughs at their adventures. But there is something wrong with this night and deep inside, they all know it.

When he begins to groan and whine, guards come to remove the King from this exhausting audience. But it doesn’t necessarily stops the laughs from going. Jace and Helaena dance to the music, Rhaena and Naera giggle in their remote corner of the table, leaving Aemond, Daeron and Aegon alone with their half-full glasses of wines and their silence. Aegon drinks faster than his younger brothers but still, as he watches his cousin dance with his sister-wife, wine tastes more like vinegar in his mouth.

Aemond reluctantly detaches his eye from Naera, tilting to her right as he stares straight into Lucerys’ eyes. Servants put a roasted suckling pig before Aemond and Lucerys lets out a facetious laugh.

The one-eyed prince’s reaction is instantaneous.

His fist loudly hits the table as he rises from his chair. All eyes are on him. Aemond grabs his cups and raises it in the air.

“Final tribute,” he begins, sweeping across the table and meeting his mother’s gaze begging for mercy. Do not be displeased, Mother. They have never shown any to us, he thinks.

“A toast, to my delightful cousins,” Aemond resumes, a smirk proudly sitting on his lips. “Rhaena and Baela, newly betrothed and Naera.” His twisted smile only widens, and he lingers on every word he utters next. “Our very own Queen of Love and Beauty.”

The Hand clears his throat when he hears his daughter’s name in Aemond’s mouth, he trades concerned glances with his wife. Medea digs her nails in the flesh of her thighs, but Naera does not give him the satisfaction of her disarray. She resists him in every way she can.

“Thank you cousin,” Baela breaks the ice, joining her cup to his.

“To my nephews, Jace, Luke and Joffrey,” he continues, pointing in their direction as he speaks. “Each of them handsome, wise…” The air fills with pure tension, so thick you could cut through it. “And strong.”

“Aemond,” Alicent interrupts.

“Come ! Let us drain our cups, to these three strong boys.”

“I dare you say that again,” Jace spits, flames swirling in his eyes.

Music has stopped playing the moment Aemond rose from his seat, but now silence has become unbearable. Old Aegon gets on his feet, Daemon imitates him.

“Why ?” the one-eye prince keeps going. “It was only a compliment.”

Jace surges forward and young Aegon smacks Lucerys’ head against the table. Rhaenyra’s eldest son strikes Aemond, his fist landing in his cheek. Daemon gathers angered Jace and Lucerys on one side, while Aegon reluctantly calm his nephews’ ardours. Aemond’s smile doesn’t fade away from his face.

The Hand leans forward, eyes dark and threatening. He grabs Aemond’s collar and reminds him of what it costs to enrage the real blood of Old Valyria, unaltered and unforgiving.

“Wipe that obnoxious smile out of your face you little runt,” Aegon rasps, lowering his voice to keep his threats away from Alicent’s ears. “Or I’ll give you another scar to boast about.”

He lets go of the despicable young prince and returns to his wife’s side. But his steps are faltering, hesitant, heavy. He leans against a wall for a minute and Medea’s face goes from joy to anguish.

“Are you alright my Love ?” she inquires, cupping her husband’s face in her hot hands. “Look at me ?”

Aegon’s eyes are vacant and distant, his skin is burning hot, his mouth agape, his face aghast. The room stops breathing for a handful of seconds, until the Hand straightens his spine.

“We should all find the way to our beds,” he suggests, sweat suddenly thick on his forehead. Daemon comes to him once the boys’ tempers are alleviated. He puts a supporting hand on his brother’s shoulders. “Do you need help Aegon ? You seem weak all the sudden.”

“No,” the proud and honourable Hand refuses, already moving forward. “Everything is fine. It must be the wine.” Aegon stares right into Daemon’s eyes and insists, High Valyrian keeping his words a secret from untrained ears. “The wine, Daemon.”

The elder doesn’t understand quite instantly. His gaze moves backwards and forwards, from the table to his brother’s face. But Aegon robs him of a last look and heads out.

Medea holds his arms firmly between her hands and Naera watches, clueless and powerless. Once again, she is paralyzed by fear, crippled by terror. Rhaena’s hand reaches for her wrist in an attempt to be soothing, but when Aegon collapses on the floor, nothing can help.

Daemon scrambles to the ground, ignoring Medea’s cries and supplications. He flips his brother’s heavy frame over, pushes into his chest, breathes air into his open mouth.

But nothing saves Aegon from this cruel end.

Medea falls to her knees next to her husband’s corpse, her cries silent and muffled as she squeezes her face against his quiet heart. The audience stares in pure disbelief.

All happened so fast.

One moment Aegon was able to clench Aemond’s collar, the next he was lying on the cold ground, lifeless.

Naera watches without a sound or a reaction at first. Her teary eyes stare into her father on the floor and she cannot believe what they see.

She cannot believe what she sees.

“How does it feel to stand at the edge of the world ?”

Naera remembers the cold winds cutting her cheeks and the peace of the waves below. She stares into the voidness of the waters and this time, she will jump willingly.

But there are no waves crashing beneath her feet, nor wind gusting in these forsaken halls.

Only her father’s motionless body lying on the ground.

She screams.

Her harrowing cry cuts clean through the air and Daemon closes his arms around her, stifling the sound of her soul breaking.

Aemond stares as she seeks refuge in their uncle’s arms, eye empty of any emotion. Apart from the deaden sobbing of grieving wife and daughter, there is not a sound to be heard. Daemon nestles his shattered niece against his leather doublet and doesn’t allow the tears to escape his eyes.

For a few moments, no one dares to move.

Rhaenyra breaks this stillness and comes to her husband. “We must get them out of here,” she whispers to Daemon. He nods, trying his hardest to keep is own grief at bay.

When Alicent and Rhaenyra reach for Medea, she refuses to let go of her husband. She clutches at his clothing with her trembling fingers and curses all gods, old and new. It requires the strength of both Jace and Ser Erryk to remove her from the room.

Naera follows her uncle and doesn’t put up a fight.

For the night is dark and full of terrors.

She doesn’t have the strength to resist him.

For the night is dark and full of terrors.

She walks, but her feet walk on their own. She prays, but her lips move on their own.

“For the night is dark and full of terrors.”

They have chosen to meet in one of Daemon’s former favourite places, a house of ill repute on the Street of Silk. Aegon would have butchered him for bringing his wife into such an establishment, but the situation required the greatest discretion. No place is safer than the eye of the cyclone, Daemon had said to convince Medea to come along.

The Rogue Prince was right. No one would ever come for them here, nor listen to their discussion. He closes louvred shutters and sits on a large cushion of ochre silk. His inviting glare prays for Medea to do the same.

“What is it you wish to discuss with me Daemon ?”

“Dangers,” the Prince answers. “This is why we have come here. Eavesdroppers cannot hear us in here.”

She leans forward, showing evidences of her attention. Candles flicker around the room and make her feel safe. Her god of flames lurks in the shadows and listens to what is said.

“I have spoken with the maesters and the silent sisters that took care of Aegon’s body. There are things I must share with you, although I’d rather not,” Daemon resumes, joining his calloused hands and rubbing them against one another as he speaks. “My brother’s death wasn’t natural.”

Medea’s expression goes from attention to confusion. “What do you mean not natural ?”

“Aegon was poisoned,” Daemon states, facts heavy on his shoulders. “I am sure of it.”

“Poisoned ?” Medea thinks of her husband’s wounded neck when he once came back to Summerhall, fearing for their lives. “By whom ? Who would lower to such ignominy ?”

The prince’s purple eyes wander around the richly decorated room, striking image of pleasure houses from across the Narrow Sea. The air is loaded with scents of rose and perfumes, the lighting dimmed and the floor covered in carpets and tapestries. They sit near a little bonfire in the middle of the room, contained by thick stones and smelling of burnt wood. If Medea had stared into the flames, perhaps she would have captured the truth of it all. R’hllor often diluted omens and presages in fire, it was only up to his disciples to seize them and decipher their meanings.

But the grieving widow was too shocked to search the scorching flames for mystic signs. Daemon tosses the embers with an iron spike.

“Someone who doesn’t shy away from brutality. Someone that sat at our table and paid homage to the man he has murdered,” the prince mutters, playing with the ardent pieces of wood. “There is only one person capable of this, Medea.”

Otto Hightower.

Nor Daemon, nor Medea dare uttering his name out loud, but both think of the same traitor. He has creeped in Aegon’s shadow for too long and plotted for twice as many time against him. Otto was named Hand of the King the morning after Aegon’s death. With his brother’s gone, Viserys would have little choice left.

Medea’s face bears disgust and shock, but the latter vanishes as she puts the pieces together. Otto is a parvenu, disgraced when Viserys sent him back to his flamboyant city, humbled when the King choose Aegon over him as his Hand. All those years, the serpent cowered in his den and waited for the Hand to finally succumb.

“Which means we should prepare,” Daemon insinuates. “Aegon suspected something for sure. When we arrived in King’s Landing, he asked me to look after you if any harm came to him. I did not believe there was an impending danger back then. I promised nevertheless.”

The prince pauses, sighing before he speaks. He reaches for Medea’s hands and covers them with his. “You must leave King’s Landing.”

“Leave ? But where would I go ? Summerhall ?”

“No,” he refutes. “Summerhall is not safe. Westeros is not safe for you. I have a plan, but you must agree to it first.”

“Say it,” Medea insists, dreading Daemon’s next words.

He tightens his grip around the raven haired woman’s hands and gulps. “Go to Pentos, my friend Reggio Haratis will protect you. I’ll have a boat ready for you for tomorrow, if you wish to. Cross the sea and change your name. Become a stranger Medea, like you once were.”

Golden eyes go dull and subdued, there is no shimmer left on their round surface. Medea recalls of bygone times, where she used to walk this earth without a name, a station, a family. Her heart flows with sadness when she thinks of returning to the shadows, stripped of anything she has battled so hard to obtain.

“What about Naera ?” she inquires, her voice trembling. “Will she come with me ?”

“No Medea. Your daughter will stay with me,” Daemon offers, shattering his sister-in-law’s heart with each word. “You cannot doom your own blood to exile. She is a princess of the Seven Kingdoms, she belongs here. But the regrettable truth is that you are a foreigner in this city. The Queen despises your God and your ways, she has always did. You are in danger here, more than Naera is.”

Poor Medea lowers her eyes in a desperate attempt to repel the tears. While he holds her hands in his, Daemon can feel the pain seeping through her pores. She is so dignified, so honourable. She doesn’t allow her emotions to take over reason. What Daemon asks of her is terrible, but she is a mother above all else. She will do everything in her power to keep Naera safe, even if it meant to make her an orphan on that forsaken continent.

She nods her head in resignation, hiding her despair from Daemon’s sight.

“She will be a daughter to me Medea,” he reassures. “She is the blood of my blood. No one will ever get close to her, you hear me ? No one will ever harm her.” He holds onto Medea’s hands like they are shelter amidst a storm. “No one will ever hurt her. I swear it on my life.”

“You know what they say of you,” the latter sobs. “They say you are an oath breaker. A liar. How can I trust you with the life of my only child ? You are the Lord of Flea Bottom.”

“Yes I am all of those things. People call me whatever they want. They call you many names as well Medea. Pagan, witch, whore. Do you listen to them all ?” Daemon insists. “Would you rather feed your only daughter to that pack of hounds ?”

Medea moves her head from left to right and is crumbling under the weight of the prince’s words. She digs her nails deep into his skin and muffles her cries. “Leave your daughter to me Medea. You have no other choice,’ the Rogue Prince declares. “Or stay here and suffer the same fate as Aegon. Run from their tribulations and find safety in my friend’s home.”

Naera doesn’t leave the tranquility of her solars. For days now, she has not been outside its painted walls. She finds her solace in reading or contemplation, reviving memories of her late father in her head while others are away.

Her mother did everything she could to flee these cursed halls, but Naera refused to leave them. The company of others was to no use to her. People looked at her with saddened and pitiful eyes, and she despised them all for that. Was she a cub without a home to be sympathized for ? She cared little for their compassion.

Jace, Lucerys, Baela and Rhaena had returned home after her father’s funeral, thus leaving her without a friend here in King’s Landing. Only Daemon remained while his wife was in Dragonstone.

The King’s health worsened after the news of his younger brother’s passing. The poor man was too weak to be visited in his solars. Only his children, his wife and Hand were allowed to enter his apartments, apart from the maesters obviously.

Over all, the stronghold was quite gloomy and the stormy weather definitely did not help to brighten it up.

Naera sits on the long settee and reads the end of her book to stave off boredom. It is a refined piece of art, heavy with long chapters, a leathery cover engraved in gold and pages adorned with illuminations. The volume related the stories of the mightiest families in Old Valyria and what might have, according to the texts and the rumors, lead to the fall of the eponym capital and civilization. Aemond had stole the book away from her and certainly went through its every pages before she could.

When the thought of the one-eyed prince crosses her mind, a searing pain flares in her chest. This book is not the only thing he has stolen from her. That kiss has burnt on the surface of her lips, for days and days after it occurred.

It haunted her.

Feverish touches sown on her skin in the middle of crowded hallways, then the scorching kiss against her mouth. It felt like jumping over a bonfire — terrifying and arousing. When he withdrew from their embrace, her legs almost collapsed under the weight of her body. All of it was just a pile of blazing embers, fueled by guilty pleasures and forbidden desires.

A voice coming from the door pulls her out of her reveries. “Princess ?” Her servant calls. “The Princess Helaena is here.”

“Let her in,” Naera answers, closing the book over her legs.

Helaena enters the room and sunshine follows. Her champagne coloured dress looks ravishing on her, as well as her long curly snow-couloured hair falling over her shoulders and braided like a crown on her head.

“Good afternoon cousin,” Helaena greets, faintly bowing. “Are your readings of some comfort ?”

“Good morning Princess. Indeed they are,” Naera replies, correcting her posture and patting the softness of the settee at her side. “Sit with me if you like.”

“I’d love to,” the Princess agrees, face lighting up with a warm smile as she sits. She presents a small plate covered with a cloth. “Cakes. I recall you have quite a sweet tooth. I though they might brighten up your day.”

“That’s very kind of you,” she assents, revealing the appetizing lemoncakes as she lifts the piece of fabric. She waves at her maid. “Prepare some tea for us please, rose perhaps ?” Helaena nods. “Rose it is, thank you.”

The servant storms out of the room and Helaena drops the loaded plate on the coffee table. She turns to her cousin, but does not face her eyes. The yellow-dressed princess toys with her fingers nervously, before long waited words cross the brink of her lips.

“It pains to leave you here on your own. I love spending time with you, like we used to do before all of this,” she scrambles. “I’ve missed our moments a lot. You are a dear friend to me Naera.”

The silver haired princess lowers her gaze just the same, embarrassed by the way she has casted Helaena out of her life a few weeks before. But her heart is moved by her cousin’s forgiveness. She reaches for her hands and stop their hectic movement.

“It is all behind now,” Naera comforts, a faint smile stretching her lips. “I have missed our conversations a lot too. I confess I am in great need of your presence. Out of all the people here, you are the only one that understand how it feels to see things that shouldn’t be there.”

“What do you mean ?”

“We are dreamers Helaena,” she holds forth, pointing the book lying on the table. “I understand it now. It’s not just folklore or the fantasies of visionary kings. Dreamers are real. We are real. We both see futures others still ignore.” The girl pauses for a while. “But it is a curse. I’ve seen Vaemond’s death, but not my father’s. What is the point of all of this if I cannot save the ones I love ? Tell me Helaena.”

“Oh my dear…” the Princess starts, holding her cousin’s hand closely in hers. “We see fates, not futures. Futures can be thwarted, fates are unchanging.” Naera listens to her friend’s words and wonders where all that resignation comes from. “It is unsettling and cruel, I agree. But I believe it is a gift still. Gods blessed us with visions,” Helaena resumes. Yet her cousin disagrees. In their youth, young Aegon used to mock his sister because of her unceasing babbling and to this day, the prince remained quite cruel to his bride. She questions her beliefs on the matter when she hears Alicent’s words in Helaena’s mouth. This gift from their gods was a malediction, not a blessing.

“You’ll accept it one of these days,” Helaena comforts her. “Let the images come to you, don’t resist them and it will get easier I promise.” Naera nods yes. “I’m afraid to ask again, but… have you dreamt of the Red Man ?”

Naera nods again. She is not wroth this time, only resigned. Yet, she doesn’t want to confess he follows her everywhere she goes, like her own shadow.

“You’ve called for him at your father’s funeral,” Helaena recalls. “You have cried his name and it froze me to death.”

“What name ?”

“R’hllor,” the princess painfully admits. Naera’s eyes widen with surprise. Of course, she has questioned the Red Man’s identity many times before during her sleepless nights and her lonely days. His long scarlet cloak and tanned hands, calloused by the sand and the ashes had something unsettling about them. His unnatural height too. She was too humble to admit that her mother’s revered god visited her dreams since her childhood days, yet deep inside she knew the truth of it.

In Helaena’s mouth, the truth sounds even more damning.

“I have dreamt of him once. He stood in front of a tower and threw me inside with all my kins gathered,” Helaena confesses.

Her cousin doesn’t believe what she hears. “What happened next ?”

“He said something like ‘fire purifies every sin’ and the door closed before our eyes. The flames filled up the tower. I woke up before I burnt,” the princess recalls, the memories of that dreadful dream causing her fingers to tremble.

Naera is too stunned to speak, but she forces herself to deliver the question that scorches her mouth. “Who was in that tower with you ?”

Helaena understands that her question is not anodyne. “Have you dreamt of that tower as well ?”

“Please Helaena, answer to me first. Who was in that tower with you ?”

“Aegon,” the princess begins to name. “My grandfather and mother, Daeron as well. My children, Ser Criston Cole and other kingsguards, Maester Orwyle. I don’t remember them all.”

“And Aemond ? Where was Aemond ?” she insists. “Where was your brother ?”

Helaena stares right into her purple eyes. “He wasn’t there.”

Naera shrinks into the cushions, overthrown by confusion. She remembers of her own dream and the question on R’hllor’s lips. If I opened this door, would you recognize anyone ? First thought was Aemond, with his gleaming purple eye and the bloodied other, slashed in two by a cruel blade. Aemond and his everlasting hatred. Aemond and his largest mount in the world. Aemond and his weeping mother.

The door opens on red-eyed Medea and Daemon in a hooped cape.

“Good afternoon nieces,” the latter greets, removing his dark cloak.

“Good afternoon uncle,” they answer in unison.

Helaena quickly feels unwanted in the room. She scrambles to get on her feet and leaves Naera with her weeping mother and their heel uncle. When the door closes after the champagne dress, the remaining once feels two inquiring gazes landing on her.

“What happened ?” she inquires.

Medea has no courage left to face her daughter of seven-and-ten. She strides across the room and seeks refuge in her bedchambers.

Daemon joins his pretty niece on the divan and seizes a cup of hot, fuming tea. He sips some without a slight difficulty, but when it comes to herald the news to his niece, strength crawls out of his body.

“Your mother and I have discussed certain things,” he begins.

“What things ?” Naera raises a brow and her insisting glare pierces right through her uncle’s thick skin.

“For reasons we cannot argue with you, your mother has decided to flee Westeros.”

Naera blurts a sound of shock. “When are we leaving ?”

Daemon looks away, a nervous grin on his lips. “You are not going with her.”

“What ?”

He ignores her distress for a handful of moments, giving her some time to process the news. But she nearly burst out in tears, her frustration weeping from her eyes in the form of unbound drops of salty water. She rises from the divan and cries her mother’s name in the solars.

Medea doesn’t come out of her refuge.

“This is for your protection and your mother’s as well,” Daemon finally utters.

“My protection ?” Naera rebels. “You want me to remain alone in here ? You want me to grow mad in this fucking rotten keep ?”

The Rogue Prince raises his voice over hers. “You would come with me to Dragonstone and live with my children. When the time is right, I’ll find a suitable husband for you and you’ll have a home of your own,” Daemon commands, drawing himself to his full height to meet her. “Do not mistake this as a torment Naera. Your mother is sorrowful enough. She has agreed to this.”

“I’ll be an orphan !” the girl cries, crumbling to pieces. “I’ll have nothing !”

“You’ll have me !” her uncle protests, circling her quivering wrists with his coarse hands. Scars from the Stepstones ran along his arms all the way to his hands, emerging from the burgundy sleeves of his doublet. “You’ll have me,” he echoes. “I’ll protect you at any cost, I swear it you now, like I have already swore to your parents before.”

His touch is not comforting, but tries his best to be. He rests his eyes in hers and speaks whatever truth aches his exhausted heart. “Your father’s death has left a hole in my chest. Our parents are gone, Aegon is gone, Viserys will soon be. I’m an orphan Naera,” he deplores, voice low yet composed. “I have a wife I adore, children I love, friends I esteem, but my brothers are gone. Without them, I’m third the man I used to be. I carry their love around with me and I keep going.”

Daemon brings his thumb on the roundness of her cheeks and wipes the tears away from their peachy surface. “You’re a dragon, not a common mortal. Get on your mount and ride all day if it eases your pain, but don’t let them see what you feel inside. You’ll always have a friend, a uncle, a father in me if you wish to. Come to me when your heart is sore, but do not give them the satisfaction of your disarray. Understood ?”

She nods. He wipes one more tear away. “Your mother leaves soon for Pentos. Go to her and enjoy these moments left. For now, I must prepare.”

Helaena returns to her mother’s solars with a headful of informations to report. She has lingered in front of her cousin’s doors, listened to the words of their uncle as long as she could. When she pushes the gates of the Queen’s apartments, she catches glimpse of Aemond and Daeron seated at the table with their mother.

“Helaena ?” Alicent welcomes her, a bit surprised. “Where have you been ? You look upset, dear daughter.”

The princess sits alongside her brothers. Alicent puts a cup of honey wine before her daughter. “What happened ?” she insists.

“I’ve paid a visit to the princess,” Helaena begins.

Aemond’s attention is all hers when his sister speaks of their grieving cousin.

“Is she well ?” Daeron inquires, raising a brow. “I have heard concerning rumors. She doesn’t leave her room, or so it seems.”

“She doesn’t indeed. I brought some cakes on my way there, but she didn’t eat any. I fear for her health, yes. But that’s not my main concern,” the dreamer girl explains. “I’ve overheard some things.”

“What is it my love ? Speak your tale,” Alicent encourages. Aemond is beset by the fear of the news to come. His fingers tensely grip onto the rough fabric of his doublet under the table, betraying the full extent of his nervousness.

“Medea intends on leaving Westeros. But Naera will stay with Daemon in Dragonstone,” Helaena reveals, out of breath. “She will leave anytime soon.”

The one-eyed prince melts on his chair, like ice under the sunlight. He wonders what ominous joke that is and prays the Seven this rumor will prove false soon enough. Yet, Helaena doesn’t seem to be jesting at all. Their mother seems untroubled by the news, but her son only leers at the nearest window, wondering if its height will be enough to wipe his being off the earth once and for good.

“Let them go,” the Queen mutters. “They have seen enough misery in these halls, let them retrieve some peace.”

“But Dragonstone ?” Aemond blurts, causing his kin’s gaze to turn to him.

“What of it Aemond ?” Alicent questions.

He straightens his spine when the queen calls his name. “It’s gloomy and somber, and Daemon is not exactly someone we can trust.”

“Yes,” she agrees. “But what can we do about this ? It’s their family, not ours. We have no say in this matter. Naera will become Daemon’s ward, that is all.”

Aemond surrenders in his seat again. His mother is deaf to his protests and he is too eager to please her that he never dares to raise his voice on her.

He returns to a safer place within his mind, where Naera is free of her uncle’s yoke, free of the rules of men, free of the rules of gods. A place where her silver hair is the only thing dressing up her body. A place where he can land his kisses wherever he wants without fearing retribution. Desire makes him clench his garment even harder between his frustrated fingers.

Naera Targaryen is his and his alone.

Mine to conquer, mine to worship.

Chapter Text

A bitter wind sweeps through the scene, whipping faces and drying the tears.

Many gather to bid farewell to the late Hand of the King, but Viserys has asked for a private funeral. Kin to Aegon, second of his name, stand on top of the hill, expression grim and mournful. His corpse is wrapped in a white shroud and lies on a pyre. Apart from the roaring wind and Vermithor’s sinister wails, there is not a sound to be heard.

Moonfang waits for a command, an order or just a sign from her rider. She folds her wings along her large body, covered in grey and silver scales alike. The majestic dragon stand by to light the, ready and willing, throat full of sparks.

But her rider doesn’t seem so eager to set the Hand’s remains to flames. She stands the closest to him, a few feet before the pyre. Tears she did not manage to swallow paint her cherry coloured cheeks and blind her. Now that her father is wrapped in his final attire, she understands he is gone forever.

She thinks of his mellow personality and everlasting kindness. She remembers the way he used to take her on dragonback on the Bronze Fury, to fly all the way to Pentos where the ports were full of amazing scents and alien characters. The way he used to sneak into her room with desserts when she didn’t like what was served for dinner. The way he used to teach history of his land, with the greatest passion burning bright in his eyes. The way he used to come every evening and kiss her goodnight. The way his presence was reassuring and safe. The way he seemed so strong and sturdy, even when weakened by unknown foes and worries.

A moment later, he was gone. Face lying against the cold ground and veins black under his skin, eyes empty of any gleam and heart quiet for ever.

Horror had taken over her, a perfect blend of confusion, sorrow and wrath. Daemon had taken her to her chambers under the rest of the family’s helpless eyes. Alicent and Rhaenyra spent their days in Medea’s solars, hoping that their company and support would eventually bring some relief. During these somber days, Alicent put her crusade aside and stood at the Red Priestess’s side, caring and supportive. “Anything you need Medea, ask and you shall receive,” the Queen has repeated, many times. Rhaenyra imitating her as well. The Princess Rhaenys also came on multiple occasions, weeping for her late cousin in unison with Medea.

Daemon was mourning as well, but he kept his despair to himself and haunted the King’s apartments, reveling in what is left of his brotherhood. Viserys and Daemon grieve their younger sibling in the bleak of their forebears’ quarters and allow their sorrow to take the best of them.

Younger souls came in turns to comfort the poor Naera. Jace first, arms loaded with gifts that she barely looked at. Fresh flowers from the garden to brighten up her room, books and games as well. Lucerys followed, gathering his arms around his desperate cousin and whispering words of comfort to her. After all, both boys had lost their father as well. Two of them actually, two souls claimed by the flames in their father’s halls. They sat in silence with her for long minutes, mouth shut but souls wide open and welcoming.

Rhaena and Baela came as well one afternoon, with a basketful of sweets and cakes. Lemoncakes, candied strawberries and apples, madeleines, orange web cakes dipped in honey and many more. Usually, Naera has a sweet tooth but that day, she ate none of them. Rhaena and Baela also sat and watched as Naera went through the same bereavement as them, years before. One stroked her back while the other comforted her with endearing eyes.

“This will pass,” Baela said, rubbing her fingers over Naera’s cold hands. “Everything does. We will be there. You will never be alone ever again.”

Although she was absolutely incapable of showing any sign of glee or relief, Naera’s heart warmed at her cousin’s promise. To never be alone again, her mind echoed. Have I ever been alone ?

The next day, the Queen’s children came to pay homage as well. They all sat in the salon, while Alicent comforted weeping Medea in her chambers.

The four of them dreaded the moment they will go into this bedchamber, but Aemond out of all others dreaded it even more. He clenched onto the edges of his doublet nervously, staring into pointless direction. Young Aegon should have gone first, but he was reluctant to duty. Good-natured Daeron went in first. Out of all the Queen’s scions, he has the warmest personality. He is a cheerful boy, kind and charming. But when he stared straight into eyes haunted by the Stranger, words dried on his lips. He stalked out of the room and returned to his siblings.

“She is quiet,” he informed, slouching on the settee. “I’ve just mumbled a few polite words, but she doesn’t listen.”

Aegon sighed and rose next. “I’ll go then. Let’s get over this quick.” He vanished behind the door and like Daeron, came out a few minutes later. Helaena followed and Aemond’s uncertainty grew stronger. During the few moments where his sister kept company to their distressed cousin, he prepared himself to see her in her most humble attire.

Helaena stepped out of the room soon enough, glancing at her younger brother doing so. He rose as well and grabbed the book that he has brought for her. When he walked into the room, cold took over his body whole. There was no warmth in here, no fire, no light, no dragon. The chamber was plunged into blue hued shadows, grey and grim.

She sat at the edge of her featherbed, dressed in a black gown prosaic and demure. She stared into the window and he wondered what comfort her purple eyes found in the sight of the garden, bleak and dreary under the grey clouds. What for do you yearn ? he thought.

He sat next to her and tried to think of kind words to say. Her grief was deadening and oppressive, he had nothing to say. Like Aegon and Daeron before him, the one-eyed prince was at a loss for words. The room smelled of burnt incense and flesh flowers, but nothing could cover the scent of hot tears and unhinged chagrin. Aemond gently puts her book on her thighs. He cleared his throat, trying his best to dispel discomfort. “It was an interesting reading, thanks for recommending it.”

“Get out now,” she uttered, without turning her eyes to look at him. Aemond was so unsettled by her command that nearly obeyed it without a fight. But he didn’t want to leave her here, lonesome and forlorn. He reached for a blanket and draped her chilly shoulders with it. “Is there anything else I can do ?” he asked.

He met a wroth violet gaze and stared right into the flames of the Seven Hells. “Get out,” she spat. “Now.”

In her menacing eyes, he found Aegon’s. That night, before he crumbled to the ground, he had grabbed his collar and peered right into his soul. He saw the very same look in this moment, framed by unattended silver strands of hair and equally threatening lips. He wrapped the soft blanket tighter around her frail body, arranging wild locks of silvery silk doing so.

“As you wish,” Aemond demurred, raising from the soft covers. Gods had already punished her harshly, he did not want his presence to be another torment. On the other hand, he only desired to heal her wounds for the moment, like she had once done with her life-saving hands. He watched as tears flooded her pretty eyes before leaving her to her grief.

Now she stands before the pyre and every eye in the sorry assembly turn to on her. Medea starts to sing mystic laments in high valyrian, voice trembling and devoted breaking through the air. Daemon steps forward and leans over her shoulder. In the tongue of dragons, he commands her. But when he looks at her from across the distance, Aemond sees no dragon at all. Only a broken daughter, scrambling to hold her pieces together for just a few moments more.

“You must do it now Naera,” he whispers into her ear, breathing pure courage into it. “Your father demands it. Free his soul at once, let him join our mother and father, and your lost brothers. Set him free.”

She moves forward, dignified in suffering. Her black cloak flows in the wind and contrasts with the paleness of her hair, also weaving in the breeze. Her eyes meet Moonfang’s, a deep shade of cerulean blue.

“Dracarys.”

The beast unleashes a fiery blast on the pyre, setting it ablaze.

She does not move away from the fire, staring into the flames as they devour her father’s remains. The inferno turns Aegon’s corpse into ashes and robs him away forever. The heat of the blaze dries the tears on her cheeks and the water in her throat, yet she doesn’t rear back.

Near Medea stands a tall man dressed in a crimson cloak. When she catches glimpse of him, she detaches from the flames and lays her weeping eyes on him.

He is as impressive as she remembers, but on that day she doesn’t fear his presence, nor reject it. He removes the hood that covers his head and reveal his blazing, golden coloured eyes. She stares and pours her misery into them. His voice comes for her ears only.

“Do not weep child,” he begins. “Fire purifies every sin.”

He lays his bronzed hand on Medea’s shoulder, yet she does not feel his flaming touch. She continues to sing in the language of their forebears, to the glory of a God of Flames, loving and all-mighty.

“Fire is life,” he keeps assenting, voice solemn and sacred. “Fire is devotion. Fire is comfort. Fire is power.”

She nods negatively, her head tilting to the right and left in a slow motion. Words refuse to escape the threshold of her lips.

“Fire is the only way Naera,” the Red Man assures. “Remember this.”

His lanky silhouette turns heels and heads to the edge of the cliff. Naera moves forward to follow him, readily jumping into the flames if she has to. When he sees her falter and spring towards the inferno, Aemond betrays his composure and leaps forward to stop her. But Daemon Targaryen is quicker to react. He puts an end to her trance when he captures her body in his arms, and high valyrian reproaches cut clean through the air.

“R’hllor !” she calls, glaring at the edges of the cliff as she cries in her savior’s tongue. “Don’t abandon me ! Don’t leave me here.”

“Quiet,” Daemon snaps, covering her mouth with his large hand and muffling her desperate prayers to a God he cannot see.

Aegon’s remains burn for hours, but no one stays to watch the fire die. His kin are gathered in the same dinner room as days before and Naera cannot suffer the sight of that cursed ground. Every time she glances at the blue and brick coloured tiles, she sees her father in his last moments all over again.

Baela holds her hand in hers while they sit in the comfortable shell-shaped chairs. Viserys has joined them. He was too weak to travel to Aegon’s funeral, but he was strong enough to share their sorrow for a few moments.

Faces are all bleak and eyes are all faded and dull.

“This loss is unbearable to me,” the King confesses out loud. “Aegon was en example for us all.”

Daemon’s expression is particularly grim. When Viserys utters their brother’s name, he lowers his glance and swallows his grief. Aemond looks at his uncle and wonders what desires of revenge dwell in his blonde head. Would Daemon Targaryen, first of his name, chase the Stranger itself for claiming another soul in his life ? Would he ride Caraxes to the ends of the sky and burn the Seven’s celestial estate to ashes ? Would he set fire to the sky in retribution ? Daemon looks so beaten in this moment Aemond wonders if he is capable of anything.

When his lone eye detaches from his uncle, it goes to his cousin. She is grand in her black gown, plated like a dragon riders’ armour with silver pieces and chains. But her almond-eye are red, her lips pale, her face dreary, her hair unattended and tangled by the wind. She smells of fire and ashes, of hatred and misfortune.

Medea represses her desire to tear the King to pieces. Had he not offered Aegon to be hand, they would have been in Summerhall in this very moment. Not here, in that damned chamber of Maegor’s Holdfast, weeping for a man made of fire and honour.

But Naera does not weep the Prince of Summerhall, nor the Hand of the King and Protector of the Realm. She grieves her father and her father only.

Otto Hightower deck his face in chagrin and pays homage to his predecessor as well. The latter has been named Hand of the King in the morning, and he sits besides Viserys at the table, where Aegon sat just a few days ago.

He raises his cup into the air. “To Aegon.”

Daemon lets out a derisive chuckle. Indiscreet eyes turn to him as he empties the content of his cup in his throat. “You don’t get to honour my brother’s memory.”

“Daemon,” Viserys weakly intervenes.

Otto fakes disbelief, but Daemon is no fool. The rogue prince leers at the newly named Hand and nothing can protect Otto from Daemon’s deep and blazing gaze. Alicent clears her throat and advocates for peace once more. “Let us drink to the memory of our regretted brother, husband, father, uncle and Hand of the King. May he rest with the Seven for eternity.”

Medea’s face twists in displeasure. Aegon was made of fire and blood — he doesn’t belong to insipid halls inhabited by mischievous Gods. Her eternal lover rests in R’hllor’s love and awaits for his rebirth. One day, the Heart of Fire will breathe life into him and send him back to this forsaken earth, to fight alongside Azor Ahai. In the meantime, Aegon will revel in the beauty of the Illuminated Halls, bathe in their everlasting light and warmth, dine with the souls of his forebears. With Baelon and Aemon, their firstborn twins. With his parents and grandparents, with his namesake himself, Aegon the Conqueror and his sisterwives. All will welcome him in their last abode, gladden to see him after all these years. And mostly, he will wait for her.

The sons of Alicent pour the wine from their golden cups to their dry throats, but their cousins don’t follow the motion. Naera has no appetite for anything, not even wine or water.

Otto renews his offense. “Aegon will be regretted by all, indeed my dear daughter.”

Naera rises from her chair so fast it thuds against the ground. Both her fists are clenched on the table so tightly it nearly squeezes the blood out of her fingers. Aemond stares, eyes questioning her every moves. She presses her lips together as if she wants to speak the most dreadful words, but her mouth never allow them to seep through their cracks. Baela pulls on the hangs of her dress softly, urging her to sit down without a sound.

But the dragon princess ignores her cousin’s supplications. She turns heels and stalks out of the room, her black cape flowing on her back. Jace bounces off his chair and Aemond is prompt to imitate him. Daemon’s flaming eyes meet the one-eye prince, full of spite and disdain, but Aemond does not waver. Rhaenyra turns to her eldest son and agrees without a word.

Jacaerys storms out of the room, Baela at his side. Aemond surges forward but this time, Daemon stops him with more than his dragon-like gaze. He presses a domineering hand on his nephew’s shoulder.

Aemond raises his lonely eye to face Daemon’s, with insolence and defiance blending in his solitary glaring. Thin lips elongate in an impudent smirk and Daemon realizes how alike his demeanor and Aemond’s are. They know no principles, obey no rule. They follow the sole desire of their hearts, impulsive and unpredictable.

Naera runs through the halls of Maegor’s Holdfast, loosely braided hair leaving a trail of silver behind her head. Jace is faster than his betrothed, free of any gown slowing down his steps. Yet Naera distances them both — her years in the Capital granted her a better knowledge of the castle’s secrets. She hastens her steps and hurtle down the path to the dragonpit.

She turns in her unrelenting race, but nor Jace nor Baela are on her tail anymore.

They have lost any trace of her.

She doesn’t see the One-Eye standing in her trajectory. When he captures her lithe figure in his arms and ends her chase, drawing a muffled cry of shock out of her.

“Stop this madness at once,” he commands, eye a darker shade of violet and implacable.

“Let me go,” she wails. “Let me go !”

He claws her face between his thumb and the rest of his fingers, gripping her cheeks in a harsh way. She doesn’t look for a way to escape his ruthless gaze. Instead, she rivets her eyes in his and Aemond peeks into pure desolation. Flames in her purple coloured irises consume what is left of her beaten soul, leaving only dull and smoking cinders on their way.

“Stop this Naera,” he whispers, her panting breath fanning over his lips.

“For the love of God let me go,” the devastated girl implores, drops of salty water painting her reddened cheeks. “Let me go Aemond, I beg you.”

“I cannot,” he brutally answers, shattering her hopes and tightening his grip. “Stop this at once.”

She crumbles in his arms, sobbing against the leathery material of his black doublet. Her fists hit against his chest with all the unchained fire of the Seven Hells, but he does not loosen his embrace. He resists her complaints and her pleas, he ignores her curses and promises of retribution, he deafens himself to her cries.

Aemond fastens his hands around her trembling body, until the storm passes.

When the sobbing fades, he lifts her pretty face up by the chin. He dives into the wreckage of her soul through her red, wet eyes.

“You cannot hop on that dragon and fly wherever you like,” Aemond begins, voice sullen and distant. “You must stay here.”

“What for ?” she protests. “So you can keep on punishing me for something I have never done ? So you can add torment over my torture, break my spirits, break my soul ? Is that why you detain me here ? To smite me ?”

Her words are brutal and sharp, they cut through the leather and carve words of his own cruelty into his skin. Aemond sighs, replacing one erratic strand of her hair among the others. “Your mother needs you.”

When the prince speaks of Medea, he thinks of his own mother. How many times had he ever dreamt of jumping on Vhagar’s back and fly to places no one would ever follow him to ? More than he cared to count, yet he has never succumbed to the temptation thanks to his mother’s piercing green eyes. She is a woman trapped in a cloak of righteousness, dutiful and dignified. But she is a mediocre mother to her children. Every time she stares at Aegon, she sees a spoilt first son. When she looks at Helaena, she sees a mad daughter. When she looks at Daeron, she sees her own absence. When she glances at Aemond, she sees her failures — she sees that dreadful night where she has lost her temper before the Court and Viserys forever laid his preference on Rhaenyra, thus denying his wife and son justice.

Out of all of her children, Aemond is the one she fears the most. She knows of the shadows that dwell in his heart and dreads what they are capable of.

But in this very moment, it is these very same shadows that hold Naera back from an uncertain fate.

“Let me go then, so I can return to her,” the broken princess mutters. “Let me go, Aemond.”

Whenever he hears his name in his mouth, his chest flutters. It weakens him, for reasons he doesn’t dare to explore yet.

“No,” Aemond refuses. “You will run to your dragon and be lost forever.”

She picks up the resignation in his tone and wonders where it comes from. He is the one capturing her body in his arms, yet he feels like the one trapped here.

“Let me go,” she whispers again and again, her warm breath skimming at the surface of his lips and her eyes pleading for mercy. He eyes at the words her rosy mouth shape, wondering what they taste like now that they have been drenched in tears. He wonders is she would hit him again or melt in his embrace. He wonders if surrendering to that forbidden pleasure is a revelation or a folly.

“Let me go,” she echoes, the movement of her lips bewitching and spellbinding. She must really be a sorceress, he thinks, just like her mother and the mother of her mother and all the woman of her blood before her. She is a witch.

And indeed Aemond is spellbound. He resists her commands with the full might of his soul, but there is not enough strength remaining to save the prince from her lips.

The one-eyed dragon comes for the ripeness of her mouth and devours it whole. He bites into her lips, looses his hand in her luxuriant silver hair and taste the blood of Valyria of Old, pure on his tongue. His demented desires urge him to lift her from the ground and take her to Vhagar, take her away from that castle to places unknown to their kin. There he would feast on her precious body, without defiling her honour or staining her reputation for ever. There, she would be crowned queen of his pleasures, high priestess of his religion.

He hears Jace’s voice resonating in the hallways and releases her at once, cursing that odious boy in the uproar of his thoughts. He grabs Naera’s wrist and presents her to his breathless cousins.

“I found her first !” Aemond proudly announces, entrusting the princess to Baela. She turns to him with eyes of disdain, dreadful and vindictive. She serves him hatred but he only tastes tart and salt on his tongue, remembering the flavour of her heart-shaped lips.

“What will happen to Summerhall ?”

Medea moves her magical fingers along the weaving loom, arranging threads in an hypnotic way as the scene takes shape on the fabric. Although the work has barely begun, one may recognize the dark towers of Asshai. Naera watches as her mother practices her art and she’s convinced that this is how she expresses her sorrows. Prayers to the flames eased her heart, botany soothed her body, but weaving and embroidery silenced the din of her thoughts. She poured her misery in these intricacies of threads and her shoulders felt a bit less heavy.

“Am I Princess of Summerhall still ?”

Naera insists to break through her mother’s indifference. Medea’s fingers don’t stop dancing around the machine, but her lips finally move.

“I don’t know Naera,” she blandly answers. “Ask your uncle. Perhaps he’ll know better than me.”

The voice of her mother is steady, but Naera knows it is burdened by resignation, wrath and heartache altogether. Nothing seems to relieve her of her suffering and the more the minutes pass, the more Naera feels like another weight on her mother’s frail shoulders.

She rises from her lavish seat and puts a large hooded cloak over her body. “I’ll leave you to this. I’m going for a walk.” Once, Naera refused to leave the walls of her solars but now that her mother was trapped in here as well, it became unbearable to stay confined with her. The best solution was to go out and pray for some freedom.

Like many times before, unrestraint came in the form of a large beast, with even larger wings. She follows the road to the pit, through the Street of Silk to guarantee her tranquility. Amidst the swarming crowd of King’s Landing, she feels like a common soul. A nameless one. A painless one, she thinks.

Fragrances of spice and cheap ale crawl through the air and taste like insouciance on her tongue. People look at her hooded figure and peek at her long silver hair, unbound under her cape. They pour whispers in each other’s ears, trade rumors of another Targaryen that looses oneself in the intoxicating freedom the lower levels of the city offers. The way they stare at her betray her forebears. Many princes had an inclination for the most modest areas of the city. Far from the pomp of the Red Keep, the loud streets of the Capital offered a bit of relief. Princes doomed their souls to unlimited pleasures in the numerous brothels the city homed, while princesses escaped their golden cage for some instants of bliss.

There were stories of defiled princesses of course, like her great aunt the Princess Saera Targaryen. The latter was one of Jaehaerys I and Alysanne daughters. She was free-spirited and mischievous, a bit like Daemon in his young years, excepted that Saera was born a girl. Within the castle’s walls, she had three lovers. She plotted with them and two of her friends to tarnish the reputation of Tom Turnip, the court fool. Her lovers were caught laughing at the poor man at the Blue Pearl, a renowned pleasure house on the Street of Silk. When two men of the City Watch arrested them, all declared the joke was Saera’s idea. The princess was disowned by her father the King after the scandal, and she found exile in Volantis, where she reportedly owned a brothel.

Legends like this one made the bystanders’ eyes turn to every silver haired creature that walked their alleys. Every time they caught glimpse of valyrian descendants, they speculated on the depth of their depravity.

But Naera Targaryen isn’t there for the bouncing teats of prostitutes or the ratchet pranks on poor court fools. She years for freedom, not for pleasure.

On Rhaenys’ Hill stands the gigantic Dragonpit, so large it once homed the three dynastic dragons of the Targaryen Conquerors, Balerion the Black Dread, Vhagar and Meraxes.

Now the Conquest was over and the Targaryen dynasty was in what historians would later call the apex of their glory. With more than twenty living dragons scattered around Westeros, the Valyrian descendants could have ruled over the world if they wanted to. Had it been their wish from the start, they could have recreated the Valyrian Freehold that once ruled over more than one continent. But they were too busy tearing each other apart over a settled matter of succession to consider greater ambitions.

When she enters the tall edifice, she greets the handlers with a kind smile. They are poor men, at the service of the most powerful creatures Westeros has ever known. Powerful enough to bring its every lords to their knees. Powerful enough to end centuries of dominance.

“Should we get Moonfang out for you ?” one of the keepers asks.

“Please, bring her out at once. I intend to fly for a while,” the princess answers.

Less than ten minutes later, a grey horned head pokes through the darkness. She walks to meet her favorite creature as it emerges from the shadows.

“Hello my dearest one,” she slips endearing words to the beast, caressing her ash coloured scales with a loving hand. Moonfang is the color of a rainy summer evening, not quite silvery, not quite muddy as well. Her wings are darker than the rest of her body and a row of ivory spikes run along her tail. One spike peaks at the end of it, like a stinger or a fang.

Naera remembers very well the first she saw her mount and got to pick a name for it. Aegon held his small daughter of three in his arms in from of the majestic, yet immature dragon. Her had hatched a few years before, as it was placed in Baelon’s cradle — Naera’s late big brother. But the creature didn’t seem to mourn the loss of her master in the early years of her life. Instead, she welcomed the little blonde head without putting up a fight. The young princess babbled a name for the mount and Aegon baptized the ashen creature Moonfang.

Now, their bond roots deep in both their souls. Naera, just like her uncle Daemon, is one of these riders whose spirits are merged together. They are entangled — one will, one mind.

When Moonfang feels her rider on her back, she feels her sorrows, her fears, her glees. She feels everything. She knows everything.

“Soves Moonfang,” Naera commands, voice firm and glorious. “Sesīr kipi!”

With little effort, the dragon leaves the solid ground and soars high in the sky.

From the windows of his bedchambers, the one-eye prince watches as the mousy dragon rises of Rhaenys’ hill. Oh I beg you, Aemond thinks, can I follow ? He too has sleepless nights. He too tosses and turns in his sheets, tormented by blurry dreams. Only his visions are not prophetic, they are memories.

Memories of his arms locked around her. Memories of her exhilarating kiss on his lips. Memories of her delicate shoulders begging for his touch. Memories of her blood boiling in her veins and her neck pulsing under the grasp of his fingers. Memories of her breath winding up his mouth.

Every morning when he wakes up, his crotch is hot and hard. At first, he refused to think of her when relieving his member of his ardours, but the urge quickly became irresistible. Now he thinks of an arched body, with sweaty skin sticking to his silken sheets, trembling with his every touches as he thrusts into her. His mind plays cruel tricks on him — sometimes he hears her moans in the intimacy of his room, the shadows whisper his name with her voice. And when he peaks with his hand rounding his hardness, he calls to her. In his tongue, Naera is the only word for ecstasy.

At times, he wonders if she reaches for the wetlands of her body thinking of him as well. If his name is like a prayer in his mouth, litany of delight when she murmurs it into the air. He wonders if her limbs twist and twitch with pleasure at thought of his contact, and it arouses him even more.

He watches as Moonfang dances over the sea, large wings of grey ore unfolding and fluttering in the morning breeze.

Aemond smiles. Now he knows where to find her next.

Rare were the occasions he had to capture her amidst her day. Since Aegon’s funeral and his stolen kiss, she has disappeared from his sight. She has loomed into the darkness from days, abandoning him to his torture. With the news of her impending departure for Dragonstone, the poor prince has seen his hopes reduced to dust. She locked herself in a deadman’s solars and refused to the see the light of day.

For the first time in a week, he sees her escape her self-inflicted prison.

He rushes to wash his body and dress in his usual attire. He fastens the white golden buckles of his leather doublet hastily and storms out of his apartments with a large cape flowing behind him. He dismisses the guards and dashes to the Dragonpit. His hastened steps race the beaten and cobbled soil of the Street of Silk, all the way to Rhaenys’ Hill.

Naera is still into the air when he arrives. The dragonkeepers question him. “Should we prepare Vhagar for a ride, my Prince ?” He dismisses them as well and lurks in the most dimmed area of the stone temple, erected in the glory of the beasts of Old Valyria.

The afternoon has quite begun when Moonfang returns to mortal soil, her claws gashing the muddy earth. Handlers come for the majestic creature and her rider hops down from her saddled back.

Naera is just as captivating as her mount. Silver tangled hair fall over a dark cloak, covering her entire body. She puts her hood back on and storms out of the pit, while the keepers drag Moonfang into the depths of the caves.

Aemond leaps out of his hideout, face also dissimulated under some dark fabric. She paces up and joins the teeming dwellers of the Street of Silk. He follows her into the masses, stealthy like a shadow behind her.

The one-eye prince weaves and elbows between the loud crowd and chases the jet-black, velvety cloak. The richness of the material clashes with the earthbound, colourful and miserable population of the streets of King’s Landing. He speeds up and gets rid of the unbearable distance between the two of them.

He grabs her wrists and drags her in a much less crowded alleyway, away from prying eyes of whisperers, to leal to their mistress. Thanks to his brother’s mischiefs, Aemond knows very well what it might cost them to be seen together in the more modest areas of the capital. Areas renowned for their very particular establishments, devoted to the fulfillment of the most depraved desires.

He thrusts her against a wall, drawing a faint whimper from her frightened lungs. When her eyes finally catch glimpse of his slender, one-eyed face, her expression goes from fear to anger.

“What are you doing ?” she jabs, tone stingy and razor sharp.

“Ambushing you,” he answers, gauging her exhausted and lifeless features. Such sight pains his heart, but he rejects compassion and doesn’t allow his resolution to falter before her weakness. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

“Don’t make an habit of this,” Naera snaps back, wriggling her wrists to loosen his grip. “I have been avoiding everyone. You’re not that special.”

The forsaken prince grins a little when she cuts through his ego with her riposte. He thinks of Dragonstone and her impending absence, and pain spreads like a plague through his limbs. “How could I ? You’re not going to stay around forever, aren’t you ?”

She looks away but Aemond brings her face back in front of his. His lone eye stares right into her lilac gaze and seeks for the unspeakable truth in its depths. “Were you going to tell me any of this ?” he quips, his fingers digging into the flesh of her cheeks. “Or were you going to flee your home like a thief ?”

“This is not my home,” the princess spits. “And I’m not the thief here. You are.”

The burn of their stolen kisses scorches his lips. He drops his hands. “Me ? A thief ?”

“You’re a craven and a louse !” she curses, calling him whatever disgraceful names she knows of. But he does not flinch when she shreds his self-esteem to pieces and accuses him of every crimes he is not guilty of. After her ridiculous fit of rage, she stands in the same spot as before and glares at his maimed face without a sound.

“I’m a thief. I’m a craven. I’m a louse. I’m an horrible person, I want to punish you for standing there as Lucerys took my eye, I’m this and I’m that yes,” Aemond mutters, tilting his head towards her. “I have freed you of my hold moments ago and you haven’t run away yet. So explain to me, dear cousin ? What have I taken from you that you have not willingly given to me ?”

The raging fire in her eyes wavers and Aemond swears he has seen her soul crack like a bolt of lightning through them. He steps back, raising his hands. “Come on. Run.”

He does not know if it’s stupefaction or tenacity that rivers her feet where she stands. The coast is clear for her to run, but she doesn’t flee this godforsaken alleyway. “Run,” he echoes, insisting. “What are you waiting for ?”

His anchored gaze stares right into her eyes and she feels like a child being scolded all the sudden. She seems to shrink against the wall and struggles to maintain her dignity apparent.

“See ?” Aemond snarls, surging forward and bringing his scared face closer to hers. “You’re compliant.”

“I’m not,” she mumbles, trying her best to deny his ominous accusations. “I’m not scared of you.”

But the trembling in her voice and the way her whole body quakes to his touch advocate the contrary. Or else, it is not fear that crippled her, but arousal perhaps. Young women of her age were excepted to behave properly, to lounge in boudoirs as the sun went from east to west in the sky and keep their distances with boys. They were robbed of their youths and betrothed to whatever lord their father judged worthy of their hands. Once married, their husband put babes in their bellies and returned to fuck their mistresses. Marriage was a formality to mens and a plague to women. All their lives, it was demanded of them to be docile and chaste. But passions were unavoidable, even for strong-minded princesses like Naera Targaryen.

Like Rhaenyra before her, Naera was the only heir to her father’s possessions. Summerhall wasn’t the Seven Kingdoms, but if she choose to marry a man befitting her station, Viserys would gladly grant this castle to her descendants. Yet, the late Aegon had picked to man for his daughter.

Aemond feasts on her confusion and witnesses the grapple in her mind. She’s battling her own impulses. She’s trying so hard to keep the fire in her belly at bay, that Aemond can almost hear her demons beg for more sins.

He grasps onto the bend of her back, setting both his and hers loins ablaze. He draws him closer that he has ever dared too, his eye riveted in hers, his fingers clenched on her leather clothes, his breath mixing with hers on the threshold of her lips.

“Why didn’t you run ?” he groans, his pointy nose grazing at the surface of her skin. But she doesn’t answer, robbing him of the truth of her feelings. His hands become daring, more defying. He pushes his leg up, squeezing it between her thighs and he can feel the heat radiating from her core. The dance continues and her she pants more and more with every instant passed. “Why don’t you run ?” Aemond torments her, unbuckling the rings holding her doublet together. “How far can I go before you beg for mercy ?” Elongated limbs insolently make their way under her linen shirt and climb her ribs, all the way to her breast.

“I do not beg,” she snaps back, eyes burning bright. “I’m a dragon. Dragons take, dragons destroy, dragons feast. But they never beg for anything.”

“I’m a dragon as well,” Aemond replies, toying with the soft roundness of her teats. She opens her mouth to counter his jab, but the one-eyed prince robs her of that pleasure. His mouth comes to devour hers, tongue wild and unrestrained. This time, she’s not weeping for her lost father, she’s entirely his to conquer. But mostly, she returns the favor. She comes to his kisses with the fire of an unchained dragon, her small hands drown in sleek flows of silver, cling to the nape of his neck. Her crotch grinds against his thigh and he yields to his desires, pushing her even harder against the wall. His fingers go wild on her milky skin, teasing her nipples, dancing around her breasts and ribs, descending along her belly to where her short pants guard her dignity. When he ventures his hands further down, she halts. “No,” she pants against his lips. “Not here.”

The fever evaporates and he remembers where they stand. The Street of Silk has seen many forbidden lovers surrender to sin before, but last time a prince and a princess were caught here, it nearly torched the whole realm. Aemond steps back and she fastens her top again, concealing the redness of her cheeks with her hood. He stares at her as she gathers her spirits, noticing how shivery and hastened her movements are.

“Shall I accompany you back to the castle ?” he asks.

“No. You’ve done enough.”

The prince smiles, revealing a row of teeth. He watches as she storms out of the alley, cape flying on her tail. She’s flustered and ashamed, but Aemond knows for sure that she has enjoyed every second of it this time.

He returns to the Red Keep at dusk, waiting for the night to cover his mischiefs.

Naera crosses the doorframe of her solars and finds Daemon sitting at the same table as her mother. Medea wears a raven-coloured cloak over her shoulders. When they catch sight of the young princess, they rise from their chairs and gauging at their grave faces, Naera is quick to understand what news they feared to herald. Daemon scratches his nose with the tip of his index, like he always do when he is uneasy. Medea strides across the room and captures her daughter’s hands. She caresses her cheeks and stares into her eyes. Naera feels melancholy and unconditional love pouring all over her.

“It’s time, isn’t it ?” she mumbles, lowering her gaze to her feet as she dispels the tears.

“It is,” Medea answers, gripping her daughter’s fingers.

But Naera crumbles. The perspective of being left behind while her mother crosses the sea crushes what’s left of her mental. Medea closes her soft, loving arms around her only child and tries her best to keep her own tears at bay. “Don’t cry my Love. Have faith,” she whispers into her ear. “Have faith always.”

Naera nods on her mother’s shoulders, wetting her clothes with her sorrow. “Always.”

Daemon reaches for Naera’s hand. “Come on Niece, let’s walk with your mother to the harbour,” he suggests, endearing smile decorating his lips. She nods again, and the three of them leave the Red Keep, on the way to the port bordering the coasts of the Blackwater Bay.

The waters are indeed very dark once the sun is set. Only torches bring life to the waves, revealing their calm lapping to their eyes. Their short journey to the harbour has been blessed with silence. Naera’s hand was resolutely clutched to her mother’s, all the way down here.

Now that she stands in front of the ship that will take her away from her remaining kin, Medea allows the tears to run down her graceful cheeks. She comes for Daemon first, collecting his calloused hands in hers and rubbing their rough skin as she stares right into his soul.

“Swear to me again,” she demands through the tears. “Take good care of my daughter, treat her like your own, love her dearly, never let her believe she has been abandoned. Please Daemon.”

“I will,” the Prince promises, pressing his forehead against Medea’s and closing his eyes, while tightening his hold over her hands. “I will, Medea.”

“Good,” she mumbles as she lets go of Daemon. She turns to her daughter and gather her arms around her for the last time. The mother dives her nose in her daughter’s hair and smell their sugary scent once more. “And you, my dearest one. Be good to your uncle and to your cousins. Write me often, stay away from the danger. Listen to what Daemon says, always. You’re a wise girl, I know it.” She presses a kiss on Naera’s wet cheek and cups her face in her trembling hands. The next words come out of her mouth is Asshai’i. “Whenever you feel like this life is too much for you, light up a fire. Search for comfort in the flames. R’hllor is there always and you know it. Call and he shall come. Have faith always, Naera. Have faith.”

Naera’s face is drowned in tears, her mouth unable to speak. She nobs like a child of five in her mother’s arms. Daemon comes forward to separate the two. “Medea, it’s time,” he echoes the captain’s words. “You must leave now.”

“Yes, yes” she agrees, wiping the sorrow away from her face with the sleeves of her dress. She rubs her daughter’s cheeks with her fingers and kisses her forehead once more. “We love you. Your father and I. I hear his voice in my sleep. He loves you. I love you.”

Naera’s sobbing only gets stronger. Her mother withdraws from her and scrambles on the deck of the ship. She turns at Daemon, whose arms bring summary comfort to the weeping princess.

Last words of high valyrian come from the vessel, as it departs from the port.

“For the night is dark and full of terrors, Naera. But you are made of fire !”

Daemon clasps his niece in his embrace, who stares at the dark sea as it swallows the ship. A voice in the shadows echoes her mother’s prayers.

For the night is dark and full of terrors.

Chapter Text

The room smells of rot and incenses. The air is thick, heavy with strong scents of myrrh and burnt sage. Despite the maesters’ efforts, the King’s quarters reek of death and desolation. Day after day, life seeps out of Viserys’ black wounds.

Alicent is a faithful and leal wife to the King. When she’s not attending to the Small Council and dealing with the matters of the state or looking over her children and grandchildren, she comes to him. She sits in the armchair at his bedside and reads poetry, letters from his kins and friends, writes answers to them, sings songs he fancies. Her company distracts him from his suffering from a few hours. When he’s not awash with the milk of the poppy, he finds enough lucidity to enjoy her presence.

But today when she comes to her husband’s chambers, she hears sobbing coming from his bed. Alicent is startled. She rushes to his side and finds half of his face covered in tears.

“What is it my love ?” she inquires, reaching for his hand.

The King gathers enough strength to speak. His lips are trembling, agape enough to reveal rows of black rotten teeth. Rancid air escapes from his mouth, but Alicent pays no mind anymore. She is used to the smell of putridity.

“Aegon,” Viserys painfully mutters. “Aegon, my brother Aegon.”

Alicent’s face goes grimmer, rubbing the wrinkly and red skin of his hand. “Yes, your brother my love. Are you weeping for him ?”

Viserys nods yes in return, eye staring into the ceiling of his canopy bed. “I have failed him Alicent. I have failed my brother. Our mother would be heartbroken if she—”

“No, no,” the Queen consoles, voice calm and heartwarming. “Everything is fine Viserys. Your brother now rests in peace with your mother and father. You have never failed him.”

She spills words of reassurance in his mouth and he drinks them right away, ignoring that his brother’s blood is all over his wife’s hands. The same hands that are now bringing him so much comfort. “You have not failed Aegon,” she repeats. “You couldn’t go to the pyre and I know it still troubles you to this day. But Aegon has forgiven you, I am sure of it.”

“We must do something,” Viserys pants. “For his family. For my family. Do something Alicent.”

The way he speaks is jerky and unsure, words come out of his mouth with great difficulty. The Old King now lowers his gaze on his wife, begging her with his remaining eye to fulfill his wishes.

“My love,” Alicent bemoans. “Your brother’s wife Medea has left the Capital a few days ago. There is nothing we can do for her, she has chosen exile already.”

“What about his daughter ?” he answers in a clammy breath. “What about my niece ?”

“Daemon has taken her as his ward, she is to join him and your daughter Rhaenyra in Dragonstone,” the Queen reveals. “I have told you about that already.”

“Do something for my niece Alicent,” Viserys insists, grasping on the silken sheets. “Give her security.”

“Security ?” she echoes. “What are you thinking about my love ?”

“Marry her,” the King breathes out. “To one of our sons.”

Alicent straightens her spine on her gold studded red velvet armchair. She clears her throat to dispel her surprise. “But Daeron has left for Oldtown and there are discussions with Storm’s End for Aemond’s hand. None of our sons are—”

“What matters the most to you ?” Viserys snaps back, regaining bits of his majesty and authority. “My own kin ? My own wishes ? Or Borros Baratheon’s satisfaction ?”

After the surprise comes the denial. She has plots of her own and would not risk to see them fail because of a deadman’s wishes. Alicent knows very well what will follow her husband’s death. War. A coldblooded one. If she has not rallied enough allies by the time it finally comes, she will be crushed by her enemies. The Stormlands are the key to a stable defense of King’s Landing, an asset she is not ready to give up on already.

“An alliance with the Stormlands would benefit us more,” Alicent replies, facing her husband’s dark eye.

“Give Daeron to them then,” the agonizing monarch spits. “And give Naera a dragonlord able to protect her. Give her the protection and the comfort this crown has robbed her of.”

After Medea’s departure, servants came to empty her solars and give her smaller ones. She shared her wing with the princess Helaena and often overheard the laughs of her twins in the hallways. Her quarters were made for one person only, but they offered a great comfort. The intendant has filled the shelves with great books, changed the dull curtains to red and velvety ones, decorated her beds with black brocade sheets and covered the walls with fantastic tapestries. The main room displays scenes of dragonriders and the bedchamber has paintings and large needlepoints of exotic, heaven-like gardens. The ceiling rises tall above her head and a chandelier of black iron falls in the middle of the room, diffusing a dim and warm light at night.

These are quarters fit for a princess of the Seven Kingdoms, but once again they feel like a prison. Her father’s sworn shield keeps watch of her door at night. Edwyn Tarth was the son of Cameron Tarth, Evenstar under Jaehaerys I’s first rule. The knight had met Aegon Targaryen when he was just a child, when the latter journeyed to Evenfall Hall nearly two decades ago. When Viserys named his brother Hand, Edwyn travelled to the Capital and swore fealty to the prince. Aegon’s passing has devastated him — he finds honour and solace in serving his princess daughter.

The tall knight wears an armor carved into pure copper, that glistens under the light of the torches at night. He has light golden hair, reaching his neck and always retained by a thin tie of brown leather at the back of his head. He is handsome, valiant, clever and never leaves the Princess’ side.

Aemond has seen him many times walking in her shadow, opening the doors for her, bowing when she passes, smiling when she greets him or calls his name. He runs to her, plates of bronze clinking together and cape ivory coloured on his back as he moves.

He makes her impossible to reach. As the day passes, Aemond witnesses his eagerness to protect her grow and recalls of another Targaryen Princess, rumored to be in love with her sworn sword and it twists his guts. at night, he enrages in his featherbed, imagining the golden-haired guard stealing into her chambers and dropping fiery kisses on her skin.

It sickens him.

Aemond flees the Red Keep and the sight of the silver-haired hauntingly beautiful princess as much as he can. Every time his eye catches glimpse of her eerie beauty in the hallways, followed by her leal sworn shield, disgust and anger take over him.

Disgust. Anger. Loathing. Fear.

More like jealousy, yet it felt like treason to admit it.

His only solution was to run away from her and dispel the reminiscences of her hot lips pressed against his mouth, of his hands grasping the delightful roundness of her teats.

This morning, she is breaking fast alone on the small terrace her solars home. Edwyn stands in the frame of the arch, golden strands of hair twitching on his forehead in the breeze. He shares her sorrow and mourns Aegon as much as she does. Within these walls, the thirty years old knight is the only one that understands what she’s going through. It eases her heart, relieve his own from a burdening melancholy. They enjoy each other’s company and it makes duty a little less boring.

Daemon enters his niece quarters so fast the maids cannot announce his presence. He sits at the table with his niece and dismisses the guard with a glance. Edwyn stalks out of the terrace and Naera offers a cup of tea to her uncle, which he refuses.

“We must talk,” Daemon begins, eyes narrowing under the morning sun. “I have received word for Dragonstone. Rhaenyra’s labours will begin anytime from now.”

“So you must fly ?” Naera answers, sipping some of her favourite rose flavoured tea.

“Yes, Niece,” he answers, staring into the sea. “I will fly on Caraxes’ back to Dragonstone and assist my wife as she gives birth to our newborn babe.”

“What about me ? Shall I come with you ?”

Daemon grins and toys with a silver spoon. “You could, if you wished to. It would please your cousins I am sure of it, but for now I’d rather have you here. I will get your chambers readied. We must fill our library as well, I’m afraid the shelves of our home are rather empty compared to the Red Keep’s.”

The Rogue Prince chuckles and Naera thinks of him less of an heartless man and more of a loving, caring and mindful uncle. He doesn’t wish to rush her, nor troubled her peace. He wants to take time.

“I’ll get everything right,” Daemon resumes. “I want you to feel at home there.”

“King’s Landing is not my home Uncle,” she replies, lowering her gaze on her steaming cup of tea. “I am only a guest here.”

“We all are,” the prince snarls. “But still. Remain here for a bit less than a fortnight and join us in Dragonstone when I’ll send word to you. Rhaenys is here as well. I have already spoken to her. She will watch over you. If you need anything, come to her and no one else. Understood ?”

“Yes Uncle,” she assents. “Will Rhaenys fly to Dragonstone with me ?”

“I think so. She will greet her grandchildren before she returns to Driftmark. “In the meantime, be kind and obey to the Princess.”

“I will,” Naera agrees, eyes glinting in admiration.

Rhaenys was a woman drawn from a book, an heroin of bygone times. Targaryens often boasted and called themselves dragons, but the Queen-that-never-was was no dragon. She was a force of nature — strong and resilient, patient and honourable, esteemed and revered. Had she ruled over the Seven Kingdoms, the realm would have never known such uncertainty, such degrading intrigues. She would’ve have reigned over her queendom the same way she has reigned over her family : with love and justness.

Daemon rises from his chair and comes closer to his niece. He lands a hand on her frail shoulder, digging his fingers in her flesh.

“Stay safe,” he mutters. “I don’t trust your golden boy with your life. Write to me and I’ll come.”

“Do not worry Uncle,” Naera smiles, removing his hand from her back. “Everything will be fine. I’ll join you in Dragonstone in no time.”

“Yes, yes,” Daemon sighs, stepping back. “Until we meet again then.”

“Very soon. Safe flight my Prince,” his niece greet, bowing her head politely.

When she talks, Daemon hears his brother’s words. Rhaenyra is nothing like Viserys, Helaena neither. Rhaena and Baela, his own daughters, are nothing like him. But Naera is Aegon in the flesh of a younger, comelier woman. She shares her mother’s beauty and her father’s wits. Her heart is made of flames and her skin of dragon scales — a Targaryen from another age.

The Rogue Prince leaves the room, strands of silver moving at the nape of his neck. He paces through her solars and stops next to the guard at her door. “Do not fail her Edwyn, or else I will personally come for you,” Daemon whispers to the sworn sword, pouring venom into his ears. Edwyn the Evenstar nods, head tilting reluctantly. The prince’s threats are less harrowing than the thought of disappointing his protégée, but dreadful still. He returns at her side and they speak of nothing, but the weather and the book the princess in reading in the dead of night. His admiring teal eyes linger on her rosy lips as she speaks and he drinks the words out of it, in absolute devotion.

Daemon has gone for Dragonstone for three days already and Naera finds herself lonely in the Red Keep. She has not come for Rhaenys yet, judging that her presence would only trouble the princess. Instead, she has chosen to spend her afternoon in the Godswood, like she used to do in the old days.

The weirwood tree still stands tall and proud amidst the grass, white branches with black spots and scarlet leaves offering a welcoming shade. She retrieves her seat of roots and grass and bathes in the quietude of the place.

Edwyn has left her alone in her contemplation. His watch takes place in the hallways, under the tall arches of the red walls.

She has brought nothing today, not even a blanket or a book. The tree alone is a source of distraction. She listens closely to its whispers, leaves rustling against one another to throw words of wisdom in the wind. Naera struggles to catch them all — she doesn’t know the language of the Old Gods. R’hllor speaks to his believers with flames, talks in crackling.

Yet their presence is healing and calming. They welcome her, take the sorrows off her eyes and heart, caress her cheeks with a tepid breeze.

She sits alone for hours and does not care about the time that passes. Her mind wanders aimlessly, seeking comfort in her fond memories. Images of long-gone moments come to her mind. Medea and Aegon are both here, bursting out laughing in the gardens of Summerhall. Speaking words of love and comfort or just scolding her. She remembers their voices, their faces. Tears flood her vision when she thinks of her father’s face and finds it difficult to reassemble his features. His face begins to fade, to be inexact.

The thought of Aegon’s face vanishing in her memory wrecks her.

She wipes drops of salty water away from her eyes when she hears movement coming from the halls. Edwyn’s ringing voice breaks through the air and drags her out of her cogitation.

Ser Criston Cole sets a foot in the sacred sanctuary and the place withers in his presence. Even the wind refuses to move his rigid, obnoxiously white cloak. He has one hand wrapped around his helmet, the other resting over his sheathed sword. He stares at the silver-haired and barely greets her.

Edwyn peeks from the entrance of the Godswood, his gloved hand also curled around the hilt of his sword.

“Princess Naera,” the dark-haired kingsguard begins, voice sullen and pompous. “The Queen has requested your presence in her chambers.”

“Now ?”

The girl draws herself to her full height, twigs and dried blades of grass hanging from her embroidered red dress. She casts them all away with prompt swipes.

“Yes now,” Criston hisses. “Come with me.”

The white cloak flows on his way out and Naera reluctantly follows him. Edwyn walks on their tail, alert and attentive. One finger fluttering from her and he would cut the raven-haired head from Criston’s shoulders. But the short trip to the Queen’s apartments goes without bloodshed. Edwyn halts before her door and abandons his princess to the Greens.

Alicent and Rhaenys are sitting different settees, near a fire that burns bright in the hearth. When Naera comes in, they seem to be in the middle of a conversation. Their words are suspended in the air and they turn to the newcomer with glinting eyes.

“Naera !” Alicent greets, rising from her armchair to welcome her. “Please sit with us.”

The purple-eyed princess obeys and takes place on the sofa, next to Rhaenys. The latter addresses her a resigned smile. Naera understands that something very unpleasant is most likely to be heralded.

Yet Alicent overflows with enthusiast. The perspective of marrying her son to Aegon’s remaining daughter didn’t seem to enchant her as much days before, but a royal wedding was an excellent pretext to bring the folks together. Lords from the Seven Kingdoms would pour into the Great Hall to feast — a golden opportunity for her and the rest of her partisans to rally more to her cause. If the wedding was grand enough, she would be able to turn the tides in her favor. Her line would be forever bound to Daemon’s, limiting his every move towards the crown. Viserys’ plea for his niece wasn’t as useless as predicted. In fact, it was a godsend.

“I can only hope you have found some solace in your new quarters,” the Queen resumes, her expressive face displaying compassion. “I have thought of removing you from your father’s as a good idea. You must have terrible memories in them.”

“Indeed your Grace,” the girl replies, fiddling with the scabs around her nails. “It was a great relief.”

“Great,” she assents, lips elongating into a maternal smile. “The King and I have taken other precautions to make sure you are comfortable enough among us.”

“My Queen, such efforts are unnecessary. I appreciate yours and my uncle’s generosity, but I am to fly to Dragonstone within the next room. Surely you must have more urgent matters to attend,” Naera snaps back, adding a grin to her politeness.

“You will do no such thing. The King has decided otherwise.”

“The King ?” she echoes, eyes widening in disbelief. “May I know what is your Grace’s decision ?”

Rhaenys looks away. She already knows what words the Queen is about to utter. “My husband is restless knowing that you are in this world alone, without anyone to take care of you. He feels like he is failing your father in allowing that to happen. He wants to reward him for his leal services,” Alicent holds forth. “The King has decided of a wedding befitting your station.”

For a moment, it seems to her that the earth has stopped revolving around the sun, that the world around her has now sunken into the darkest night. Naera feels her heart stop beating in her chest. Silence takes over the room and makes the Green Queen’s words even more heavy on her ribcage. Alicent has spoken a death sentence. She is eight-and-ten, yet she has never considered marriage like a viable option for her. She was too much of a dreamer to imagine her life at some boring lord’s side, bearing his spineless children until she either dies in a blood bath or of old age. Both her parents were free spirits. Her mother was a priestess and her father a dragonrider — none of them had ever embraced the constraints of somebody else’s decisions regarding their love life. Aegon himself had never ventured around the subject with his daughter. Summerhall didn’t belong to him anyway, he had nothing to bequeath to his daughter apart from her freedom.

The poor girl searches for aid in Rhaenys’ eyes, but the Lady of Driftmark is just as helpless as she is. It takes an insane amount of strength and a lot of sangfroid for Naera to gather her spirits, and brings herself to ask for more insight.

“May I ask who the King has chosen for me ?”

The words scorch her throat and cast a great shadow over her gleaming lilac eyes. Alicent sips a bit of wine from her gold and crystal cups and the liquid stains her pinched lips with purple. The seven-pointed star pendant swings over her heart, obnoxious over her breast. Naera stares at the symbol and despises the vices it desperately tries to hide.

The same wine sullied and devious lips utter the unspeakable truth.

“His second son, the Prince Aemond.”

She hears his dreadful name and casts her tears back into the abyssal depths of her soul. The air goes rare and runs away from her lungs. Naera glances at the queen in her green attire and wishes to throw her out of the nearest window. Alicent looks so proud with her shimmering eyes, lavish jewels and puckered lips. It sickens her.

“When ?”

Emotion strikes her so hard she cannot find enough clarity to form correct sentences. It is Rhaenys that answers first and spares her of Alicent’s shrill voice. “The Crown is preparing a week of festivities in celebration. You shall be married before the end of the next moon.”

Naera immediately thinks of Daemon — has he agreed to all of this ? Certainly not, the Rogue Prince despised Viserys’ scions that were not Rhaenyra more that anyone of this earth. Aemond has claimed his late wife’s dragon on the day she was buried in her homeland. Aemond has defied his authority and insulted his stepsons. Aemond is everything he once were and regrets. Aemond is someone Daemon would refuse to have anywhere near his ward, these betrothals were not of his doing. Rhaenys didn’t seem to be a part of it either. She glares at the carpeted floors with absent eyes. The only one drawing satisfaction from all of this is the Queen herself.

The purple-eyed prince rises from her seat and stalks out of the room, ignoring the women’s calls. Edwyn startles when he sees her pearly eyes and wobbly expression. He follows her down the hallways and tears now freely run along her cheeks.

The knight is wreck by the sight of the sobbing princess. He still ignores what has filled her heart with so much sorrow it overflowed, but he wraps one arm around her shoulders as they walk, as a pitiful form of reassurance.

On their way to the princess’ solars, they meet a one-eyed prince.

Aemond casts a glance at his tearful betrothed and immediately understands what is happening. This is her reaction to all of his mother’s scheming.

Her weeping tears his fantasies to the ground and petrifies him where he stands. When Alicent told him about these betrothals, Aemond has felt relief first. Now she would be his forever. He would be free to feast on her delights, bring joy to her heart, cover her in gifts and kisses. She will be the apple of my eye, he has thought when his mother uttered the word wedding. This was an omen, a sign from the Seven themselves.

But here she is, running away from the truth in Edwyn Tarth’s arms.

Running away from him in her sworn shield’s arms.

Aemond burns with the urge of cutting the man’s throat with his dagger but resists his animality with all the might of his soul.

His lonesome eye stares at her, silver hair falling over her shoulders and lilac eyes drowning his despair. She glowers at him and it freezes his flesh all the way to the bones.

Naera, he calls with his mouth agape yet she does not halt.

Naera.

The Red Man stands at the edge of a precipice, his dark cloak floating in the wind. For once his face is uncovered, revealing his beaming crimson eyes and long braided fiery hair. The sky has embraced darkness, yet light emerges from the pit. She walks to meet him.

When she reaches his side, the eerie man wraps his arms around her and holds her tight. She smells the ashy, woody, rusty fragrances his coat contains, feels its roughness against her soft cheeks. It is made of an earthy material, something close enough to jute. Two large hands suntanned and calloused wrap around her shoulders and lull her whole being. Miraculously, the pain and the sorrow evaporate in the air and fly with the hot breeze.

“My child,” R’hllor begins. “Holy and resilient.” He raises her chin up and stares right into her soul, seeing through all the lives this one has accomplished before. “Come now. You must prepare.”

The Heart of Fire brings her closer to the edge, but this time he doesn’t let go of his embrace. Flames burn at the very bottom of the pit and surround a gigantic dragon, chewing on some bits of another dragon, way smaller than this one.

She looks more closely and notices that the predator is missing an eye. Its bronze scales gleam under the brasier and reveal greenish scales and one lonely and proud eye. The beast devours broken limbs relentlessly.

“Do you recognize her ?” R’hllor asks, pointing at the large dragon.

Naera nods, eyes glinting in fear. “Yes. It is Vhagar. The Conqueror.”

“Exactly. Are you scared of her ?”

“Yes, I am.”

“I know it child, I can feel it,” he continues. “You’re quivering.” He digs his fingers in the flow of her silver hair, unbound and free to dance in the air. “Don’t be. You and Vhagar are my children alike. Why would you be afraid of one of your sisters ? Why would you be afraid of your own kin ?”

“My kin ?” Naera echoes, struggling to grasp the truth of it all. The Red Man has always spoken in riddles, but this one is a code she cannot crack. “How could I ever be related to Vhagar ? She’s a century years old beast.”

“And I’m as old as the universe is,” he interrupts. “Yet here I stand with you by my side. Time is a feeble thing, but I am not.” R’hllor brings his face closer down, resting his forehead against hers. “I have birthed dragons, Naera. I have birthed their masters. I have birthed Valyria. I have birthed the Targaryens. But all have forsaken me. Forgotten me.”

The eternal fire sighs, breath of pure heart winding up her face. “But not you. Out of all my children, you are the only one that recognizes me. You have chosen me.”

All mighty R’hllor steps back, hair loose in the warm wind. “And for that reason, I will always choose you.”

For the first time in years, she emerges from her dream without any terror. Quite the contrary, she would have gladly remained at the edge of the pit and stared at the flames for long days and long nights, if it meant she could escape this dreadful reality. The days separating her from her wedding were few now.

When she wakes up and walks into the main room, she finds Edwyn of Tarth asleep on a chair near the entrance door. He rests with his head tilted down and hands wrapped around his sheathed sword. The princess touches his shoulders and the knight shivers, ocean coloured eyes widen open.

“Princess ?” he startles, scrambling to get on his feet. “I must have dozed off, I am sorry, it won’t hap—”

“Ser Edwyn, do not worry. Everything is fine. You should go and get some rest,” Naera answers, a soft smile adorning her drowsy face. “I must meet with the tailor, it will probably last for a few hours. In the meantime, get some sleep.”

The golden haired sworn sword runs his fingers along his copper beard. “Are you sure ? I don’t like to leave you alone.”

“What could happen ? The tailor will stab me with his scissors ? Plant his needles in my skin ? Strangle me with fabric and ribbons ?” she laughs, holding the door open. “Don’t be silly, I do not need your services today. Rest and enjoy a rich meal, visit the streets, go for a walk.”

He sighs, quite reluctant to the idea of abandoning his protégée to that pack of hounds. Yet she seems confident today and the poor knight know how stubborn she is, likeness of her father before her.

Naera and Aegon shared the same fiery temperament — bold and proud, clever and adventurous. Dragon fire burned bright in their loins, animated their souls and dictated their demeanors. They were unapologizing, unchanged, unbent.

After the routine of swarming and busy maids washing her body and attending to her hair, she slips her body into a sheer under garment. It is thin enough to go under the rough drafts of dresses the tailor will bring along and thick enough to protect her modesty. The days before a royal wedding were usually preceded by fastidious preparations. While the servants build tables and benches in the Throne Hall, decorate its pillars and tall arches, the tailors were busy dressing the betrothed for the celebrations.

Rhaenys enters the room with the team of skilled tailors. Meanwhile they display their instruments and ready themselves for the seance, the Lady of Driftmark reaches for her younger cousin and greets her with a kind and reassuring smile.

“How are you holding on ?” she inquires, a caring hand tucking a wild strand of hair behind her ear. “Any answers from Daemon yet ?”

“None,” the girls bemoans. “I have wrote half a dozen letters already. What about you ?”

“Same as you. All of them unanswered,” Rhaenys replies. “Perhaps something is keeping your uncle busy in Dragonstone. We must be patient.”

“I’m running out of any patience,” Naera snaps back, not really controlling her own insolence. “I’ll be married in less than seven days.”

The poor girl looks down to her feet, realizing the truth of it all. Seven days. A meager amount of time separating her from a fate she has not chosen. From marrying Aemond Targaryen, the One-Eye.

Naera thinks of R’hllor’s words and feels her heart sink into her chest.

“And for that reason, I will always choose you.”

Is this how you are putting me first ? she thinks, redirecting her hatred and resentment at whoever she can. But in truth, apart from a dying king and a plotting queen, there is no one else to blame for that cruel punishment. Not even Aemond himself.

The prince is also going through his own share of trials and tribulations. In another chamber of the Red Keep, he stands on a small stool as well, chest bare under the morning light. His mother is in the room, directing the team of tailors in charge of his own attire for the wedding. They unroll large sections of refined fabrics, all in different hues of green and black. They press the materials against his face and see how good it looks against his skin, if it matches the sapphire colour of his lonely eye.

Alicent leads them. The Queen is renowned for her distinct elegance and southern refinement. Under her yoke, Maegor’s Holdfast has become a brighter place. Ivy decorations were engraved in the pillars and the cornices, the tapestries were changed for more lavish ones and the gardens rearranged to her liking, garnished with countless varieties of plants and flowers.

Her great tastes are the only thing saving Aemond from heading to that ceremony in his leather cloak and riding attire. What a fine dragonriders wedding it would make, the prince thinks to distract himself from the horrendous truth.

The tailor is busy measuring his every limbs but Aemond pays no attention to him, or to his instructions. He mechanically raises his arms when asked to, his body responsive to the orders. Nevertheless, his erratic mind is elsewhere, daydreaming of a dazzling purple-eyed princess. Once, she has taken pride in her indifference, sought refuge in her cold-blooded nature to repel his every tentatives to get closer. But now, she has given up battling for freedom. She has surrendered to her fate — without for all that accepting it entirely.

He remembers the sight of her pretty face distorted by sadness and resignation, in the arms of her obnoxious sworn sword. The way tears of despair painted her rosy cheeks and robbed her of any dignity left. In that moment, she was not a dragon — just a wounded animal, crying for help and begging for mercy.

Aemond has not laid his eye on her since that day. It has been more than a week now. His heart cracks a bit more everything he realizes he is the cause of her misery, the very token of her desperation. In seven days, she’ll become his wife and he’ll become her life sentence.

It sickens him, brings revulsion to the verge of his lips. He wants to seize the tailor’s wrist and twist it until it breaks, then run to Vhagar and fly across the sky until he reaches a place nowhere to be found. Far from the din of this godforsaken stronghold, from its intrigues and schemes, from the power and the duties. From everything that binds him to these tall stone towers.

Since he was a boy, Aemond always nursed a keen interest for his younger cousin. She was born two years after him and although he barely remembers their early years together, he recalls his first time in Summerhall very well. He was just a child of five back then, playing around in the garden with the nurses and their mothers. They bathed in teal coloured ponds of tepid waters until sunset, feasted on cakes and fruits of all kinds, played hide and seek for hours in the orchards. He reminisces of how sweet and delightful the life used to be in Summerhall and wonders if she misses it all. Perhaps I should take Naera there, he suggests to himself, perhaps I should make our estate out of Summerhall. Perhaps yes, she would blossom in her homeland and find solace in the evergreen meadows loaded with riches of the earth, bask in the warmth of the sun and revel in the joy of their lives. Perhaps she would carry his children there, away from the dangers of the Court and they will enjoy the same blessed childhood as hers.

Certainly, it is a wonderful idea — but it is also a folly.

Aemond returns to reality when the tailor mistakes his pale skin for a piece of fabric and drives a sewing needle in his flesh, drawing a sole drop of blood.

“Apologies my Prince,” the skilled craftsman mumbles, panicking when he meets a lonely violet eye.

“Are you done here ?” Aemond hisses, raising a brow.

“My son, you must be patient,” his mother scolds from across the room. “Everything must be perfect and perfect things require time.”

“Surely Mother, such a talented artisan like Goodwill here has enough materials and measurements to work on my garments,” the prince mutters, stepping down from the stool and reaching for a shirt as he rivets his gaze on the tailor. “Don’t you ?”

“The prince is right your Grace, I have enough. I should get to work now,” he answers, scrambling to gather his instruments and throwing handful of them in his working chest.

Before his mother can utter any words of protest, Aemond stalks out of the room, his shirt barely tied up. He cares little for his exposed skin and hastens his walk towards his quarters.

The Grand Maester crosses the threshold of the chamber that the tailor has recently deserted, only to find the queen contemplating the sea from the balcony. He comes to her with hands full of letters, sealed with turquoise and red wax.

“As request my queen,” Maester Orwyle engages, cupping a few rolled papers in his palms. “Here are all the missives we have intercepted. If you wish to read their content.”

“All intercepted on their way to Dragonstone, is that right ?” she inquires. “Are you sure that none of them has reached Daemon ?”

“None my Queen, I am sure of it.”

“Good,” she assents. “Now throw them into the fire and do the same for the next ones, without exception.” She brings her mouth closer to the clergy man, thus allowing more secrecy. “The prince Daemon must not find out about his niece’s marriage until it’s done. Surely, you understand Grand Maester.”

The latter nods, executing the queen’s will as he empties the content for his hands into the flames. “Understood, your Grace.”

Edwyn has obeyed her commands — this evening, he is not standing before her door to watch her every move. She promises herself to thank him in the morning, but for now, she has decided to get some fresh air. Since her little hideout in the Godswood became too obvious, she has found another refuge within the Red Keep’s walls. She climbs down the stairs and crosses the small cloistered court leading to the dark room, where the skull of Balerion rests among the candles. Crawling out of the immense crypt, a narrow corridor weaves in the darkness and comes out on a secret balcony, giving a view over the city south of the King’s way.

The place is deserted, for it is known by few. She usually comes her when she is craving for some fresh air and the sight of the stars, clear and proud and scattered on the sky.

King’s Landing is majestic at night, spreading along the coasts and into the land. The torches of the streets light the city ablaze and from where she stands, she can hear the life teeming in the alleys. Smells of spices and salt fill the air and her lungs. She leans against the stone made balustrade and lets the wind caress her face and make her unbound hair dance. The air is chillier than expected, but its freshness only relaxes her more.

She revels in the peace of it all and thinks of nothing, but of her god. Mighty and mysterious, warm and comforting. She remembers of a time where she used to be frightened of him and dread his apparitions. Now, it’s different. Every time he visits her dreams, she feels safer. Hints of his presence in her daily life, like a flickering candle or vivid flames in the hearth dissipate her fears and ease her terror. R’hllor breathes strength into her lungs, resilience into her heart, clarity into her mind. She murmurs his name and she is stronger with each minutes passed.

Yet, there are things she struggles to understand. Trials and tribulations keep coming for her, unrelenting and merciless. The night she’s in is endless and she wonders if it’s worth it to keep fighting it. Embrace the flames Naera, her mother used to say, and never fear the shadows ever again.

Days before, she would have cried at the simple thought of her mother but now, she refuses to let the tears escape her eyes. She refuses to show weakness to anyone, including the night itself.

“Ser Arryk told me I might find you here.”

Naera turns round and meets a violet eye lurking in the darkness of the hallway. Aemond emerges from the secret passage, leans against the doorframe with his never ending nonchalance and crosses his arms over his chest. He stares into her face and she doesn’t flinch before him — he is the first to look away.

She is fiercer now than she has ever been. Aemond notices the intense, unwavering light in her lilac eyes, so pale they are closer to periwinkle than they are to purple.

“Now you send you sworn swords to spy on me ?”

Her tongue clicks and hisses like a serpent’s, spitting venom with her mouth. The prince is not insensitive to her insolence, he knows it very well — usually, her impudence is a distraction from her distress. It is a shield she raises between her and those she despises.

“No,” Aemond denies, scratching the space between his frowning brows with the tip of his index. He drops both his arms and steps out of the darkness once and for all. “I have simply asked him a question, to which he answered.”

A pair of defiant irises land on his face and break apart his calm and bravery. He forces himself to face the full extent of her anger and resists the urge to return to the shadows from hence he came. “Truth be told, I was worried about you,” Aemond resumes, losing his eye into the conteplation of the city. He leans against the fence next to her and stares at this land that will never be his.

“Worried ?” she echoes, voice barely hiding her contempt. “I thought you were incapable of such sentiments. Compassion and empathy are two things you suck at.”

Crude words are unleashed over him and he is crushed by their cruelty, like a ship amidst a storm. He gulps painfully, swallowing his pride in the same swig. “And yet, I was worried.”

And I was feeling for you, he wishes to add, but she is preying on every of his replies like a vulture, awaiting to make a feast out of a wounded animal. She threatens him with her claws and beak and he feels like a kill, guts exposed and ready to die. She is a dragon with drooling fangs and a thirst for blood. Devour me, he thinks. Swallow me whole.

Naera stares into his eye and makes him regret Lucerys has not taken the both of them. She pierces through its sapphire coloured surface and sounds the depths of his soul. He is willing to let her in, to let her peek at the fire she has lit in his loin. Let her witness the desolation and the misery her beauty has doomed him to. She stares and stares and never wince, never bat an eye.

Yet, the one-eyed prince notices her shoulders quivering and her cheeks red. Gusts of cool twilight wind cut the skin of her face and cause her body to tremble. He removes his coat and wraps it around her frail frame.

“What are you doing ?” she scolds, landing her tense hands on his chest in a sign of protest. Her touch ignites the flames that consume him, but Aemond tries his best not let them unravel.

“Keeping you warm. Taking care of you,” he mutters. “As it is expect of me now, my betrothed.”

My betrothed.

The word itself is unspeakable, unthinkable. Yet it is the dreadful truth of it, they were betrothed and soon to be married before the eyes of the Seven Gods. Bind with one another until the end of times.

When she hears the ominous word, her eyes glinting in something close to wrath and indignation. It rings in her ears, like the sound of the seven trumpets heralding the end of all days. It is the end of all days truly, for she will never have the freedom to do anything again. She will be shackled to this one-eyed prince she dreads and desire at the same time, and she will never be complete ever again. She will never be happy ever again.

They’ll drag her in a splendid attire of pearls, gems and silk before the altar and wrap their hands with the same strip. The Septon would recite alien prayers, that aroused no faith nor devotion her heart. He would speak of a mother and a father she does not recognize, of a crone and a maiden she has never known, of a warrior and a smith she will never revere. Mostly, he will speak of the terrible Stranger that all mortals fear, and she will not kneel before him. Naera doesn’t fear death, she fears the eternal night.

His fingers are curled up tightly around her shoulders, holding the cloak in place. With every breath, she smells its leathery and ashy scent. It is close to something she knows, to a cloth of crimson and maroon tailored in the roughest material. Aemond’s coat smells of leather and fire, of dragon and freedom. Just like R’hllor’s.

He glances at her sullen expression and wonders what thoughts her head harbours and keep the jabs out of her lips. She doesn’t weep, nor wail but she looks sad for sure. His throat runs dry of any water, his lungs collapse in his chest and a searing pain flares through them. A tamed dragon stands before his eye and he doesn’t enjoy the sight of it.

My betrothed has robbed her eyes of their precious light. Aemond quivers at the thought of seeing her so unhappy and miserable every day of his life. Nothing seems to ease her pain. She’s numb to his touch, unresponsive to his silent supplications.

“Shall I accompany you back to your apartments ?” he inquires, voice all low and soft.

“No,” she mumbles weakly. “I want to stay here.”

“The sun has set and it is cold out there, get inside and stay warm.”

“We’re not married yet. Do not think you can so easily command me,” Naera protests, pulling back from him and throwing his leather coat at his face.

The prince scrambles to catch it mid air. There it is, the wild spirit.

“Go away !” she cries, holding back the tears in her eyes. “Go away and don’t come to me ever again !”

And there it is, the pure crystalized wrath, the resentment, the hatred. Aemond stares in silence and struggles to keep the pieces together. He wants to kneel before her and begs for her forgiveness, beg for her love, beg for her respect, beg for her devotion, beg for anything she has to offer.

Her lilac eyes are like daggers cutting into his flesh. She grits her teeth like an animal ready to unhinge its jaw and squeezes her fingers in the palm of her hands, tightening her fists. Anger distorts her delicate features and she turns into a beast of flames.

“Naera,” the boy desperately bemoans, uttering her name like a prayer. “Naera please, don’t say this.”

“Go away and fuck whatever you can ! I’ll never let you have me, never !” she keeps on cursing. “I’ll never let your vile hands get anywhere near my body, you hear me ? I’ll never bear your children, I’ll never be your wife.”

He crosses the line she has drawn between them in an attempt to calm her, but she smacks his head aside and draws blood from his mouth.

Hands that have once healed in flesh now wounded it. Aemond wipes the crimson out of his milky skin and grasps both her wrists. Now his eye burns with the same anger.

“Do not forget yourself,” he spits, pouring disdain all over her. But the silver-haired princess does not shudders, nor do her eyes. She locks her gaze in his and returns the contempt back to the sender. “Or what ?” She responds, sowing provocation. “What will you do ?”

The Gods’ coin has flipped — she does not stands on the side of greatness anymore. Naera now reveals the intoxicating extent of her madness, blood of the dragon boiling in her veins and awakening long lost demons. Aemond has his own folly to deal with.

He fastens his grip around her frail wrists, digging his nail so deep into her flesh it stings like blades poking through her skin. He doesn’t care about her pain anymore, or about her distress. She is a bratty and spoilt child, never restrained by anything, never taught to obey. A stranger to duty and honour, although she gladly used it once or twice to escape his advances. Now that he is the duty, she has become rebellious and rogue.

Like her uncle has been before her.

In her maddest moments, she is not Aegon, she is Daemon Targaryen. Eyes gleaming in unbound flames and a contemptuous grin adorning her lips, for the first time in her life she is the one drawing satisfaction from the distress of the one-eyed prince.

For the first time ever, she has become his equal.

“What will you do ?” she insists, bringing her face closer to his and he is petrified where he stands. She is not insolent anymore, she is venomous.

His most primal desires oscillate between throwing her off the balcony and tearing her gown open to claim what’s his before it’s given by the Gods. He wants her to know what it costs to enrages the dragon. Show her he has the sharpest fangs. The hottest flames. The deadliest touch.

“What will you do ?” she echoes again, mouth articulating every word. “Tell me ?”

Aemond stares into her eyes and his own is filled with rage, ready to drown the mad princess into the consequences of her impudence. But he knows that if he yields to his darkest urges, it will be result in a tragedy.

The One-Eye steps back and free her lithe body of his control.

One last glare at her and he returns into the shadows.

She relishes the intoxicating taste of victory for long minutes. Tonight she has vanquished her enemy, destroyed his defenses, brought him to surrender. Yet the way he has glared at her before vanishing into the narrow passage was not capitulation — it was the rawest form of pain. Her hatred scorches his flesh, gnaws his loins, devour his heart and as he paces up and down the castle, the Street of Silk and this miserable city all at once he blames it on her pretty face. He hops on dragonback and blames it on her bewitching, dazzling face.

For she must be a witch, like her mother before her. An enchantress made of fire and blood, chanting words that are poison to the soul, shackles to the limbs. In the daylight, she is a ravishing creature but as soon as the night comes, she is the beast that looms in the darkness of his bedchambers, like a bird of doom.

He despises her. She sickens him.

The sway she has over his whole existence is a malediction. She is the first and last of her kind. A winged plague descending from the skies. Dangerously cunning, empowered by sorrow and desperation. A witch on dragonback, thirsty for blood.

A dragonwitch.

Chapter Text

The night is cold, dark and full of terrors.

All things are asleep in the Red Keep. Naera is sleeping in her silken covers, carefree in her rest. Aemond has surrendered to sleep after hours of insomnia and regrets. The torches burn bright in the hallways and the guards stand steady and alert before the doors of their sworn ladies or lords. Every single soul has surrendered to the serenity the dead of night offers.

Alone in his room, the King Viserys passes away.

A final breath escapes his rotten mouth and disperse into the air. What was left of the Peaceful is gone and with him, another son of Baelon leaves this earth. After nearly a decade of suffering, Viserys succumbs to disease and joins his forebears in their halls bathed in light. When he returns to his parents, wife, brothers and children high in the heavens, he is young and intact all over again. Up here, he only knows felicity and grace, slowly forgetting about his daughter Rhaenyra left in the turmoil. His descendants will fight for the Crown until the very end, but Viserys is too far gone now to think about it.

Talya, the leal servant of the Queen Alicent brings the news first to the latter. The woman bursts out in tears and her maid helps her get dressed. Dawn arrives and the green monarch sits with her Lord Hand, as well as the members of her Small Council before the sun rises. Tyland Lannister jokes about the early hour and pretends Dorne has invaded the South.

But Alicent soon shares the dreadful news of the death of her husband and king, and the assembly goes silent. Only Otto Hightower is willing enough to break the ice with a speech, solemn and saddened. Otto does not weeps for the dead king. Secretly he is delighted, his plots and intrigues will finally come into fruition. His fellows betray the plans that have been made over the course of the few months.

There is discord lurking in the room. Alicent is disgusted by the plots of her father, aiming to destroy Rhaenyra and Lord Beesbury insists on the vileness of the scheme. Criston Cole slams his head on the table, thus slaying the old man. Lord Commander Westerling resigns.

In the span of a few instants, the Small Council is already short of two members. Alicent commands that honourable terms are sent to Rhaenyra on Dragonstone, while they will prepare to crown Aegon King of the Seven Kingdoms.

The meeting ends and Alicent runs to her sons’ apartments, only to find them empty. The hour is quite early still, so she rushes to Helaena’s next.

Naera has joined her cousin earlier this morning, to break fast and help her with the twins. Helaena is kind enough not to remind her of her imminent marriage. She knows very well how it feels to be wed to someone you dread — she has bare three of the prince’s children already and done what was expected of her, without a protest. Yes she would be crowned Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, but still, what is a crown in a joyless, loveless life ? What is power without meaning ?

Helaena embroiderers an handkerchief while Naera reads a story out loud. Alicent storms into the room, wild ringlets of mahogany surrounding her panicked expression. She practically ignores Naera and sits at her daughter’s side.

“Where is Aegon ?” she demands, still panting. “Where is your husband ?”

Helaena is startled by the tone of her mother’s voice. The menacing silhouette of Otto Hightower takes shape in the doorframe. Naera turns to him, eyes burning bright with disdain and resentment. This man has always raised suspicion and mistrust in the girl’s heart. She could feel it in her core — this mad was evil made flesh.

“I don’t know !” the champagne princess confesses. “I have seen him since yesterday.”

The Queen Regent exchanges a concerned look with her father the Hand. She reaches for her daughter’s hands, but the latter refuses her. Naera questions what she sees and wonders where Helaena’s defiance towards her mother comes from. Her gesture was everything but anodyne.

The silver-haired princess feels like an intrude amidst kins that aren’t her. She rises from the cushioned bench and calmly paces across the room. When she reaches the threshold, Otto steps aside, greeting her with one of cold, hypocrite smiles. She doesn’t return the favour on her way out.

Aemond comes in her direction in the hallway, dressed in his usual attire. His leather doublet glistens under the light of the torches, white and sleek hair bouncing on his shoulder as she paces up the corridor. His eye is lowered, elusive, dark and gloomy. Something terrible has happened, she can feel it in her guts.

Naera curls her fingers around his arm and he stops where he stands, silent and dreary. Perhaps yesterday’s conversation has upset him — but Aemond wasn’t the kind of prince to let emotions rule his demeanor. He was calm and composed, a self-satisfied smirk sitting on his lips. Not sullen and sad.

His muscles are stiff under his dark green shirt, she can feel them tense to her touch. In the tongue of their forebears, she asks what is wrong. High Valyrian was only spoken by the Targaryens, which made it a practical tool to discuss private matters when indiscreet ears were around.

At first, he ignores her question. She brings herself before him and tilts her head upwards to meet his eye. The beam that dwells in here flickers, weavers, dances on a shiny and pearly surface. There is a tear in his eye, faint and subdued. She drops her hand down to capture his fingers and comfort them with some warmth.

“My father is gone,” Aemond answers in the tongue of the dragonlords. “The King has passed.”

Naera stands with her mouth agape. The prince pulls away from her, passes next to her without a word and disappears into his sister’s chambers. The door is closed by Criston Cole on the way in and she’s left outside, like a stray dog.

She is not part of that family. She is betrothed to him yes, but she is not a part of their clan.

She walks in the halls, on her way back to her solars and ponders on the question. A Princess of Summerhall, orphan and without a land, promised to a prince of the Seven Kingdoms to save her future and reputation. The daughter of the former Hand of the King, the granddaughter of Baelon the Brave. She was all those things, yet no one has ever truly shown respect to her.

She is a woman. Respect has to be earned, it is not given. For every share of grace won came an equal part of disgrace. Rhaenyra was the Realm’s Delight to some and Maegor with Teats to others. Rhaenys was the Queen that should have been to some and the Queen that never was to others. Medea was the prodigious red woman to some and the witch whore to others.

It was the way of things. In a world of men, womanhood is a curse and it has always been.

When she finally retrieves the solace of her solars, she finds the place empty of any presence. There is not a single breathing soul in the hall, only Edwyn of Tarth before her door. He stands near the entrance with his white cape and adorned armor, the colour of copper under the flaming torches.

“Princess,” he bows as he opens the door for her. “Well slept ?”

“Good morrow Ser Edwyn,” she greets before she walks in. “Come in and close the door.”

Edwyn notices her concerned expression and obeys her command. The door is closed and the faithful knight reaches for the middle of the room, dropping his helmet on the occasional table.

She lands her hands on sideboard, leaning on it to unleash her frustration with her arms tense. The golden-haired ser witnesses her dismay, her anxiety. He begins to understand what might have happened.

She turns to him in a storm of silver braids.

“The King is dead.”

Aemond spends the night pacing up and down the city searching for Aegon, with Ser Criston Cole by his side. They clean out the taverns of the lower levels, the brothels as well and every kind of depraved establishments they come across. But the runaway is nowhere to be found.

As they stride in the streets, Aemond enunciates all the reasons for which he should be king instead of his brother. All of them more valid than the simple fact that Aegon came out of their mother’s womb a few years before him. He walks in Daemon’s shoes and his mouth is filled with a sour, bitter aftertaste.

Now more than ever, Aemond Targaryen understands what it means to be a second son.

“The eldest shits and the cadet wipes,” Criston used to say as an insult, when they were training together in passed times. It almost sounds like a prophecy in this very moment. The irony of it all.

Aegon storms out of the Great Sept before their eyes. Criston draws his sword and fights one of the Cargyll twins in front of the doors.

Aemond leaps on his brother like a predator on a prey. The latter responds with some vehement blows, peppering his struggle with words of protests.

“I have no taste for duty !” the silver-haired, depraved prince wails. “I’m not suited !”

But the one-eye prevails and slams Aegon’s head against the dirt. He lowers his intense glare on his brother, sobbing at the mercy of his claws.

“You’ll get no argument from me.”

Aegon is brought back to the Red Keep and Alicent lands a kiss on Aemond’s cheek as a reward. Compared to a crown on his head, a bit of his mother’s affection seems very meager and pale. Yet, that is all he shall receive. As soon as he can, Aemond removes his presence from the room, sparing himself the elongated speeches of their royal mother.

His solitary walk leads him to his solars, where he only finds quietude and comfort. His limbs and face are aching and bruised from the fighting, his legs are sore from the tireless researches and his mind, completely laid low.

Aemond leans over the copper coloured washbasin, shirt stained with blood. He removes it and notes the scale of the damages. The marks of his brother’s resistance are visible on the skin of his chest. Hint of purplish-blue run along his ribs, chin and jaw, ominous evidence of Aegon’s reluctance to rule. Aemond’s fingers tighten their grip around the sides of the basin when he thinks of how easy it would have been to erase his brother off the map, seize the crown for himself, fight that war himself.

What is Sunfyre compared to Vhagar ? What is a lanky idle dragon compared to a century old conqueror ? And most of all, what is a despicable man like Aegon compared to a competent, wise, composed man like him ? He ponders on the question for a handful of seconds more and his own cowardice sickens him. Had he taken this opportunity, like many would have done in his place, he would be crowned king tomorrow morning. He would have something important, something irresistible to offer to his precious Naera. He would have placed a crown upon her gracious head and worshipped her like the queen she deserved to be. Loved by all, but by him before anyone else.

She has a face like no other — eyes and face and lips and nose that could’ve brought Aemond down to his knees, with the blood of his kin sullying his hands. With his bloody, sinful fingers he would place a crown upon her head and together, they would rule as one, wise and good, feared and respected. A love like Aegon and Rhaenys’, a century ago

“Does she know what she has done to me*”*, he wonders out loud, confessing his sinful thoughts to the silence of his room. The one-eyed stares at his reflection in the mirror and finds a sapphire were his eye used to be. “Does she know what I could have done for her ?”

The image on the glass matches the movement of his lips, but never offers an answer. He washes his injuries with cold water and glances at the blood sinking down the drain. He thinks of healing, enchanting hands taking his pain away with every caress. He recalls of wild strands of silver flying in the air, coming to his face with their softness. He reminds of a tearful princess curled up in his arms, crying the life out of her on his shoulders. He remembers her fierce lips setting his guts ablaze, her quivering fingers lost in his hair. He remembers her poisonous tongue uttering cruel words. He remembers her grasp over his arm earlier this day, her determined and willful eyes and the gentleness of her voice.

Contradictions and riddles.

That is what she is made of. He cannot understand her, nor what she wants, nor what she feels. One day she wants his head on a spike, the next she wants to wear out her lips against his mouth. She is an enigma. Every word she speaks adds up to her mystery, like another entry to her code.

And as much as he wants to decipher it, he will not pay the price in blood.

The reflection in the mirror is wiser than he is, more cold-headed and thoughtful. The reflections knows things he ignores. The reflection has accepted the unthinkable truth already.

With Viserys gone, King’s Landing has become a battlefield, the Red Keep a tomb. Tomorrow, Aegon will be crowned king before the masses and anointed in the Dragonpit, thus defying their father’s death wish. War is upon them, menacing and terrible like a demon creeping in the shadows. Dragons against dragons, brothers against sister.

He can easily imagine his uncle Daemon, sitting in his ancestral seat in Dragonstone when the news comes to him. How he will grow bloodthirsty and merciless when envoys will report the usurpation of Rhaenyra’s throne. Would he cut their heads off their shoulders like he has done weeks before to Vaemond Velaryon ? Aemond wonders what his ignominies his uncle is capable of. How far in massacre and chaos he is willing to go.

For the One-Eye is ready for battle. He has waited for this all his life. Just like Vhagar, he is a conqueror, a lone wolf hungry for blood and glory. Soon, war will come and set the realm ablaze.

Yet he doesn’t want her to stand amidst the flames, to be a his mother’s prisoner here in the Capital. Daemon will come to him soon enough, but Naera will not be the reason of his arrival.

Revenge will. For it has always been revenge that has driven him.

Aemond will come for what’s owed.

An eye for an eye.

Edwyn has left more than an hour ago, to scout in the hallways and harvest some details about the situation in the castle. So far, the knight has given no sign of life.

She has thus dedicated her evening to the most sacred art Medea has taught her. Red priests and priestesses use fire as a vessel, as a repository of their Lord’s message. It is said that it brings all the adepts together, that it connects the voices of those who have gone and those who are ready to listen. It is for that reason that the fire is revered in their culture — it is the undying bond that keeps all the knowledge, all the truths that men would’ve forgotten by now. In Asshai, many practiced the art of fire scrying. It is a powerful way to take a glimpse of events to come draw insight from events past.

Dreams come to her with an off-putting facility, yet her scrying skills are uncertain to say the least. This art required years of devoted practice before it could provide satisfying results. But time is running out and there is enough will, enough determination in her heart that she convinces herself she will succeed.

She kneels before the flames in the hearth and scrutinizes their undulating shapes. Her steady hands rise in the heat over the brasier and she recites the words with a great fervor, in the tongue of the shadows.

“Lead me from the darkness O my Lord. Fill my heart with fire so I may walk your shining path. R’hllor, you are the light in my eyes, the fire in my heart, the heat in my loins,” she calls, breathing her litany into the flames. “Yours is the sun that warms my days, yours the stars that guard me in the dark of night. Yours is the undying knowledge, yours the light that you cast upon the truth. O R’hllor, come to me.”

It seems to her that the flames now have a will of their own, as if they were animated by eerie forces. Their crackling sounds like a language, like inaudible whispers. Omens hide in the shades of red, blue and orange, escaping from her discernment.

She abandons the rigidity of traditional prayers and addresses the ardent embers with more sincerity.

“You have told me many times before that should I require your help, I shall call you by your name,” she responds to the sizzling murmurs. “Therefore I call you R’hllor.” She casts a faltering gaze over each of her shoulders, feeling a strange sensation, like a growing shadow, crawling behind her back. “The night is dark R’hllor and more than never, full of terrors.”

She stares into the flames and her poor eyes are getting sore. She starts to see blindspots of colour and the heat burns the skin of her hands. “Fire cannot kill a dragon,” she mumbles. “Fire cannot kill me.”

And it is true, the fire only licks the surface of her palms without damaging her flesh. Its touch his superficial, but hurtful all the same.

“Come on R’hllor…,” she pleads with her eyes riveted on the hearth. “You’ve said to call. Where are you ?” Naera begins to fluster, to grow impatient and frustrated. “What is the point of saying all those things, to say I am the chosen one if it means that you’ll never come ? What is the point of praying if you never answer ?”

Rustling flames and sputtering are the only response she receives to her supplications. And before she can renew her demand, the door opens behind her and draws her out of her séance.

Edwyn appears in the arched doorframe, panting and sweat thick on his forehead.

“Princess,” the golden-haired man declares, catching his breath. “I have been to Rhaenys, as you asked.”

“What news of the princess ?” the young girl inquires, rising from the floor and walking to meet him.

Edwyn sighs and lowers his gaze to his boots. “There is no guard in front of her door, but I have come to understand that her quarters are locked for now.”

“Locked ? Who gave the order ?”

“The Queen, my Princess” Edwyn responds. “This morning at dawn. According to the maids, she has reportedly visited the princess earlier this afternoon.”

Naera paces back and forth in the room, before the chimney. The fire casts her shadow over the richly decorated walls. Edwyn stands still, hand toying with the pommel of his glorious sword. His blue eyes glare at the princess, hungry for answers and commands.

“This can’t be good. They are up to something,” the stormlander holds forth. “I have heard that they have found Aegon as well.”

The silver-haired princess stops and turns to him, raising a skeptical brow. “Aegon was lost ?”

“Yes, his brother has retrieved him. Rumors spread of Prince Aemond, beating his brother black and blue before the doors of the Great Sept. Aegon’s face is all bruised for his coronation,” Edwyn laughs. “A great way to start his rule, indeed.”

“Aegon is an usurper and his rule a silly farce,” Naera interrupts. “My cousin’s crown is just as shallow as his head. They are not preparing for a coronation, but for a masquerade. And we’re caught in all of this.”

“What do you mean Princess ?”

“If they have locked Rhaenys,” the witty purple-eyed concludes, pointing at the door. “This means we are prisoners too. Spies must be prying on our every moves and report them to the Small Council. ”

The pieces of the puzzle reassemble in Edwyn’s mind. Surely, he is brilliant with a sword, but his heart of golf often prevents him from discerning good intentions from evil. He was a simple man, raised on an island amidst the sea under the sun, the stars and the moon. To him, the world was no riddle to resolve, simply a long journey to glory. Intrigues of the Court were foreign to him, abstract and hazy. But Naera knows what it is to grow among serpents, dragons are usually less concerned by the small fry than she is. Yet Aegon has taught his daughter to pay attention to those who swarm around her, for they must be listening and pouring their reports in somebody else’s ears. No one could possibly be trusted around here. Everyone who isn’t us in an enemy.

“You are betrothed to the Prince Aemond and you are their blood. They will never harm you,” Edwyn observes, running calloused hands over his golden beard. “I will never let them.”

“R’hllor be good, it will never come down to this,” Naera replies, leaning against the mantlepiece with both her arms crossed over her chest. “But they seek darker manners to tarnish my name. They know very well Daemon has made me his ward, I’m like a daughter to him. If I marry my cousin, I’ll be a traitor in his eyes and in Rhaenyra’s. I’ll be forced into their clan, forced to take green over black. I am a pawn to them, an efficient way to anger my uncle and to keep me away from Dragonstone.”

There it is, the motive behind this farce. Alicent is no fool and this wedding is not her way to reward her son for his leal services. It is not meant to quench his desire and concretize his affection. It is a strictly political move, cold-blooded and calculated to ensure that Daemon Targaryen will remain with his hands and feet bound. With this scheme, the Green Council cloistered the Rogue Prince in his fortress and robbed him Rhaenyra of one more dragonrider.

“What will you do Princess ?”

Edwyn’s words are even more ominous than the truth. He throws them into the air and waits for a reasonable answer. But there is none. The silver-haired princess turns to him, with blazing purple eyes and echoes his question.

“What can I do ?”

For that is the true question, what to do when everything is done in order to keep you in a cage. The only way out is to jump into the dark waves below from the balcony and pray for the mercy of R’hllor. Pray that he will keep a place for her besides her father.

She drops her exhausted body on the velvety cushions of the divan, inviting Edwyn to do the same on his side of the room. His deep blue, ocean coloured eyes never leave her side. Naera feels them everywhere she goes, like an unwavering sentiment of safety. It is good to have a friend when the world caves in, when you've been alone for so long. He is one of these radiant persons, with extraordinary auras and warm tempers. A sun ray entering the room. 

The princess throws the blanket over her body, Edwyn unsheathes his sword and closes his gloved fingers around its hilt. “In case they come,” he mumbles, like a promise to whatever intruder might risk its way in. "Sleep Princess, I'll take the first watch," the stormlander laughs with a playful smile on his lips."

"The first and the second and the last, you are the guard and I am the prize," she responds, returning his kind smile. "Good night Edwyn."

They settle in and talk themselves to sleep with some small-talk. Ironically enough, Edwyn is the only one to find sleep that night. Naera is haunted by too many ghosts to close a single eye.

She curls up in her soft blanket and stares into the fire, still hoping for a sound, a sign, a call. For hours, she rivets her gaze on the brasier, lulls herself with the crinkling of the ardent embers and prays to her god for a way out of this misery. Her lips move without a sound, reciting faithful prayers to the silence. Words are very unnecessary, R'hllor can read through the intricacies of her mind and the pleas of her heart.

The handle of the door clicks and jingles, pulling her out of her semi-trance. She swiftly turns to the entrance. The door shirks under her inquiring eyes and reveal a tall silhouette, thrown into relief by the light of the hallways. It progresses into the darkness of the room and the dimmed glimmer of the flames uncover white unbound air, thin lips and an eyepatch.

Chapter Text

Gale-force winds cut through her skin, but she doesn’t feel any pain. Only the euphoria of her newfound freedom, running in her veins like heated blood. Nothing can take this moment away from her. She curls the leather reins around her wrists and with a steady, confident hand, she leads her nimble mount across the skies, piercing low clouds and basking in the warmth of the afternoon sun.

The commotion of the Dragonpit seems long-gone now, as the sea unravels under Moonfang’s wings with infinite waves of teal and silver.

She refuses to ponder about what she has left behind. Her heart is too liberated, to drunk with the pleasures the ethers offer to let melancholy ruin her sheer happiness. For she truly feels like the chosen one for once. She thanks R’hllor with her countless smiles and tears of joy. A one-eyed prince has sacrificed his integrity, betrayed his clan just to see her soar high in the sky jubilant and free, just for her to thank a God of Flames that has done nothing to save her so far.

The Red Queen flies proud ahead of her, vast crimson wings batting in the wind. Soon, the massive beast descends from the heights of the skies upon a lonely obsidian island, sitting amidst grey waters.

Moonfang follows the movement, until her agile legs land on the steamy hills of Dragonstone.

Naera discovers the place that has once seen her ancestors’ advent with a greedy curiosity. Her eyes linger on the steep rocks by the tumultuous sea below, the foggy summits where dragons nest, the tremendous fortress overhanging a tall cliff. Its towers climb high into the sky, pointy and dark.

This place is eerily familiar.

Guards come to them, running with their spears in their direction. Rhaenys steps forward, hair loose in the breeze and her proud expression locked on her graceful face.

“We bring urgent news from the capital,” she throws at them. “Take us to your mistress.”

None of them dares to refute the Lady of Driftmark’s command. Instead, they row around them and escort the two princesses up hill, where the castle stands and defies the gales.

The Targaryens’ ancestral seat is even more impressive inside. High halls of dark stone unravel before her eyes, more stately than any edifice she has even seen. Still to this day, it bears the mark of a long-lost civilization. The magnificence of Old Valyria still thrives within these walls, the same magnificence that has once brought Westeros down to its knees.

Myriads of torches light up the hallways and the vast rooms, casting shadows against the dark walls. Folks eye at them as they pace with the guards.

The path to the Throne Room is clear. When they come in, Ser Lorent announces them.

“The Princesses Rhaenys of Driftmark and Naera of Summerhall.”

The hall is larger than the majority of others, brightened by tall windows carved into the somber materials. In the middle lies a broad, finely engraved table in the shape of the continent. Blown out candles melt in the nooks and Naera supposes that when the light of day fades, they are lit to breathe life into the map.

Rhaenyra and Daemon warm their hands over the hearth, they do not turn when they hear steps coming their way. But the kingsguard’s voice draws them out of their reverie.

The Prince is the first one to cast a glance at them. When he catches glimpse of his niece’s pallid expression, the look on his face changes. Rhaenys strides across the room, Naera by her side and Ser Lorent on their tail.

“Princess Rhaenys,” Rhaenyra begins. “Might we hope for news of Lord Corlys’s recovery ?”

“Viserys is dead,” the Lady of Driftmark answers, blunt voice stating facts. The black princess’ gaze trembles and flickers. Daemon’s expression goes from joy to confusion.

“I grieve this loss with you, Rhaenyra,” Rhaenys continues, softening her words. “My cousin… Your father possessed a kind heart.”

The young woman shrugs in her black dress, face twitching in resistance and shock. Rhaenys walks closer, but this time doesn’t follow. The air is tense around them, thick with the scent of burnt wood and candle wax. Her uncle casts dark, electrifying glances at his cousin. Naera is quick to understand — Daemon suspects them.

“There is more. Aegon has been crowned king as his successor.”

Rhaenyra grunts in pain, bringing her shaky hand to her belly. Naera watches as Daemon reaches for Dark Sister, leaning against the table in its sheath. “No,” her lips mumble silently.

“They crowned him ?” Rhaenyra whines.

“How did Viserys die ?” Daemon inquires, piercing violet eyes landing on the older princess.

“I could not say,” Rhaenys answers, shaking her head.

“How long ago ?” Rhaenyra insists, holding her swollen tummy between her hands.

“A day past, perhaps two,” she responds. “I was made a prisoner in my quarters while the Queen made her preparations.”

The light of the torches dims for a second, only for Naera to notice. R’hllor listens as they herald the premises of war.

“Viserys has been slain,” Daemon hisses.

Silver-haired masters of Dragonstone both turn to the newcomer. “Alicent has demanded you declare for Aegon,” Rhaenyra resumes, trying her best not to collapse.

“She did. I refused her.”

“And yet you are alive,” the Rogue Prince glowers.

Speak now child, a voice slips in her ears, warm breath leaping over her shoulders and landing on her cheeks.

Naera is quicker to counter Daemon’s accussations. “The High Septon crowned Aegon in the Dragonpit. I witnessed it myself right before we fled.”

His uncle’s dark eyes turn to her and freeze the blood in her veins. “That whore of a queen murdered my brother and stole his throne. And you could have burned them all for it.”

She steps forward and into the light, revealing the meagerness of her body under a silver breastplate that has become too big for her. Putting the consequences of his abandon before Daemon’s eyes.

“That whore of a queen betrothed me to her mad son and imprisoned us both in the Red Keep,” she spits with flames in her glare. “And you could have burned them all for it.”

Her tongue is sharp, her insolence cruel. It cuts through her uncle’s thick skin and his expression grows grimmer.

“A war is like to be fought over this treachery, to be sure,” Rhaenys interrupts, coming to the girl’s aid and thus returning the favour. “But that war is not mine, not hers to begin.”

In the dimmed halls of Dragonstone, Rhaenyra’s unrelenting wails resonate. Disturbing cries come out of her chambers and crawl in the corridors as a reminder of womanhood’s cruelty.

She sits all alone in her room, staring into the waves that crush on the shores below. Their rhythm is soothing, calming, hypnotizing. Outside of her window, clouds tarnish the afternoon sky and the world unravels before her eyes. Across the sea Medea awaits, but the silver-haired princess refuses to think about her mother for too long. It might bring tears to her eyes and drown her heart in melancholy.

She has hoped for a way out of this godforsaken castle, for a place she could call home for so long. For centuries now, Dragonstone has seen generations of valyrian dwellers, dragon blooded creatures among men. The fortress is majestic, erected amidst the sea on some volcanic grey island. It is the seat of all power, a home for both dragons and their riders.

Her predecessors have once walked the same hallways, slept in the same room as her, ate at the same table. The walls remembered the long-gone monarchs, both strong-minded, regal and powerful. What was she compared to them ? What made her worthy of this place ? Compared to the long-gone heroins of the Conquest, she was a weak little child. Not half of what her ancestors used to be.

“I have birthed dragons, Naera. I have birthed their masters. I have birthed Valyria. I have birthed the Targaryens. But all have forsaken me.” She recalls of R’hllor’s words. “Out of all my children, you are the only one that recognizes me.”

Naera falls asleep amidst her contemplation and opens her eyes in the same exact room, but the air smells of honey and roses — not blood and desperation.

The door opens on a tall, broad shouldered man with silver hair cut short over his shoulders and violet eyes so dark they almost seem grey. He wears a black and silver armour, a cloak of crimson, a sword and a dagger at his belt. Naera recognizes each of these artefacts. She has once seen them at her uncle’s waist.

The man sits on the side of her bed and she straightens her spine, eyes widening with stupor as he approaches. He turns his face towards her, revealing grinning thin lips she has also seen on somebody else.

“Blood of my blood,” he declares, voice soft and paternal almost. He reaches for her cold hand on the sheets and his touch is heated, burning hot. Like the stones of the hearth.

She startles when he comes for her. The man blurts out an amused laugh. He removes his fingers and they venture on the hilt of his small, curved dagger. He unsheathes it and gently drops the fine piece of smithery over her legs on the cover.

“Go on,” he encourages, tilting his head towards the blade. “Take it.”

Without the shadow of a doubt, it is Viserys’ dagger. She obeys the man. “What do you see ?” he asks, landing his insisting glare on her.

Naera stares right into the blade, searching for clues to answer his riddles. But she only sees her reflection in the valyrian steel and nothing else.

“Nothing,” she mutters.

“A shame,” he responds.

She is taken aback by his cold, detached remark, but the man doesn’t leave her much time to ponder on the question. He retrieves his weapon and the blade returns into its leathery home.

“Has the Red Man sent you ?” Naera risks herself to ask.

The man chuckles softly. “I live here. I have always had. No one has sent me.”

He looks straight into her eyes. “In this bed, I have dreamt of the end of the world. I have seen the winter rampage over the lands, imprison the meadows, the lakes, the rivers, the sands in thick, unbreakable ice. Dragons died in their caves while mothers smothered their babies to spare them a long agony. Creatures emerged from the woods in the North to plague the living. I have seen it all and united my subjects in fire, to keep the long winter away.”

Never has she ever read any book relating this story, but it resonates with her mother’s teaching. Medea used to tell her about a long, eternal night. Without warmth or heat, deserted by the Flames of R’hllor, during which many would die without his light. Then, a long-gone warrior would rise from the dead with his flaming sword, Lightbringer and cast the monsters at the very edge of the world, from hence they will never return. Azor Ahai.

“Born amidst salt and smoke, beneath a bleeding star. From my blood, the prince that was promised shall rise,” the man continues. “And his shall be the song of ice and fire.”

A calloused hand lands on her shoulders and draws her from her vision.

“Aegon !” she calls, returning to reality as she is pulled from her dream. She meets dark violet eyes, but it is Daemon Targaryen that leans above her, not the man in the black armour. Her uncle raises one brow as he stares into her face. Questions linger on his lips, yet he doesn’t authorize himself to ask them.

He lends a hand to his niece. “Come,” he commands as she locks her fingers in his grasp and rises from the bed.

Once she stands on her feet, Daemon glares at her for a brief moment. Naera pierces through his defenses and recognizes the look on his face. It is grief, mixed with wrath and loathing.

She notices that the screams have stopped — she understands now. The child didn’t make it.

The young princess follows her mourning uncle down the castle’s corridors, all the way to the top of some windy hill. The sun has begun to fade in the sky, all faces are darkened by sorrow. Cruel reminiscences of her father’s funerals send a chill down her spine and bring tears to her eyes. Her throat feels sore when she stops at Baela’s side.

The latter turns to her with soft, wet eyes. Naera intertwines her fingers with hers, offering the warmth of her end as a meager consolation. Since that night in High Tide, Baela and Naera have become the two sides of the same coin. They are like sisters born from separate wombs — a single soul split in two by the gods and poured in each of their bodies. When she feels Naera’s touch, Baela rests her sorry head against her shoulder and closes her eyes to spare them the sight of the dreadful scene.

Silence has taken over the assembly and dozens of lips are closed, weeping for a child that has not seen the light of day for a single second. Daemon has joined his wife next to the pyre. Out of everybody here, he is the most shattered. Twice the gods had claimed his unborn children already.

They light the flame together and watch as the fire brings their daughter’s soul to the heavens. The smoke disperses in the air, mixing with its salty fragrance. The tiny body slowly turns to cinder before the eyes of mournful parents. But Rhaenyra and Daemon find enough dignity to maintain the appearances. They hold hands and bid their farewell to little Visenya.

The only sounds breaking the silence come from behind. Muffled steps and a white cloak whipping in the wind, clinking of steel plates rustling against one another. A long-haired kingsguard climbs the slope on his way to the sorrowful parents, but is stopped in his race by Ser Steffon Darklyn, blocking the path with his sharp blade.

“I mean no harm brothers,” the knight throws at the kingsguards.

Ser Erryk Cargyll removes his helmet and Daemon, curious about the reason of his presence, turns from the pyre and marches towards him. Darklyn lowers his sword.

The man kneels in the dirt before the silver-haired queen and soon, his hand dig into the crease of his knapsack and bring a golden crown into the light. Under the afternoon’s setting sun, it glows with a dull shimmer.

Erryk offers Jaehaerys’ crown with his open hands. “I swear to ward the Queen with all my strength and give my blood for hers. I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children. I shall guard her secrets, obey her commands, ride at her side and defend her name and honour.”

Daemon seizes his brother’s crown and turns at his teary wife. He walks to her and gently drops the symbol of all power on her head.

He is the first to kneel after Cargyll. “My Queen.”

Her sons kneel after them, followed by the guards, the suitors and the rest of her kin. All sully their knees with the soil of Dragonstone and swear fealty to her, in one single silent vow.

Naera’s hand doesn’t release Baela’s. Together, they bow to their new queen.

Together, they walk into this new world.

The night falls upon them all and the war council reunites in the Throne Room. All have been summoned, including the five oldest heirs. Jacaerys, king-to-be after his mother and his betrothed Baela. Lucerys, future leader of the Velaryon fleet and his betrothed Rhaena.

And Naera, betrothed to a traitor.

Fire is breathed into the engraved table and the map of the Seven Kingdoms is brought to life by the flames. Small coffers containing various figurines lay open on the sides of the remarkable piece of furniture, ready to be moved around the gleaming realm and serve great strategies.

Of course, only the most seasoned members are allowed to trade ideas. The youngest ones are here to listen and learn how a war must be prepared.

Daemon stands across the table and goes over their standing. The conclusion is alarming — they lack men to defend their cause. Should the Greens come for her in Dragonstone as Rhaenys predicted, they would easily erase the Blacks off the map. According to Maester Gerardys, some houses of the Stormlands and Crownlands have already declared for Rhaenyra. But these supports are too scarce to turn the tides in their favour.

The Black Queen states that the Vale is unlikely to turn against her, since she shares blood with the Arryn. Gerardys holds forth that Riverrun has always maintained a close relationship with her late father, the King Viserys and suggests that the Tully would make good allies. Another black pawn is set on the trout symbol.

“What of Storm’s End and Winterfell ?” Ser Darklyn inquires.

“There has never lived a Stark that forgot an oath. With House Stark, the North will follow,” Ser Lorent responds.

“Lord Borros Baratheon will need to be reminded of his father’s promises,” the Queen declares, defiant eyes locked in the direction of her husband.

Jace places pawns on Winterfell, the Eyrie and Storm’s End, ignoring his mother’s disapproving gaze. “What news from Driftmark ?” The new queen asks, turning to her older cousin.

Rhaenys informs the Council that her husband has set sail to Dragonstone, along with the rest of his fleet. Naera observes the expression on each of their faces. Daemon is quick to comment the Sea Snake’s arrival, stating that he will declare for his queen. Rhaenys counters. Corlys Velaryon leads his armada with a steady hand and he is the only one to decide where it goes and who it supports.

The conversation then goes over their long list of enemies, among them the Lannisters, all the houses in the Reach. Which makes the Riverlands so crucial.

Lord Bartimos Celtigar intervenes. “Pardon my bluntness your Grace, but talk of men is moot. Your cause possesses a power that has not been in this world since the days of Old Valyria.”

What the faithful advisor suggests is another conquest. Naera recalls of her dream. “I have united my subjects in fire, to keep the long winter away.” What this lord suggests is to bring back the glorious days of Aegon and his sisters. To fill the skies with dragon-fire and force his peers along Westeros to bend the knee before their rightful queen.

“The Greens have dragons,” Rhaenyra mutters after a short pause.

“They have three adults, by my count,” Daemon interrupts. “We have Syrax, Caraxes and Meleys. Your sons have Vermax, Arrax and Tyraxes. My daughters have Moondancer and Moonfang.”

When she hears her mount’s name in her uncle’s mouth in such a manner, Naera’s heart tightens in her chest. The Rogue Prince has officially declared more than his ward, before all members of this Court. Baela turns to her with a faint smile on her plump lips.

“And who is to ride them ?” Rhaenyra insists.

But before Daemon can properly expose his vision, the reunion is cut short by an announcement. The king consort seizes his ancestral sword and storms down the hallways when Ser Erryk mentions the arrival of a Green delegation to their doors.

The Throne Room progressively empties of its members, until there’s no one left apart from Baela, Rhaena and Naera. The three girls are about to get out of the room as well, when the white cloak halts before Naera. He drops a small packet in her hands, wrapped in dark green tissue and a black string.

“From the prince,” Ser Erryk mumbles before he rushes to Daemon’s side. The knight disappears at the angle of a corridor and the inquisitive eyes of her cousin linger on the clueless princess.

She shoves the gift inside her pockets and none of them dare to ask anything more about it. Not even Baela and her curious eyes.

The air in the Red Keep is unbreathable.

Aemond walks to the Small Council meeting with no particular envy, nor thrill. His steps are mechanic, his expression sullen, his eye empty of any light.

Sleep has eluded him all night long. He has lied in silken sheets awake for elongated hours, contemplating the sculpted ceiling of his bedchamber in a vain attempt to escape his melancholy until the hour came to crown his brother king. Images kept invading his brain. Memories of a cheerful child running amidst the apple trees in her father’s orchards, dancing in the rain under the storms and laughing her heart at every pun, every joke, every occasion to do so.

A child that grew into a fascinating young woman, with endless silver hair and haunting lilac eyes. A solitary bookworm that sought refuge in literary fantasies while the world outside of her chambers battled for power. She seemed so innocent back then, pacing up and down the hallways of the Red Keep with her books under her arm. How many times had he peeked at her on his way back from his training ? More than he cares to count. He would have done anything just for a glimpse of her ghostlike frame.

The years turned her into a relic of the past, the embodiment of long-gone valyrian heroins of which her books often related the tale. A low contrast beauty, with wits as sharp as her tongue.

He has tasted it, devoured her lips, feasted on her skin without ever daring to venture any further. The temptation was irresistible. It required an insane amount of self-control not to yield to it and steal her maidenhood away. The truth of the matter was he coveted it — what is the point of taming a dragon, if it never truly bonds with you ? What is the point of claiming a beast, if it will turn against you some day and cut your throat open with its claws ?

No. He wanted her to give herself away willingly.

Now that she’s gone, a part of him hopes to find her at any corner of any corridor, a book locked under her frail arm and her dreamy eyes gauging his whole being. He paces and peeks, but his lonesome eye never catches glimpse of Naera.

The door of the Council Room stands before his eyes, frame richly decorated with ivy carved into limestone. His hand reaches for the handle, but does not press it immediately. They have gathered since the beginning of the afternoon to discuss the terms they shall send to Dragonstone, and now they have required his presence.

For a moment, he enjoys a semblance of peace before he plunges into the dreadful reality again. Before giving into the waves of discord and infamy, he thinks of a pretty face with a fiery temper and it gives his limbs the courage to carry on.

When he comes in, the conversation stops. All members of the Small Council turn to him with prying eyes. There is no seat for him at table. In truth, there has never been one. Unless they are rogue and devious, history doesn’t remember second sons. Nor does anyone.

“You have summoned me,” Aemond rasps, standing at the mercy of their critical gazes.

Alicent is the only one looking away. She bites onto the red scabs around her nails, tearing the flesh of her fingers like she used to do during darker days. More than upset, she looks disturbed. The skin under her eyes is scarlet, her hair hastily done and her glare cold and distant. Not once she casts a glance at her son. She has eyes only for her crowned firstborn. Even to her, the second son matters little.

“Yes,” the Hand confirms, bringing his hand over the round stone in front of him. He toys with the polished piece of amber, voice solemn and lacking emotion. “It is high time you answered your implication in this dreadful matter. Your betrothed has escaped.”

“I didn’t recall she was ever was a prisoner,” Aemond counters, a self-satisfied smirk adorning his thin lips. Truth is, he doesn’t regret a single thing he has done. Remorse is like a stranger to him, something he has heard of many times yet never experienced it. He cares little about the burning pile of bodies in the Dragonpit or the Greens’ disparaging eyes on him. He would have done it again and again, if in the end it meant she was happy. It is all that matters, her and her only.

“Many have died because of your foolishness Aemond,” Otto adds to it, severe and critical gaze riveted on his odious grandson.

The prince chuckles nervously. “How many have died because of yours, grandsire ?”

Otto knows this impudence very well, for he represses it every time he opens his mouth to speak has well. Some must battle to obtain what is so easily given to others. The Hand is no stranger to this truth. Everything that he has, from his name to his daughter of the Iron Throne, he has battled so hard to obtain. Perhaps at the price of his own sanity and impertinence. The old man rises from his leather adorned chair and walks around the table, like a vulture soaring around a carcass.

“Look at our mother Aemond,” the new King hisses. “Take a good look at her and enjoy the sight of what you’ve done.”

“Where were you when our father died and our mother cried in her solars ?,” the second son snaps back. “Ah yes, hiding away. Eluding to your duties. Don’t use our mother as an excuse Aegon, when you have not cared enough to stay and wipe her tears when she was at the lowest. I have not come her to suffer false accusations.”

This time, Aegon is the one to snort and cackle. He gives his cadet a defiant look, but Aemond is hermetic to his intimidation, impassible before his round, mouse-like dark eyes.

“No you have come here as a prince,” Aegon snarls. “So try to behave like one. Your heedless affection for our cousin has sullied the first day of my rule. You have bloodied my name. Ruined my day. I should—”

“You should what ?” Aemond interrupts, slightly amused. “Punish me ? Cut my tongue ? Take my eye ? Don’t you remember of our mother’s distress when others maimed my flesh ? Would you put her through it all again ?”

“Enough !” Alicent cries out, tears painting down her cheeks as the thumps the table. “I am sick of this, enough !” The queen has jumped from her chair and now her wet eyes oscillate between her two sons, quietly begging the two to make amends and cease to torment her wounded heart. “Stop this madness, both of you. This is unfitting of your station, unworthy of your name. Your father’s corpse is not cold yet and you fight like spoilt children ?”

All the sudden, there is no more kings and princes, only two boys scolded by their upset mother. Aemond looks away, Aegon shrugs on his throne.

“Your betrothals with the princess are dissolved,” Otto resumes, meticulously omitting her bloody name. “Lord Borros Baratheon has sent a proposal for the hand of his daughter the Lady Florys, to which we have heartwarmingly agreed. You will travel to Storm’s End personally, woo the girl, show interest to her father. You will clean up your act by securing the Stormlands.”

Words fall like a Damocles sword upon his head, adding up to his misery. Aegon sneers from across the table, feasting on his brother’s distress before he declares the session over.

Aemond rushes to stalk out of the room first, but a hand clench to his sleeve and prevent him from going any further. Aegon and his suite of advisors leave before his eye. Alicent dismisses her personal guard and closes the door behind him.

When she’s alone with her son, she meets her remaining eye and this time, Aemond cannot escape his mother’s gaze. Two emeralds tarnished with tears and distress stare right into his soul and dig out whatever infamies it harbours.

“Why ?” Alicent stammers, voice cracking under the menace of tears. “Why have you done such a thing ?”

Reminiscences of a captivating princess whispering words of magic into his ears, healing his wounds with her touch, setting his soul ablaze with a kiss cloud his judgement. He thinks of that idol he devotes his soul to, every day and night. A goddess made of fire and blood, strong-minded and free as a flame.

The queen’s distressed glare demands honesty. It endears the young prince, forces the truth to come out of his lips.

“Words are very unnecessary Mother,” Aemond mutters. “They can only do harm.”

“And you think your action do good ?,” she bemoans, face darkening with shame and blighted hope. “We could have died right there. All of us. Because of your madness.”

The One-Eye painfully gulps. “But we did not.”

Alicent smacks his head back before he can add anything to his plea, drawing blood from his sore mouth. Now her green eyes shine with anger instead of despair. A rage Aemond has only seen once before in his life, on that victorious night in High Tide.

Bright big green eyes gauge him. “You are no son of mine.”

A storm of green silk runs out of the room, leaving the helpless boy to his devouring guilt.

Guilt yes, but no remorse at all.

Aemond returns to the dimness of his chambers, removes his heavy leather doublet and boots and retries the comfort of the soft covers. His limbs are sore, exhausted, bloodless but his mind cannot find rest. He brings one arm over his eye and lies on the silky sheets, far from the tumult and the intrigues of the court. His elongated fingers toy with the three-headed dragon ring on his index, rotating it around his phalanx until his skin turns red.

In the tongue of dragons, Naera means to light the way. Once he has stolen one of her books from her trembling hands and discovered the true meaning of her name among the other tales from the civilization that has birthed them.

History remembered this extraordinary woman as Naera the Lightbringer. According to the testimonies, she has lived five hundred years ago in Valyria of Old. She belonged to a long line of dragonlords, but she was a bastard to a proud and adventurous leader. She was said to ride an immense dragon, covered in golden scales. Her tales related very few adventures, but mentioned her journey to the ends of the world, from hence she returned with a sword of fire and a new god. The story didn’t revealed the way she ended.

Aegon Targaryen has named his daughter after a lost heroin of Valyria that has spread the flames of R’hllor all around Essos as his mouthpiece. Yes, she is a pagan, a heathen that refuses to embrace the seven-pointed star. She is everything his mother says she is and many things more, he can easily imagine. The Lightbringer is a fitting name for a girl like her, radiant and dazzling. More than once he has wondered what she was made of, what made her so special in his eyes. Fire and blood for sure, magic and mystery added to it.

She is a saint, relentless and brave in her war against the rest of the world. A one-of-a-kind warrior, fighting those who wish to tarnish her faith, change her ways. Love and beauty with a deadly twist.

The silence of his bedchambers resembles the solemn, sacred atmosphere of a temple. Candles light the way with their dim flames and bathe his soul in awe and respect, that only is only owed to everything holy. Here, he can revered her name, bless her existence, feel her presence.

Every day is a crusade. Every breath a prayer. Every thought an offering.

She leads him from the darkness. She fills his heart with fire, so he may walk her shining path. She is the light in his eye, the fire in his heart, the heat in his loins.

Hers is the sun that warms his days, hers the stars that guard him in the dark of night.

Hers his soul.

Hers his life.

Hers his sword.

No matter the retribution or the infernal flames.

Fire cannot kill a dragon.

Chapter Text

Sentries catch glimpse of a three-headed green sail on the calm sea. The alert reaches the Throne Room and dissolves the Black Council.

When Daemon and his men arrive on the bridge, the wind is cold. The sun is about to set behind the horizon and thick clouds hoard in the blue, grey and gold skies.

The king consort paces back and forth between the two murals. The Green delegation progresses along the sinuous bridge and soon enough, Otto Hightower meets his long-standing rival. More than rivals now, they are enemies.

Syrax’s cries break through the air like a bold of lightening and the Black Queen appears on the back of her golden-crowned dragon. Otto and his men shudder, and when Rhaenyra Targaryen hops down from her mount and walk among them, all can observe the crown of Viserys, riveted on her gracious head.

It doesn’t dispirit the Hand of Aegon II. Otto Hightower steps forward and after calling the queen “princess Rhaenyra,” he exposes the terms of her capitulation. “Honourable terms, she can accept without shame,” Alicent Hightower had commanded. But the words that seep through the pompous lips of her father have nothing honourable. They are indecent and desperate.

Aegon wants to see his not so beloved sister bend the knee and declare him the rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms. Days before, he has fled from the crown in the streets of the Capital and now that it is sitting on his head, he wishes for his subjects to kiss it. No way.

A diplomatic war rages outside, but this time the youngest minds have not been invited to witness the joust. Naera has a war of her own to run.

The night comes and brings along more messages from the world of R’hllor.

The same tepid dry wind blows over a place she recognizes instantly. Vast, endless even, orchards unravel before her eyes, with countless trees that crawl over yellow grass all the way to the mountains. The air is loaded with delightful smells of freshly cut grass and a storm to come. It is magical. Awe and nothing else.

Summerhall stands amidst the Dornish Marches with a majesty that is yet to be seen in this world. When she catches glimpse of the castle, she smiles like a child all over again. Her legs move on her own all along the path, through the gardens and the orchards. Once a fortress, the grand edifice is now a residence dedicated to leisure. Large halls with arched roof and stained-glass windows add to its magnificence, along with the lush vegetation that surrounds it.

She climbs the steps and the door opens when she approaches it.

She begins the thorough exploration of the dwelling that has seen her the most joyous moments of her life. A part of her is hopeful enough to expect her father and mother. She peeks at every corner of every room, heart beating with the excitement of seeing her family whole again.

But she is all alone in here. There is not a single soul breathing in the castle.

Or at least, that’s what she believes. She enters the winter garden. The fading light of the crepuscule pierces through the stained-glass and casts coloured shadows on the floor. And in the middle of the room stands a one-eyed prince.

And no eyepatch.

Only a gleaming sapphire amidst a dreadful scar, where his eye used to be and hair unbound draping his broad shoulders.

He looks at her and open both his arms very wide. Like an invitation.

No words, but she understands everything he wishes to say. She reads through him like she would through an open book.

And she runs to him and crush against his chest, the sound of his pounding heart lulling her. He locks two strong arms around her frail figure, holding on to her so tight her feet nearly leave the solid ground. He looses his pallid fingers in the silken flow of her hair, drowns his face in her neck. Hot breath lands where his mouth drops wet kisses and her fingers dig on the flesh of his back, grasping onto his scapulas as if they were the last thing on earth.

His kisses go all the way up, following the natural curve of her neck. He goes all along her jaw, sowing madness and electricity everywhere his lips land. She’s too impatient, too intoxicated to wait. Small hands come for the prince’s slender face and draws him closer. She tiptoes her way to his mouth, stealing feverish kisses from it.

Bodies collide, like two flames meant to burn as one.

She pulls away from him with pink lips fiery as hell and no breath left in her lungs.

Over his shoulder, she catches sight of a taller man, draped in a cloak of crimson and a hood concealing his face. But she knows him well enough to guess who hides under the cape. Red eyes stare right into her soul and speak words her ears are the only ones to hear.

“One last time.”

As soon as she wakes up, Ser Erryk Cargyll comes on behalf of the Queen Rhaenyra. This man has a kind face, a reassuring gaze. He knocks on the door with his gloveless hand and stands on the frame, leaving her some time to process his presence. Then, with an even gentler voice, he goes around Rhaenyra’s request. Another War Council awaits the youngest blacks in the Main Hall. She must be ready in half an hour.

An army of maids and enough minutes later, Daemon Targaryen’s ward enters the room but among the familiar faces, she doesn’t find her uncle. Only the Queen Rhaenyra wearing a dress as black as coal and no crown on her head, just her exhaustion. Her expression is thoughtful, weary. All night long, she has gone through the trials and tribulations a monarch endures. War knocks at her door and she is urged to answer its call.

Advisors swarm around her like flees around honey. They stick to her side with their cunning words, suggestions, plots that serve their own ambitions. She listens distantly, violet eyes staring into whatever distraction the room offers. Naera sees her cousin with her heavy head resting on her arm and sees her own father, plunged into the matters of the state and gnawed by the insidiousness of duty.

Next to Baela, Jacaerys is unsettled. Naera notices the way his hands twitch with anger and apprehension. By his side, Lucerys serves his mother a trembling gaze. Strong brothers are united in their desire for vengeance and justice, but they are boys. Wise, handsome, strong boys. But boys all the same. None of them know the cruelty of the world, they have never tasted the bitterness of a battlefield drenched in blood. They have never smell the ominous odor of death, hovering over meadows of black and red corpses. They think they are blood of the dragon, dragons themselves. But when their mouths open, they only spit anguish, not fire.

They are children. Not just Jace and Luke, but all of them. They have known grief and woe, but never desolation.

Naera has dreamt of enough horrors to freeze the blood in their veins.

Fire.

Blood.

Death.

And enemies.

Countless nights haunted by harrowing visions of beheaded dragons, burning towers, dying mothers. Last night was seemed like a gift from the Red Man, a folly he has allowed her mind to experience. Burning kisses still scorch the surface of her lips and fill her mouth with a sour taste — but no one-eyed prince has visited her during the dead of night. Only an image of him, lost in her dreams.

Lords and knights hungry for blood and justice go over Aegon’s terms and advise their queen to reject them all. Pawns representing a tower in flames and black headed dragons slide along the Painted Table like pawns over a chessboard. They play a game of thrones and bargain the lives of many.

Naera notices that there are too many green pieces on the map and very few blacks. Ser Steffon Darklyn goes over the meager list of houses ready to support the queen in her quest for the throne. Celtigars, Masseys, Darklyns, Bar Emmon, Velaryons. Not enough men to crush the Hightowers hiding behind thick red walls.

Rhaenyra is in desperate need for allies.

Many have swore fealty to her decades ago, when the late King Viserys has named her heir. Where were they now that the Black Queen was at a mercy of her opponents ?

The most viable strategy comes from the wise mind of Corlys Velaryon. The Sea Snake moves his dusky hand over the Painted Table and explains how he intends to bring King’s Landing to his demise. To kill the serpent, you must first cut off the head.

But before they bring their designs into realization, the most crucial part is to secure the support of the three main houses : the Starks of Winterfell, the Arryns of the Eyrie and the Baratheons of Storm’s End.

“I’ll prepare the ravens, Your Grace,” Maester Gerardys chimes, hands joined in his back.

“We should bare these messages,” Jacaerys intervenes, drawing the whole room’s attention on him. “Dragons can fly faster that ravens and they’re more convincing. Send us.”

Jacaerys defies his regal mother from across the long table. Flames streaks in the eyes of the queen, gaze softening when she perceives the determination of her son in his dark irises. She stares into them and meets a dead man. Harwin Strong lives through each of her sons. More than she does.

The queen draws courage from her pride and swallows her dismay, enduring the situation as Lord Corlys puts the boot in. Daemon has abandoned her to the Black Council. He seeks better company among the sole beasts that equal him — dragons.

“The Prince is right, Your Grace,” the Sea Snake holds forth.

Jacaerys is strong-minded and impulsive, a flame that never goes out and consumes everything in the room. Lucerys on the other hand, equals his brother in bravery but he is softer. Like a fire in the hearth, bringing warmth and comfort. This is what he gives to his mother when he observes her melt in worry where she stands : warmth and comfort.

“Very well,” the Queen mutters. “Prince Jacaerys will fly north, first to the Eyrie to treat with my mother’s cousin the Lady Jeyne Arryn. And then to Winterfell, to treat with Lord Cregan Stark for the support of the North.”

After that, the five of them are dismissed.

Baela turns to her with one of her kind smiles Naera adores so much. She captures her hands in hers and swings them as she speaks.

“We will go with boys Rhaena and I, help them prepare. Would you like to come ?”

“No, I’m good,” her cousin sighs. “I don’t feel very well. I should rest.”

“Oh, okay. Well, I’ll see you tonight then !”

Naera nods yes, answering to her friend’s smile. She follows her sister and their betrotheds down the halls and the lonely one watches as the merry bunch fades into the dark maze. The silver-princess goes in the opposite direction, ignoring the teeming inhabitants that rush here and there. Her hand dives in the creases of her dress to dig out a tiny packet, wrapped in dark green tissue and silky black strings.

“From the prince,” ser Erryk had said, tucking the gift between her fingers on his way out of the war council. and now she is left with a present she does not dare to open. She toys with it inside her pocket, swirling it against the soft lining inside as she paces down the castle’s walls, all the way to the beach.

Perhaps there, she’ll find enough tranquility to listen to her own thoughts. Perhaps she’ll find clarity.

Her slippers sink into the grey sand as she strides along the shores, focusing on the sound of the waves as she twirls the packet between her faltering fingers.

When three dragons leave in the morning sunny spell, breaking the sky with their roars, Naera sits on the wet sand to watch them go. Majestic wings bat in the wind and she begins to understand how Aegon has brought the Seven Kingdoms under his yoke. What could mortal men do against creatures such as dragons ? Nothing, but bow. This is how he has conquered the crowns one by one, how he has united the realm in fire and kept the long night away. Dragons are the fire against the ice. Dragons are the light that keeps the night away.

Gently, she unties the knotted string, tear away the green tissue. A ring and a small folded piece of paper.

A three-headed dragon piece of jewelry, mounted with three glistening sapphires on silver beasts. Under the sunlight, it seems even more dazzling. Next, she opens the letter.

“Sapphires suit you more than rubies.”

Written in dark ink over a piece of parchment, with no initials but an eye drawn with the quill. She smiles.

Naera cannot resist the urge of putting the ring on each of her fingers and find one that fits. But Aemond’s are larger than hers and the jewel hangs off her phalanxes. The only solution to keep it safe and close is to put it on the silver chain she wears around her neck, a gift from her late father. Somehow, it feels wrong to hide the pearly ruby Aegon has once gifted to his daughter with the prince’s ring.

The moment it drops on her chest, the sun returns behind the clouds and darkness takes over the sky. The sea grows choppier, rougher. Tall waves come from the open sea, bringing strange shapes in the rollers. Naera narrows her eyes, trying to discern something. Spikes, horns, fangs, wings. Dragon.

The beast emerges from the depths and the water turns red. A dozen feet from her, an immense mouth unhinges and reveals fangs drooling in blood, with bits of flesh stuck in the seams. The silver princess is petrified, limbs numb and tense all at once. She scrambles to get on her feet and rears back, eyes locked on the creature that progressively draws itself to its full height. Dark bronze scale with touches emerald gleam and drip insane amounts of water, one golden eye stares at her from afar.

Vhagar.

Naera is absolutely crippled. She watches with her face aghast, whole body shaking and quavering as the beast spits a corpse into the sea.

It winds up on the shore along with the waves. Half a body missing its legs. Red and black clothes. Dark curls falling over its forehead. Snub nose and freckles. Dark blue eyes wide opened.

Lucerys.

She screams and runs, tripping and stammering so hard on the sand that she leaves her shoes behind and run barefoot on the ground. The seams of her dress breaks as she races along the coast, fleeing the dreadful creature hiding amidst the waves.

Heart pounds in her chest like it’s about to implode and by the time she reaches the Dragon Hill, the beast is long gone.

The One-Eye has arrived in Storm’s End right after midday. Lord Borros Baratheon has treated him with all the respect due to a Prince of the Seven Kingdoms. Upon his arrival on Vhagar’s back, fresh animals were fed to his ravenous mount and a feast with the Lord of the Stormlands arranged.

They sat at the table for hours, among the laughing members of Borros’ suite and his daughters. The four of them lined up on a bench in front of him, battling for his attention although Otto had already brokered a marriage with the youngest one, Lady Floris. Borros was a careless father, he slipped into the prince’s ear that if he wished to, he could kiss the four of them and choose his favourite after. The idea revulsed Aemond, but he laughed to the lord’s proposition anyways.

They are a bunch of common beauties. There is nothing enthralling about them. They have dark eyes, dark hair, some freckles here and there, thin lips, small round faces. The four sisters look like declinations of a same person. Floris simply appears to be the youngest. Apart from this, there is nothing remarkable about her.

She wears a dark green gown hemmed with gold embroideries and some pieces of jewelry adorning her neck, ears, fingers and hair. Green is not a Baratheon colour, surely she has adopted somber emerald shades to honour the prince’s maternal house and her father’s newfound alignment. Sitting before his eye, she smiles and laughs like the demmure maiden that she is, in the hope of captivating him. “Woo the girl, show interest to her father. You will clean up your act by securing the Stormlands.”

This feast is a penance and Floris’ giggles, a nail driven through his flesh. Every time he hears it, he wants to throw his knife at the quartet of screeching sisters and be done with it.

Borros Baratheon is a plague like no other and Aemond can easily guess from whom his daughters got their annoying personalities. He pours honeyed promises into the prince’s ears, stealing his appetite away and giving him the irresistible urge to flee this demented place.

Torture continues in the afternoon after the banquet.

He is forced to walk with Floris arm in arm in the gardens, under the menacing and somber sky. She talks about nothing and everything, and he pays no attention to her babbling. His answers consist in a clever mix of detachment and false agreement noises, when in truth he thinks of somebody else.

Aemond looks straight before him when the thought of a mystical princess invades his mind. The wetness in his throat turns to a desert, the heat in his heart to a desolate wasteland.

He thinks of her silver hair weaving in the wind, of her rosy heart-shaped lips calling his name, pleading for his tender last words. Violet eye begins to sting and he dismisses her sacred image.

Their walk is prematurely ended by a peculiar announcement. Floris rushes under the tall arches of the courtyard, but Aemond lingers on the tracks. He is late yes, but at least she is not hanging from his arm and preying on his attention, for a few blessed instants.

The moment he sets foot on tiled ground, the girl seizes his leather doublet and hauls herself on tiptoe to land a kiss on his mouth. Aemond is rebuked by her touch and her drooling mouth against his. He raises an arm to smack her head, push her back, do whatever he can to escape her embrace but he recalls of his grandsire’s words and stops his hand mid air. She has a mission of her own to accomplish, surely her desperate attempt to gain his affection is not motivated by her maiden feelings, but by the advice of her father.

Aemond is a prize to be won. Cattle to be sold. Money to be traded.

This is punishment for loving what cannot be loved. For his unrequited sentiments.

The prince grasps the girl’s jet-black hair when he locks his fingers on her cheeks. With his eye closed, he plunges into memories of other kisses and draws courage from them. His tongue dances with hers and ignore the sour taste of her mouth. He gives Otto Hightower and Borros Baratheon what they want. He gives her what she wants. He grabs her heart and imprison it.

He washes off the stain Naera Targaryen has left on his name and offer the Stormlands to his brother on a silver plate.

The gale goes on and on during what is left of the day, but when Arrax gets back to solid ground, the sky is dark above the tall towers. By the time Aemond and his newfound betrothed reach the Main Hall of Borros’ seat, Rhaenyra’s envoy has arrived.

When he catches glimpse of the young prince, Aemond drops Floris’ arm and freezes where he stands. Lucerys Velaryon has just poured his mother’s message into the Lord of the Storms’ ears, to which Borros has answered with a cruel riposte.

“Aemond Targaryen has come to me with a proposal. Which one of my daughters will you marry ?”

“I am not free to marry,” Lucerys answers, hands still holding the handwritten letter from the Black Queen.

The boy is quick to notice his presence, and when he does, he stops breathing. Dark curls of ebony and deep blue eyes turn in his direction, with fear petrifying his every limbs.

It draws a chuckles from Aemond’s lips. He has seen Vhagar outside the castle’s walls and hoped Aemond was entangled in whatever depravity enough not to sense his presence.

Lucerys has little courage left to endure this anguish. He turns heels and readies to leave.

Aemond doesn’t move an inch. His voice does all the work for him and stops Lucerys’s escape. “Wait,” he commands, words hitting the walls of Storm’s End largest hall. “My Lord Strong.”

The dark haired prince knows very well this nickname is a vile insult in his uncle’s mouth and backs out, liquid fire pulsing through his veins with anger.

But the One-Eye stands impassible near his betrothed, a wicked grin on his lips.

“Did you really think you could fly about the realm trying to steal my brother’s throne at no cost ?”

Vengeance takes over the mad man, casting his duties and the memories of dazzling princess into the shadows on his mind. Lucerys standing there is the embodiment of undone justice, of pure impunity. Everything he has swore himself years ago to destroy and wipe off the surface of this earth.

“I will not fight you,” Lucerys rambles, eyes narrowing at the silver-haired, dark dressed prince. “I came as a messenger, not a warrior.”

“A fight would be little challenge,” his serpent-like tongue mutters. “No.” Aemond brings his hand to his eyepatch and pulls on it until the leather frees his scar from its prison. It uncovers the proof of Viserys’s weakness towards his oldest daughter. Where a lively eye used to be, a gleaming sapphire now sits, matching with his violet twin. “I want you to put out your eye. As payment for mine.”

Lucerys shudders where he stands. “One will serve,” Aemond insists, hand coming for the dagger at his belt and unsheathing the blade. It resonates against the stone when the scarred prince throws it at his nephew’s feet. “I would not blind you,” he adds with an ever crueler smile. “Plan to make a gift of it to my mother.”

“No,” the boy steadily refuses, rearing back.

“Then you are craven as well as a traitor,” his uncle declares.

“Not here !” Borros dwells from his stone made throne.

“Give me your eye,” Aemond’s voice spits, cracking with wrath as he lowers to catch the dagger on the ground. “Or I will take it from you, bastard !”

Lucerys flees from the room and runs back to his mount. Arrax offers a certain escape. He is swifter and nimbler than the gigantic Vhagar. If he plays it well, the dark-haired prince should be able to elude to his uncle. He hops on dragonback, commanding the beast to obey his every orders once they are in the sky.

The tempest rages outside. Bolts of lightening cleave through the somber firmament while torrents of rain come down from heavy and dark clouds. Arrax’s wings are burdened by the water, challenged by the capricious winds. Lucerys ignores there is a monstruous beast right beneath them. For a moment, he thinks he has succeeded.

A roar fills the air and razor sharp fangs snap right at Arrax’s tail. Lucerys casts a glance backwards, only to see Vhagar’s mouth ready to swallow him whole. He pulls of the reins and forces his mount to turn left, thus disorienting the larger creature.

Aemond’s mischievous laugh resonates amidst the storm. Every time the Conqueror approaches the smaller dragon, he taunts his nephew a bit more in the tongue of their forebears. This way, even the beasts can understand what he says. Even Arrax can tremble to the promise of being crushed.

“Faster Arrax,” the desperate prince cries in the distance, as Vhagar dangerously flies behind them.

Demons hanging over Aemond’s shoulders pour tempting horrors into his ears. The prince whips Vhagar’s scales with the reins, unrelenting on Arrax’s tail. His eye is riveted on his prey. The maw of the beast unhinges, ready to guzzle the boy on his mount whole.

The Conqueror surges forward, but her enormous tongue doesn’t taste fresh royal blood. Instead, a grey beast cuts neat through her race, hitting the old beast’s neck at full speed. The creature shakes in the air, anger and pain spreading through her limbs. Aemond is just as destabilized as his mount, he glances all around him erratically. It felt like being thunderstruck.

The clouds are too thick for him to see a thing, wind and rain cut through his skin and blind his eye. In the distance, Arrax’s silhouette fades. He enrages, grits his teeth, howl commands in the storm.

The grey shadow comes again but this time, Vhagar is prepared. She catches one of the creature’s legs between her fangs and Aemond faces the dreadful truth.

“Vhagar ! No !” the prince cries at the top of his lungs, voice more loud than the thunder. “No, Vhagar, no, no, no !”

The dragon has a will of her own now, separate from his. There is no mental bond strong enough to restrain her violence. He can scream, he can supplicate, he can hit her thick scales with his desperate clenched fists, but nothing will stop her now. She is too far gone. Moonfang is trapped in Vhagar’s claws. The enraged beast shakes her gigantic head, trying to tear the small dragon’s body apart in the process. Aemond watches as her rider desperately scrambles to untie the straps of her saddle. Vhagar bites a bit more into Moonfang’s flesh, that shrieks in agony as she beats her dark wings frantically.

He is at a loss of words, he pulls on the reins and the salt of his tears melt with the rain on his cheeks. He sobs and begs the beast to stop, but once her tongue has tasted blood, it only demands for more and more.

Vhagar slowly engulfs the grey dragon, robbing her of one of her wings.

The straps are undone.

Moonfang stops screaming.

Naera sinks into a sea of dark clouds.

And just like that, the world collapses below.

Light of his life, no more.

Fire in his heart, no more.

Heat in his loins, no more.

No more sun to warm his days, no more stars to guard him in the dark of night.

Last of her kind.

Dragonwitch, forever gone.

Adrenaline pumps from the heart to the veins like a deadly poison. A blood flood, to the heart.

Vhagar soars in the sky, as ominous as she is majestic. Even in the middle of the storm, she casts a great shadow. Golden gleaming eyes turn to Moonfang, hungry for blood.

The nimble dragon spins and twirls around the monstruous beast. Between two thunderclaps, she can hear smatterings of Aemond’s cries spreading among the clouds. His broken voice resonates in the skies, pleading for mercy. But conqueror hear no pleas and know no clemency.

Vhagar closes her horrendous maw on Moonfang’s tail, hard enough to capture the creature between her fangs, but not to break the limb from its body. Slowly, she gnaws her more and more, drawing cries of agony from the poor dragon’s mouth.

Naera feels Moonfang’s pain, she feels every fang Vhagar drives through her flesh. The inexorable suffering wrests icy tears of torment from her eyes.

Vhagar’s terrifying mouth approaches more and more as she swallows more parts of Moonfang’s body. Naera stares in shock for a little while, before her crazed hands scramble to untie the straps of her saddle. The end is neigh and takes the shape of a drooling maw, foot long teeth hungry for fresh blood.

“No Vhagar ! No, no, no.”

Harrowing cries of despair come from a saddle she cannot see. The universe denies her a last glimpse at the mad prince. What a cruelty.

She refuses to meet her demise in Vhagar’s appalling mouth.

She refuses to be fed to a gruesome creature and see her blood mix with Moonfang on her tongue.

Flashes of everything she has known pass before her eyes. Summerhall. Mother and father. Moonfang. Baela. Rhaena. Jace. Lucerys. Joffrey. Helaena. Daemon. Rhaenyra.

Aemond.

“One last time.”

Warm breath and honeyed voice slip in her ear and all the sudden, the ties are undone.

“I’m sorry,” she mutters to Moonfang, whose wails have stopped for a while now, and caresses her cold scales.

Naera glances at the clouds below and wonder how far her demise is beneath Moonfang’s wings. Wind and rain cut clean through her skin.

Trembling hands let go of the reins, bidding farewell to life.

In her fall, she catches glimpse of a silver-prince in the distance, leaning on the side and offering a hand in vain. She is too far gone into the depths of the sky to seize it, too doomed to be safe. Death awaits her and yet, she feels less fear now than moments ago, when Vhagar’s menacing fangs torn Moonfang’s flesh apart.

Aemond watch a trail of silver disappear in the darkest sea, and she watches Vhagar’s shadow in the firmament, looking like a bird of doom.

Naera feels like a falling star, fire bleeding through the sky.

She hits the glacial waves and her world turn to silence, darkness and solitude.

As the afternoon ends, Alicent Hightower enjoys a few moments of peace. War councils have lasted all day long and exhausted her spirits. Matters of the state have never been her cup of tea, more like a duty she dreaded to accomplish. War was something else — like bargaining and gambling lives that weren’t yours to play with in the first place. Kings and queens and their advisors toyed with the lives of lesser men like gods, deciding of life and death.

Hands joined over a swinging golden chain with a seven pointed star pendant, the Green Queen prays for the safety of her loved ones. She prays that strength and justness are bestowed to her regal son, courage and clarity to her daughter, mercy and patience to her one-eyed son and cleverness to the last. She pours her heart whole into her litanies, eyelids sealed and lips articulating inaudible words. She ignores what has happened over the Narrow Sea and what trials her second son has faced earlier this day. She ignores everything of the storm of fire and death that will rain over them and swallow them all.

Aemond enters his mother’s solars unnanounced and drenched, long silver hair and leather coat dripping thick drops of waters on the varnished boards. Green eyes look up and down at him, observing his expression, noting every details of his disastrous appearance. He wears a cloak of despair as dark as the Stranger’s. Sapphire coloured eye trembles in its socket, faltering lips unwilling to herald the dreadful news.

“Clear the room,” the good queen commands at the sight of her quiet, sullen son. “All of you, out ! Now !”

The servants hurry to the outside as they obey their mistress. They swarm and buzz off, closing the door behind them. Once the room is rid of any undesirable presence, she rises from her cushioned, comfortable armchair, green brocade rustling when she moves and floating above the ground. She reaches for her son, cups his wet face between her gentle hands, tilts his head to make him face her. She dives into an ocean of violet waves and swims until she finds an answer.

But Aemond’s eye is as silent as a tomb. His body is a grave and his soul has died on the inside.

A chill climbs down her spine, makes her delicate fingers shiver against the cold skin of his cheeks. “What has happened Aemond ?” she pleas with a maternal voice, tone stained by fear. “Tell me.”

The prince looks away, dragging his eye far from her insisting and inquiring gaze. From where he stands, he can feel dread take over her. He can feel two emeralds twitching erratically at the surface of his frozen skin, looking for answers to their questions.

Empty lonesome eye elude to her comprehension and to the unspeakable tale he refuses so hard to relate. His soul is on a state decay so advanced, he doesn’t feel any pain. Only emptiness and a burdening weight on his broad shoulders, dragging him lower than he has ever been. At the bottom of the pit, darkness is complete and sounds distant echoes from another life.

In another life, you would have loved me.

Alicent repeats her question, voice faltering and stammering more and more every time she does. His silence will be the death of her. Desperate hands drop from his face and grasp onto the creases of his leather coat, shaking him to dissipate the nightmare and the shock he’s trapped in. Chest cold as clay, somber as the darkest sea.

Kinslayer.

The depths of his unquiet soul utter names and truths he refuses to hear, realities he refuses to accept.

Dead lips choose the path of honesty and spare Alicent no lie. Nothing could prepare the queen to what her ears are about to witness.

“She is gone now Mother,” Aemond declares, voice calm, cold and steady like a frozen ocean. “I have slain Naera Targaryen.”

Lucerys Velaryon is safe and sound, but his eyes have witnesses the horrors of the war sooner than expected. Images of an enormous dragons devouring another one haunt his mind and keep any other thought at bay. The boy paces across the hallways, steps faltering and erratic. He pushes the doors of the Throne Room and meets countless eyes, turning to him the minute he appears in the doorframe.

They have been confined in here all day long, plotting a conflict they dreaded to start. This very morning, Rhaenyra had declared that if there must be a war, she would not be the first to land a blow on the Greens. The terrible omen she has awaited for days has come. And it is more devastating than she could have ever imagined.

When Lucerys bursts out in tears before the eyes of the whole audience, body shaking in shock, the Black Queen runs across the room and seizes the boy. Maester Gerardys comes as well, landing healing hands on the prince’s back. After long minutes of stammering and sobbing, Lucerys’s lips utter the heart-breaking truth.

Naera Targaryen is dead.

Little dark-haired prince tells his tale once the terror has passed. The entirety of Rhaenyra’s court listens to him, including Baela. At first, the sunkissed princess does her best not to collapse and cry. The Stranger has visited him once before and she refuses to give him the satisfaction of her distress. Yet, when Lucerys goes over the gruesome details of the scene, it is impossible for the strong-minded and resilient Baela to hold back the tears. She seeks refuge in Rhaenys’s arms, drenching the woman’s velvety doublet in sadness.

The news of Aegon’s last descendant’s death plunges the room into a complete and solemn silence. Lords joins their hands before their bellies, guards reach for the pommels of their swords or support, women weep in silence.

Rhaenyra, above all people, is affected by the tidings. Daemon has gone for hours to the Dragonhill and not returned yet. He runs after creatures of fire in the hope of rallying them all to their cause. Trapped in the dim caves, he ignores everything of what has happened. He does not know his precious niece has escaped the sight of the guards, hoped on dragonback, saved Lucerys from a coldblooded vengeance and met her demise above the Narrow Sea. She knows it will drive him mad to learn about his failure. To realize he has failed his brother in every way.

Naera’s body has sunken into the abysses and with her, what little remained of Daemon’s sanity.

Rhaenyra waits for the room to be rid of any presence to break silence. Daemon’s face is stained with coal, ashes and dirt. He has wandered in the galleries from dawn until dusk, without eating nor sleeping. Dragons were part of his obsessions, he felt like he belonged with them more than he did with common mortals. Perhaps he was right. Daemon is too free-spirited, too wild to live among his peers. A man made of fire cannot live in a world of lambs.

He comes for Rhaenyra’s touch, kiss her delicate hands, neck, cheeks and lips. He is so devoted to her, so intoxicated by her presence he doesn’t notice the sullen expression of her pretty face. He cups it in his dirty fingers and only then, he grasps the sadness in her eyes.

Daemon needs not to ask questions, for she offers the truth before he does.

At first, it is impossible to believe what she says. Inconceivable, even. But the possibility of a cruel joke is quickly ruled out. This time, Rhaenyra’s hands come to support his face. She stares powerless as his expression goes from disbelief to despair. Violet eyes turn to the blackest black. Tight lips twist with pain.

She doesn’t look away when Daemon crumbles before her eyes.

He pulls away from her, eluding to her embrace as he paces the length of the room. He strikes in everything he can find. Chairs, chandeliers, books, walls, windows. Daemon turns the whole hall into a crime scene. He comes last for the Painted Table, leaning over it like a vulture over a prey.

Clawing fingers reach for one of the bronze figurines, shapes like a tower in flames. He offers it to the sight of his pallid, helpless wife before sending it across the room. The pawn shatters in the chimney and melts in the flames. He sweeps over the table with his destructive arm and throws all the pieces to the ground.

Anger devoured eyes turn to Rhaenyra. “I’ll burn them all. Each and every one of them. I’ll burn them all.” Daemon strides on his way to the door. “An eye for an eye, a daughter for a daughter.”

Silver head and black attire disappear in the darkness of the hallways and the Black Queen stares at the chaos her husband’s grief has unleashed upon the room. She would not give much for his mercy. A greater beast than Vhagar, than the Greens, than the Stranger even pelts down over the Seven Kingdoms.

Fire and blood will rain upon them all.

Last night, dreaded ghosts wandered in Aemond’s dreams. They casted a great shadow upon his sleep, like a murderous plague.

He walked on the peaceful shores of a vast lake with an island sitting in the middle of it, wearing a dragonriding armour. Silver plates glistened under the setting sun and clinked against one another as he moved. No sound, apart from the rustling of the leaves and the lapping of the waters came to trouble the quietude of the place. So tranquil, so calm, so eerie.

It seemed to him that he has paced along the shores for hours, before his attention was caught by an unusual noise coming from the lake.

Choppy waves came in his direction, as if a large wish was swimming towards him. Aemond stood on the beach and stared at the menacing waters, ready to unsheathe his blade if needed. A white, blurry and elongated shape began to take form.

Soon, a woman emerged from the lake, white cloth sticking to every curves of her body like a veil made of marble. Her skin was so pale she resembled the ivory coloured Maiden of the Great Sept. A crown of laurels and herbs rested atop of her head, silver hair dripping diamond tears.

Her feet never reached the shingle.

Naera stood in the cold waters as the ends of her dress floated at the surface and the paleness of her being defied the golden sun.

Aemond glared, air eluding to his lungs, mouth agape, rooted to the spot. She stared back, straight into his remaining eye and drank the content of his soul through it. Take it all, he thought. Take me with you.

He hasn’t pronounced a word, yet she shook her head. She read his thoughts. She has lied on his heart once and listened to the secrets every pound told.

“Sapphires suit me better,” she muttered, spectral voice empty of any warmth.

Deep sea. He thought of the somber waves that swallowed her whole. Dark doom. He thought of an eternity of sadness, weeping for her, repenting for his greatest sin.

“Deep sea,” she repeated with her cold dead lips. “Dark doom.”

The apparition vanishes and he returns to the silent darkness of his bedchamber, sweat thick on his face.

Aemond rises from his bed, strands of silver sticking to the naked skin of his back. Once the feverish heat of anguish has passed, coldness takes over. He shivers in the damp sheets, still haunted by the harrowing vision. He remembers purple lips uttering riddles with the greatest detachment and pallid limbs, hands with blue fingers. Images of a beauty frozen in time by icy waters flood his brain and shatter his poor heart to pieces.

“Enough,” he cries, voice so low not even the walls could have heard his lament. Aemond grasps his hair as hot tears freely run along his cheeks. Sitting on his bed, he swings like a mad child over the covers and muffles the sound of his sobbing.

“Well done my Prince, you have redeemed yourself.” Otto Hightower has said when the news of his rival’s daughter’s reached the Small Council. His proud grandsire offered his hand to shake and Aemond took it, unreliable tongue pouring lies into the Hand’s ears. “Thank you Lord Hand.”

The calumnies sting still. Every time he gulps, he tastes nothing but bitterness.

But of course, he keeps his despair to himself. Like he has always done. Aemond Targaryen is a man made of secrets and repressed emotions. All his life, he has protected his space, kept other people at bay, worked to become a greater man than his father, brothers, uncles. A man powerful enough to be adored, clever enough to be feared. One person on earth has glimpsed at what lies inside his soul.

And now she has the sea as sole grave.

Fire and Blood. This is not the path of redemption, this is the path of pure destruction. Not only of the world around him, but of everything he knows and has worked to protect. He used to think he was ready for this war to come, that he was born to wage it.

But now that he has nothing left to fight for, it feels so vain to wield a sword and ride a dragon. Would any of these battles bring his lost love back ? No. None of them would.

If it meant he could hold her again, Aemond would fight anyone. The gods, the sun, the moon, the stars. The north, the south, the east, the west. Any of them, just for a second of salvation in her heaven-like embrace.

The memory of her face is vivid in his mind, dazzling under the moonlight in her wet white dress. With her crown of thorns and laurels, she looked like a martyr. She reminded him of who he was.

Kinslayer.

A long day awaits and the Small Council seems less harrowing than a day spent between the gloomy walls of his solars, weeping and playing with a tempting blade. One hour more in this room and he might drive it through his flesh.

His regal mother has insisted.

He will attend to every reunion of the Small Council, advise his brother, learn from their grandsire, listen and obey. This is his punishment for starting this war. Or reward for fighting his brother’s crusade, he is not sure.

“Soldiers will follow Vhagar,” she has said just moments after he had confessed his terrible crime. “Any lord foolish enough to support your sister’s cause will bend the knee when they’ll see you at their doors. Vhagar is a conqueror. You are her rider. You are a conqueror. Go out and conquer Aemond, and you’ll taste glory.”

You should have named me Aegon then, he thinks. Aemond has lost the love of his life and his fanatic mother only speaks of glory. What glory is there in slaughtering the object of your desires ? He has no wish of becoming a conqueror now. His childhood dreams are disillusional and hollow. His destiny has sunk into the Narrow Sea and comes back to haunt his nights, dressed as a goddess. Her impending justice menaces his every moves. Wherever he goes, her shadow follows.

Ghastly visions flash before his eyes every time he blinks. Every stone of the Red Keep whisper her name, tell the tale of her life between those walls. All of them remember well the beauty of Aegon’s daughter, so eerie and joyful like a rose growing among nettles. Perhaps they weep for her as well, reminiscing of a pale princess running around the corridors with silver hair as a cape.

The same silver hair torments him now. The last thing he has seen of Naera was her hair, floating like a trail of diamonds in the sly before it vanished into the storm. Like a bolt of lightening striking his chest, he feels a strong ache flare and swallow him whole.

A soft hand catches his arm and the torment fades for a while. Helaena is there, in one of her light green dresses and gold jewelry. Tender violet eyes land on his lamented face and offer a sweet, caring smile as consolation.

“Walk with me, brother.”

He nods and follow the slow pace of his sister, first through the halls and then down the gardens. Outside the castle’s walls, life seems a bit less gruelling. Amidst the flowers, Helaena is home. This is where she belongs, among the sweetest thing nature has to offer. For she is one of those marvels herself, a ravishing young lady with an intricate personality. Many thought of her as a crazed little women, weak and whiny. Yet out of the four of them, Helaena was the strongest. She has inherited of their father’s kindness, a virtue that goes rare in the family. They are all without morals. Rhaenyra is an usurper of easy virtue. His brother Aegon a drunkard and a violent men, with desires so vile even the lowest levels of the city find them reprobate. Daeron is young still, but as malicious and facetious as their mother. And what is he ? A Kinslayer. A traitor. A murderer.

Helaena is mad, Aegon is vile, Daeron is sly but Aemond is evil.

What was there to say about their mother’s education ? They had very little, to be fair. Alicent was too caught up in her religion and the intrigues of the Court to really pay attention. She pulls the strings of their lives in the shadows and pretends she’s doing it all for them. Yet, when Meleys’s giant maw threatened the lives of her four children, she only stood before Aegon.

She would give her life for him, but not for any of them. For they bear no crown on their heads. They are but empty vessels, unworthy of her dedication.

He has suffered her neglect for more years he cares to count, but it is not him who bears the scars of their mother’s ambition, but Helaena. In the pure tradition of their house, she has married her eldest brother. She has married a beast with an even more monstruous mind. Her soft creamy skin is a garden for his evil flowers to blossom.

“I am sorry Aemond,” she says with a gentle tone. “I know it was an accident. I am sorry for your loss.”

Kind words, at last.

The prince looks down, courage eluding to him like rats fleeing a city in flames. “Do not torture yourself,” she continues. “Dragons win wars. Not dreams.”

Madness looms in everything she says, it is true. She speaks in riddles and brain-twisters, like she doesn’t know the language of common men. Gods have gifted her an eye capable of discerning hidden truths, a mind strong enough to harbour prophetic visions. Her world is made of images, symbols, omens — words of wisdom simple men cannot understand. He has learnt to see through the veil, uncover the mysteries. But now, his mind is too clouded by sorrow and blinded by self-loathing to seize clarity in her babbling. He stares at his sister and beg the gods that move her lips to speak their truths to grant him an answer now. He stares and does not know what he begs for the most ; comfort or forgiveness.

“Beware of the red shadow, brother.”

Again, Aemond struggles to grasp the sense of it all. Helaena eludes to him, champagne dress dancing around her little body as she moves. She returns to her wailing children and he returns to his duties. Reluctant steps lead him to the Small Council, where his brother awaits surrounded by his advisors.

Aemond enters, greets, sits before the blue stone they have had made for him. He cocks his head to the side and listens to whatever plot they expose, to whatever absurdities the bring to the table. One of them draws his from his impudent contemplation.

Aegon knocks on the table with his clenched fist. “We are at war,” he declares, an ounce of anticipation hiding in his derisive smirk. “And as a King, I think I must adapt this council to the decisions it must take.” Silver prince turns at his grandsire and toys with the golden-scaled ring around his middle finger. “Lord Hand. You have ruled this country in times of peace wonderfully, but as I have said before, we are at war. I need a man of action by my side. Someone who does not shy away from brutality and has proven his determination many times before. “Aemond twitches in his chair. “You will be relieved from your functions at once, Ser Otto. Ser Criston Cole is to be our new Lord Hand and his first action as my leal servant will be to rid our lands of the Black scum. My sister’s supports root deep in the Crownlands. Ser Cole will lead our army in my name and crush her allies before she can gather.”

Aegon lands a self-satisfied gaze on his brother, tinted with defiance. Aemond answers with a grin, ignoring the uproar of protests rising into the room. Alicent’s indignation is too grand to be contained. Their mother’s voice grows shrill and supplicative, pleading her father’s cause with the most devoted vehemence. But Aegon is deaf to her begging. His mind is all made up already.

Ser Criston will crush Rhaenyra’s supports in the Crownlands while Daemon Targaryen is away. They’ll force her to come out of her rat hole and when she does, brothers will fight against sister. Kin against kin. 

The thought of fighting his nephews brings a larger smile to the prince's lips. If he cannot have salvation, he'll find solace in carnage.

In fire and blood.

Until a dark doom comes to put an end to his madness.

Chapter Text

Far from the turmoil of battle and the smell of burnt flesh lives a broken creature, hiding in the flesh of a fisherman’s daughter. Endless waves of gold fall along her shoulders, unbound under a knotted headdress. She wears rags to cover her limbs, scratches on her wrists and hands, short nails and chapped lips. Here she lives peacefully, among those who have saved her from a long night.

They are modest folks with simple lives. They catch fishes in the sea early in the morning, cultivate a small piece of lands for vegetables, wash their cloths in the river, meet around the fire at night. They live every day and never wonder about what lies outside of their village. They watch as merchant ships sail across the horizon and never wish to know where they go or where they come from.

Time flies fast here, more than she can truly realize. Three moons have gone like three weeks.

She has woken up in rough, scratchy linen sheets in a fisherman’s house among the nets and the hooks. Her first sight was Wyll and his wife Yssa, both around fifty years of age. They sat at her bedside and stared in awe at the girl they had rescued from the cold waves, a week ago. When they found her, her body had winded up on the shores, washed up by the tides and bruised. Yet it was strangely warm still — burning hot, like it was fighting a fever. They had brought her back to their shed and prepared a bed and a fire for her. Worried Yssa had even crafted a crown of wicker, adorned with handmade statues of the sevens to guard the girl’s rest and grant her healing. Although it wasn’t the seven who saved her from a certain death, but another god. R’hllor breathed fire into her lungs and commanded the winds to push her body to the shores, safe and sound.

Naera ignores how she has ended up here, on an island amidst the Narrow Sea. In fact, she ignores almost everything. How to walk, talk, eat, dance, live.

All she remembers about are names. Hers first, Naera Targaryen. Her father’s, Aegon Targaryen. Her mother’s, Medea the Asshai’i. Little by little, her broken body heals. On the first day, she is so torn by pain she cannot even speak — all she does is moaning and wailing. On the second, she babbles and stammers. On the third, she sits atop her bed with Yssa’s help.

After a week, Wyll holds her hand as she takes her first steps into this new world. Barefoot on the cold and muddy soil, she bonds with the earth once more. With a great pain still, but she walks.

Wyll says he has found her on the beach at dawn, once a great storm had passed. Waves spat her shattered limbs on the shores and when he ran to the poor creature, he expected to find a cold corpse. Yet he found a burning hot pile of flesh, bruises blooming all over her pallid skin. That day, Wyll didn’t go fishing. Instead, he used his net to drag the body on the sand and for over a week, he and his wife slept on the floor. They offered refuge and care to this mysterious girl, whose armor was destroyed and hair as white as the moon.

Yes, she is unique. Not only because she has survived whatever mysterious trials the gods have put her through, not because she is a miracle of some sort. But because of the way she moves, speaks, breathes. When she enters a room, hubbub and heated conversations turn to silence. When Yssa takes her to the market, every head turn to her with prying eyes. What is a silver headed beauty doing of their little island, dressed as a peasant ? Many whispers she could be a dragonseed — a bastard and nameless girl birthed by some whore along their coasts. Targaryen princes were known for two things : their ardour and their foolishness. One of them could have fathered that damsel.

Wyll and Yssa have assisted in her rebirth, fed her mind with teachings of a simple life. How to light a fire and prepare a stew with little ingredients, how to braid you hair, how to wash and sew your clothes. With time, she acquires a knowledge her privileged childhood has omitted.

Yssa claims they have been together all their lives. Thrice, they welcomed sons in their home and all were claimed by a ravenous sea. They live in a city called Evenfall. In truth, it is more of a castle surrounded by a few modest dwellings. Most of the inhabitants are scattered all around the island Wyll calls Tarth. He says it a sapphire island, like a jewel amidst the Narrow Sea. He speaks of Tarth often as they sit by the fire at night.

One day, he tells her about that time during his childhood when Myrish crossed the strait and sought refuge here. They invaded the island, murdered the villagers, burnt their fishing boats. Wyll and his family used to live in a cottage on top of a hill, at the southernmost point of the island. When Myrish approached their lands, they fled to Evenfall, beseeching the Lord of Tarth to grant his protection. Lord Cameron, he was called. A young yet wise man.

“Cameron wrote a letter to the king,” Wyll explains, fiddling the ardent embers in the fire with a stick. “He begged him to send reinforcements to keep the Myrish at bay, force them to leave the island.”

“Did the king send anyone to their assistance ?” she wonders, cocking her head to the side and resting it atop her folded knee.

“Yes my child, he did ! He sent two of his sons on their dragons and they rid our lands of the Myrish vermin. Princes Aemon and Baelon,” Wyll relates. “I was just a boy back then, younger than you are, but I remember how big they were. Caraxes was enormous, with wings so wide they covered the sun. But the other one sweet child, oh how monstruous it was.”

“Bigger than Caraxes ?” the girl inquires, smiling when she hears the stories of her grandfather. Of course, she has heard of Baelon the Brave’s exploits before from all of his sons. What a force of nature he was. Bold, fearless, honourable. When his wife Alyssa died giving birth to their last son Aegon — her father — Baelon became quarter the man he was before. He raised his sons as princes, but followed his dead lover in the grave soon after. And his mount sought exile in the mountains.

“Way bigger,” Wyll exclaims, insisting on his first word. “Vhagar it was called. Blood dripped from her maw still, it drooled red slobber and…”

Naera doesn’t listen the rest of Wyll’s description of the beast, for she knows very well. When the conqueror’s name crosses the man’s mouth, all her body crumble and quivers in fear. Yes, Baelon rode mighty and voracious Vhagar, she remembers now.

Vhagar. The ominous name resonates in her head, petrifies her limbs, rushes the air out of her lungs. Suddenly, it becomes so hard to breathe. She shudders where she sits, a dire chill running along her spine and robbing her of all strength. Her expression changes as well, going from admiration to pure terror. Wyll stops talking and the silence draws Yssa’s attention. The caring woman lands a gentle hand on the youngster’s shoulder, which the latter refuses.

Terrible flashes flood her brain. The rain first, so thick and heavy on Moonfang’s wings it made her scales glimmer with every bold of lightning. The rain turns to red, showering her with blood. Vhagar’s enormous mouth swallows bits of the wailing creature and every bite draws a whimper from her lips, sends a shiver down her back. Golden gleaming appalling eyes stare at her as a gigantic maw engulfs her silent mount and a broken voice cries her name into the storm.

Naera.

Trembling fingers hasten to untie the straps that bind her to the saddle and she jumps into a sea of grey clouds. This is the last thing she remembers : an endless ocean of gloom and the cold embrace of death.

That night, she dreams of the dreadful storm again. The same dark fangs come to devour her dragon. The air salty air comes to fill up her nose. Memories of a dark doom shatter her peace.

She lies on the mat, linen covers protecting her body from the chilly breeze. The fire has nearly died in the hearth and Wyll’s snoring breaks through the silence.

Now that she reminisces of the truth, sleep eludes to her like a prey to a predator. The child she used to be would have wept for Moonfang, yet the tears refuse to wet her eyes. She feels the sorrow in her heart and the mark of Vhagar’s punishment runs deep into her flesh. There is sadness, pain, despair yes, but no tears. Perhaps she has already cried them all. Her mother used to say weeping for the dead is like crying for the melting snow — a vain protest against nature’s most sacred law. Death must be welcomed, not fled. “Those who accept their fate leave with rightful hearts, those who defy it grows cold and cruel.”

She misses Medea’s wisdom more than anything else in the world.

To be close to her, she invokes the undying bond that ties their souls together and prays R’hllor the storm didn’t cut it. She turns to the crinkling embers in the chimney, watches as their glow fades into the darkness of the room and feels at home again. Her lips part with a soft smile. Back when she was a whiny child in Summerhall, Medea used to light a fire every evening to welcome the night and honour her master. She taught her daughter to seek the light in the darkness and never fear the shadows again.

Moons ago in King’s Landing, she used to pray to the same embers for freedom and clarity, power and a say over her own life. Now that she is a dead girl to the rest of the world, she has everything she has hoped. Had she wished to, she could have crossed the Narrow Sea and travel all the way to Volantis, devote her whole existence to the god she adores so much.

But she thinks of Baela’s hands reaching for hers in the darkest hours. Of Daemon’s scarred arms comforting her. Of Rhaenyra’s crowned head amidst salt and smoke. Of her mother’s kisses pressed against her forehead before she leaves

And most of all, she thinks of Aemond’s lone eye and sullen face.

The thought of the cursed prince plunges her soul into darkness. The light of the embers goes out and the room is engulfed by the shadows. A bitter, harrowing feeling invades the lost princess ; a terrible mix of love and loathing. Her resilient heart beats cold in her chest until dawn comes.

In the morning, she rises before the two peasants. She lights the fire and warms the porridge by the time they wake. While they eat, she ties a scarf on her head and grabs a basket.

“I’ll go to the market today, so you can stay at home,” she offers, to which Yssa agrees as she drops some coins in the girl’s hand.

Her determination surprises the drowsy woman. “Bargain for the best price and do not buy anything we do not need,” she instructs. “And Nettles, be back before midday. I’ll need the vegetables for the stew.”

The said Nettles nods yes before she leaves. When Wyll and Yssa questioned her some weeks ago, Naera judged it necessary to lie. She was too weak to defend herself and too wary to trust the two of them. Anybody would have done the same. When they asked about her name, she said Nettles — like her favourite character from her mother’s tales. Later, they asked where she came from. Again she lied and pretended to be a traveller from Volantis, parted from her ship. In truth, the islanders were too kind to call her sincerity into question. From now on, she’ll go by that story.

An orphan named Nettles, whose ship sunk in a terrible storm. Not a complete lie, to be fair.

She fails the promise made to Yssa and leaves the coin the woman has given her on the window ledge before she leaves. She hides the basket under Wyll’s old and worn nets and hits the road in direction of the market. On Fridays, the place is particularly busy. She will put the crowd to her advantage to cover her tracks.

The market takes place right before the castle’s doors, which is guarded by drunk and lousy guards. She wanders among the loaded stalls and eyes at the ships hoarding up in the harbour. One of them is her path to salvation.

The sensation is terrifying. For the first time ever, she is forced to take her destiny in hand. Revenge lies just across the square and calls her name in the distance.

Naera frees herself from the crippling hesitation and springs in direction of the harbour. More than a dozen of ships row along the docks, teeming with crew members basking in the sunlight. She observes them all, wondering which one will offer safe passage back to the continent. Some are loaded with oranges and spices, others with fine silks — all stop for supplies in Tarth on their way to Dorne. Trade makes the island terribly prosperous and its lords beyond rich.

A hand lands on her shoulders and makes her loose her train of thoughts. “Have you lost your way young girl ?” Naera startles and turns, a braid of silver dancing as she moves.

She meets ocean coloured eyes and time stops. Golden ringlets fall upon the man’s forehead, cut short above his copper pauldrons. His mouth is half-open and he stares at her like he is seeing a ghost, and for a moment only, she forgets she is one.

When she gathers enough lucidity, the girl shakes her head slowly, tilting it from left to right and she pours her begging eyes into his glare.

Edwyn of Tarth stands before her, hand already reaching for his sword. Naera rears back, raising her hands like a shield.

Next thing she knows, she is dragged into a deserted alleyway with her former swornsword as sole company.

“What is this grotesque farce ?” the golden knight mutters, gritting his teeth as he draws gleaming steel from the sheath. “You’re dead.”

“Do I look dead to you ?”

Piercing lilac eyes shine bright in the dimness between two tall houses. The uproar from the market is not loud enough to cover the distinct sound of Edwyn’s heart beating and panting breath.

Ser Edwyn releases his grip over the weapon and drop his hand. There is a certain glow that trembles in his blue and beautiful eyes — awe diluted in incomprehension. A sentiment only inspired by gracious miracles.

And this is miracle enough to him. Edwyn wants to fall on his knees and kiss her hands. Hightowers have claimed her murder, used it to establish their authority and secure Aegon’s claim to the throne. They made a legend out of Aemond Targaryen. Kinslayer, they nicknamed him. And in their treacherous mouths, the greatest sin became the greatest sacrifice. Every time his name came to someone’s lips, Edwyn felt the irresistible urge to draw his dagger and slit their throats open. Every day, he carried around the weight of guilt — first, he had failed her father Aegon and now, he had failed his daughter too. What a joke he was, a sworn protector unable to protect anything.

This is why he has returned to his homeland, disheartened and without a purpose. He would die at the service of his brother on that miserable island and never know any adventure, any glory. He would grow old, fat and bitter.

“Not a word to anyone,” she declares with a soft yet domineering voice. Gentle commands come out of her lips and she breathes purpose and meaning into his life again.

“But how ?” the stormlander moans, unable to resist the questions that press to his lips. “They said you had fallen. They said you were dead.” Husky southern voice cracks and shivers as he observes every detail of her pale figure, harvesting relief with every glare.

She rolls up one of her sleeves and reveals the bruises her skin still bear weeks after the impact. They have blossomed on the creamy surface, like flowers of red and purple in the snow. “I was dead,” she sighs, lowering her gaze to her feet. “And I was reborn. The storm brought me here. I was spared for a reason Edwyn. You must help me.”

“Anything you ask Princess. My sword is yours,” the blonde man assents. “But first, you must know that with your death, war has unleashed upon the Seven Kingdoms.”

It takes little imagination to picture how her clan has chosen to grieve her loss. Daemon must have ran to Caraxes and left the wind dry his tears. Baela must have melted in Jacaerys’ arms, wetting his doublet with her sorrows. They must have demanded for justice.

They must have demanded fire and blood to quench their thirst for revenge.

It is the same drought that plagues her throat these days — she herself is thirsty for the same things.

“Find a raven and a ship for Westeros. Get me out of here.”

She reaches for his collar and captures it between her fingers, clawing them on the soft indigo fabric. “And from now on, call me Nettles.”

Two dragons leave King’s Landing. They soar high in the sky above the capital of all sins, dark wings spread large and proud in the air. Two brothers — one a king, one a prince, but equals in reputation. One is a reprobate drunkard with vices as dark as the night, the other is a rogue second son, a kinslayer.

In times of war, crimes and sins are said to be forgiven. The Seven look away while they massacre, burn and plunder the lands of their enemies and in return, they swear to fight for honour, faith, duty. Whatever virtue they choose to disguise their wrongdoings.

Aemond has not enough strength to conceal his enthusiast from his brother. Earlier this day, a raven has come from Rook’s Rest. Ser Criston’s host has defeated Rhaenyra’s supports, the Stauntons. The fortress is theirs for now, but the Lord Hand has expressed his fears. A red queen is rumored to fly above the region, threatening wings serving as a promise of retribution. Meleys and her rider, the ferocious Princess Rhaenys, are waiting for reinforcements — mostly on dragonback. The Blacks have more dragons in their pits, but the Greens have Vhagar, the last of all conquerors. The old beast equals three of theirs in pure strike force and her rider is just as fearsome as the creature by itself. Everywhere in the Seven Kingdoms, Aegon’s partisans praise his actions and chant his name. Kinslayer, the Blacks sing and the Greens praise.

In the eyes of his brother’s leal subjects, Naera Targaryen was just a treacherous scum protecting another treacherous scum. They do not mourn her. They do not respect her. They have forgotten what her father has done for them all, how he has ruled over the realm while his regal brother was dying. Aegon belongs to the past now and so does his only child.

The sky is cloudless, so clear he can see the vast sea unravel under Vhagar’s wings. Small glistening waves adorn its surface and when Aemond lowers his gaze to the waters, his own heart is submerged by sorrow. Three months it has been already and he laments every single day.

Deep sea. Dark doom.

Last night he has dreamt of her again, like many times over the courses of three past moons. She emerges from limpid waters amidst an immense lake, wet white silk sticking to her naked body. Her crown of thorns and laurels draws more and more blood over the course of time, turning her hair to pink shades first, then a dark scarlet colour. She stares at him, drink the courage and little dignity he has left from his trembling eye and utters the same words. Every single night she comes, she reaches for the dead heart that beats in his chest and squeezes it without mercy. In this world of dreams, she has no heart herself, only a gleaming glare burning with violence. Her body is without colours, made of marble, ivory and silver alone. She commands to the air around them and it turns into a million blades cutting through his skin. A deafening screech crawls across the sky and she rises her imperial gaze to meet the silver winged beast that breaks through the clouds like a spear. She raises her slender arms to the ethers like a priestess praising the heavens for their graciousness.

“Deep sea, dark doom,” her imperial voice chants as she brings her deadly eyes back to the prince. “It’s coming for you too.”

Slowly, Aemond surrenders what sanity he has left to the madness that lurks in the shadows of his soul. Twenty years old and he is a devil already. A dragon, a plague, a dread. All fear him and ignore his folly draws power from despair. They ignore bloodshed is the only remedy he knows to keep the pain at bay.

Violet gaze lowers on the Narrow Sea and silently begs it to spit out the jewel it has swallowed three moons ago. Some devastating tears dare to hurtle down along his cheeks, leaving a trail of ice on his skin. Perhaps some of them might fall into the waves, find her wherever her beauty rests forever. Carry his love to her. Let her know how much he misses her, how many times he has wished to crown her queen, to surrender his life to her. How much even now, when he readies to sow desolation in his sister’s realm, he thinks only of her. He runs to the Stranger in the sole hope of meeting him sooner. All he wants is to love her in the next life as much as he has loved her in this one — for as long as he can remember and forever. An eternity of devotion to her.

Vhagar flies towards a bloody battle and Aemond feels no fear, only excitement and anticipation. Bloodshed is the remedy he has found to cure the evil that gnaws him. The suffering of others distracts him from his own. Fire, blood, destruction, pain. This is what he is now. No more stolen kisses in dusky alleyways, no more princesses in distress. The One-Eye allows himself to think about Naera one last time — he looks down on his finger and observes the absence of his ring. Along with her, the three-headed sapphire dragon has sunk. Somewhere in this dark sea, she lies with the mark of his affection on her body.

Rook’s Rest appears in the distance, grey stones shining under the golden beams of dawn. Soldiers row on the ramparts next to large crossbow, big enough to shoot spears into the air. Devices crafted to kill dragons, not men. Ser Criston has readied his men for the dreadful battle to come. When they catch sight of Vhagar and Sunfyre, they do not flinch. Bronze and golden beasts land on solid ground and the King meets with his faithful servant, the Lord Hand. In the safety of the fortress, they wait for the Blacks to come.

They come nine days later — Red Queen and little princes, ready to rain fire on the Greens’ armies. Knights and foot soldiers surround Rook’s Rest, while archers are in charge of the giant crossbows atop the ramparts.

But before the battle begins, destiny plays a cruel trick on him. A maester run to the dragons, fastening his chubby fingers around a piece of paper. The One-Eye turns to him, leaving Vhagar’s side to meet the panting man on the field. Aegon snarls. “News from the Capital ?” In truth, this is more of a little packet. “It is no raven, brother,” Aemond informs, turning the tiny package between his fingers. Paper and nothing else, folded around something heavy. The king loses patience on Sunfyre’s back. “Be done with it Aemond !”

The silver prince sneers with he hears of his brother’s impatience. Agile fingers unfold the paper and reveal silver and sapphires. Mounted on a three-headed dragon, three gems glow in the morning light. The wrapping is in truth a letter. In black ink, a promise is written.

It is coming for you too.

It takes the world to Aemond not to collapse. Vhagar must have felt his distress crawl into the lethal silence, for she whimpers and groans where she stands, as uneasy and nervous as her master. It seems like a devilish joke to him. He puts the ring back on his finger and swallows his misery as he casts the paper to the ground. White haired prince hops on dragonback and all of the sudden, he is the strongest man in the world again.

Vhagar soars and Aemond unsheathes a gleaming valyrian blade and lands his eye on the green dragon with a dark-haired prince on top of it. Jacaerys Velaryon has joined the battle, determined to crush his mother’s enemies with all of his might. Blue sailed ships fill up the limpid waters and pour soldiers on the shores under a black banner. Meleys is unrelenting, her attacks lethal and terrible. Another silver dragon swings in the air and destroys whole garrisons with a steamy fire. On Seasmoke’s back fights an unknown warrior, silver-headed and sunkissed like the rest of the Velaryons, but unknown all the same.

Yes, whatever it is, it is coming for him too. But in the meantime, madness takes the reins and wields his sword into the air. If he must fall today, he'll bring some souls along with his down into the seven hells.

The battle lasts until sunset and leaves both sides worn out, stricken.

Bloodied corpses hoard in the streets of Rook’s Rest. Meager streams of dark crimson seep between the cobblestones. Raptors describe circles in the air, drawn by the smell of charred carcasses ready to be devoured.

Criston Cole’s scorpions and archers rain fire upon the two dragons, who didn’t expect to be overwhelmed so soon by mortal projectiles. Vermax is smaller than Meleys, less resistant. The little beast is nimble, but not enough to dodge the arrows and spears flying from the ramparts. The Red Queen spreads out her two large wings like two shields in front of the young prince. Vermax then dances around her, pouring fire and desolation upon what remains of Rook’s Rest and green bannermen. The Lord Hand cowards in walls recently conquered and curses the Blacks for being Targaryens as well.

Aegon wails and whimpers in a bed, on the corner of the room. During the battle, the King and his mount the glorious Sunfyre have dueled the mighty Meleys. The young Hightower king is but an unseasoned and reckless rider, on the back of lazy dragon. Meleys showered them both in fire, resulting in the agony of the youngster and his dragon. In the courtyard, Sunfyre whines without a move. He keeps his wings folded over his wounded body and hisses at every man brave enough to approach him.

Maesters and sisters swarm around the king, arms loaded in unguents and medicines. The flesh peels off his bones, charred, dark and swollen. Dragonfire is unforgiving. Hours after the deed, it keeps gnawing the poor man’s body, plunging his soul into a darker shade of madness.

Meanwhile, Aemond flies across the sky on Vhagar’s back, casting the ominous shadow of the immense dragon upon the men below. Some of them rise their heads to the clouds and pray when they see the conquering beast above them, some others cry when they think of the agony and death to come. Yet, he ignores them all. The One-Eye has other objectives. He ignores everything of his brother’s wounds or what evil creeps in his sister’s chambers, leagues away in King’s Landing. He wants to meet a dragonrider’s end.

Vhagar flies after Meleys and Vermax, impetuous and fearsome like the promise of an impending doom. At first, they seem to revel in their triumph and relax for a bit, before Rhaenys notices the bird of death on their tail. Her cries burst out in the air, crawling to the ears of her grandson, who sends a glance over his shoulders and tastes pure fear on his tongue. For a handful of seconds, he stares at Vhagar’s gigantic maw and frantic wings and thinks of his cousin Naera, contending with this monstrosity amidst the storm. Where did she find the courage he himself lacks in this moment ? No one would willingly face the emerald beast with razor sharp fangs, not even a fool. Not even a Strong bastard, fathered by the Breakbones.

Their race leads them over the Gullet, where the Velaryon fleet blockades the sea routes to King’s Landing. Vhagar swoop down on the armada, turning the waves into flames with her deadly breath. She is terribly hungry, terribly called by the smell of blood and burnt flesh. Once her teeth and tongue have tasted carnage, she is unstoppable. She is a war machine, designed by the gods to serve the purposes of men.

Meleys and Vermax distance their giant peer with a great difficulty. When she catches glimpse of the desolation that falls upon her husband’s fleet, Rhaenys enrages. She turns back, ignoring the supplications of Jacaerys from the green dragon’s back. The Red Queen shoots by like arrow through the skies. Vhagar and her one-eyed rider are taken aback by this sudden change in strategy, but not displeased for all that.

Aemond tightens his grip on the leathery reins and unsheathes a dark, gleaming blade. He grins when Meleys reveals two rows of drooling teeth, when her crimson wings conceal the setting sun behind her.

The fight that follows is as gruesome and pitiless as predicted. Both dragons are renowned for the brutality they gladly put on display here. Vermax witnesses the scene from afar, his rider too reluctant to the idea of leaving his grandmother to the claws of Vhagar.

In truth, this is a bloody dusk. Before the sun falls beneath the sea, many lives are taken. Not only here above the Gullet or in Rook’s Rest leagues away, but also in King’s Landing. In the Queen’s solars, the shadows takes the shape of a menacing ghost, a man wrapped in a cloak of pure darkness. Helaena recognizes him immediately. He is the one the Seven fear like the plague. The Red Man.

With his blaring voice, he asks the sweet mad queen a choice. Which one of her children will she sacrifice, in retribution of her brother’s sins ? “An eye for an eye, a life for a life,” the Red Man grins. “Choose now sweet child, or I’ll take the three of them.” Of course, the helpless mother is unable to choose. She throws herself at his feet and begs, and cries, and trembles, and grips the folds of his cape. “Choose now,” his thundering tone repeats as she shakes her head left and right, sewing tears on the wooden boards.

R’hllor draws a blade made of fire from the creases of his cloak and raises it in the air. Helaena gets between the menacing shadow and her wailing children, but their fate is unavoidable. The blade cuts through her protection and hurts Jaehaera, her only daughter. The child collapses at the feet of her two brothers, throat weeping blood.

Horror takes over the Red Keep when Heleana’s harrowing cries fly thick and fast in the dim halls.

Meleys’s carcass crashes on a hill, on the shores of Dragonstone, with her rider tied to her saddle. Rhaenys is gone, what is left of her glory is a broken body hanging from the straps. Near the fuming corpse of the Red Queen lies a weakened Vhagar, scales gleaming with dark blood. Aemond still holds the blade his father has gifted him years before. He caresses the rough skin of the beast and whispers reassuring words in her ears. Vhagar seems satisfied and replete. She has no combativeness left.

Aemond descends from her back and watch as Vermax descends from the sky, with his dark-haired rider. Jacaerys lands on top of the hill, knowing well enough their presence has been sighted by his mother’s sentries. He unsheathes his sword and readies for another battle, driven by vengeance and a hint of madness, unique to the Targaryen blood.

The One-Eye licks the blood that thickens on his lips and make his blade dance between his fingers. Jace has grown into a fierce young man, just as vehement as his father before him. When he comes for his uncle, he does so with an inextinguishable strength. Cold valyrian steel meet and clash at the night throws a blanket of darkness upon the foggy island.

They climb up the slope, putting to good use their master’s lessons as they trade blows and hits. Jacaerys fights with the ardour of a revengeful man, gritting his teeth every time his sword is stopped by Aemond’s. The latter has nothing less to lose — he fights for an honourable death, waiting for his nephew to drive his blade through his heart and make him a martyr of the war. Send him where he belongs ; next to a dead girl with the oceans as sole grave.

Jace fights and remembers the promise he has made to Baela, days before. When he returned from the North with Cregan Stark’s support secured, he found a weeping bride-to-be and halls empty of his step-father’s presence. The prince was told Daemon had gone to the Riverlands. Ravens brought back reports of the man’s fury, freely unleashed upon the lords who refused to pledge allegiance to the Black Queen. He was drowning his sadness in bloodshed, while his daughters wept the friend they had lost. Baela was inconsolable. She wore traded her red and blue dresses for black gowns and dark attires. She defied her grandmother’s authority many times, claiming she would fight on Moondance when the time comes. Revenge was her only obsession. Before he left for Rook’s Rest, Jace came to his vindictive betrothed, held her hands and promised he would bring the Kinslayer’s head to her feet.

Now that he is so close to honour his oath, it seems harder than ever to accomplish it. Aemond is like a shadow that dances around his sword, avoids and counters his blows with a disconcerting agility.The one-eyed sneers in the blue twilight, provoking his nephew’s anger a bit more with every move.

But Jacaerys takes him aback when he hits the back of his knees with the flat of his blade, causing his legs to collapse. Aemond falls to his knees on the muddy soil and Jace brings his cold steel to his neck, spitting blood on the ground.

The prince raises his remaining eye to his nephew, urging him without a word to put an end to his madness with a coup-de-grâce. The blade trembles against his skin, the boy that holds it wavers and hesitates. Aemond casts his own sword aside and raises both his hands to the sky, in sign of complete resignation. Vhagar growls atop the hill, but with one wave of the hand, Aemond shuts the beast’s mouth. Kill me, he thinks. Kill me and bring my head to my whore of a sister.

“Do it nephew,” he snarls, showing a row of keen teeth when his thin lips roll up in a grin. “Do it.” He insists, hammering his desire for retribution and eternal flames. “Aren’t you strong enough, bastard ?”

Jace lifts his blade up high in the dark sky, finely forged steel glistening under the moonlight. The boy’s gaze flickers like two beacons in upheavals. Aemond grins with satisfaction when the promise of death hangs above his head in the hands of his nephew. Liberation at last.

Jacaerys’s vengeance falls upon him and his one-eye shuts.

Naera meets Edwyn the next week. He comes for her at the apothecary stall, wearing a dark cloak to conceal his identity. “Tonight,” he slips into her ear as she fills her small basket with posies of herbs.

At night, he waits for her in the alleyway next to Wyll’s house, wearing the same dark cloak as this morning. Under the moonlight, he looks even more bright. Unattended curls of gold, fall heavy on his forehead, still damp from the bath he took. He smells of fresh grass, hints of lemon and sea salt perhaps. He smells of Tarth, copper melting into a sapphire sea. The scent hits her first when she meets him in the alley, her own figure concealed under dark materials.

For more than two weeks, they have been planning this escape right under the nose of everyone. Butchers, bakers and greengrocers represented a mere menace. Servants, guards, intendants were to fear. They dropped their ears and eyes in every corners, prying on information they could bring to their feet. Edwyn has tried to gain support from his brother, the revered Lord of Tarth, but to no avail. Rynden is loyal to Borros Baratheon, and Borros Baratheon has a daughter betrothed to Aemond Targaryen. If he does anything to harm them, the Green would send whatever punishment they see fit on them. A risk the good lord was not willing to take.

Yet, Rynden of Tarth has eyes to see what was going on but above all else, he knows his younger brother. Edwyn is an impetuous man, a skilled one, but impetuous and stubborn all the same. They are perfect opposites. Rynden is calm, calculative, greedy. Edwyn is dashing and dazzling. Rynden is a lord, Edwyn a warrior. One is heartless, the other has too many hearts to give. They are like two sides of the same coin, moon and sun, day and right, earth and sea.

As soon as the blanket of night has fallen upon the lonesome island, their plan comes to realization. Edwyn takes a good look at her. Two weeks ago, she was just another loss to grieve. A ghost even, a cruel reminder of his failure. Today, she is a princess disguised as a peasant, running from a family that only desires to tear her apart again. Edwyn notices the colour of her hair when the wind makes it weave under her cape. She has dyed it a darker, dirtier shade of blonde. Valyrians have distinctive pale silver hair and Naera has the whitest of them all. Now they flow over her shoulders like waves of gold, likeness to silken curtains. She looks like a common girl, tarnishing her beauty to melt in the masses. Only her lilac eyes testify of her essosi ascent and dragon blood.

Edwyn reaches for her hand. “Let’s go Nettles,” he whispers, already dragging her out of the alley. They walk in the dimmest areas and muffle the sound of their steps. Drunkards laugh in the tavern and cover their escape. They reach the harbour with no difficulty at all.

Many ships row along the docks, full of sailors drinking mead on the decks. They are too caught up in their gambling and drinking most of them do not notice the two shadows, heading in direction of the last ship. Edwyn stops before a frigate, whose sails are white and without banner. But when she observes the details of the hull, she notices sun, moon and stars carved into the dark wood. This ship belongs to Tarth, to its rulers.

“We said we would find a merchant ship,” Nettles lowers her voice to reproach. “We could have waited.”

Edwyn doesn’t flinch. “Rynden suspects something. I had to act quickly.”

“And your solution is to steal one of his ships ?”

“These ships are mine,” Edwyn hisses. “They have always been. Rynden is earthbound, I am a sailor. You Targaryens have dragons, us Tarths have the sea. Trust me Nae—” The golden knight, not so golden nor knight without his armour, clears his throat. “Trust me Nettles. I’ll keep you safe.” He tightens his grip over her hands and dive into the immense purple sea her eyes harbour. “I will always keep you safe.”

“I know, but I do not want you to pay the price of my freedom,” she responds, removing her hands from his embrace.

“My blood is bound to yours. Whatever I do, I will always share my fate with you,” Edwyn recalls, alluding to the promise made by his father Cameron of Tarth to the girl’s grandfather, Baelon the Brave. Knights of the Sun and Stars have sworn to protect Baelon’s descendants and pay the price in blood if necessary. A sacrifice Edwyn is more than willing to make. He has failed Aegon before and suffered her loss once. Never again.

She eludes to the reminder and hops on the deck, where the captain awaits. A seasoned man, she guesses from the scars running along his naked arms all the way to his neck, with a wrinkly face and narrow eyes. His dusky skin betrays his ascendance — he’s not westerosi.

“This is Daavos,” Edwyn introduces. “I couldn’t think of no other man.”

Daavos nods in silence where he stands and Naera glances sideways at him. Apart from his evident essosi appearance, he dresses like a Tyroshi. He does not belong to the Tarth fleet, he belongs to the sea. He is a pirate.

He offers a hand to the girl, who seizes and shakes it. “Nettles.”

“Come,” Edwyn continues, leading her across the deck. He pushes a door that reveals a cozy cabin and invites her to enter before he does.

Naera sweeps across the room and notes the comfort of the large bed that is suspended in the air, the office, the stained-glass windows. Edwyn stays outside as she removes her coat and drops it on the nearest chair.

“You’ll have a nice journey here,” he remarks, crossing his arms over his chest.

She turns to him with doe-like eyes. “Where will you stay ?”

“With the rest of the men,” he answers. “Below in the holds. This is a small ship, we don’t have many options.”

“Stay with me instead.”

Her words are so soft, her offer so irresistible — yet it falls upon the knight like a stone shot with a machicolation, like a fiery meteor. He drops his arms along his flanks, gathering his spirits as well as the strength to deny her. She is different now. More franc, more careless than before. Some evil in the waters have stripped her of any doubt, any fear. She is a free-spirit walking among men, a true dragon made flesh. Every word she speaks is a desire made command. The world bends to meet her demands and Ser Edwyn of Tarth is no exception to the rule.

“This would be—”

“Below my station ?” Naera intervenes, cocking her head to the side. “I am a dead girl. Dead girls have names, stories, laments sung for them. But no stations or titles to defend anymore. I am no princess anymore.”

Edwyn gulps with a great difficulty.

“Come ?” she dares, climbing the small ladder that leads to the bed. “Or don’t, and go rot in the holds with your smelly companions. Your choice.”

She throws a cruel smile at him, already burying her little figure under the covers. Edwyn is devoured by temptation, weighed down by duty. He looks at the featherbed out of the corner of his blue eyes and thinks of a grey-haired Aegon, sitting at his desk for hours after dusk as he wears out his brain trying to solve matters of the state. He thinks of the man he used to serve so faithfully and glances at his daughter, so dangerous and bewitching when she lies on that bed.

“Close the door on your way out then,” she taunts, turning her back on him. “Sleep tight good knight.”

Edwyn enrages and shrugs where he stands. The floor trembles beneath his feet and the shouts outside mean they have left the harbour. Daavos dispenses orders to his crew members and Tarth becomes just a faint light in the night. They engage on the five-days long route to Dragonstone. He closes the door, but does not leave.

Instead, he comes to her bed, climbs the ladder in his turn and finds his place under the covers. She is right. This is better than a smelly corner in the holds, better than everything he has known so far. Edwyn crawls on the thin feather mattress to his spot, meticulously avoiding the perilous areas where her arms, legs, body lie. He rests his blonde head against the soft pillow and meets lilac piercing eyes, likeness to magic gems shamans would use to conjure bad omens.

He stares for long seconds and she does not flinch once. He is the first to look away.

“Thank you,” she demurs. “For saving me. For keeping me safe.”

A gentle smile parts his lips. “I’ve done nothing but my duty.”

“You’ve done marvels.”

“And you’ve done miracles. You are the one that defied death, not me,” Edwyn holds forth, cocking his brow. “Now. Tell me what happened.”

Until then, she has been impassible but when he mentions her nearly death experience, she shivers under the covers. Her gaze begins to flicker, waver, lose in intensity. “I don’t know.”

“Come on,” he insists, coming closer without even noticing it.

Flashes of her dragon in agony and her panicked hands hastening to untie the straps flood her vision, make her heartbeat erratic. The harder she tries to cast the dreadful memories into the darkest shadows of her soul, the more they come to haunt her. Words pile up in her throat, make it difficult to breathe or talk. Her eyelids tremble, following the movement of her lips. “I don’t know,” she repeats, voice breaking under the menace of tears and anguish.

“I’m sorry,” the man apologizes, circling his strong arms around her. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to.”

She curls up in his embrace, snugging her nose against the folds of his shirt. She smells lemon-balm and sea salt all over again, fills her lungs up with the sweet scent of his skin, closes her eyes and imagines somebody else. He clenches his hands on her shoulders and the back of her head, locking the softness of his arms around her shivery body. He drops soft kisses on the top of her head, hoping to rid it of its darkest memories. He knows nothing about the one-eyed man that obsesses her, haunts her nights, invade her thoughts in the broad daylight. All she can feel on her tongue is the sour, bitter, earthy taste of blood. She despises the desires her chest is filled with, the heat that takes over her body every time she thinks about his elongated fingers, lonely eye, slick white hair, sly thin lips, hot kisses, preying tongue. His deafening cries reverberate in every silence and all of the sudden, she is blinded by violence.

Mighty, terrible and crying her name amidst the storm, pushing his voice to its limits to scream louder than the thunder. She remembers now. She sees him bend in two on his saddle, throw his hand in his direction with his face drenched in rain and tears. The way despair distorted his expression. The way his voice cracked, flew thick and fast in the air, died a bit more with every attempt.

She remembers that gleaming one-eye, following her into the darkest sea. Following her everywhere, lighting her path in the long night like a cold sun in the somber skies of hell.

Many times, she has expected death to be a peaceful experience, a reunion perhaps with those who had gone before her.

Aegon, to start with. Since her father has died, not a day has passed where she didn’t feel his absence. She used to think he would wait for her on the other side and be the first one to welcome her soul. Then, he would take her to her grandparents Alyssa and Baelon, whom she has dreamt so many times to meet. They would sit for endless times in the halls of R’hllor and feast, chant, dance, laugh and cry, until the day Medea comes as well.

But death was just a cold, lightless ocean. Waves heavy as arms pulling her body apart, dragging her into depths mortals dreaded.

It felt like walking into an abyss, with just enough light to see the horizon stretch to infinity. Air was as thick as water. Every sound was subdued, distant. A long night, a hell without flames nor suffering souls in eternal penance.

Only her, alone with her own terrors.

She walked for hours and found nothing but wet sand under her feet and a dark moonless sky above her head. Isolation and solitude, limbo for leagues. Hours stretched into days, that felt like years. Centuries of wandering in a world of nothingness.

And she met the man she has seen before in Dragonstone, dressed in the same black and burgundy clothes. He sat on a rock, next to Blackfyre driven into the sand. When she reached him, he offered her a soft, endearing smile tinted with some pride.

The first king of the Seven Kingdoms stood before her, taller than any man she has ever seen and she feels like a child all over again. When he spoke, he did so with a thundering voice that belonged to someone she knew better than the ghost of her long-gone ancestor.

“Not today.”

And just like that, the unending purgatory vanished and she opened her eyes into a fisherman’s shed, with the sound of waves caressing her numb ears.

Since this very moment, she finds it difficult to live like a normal human being again. She sometimes feels like she’s still trapped into the long night — there’s no feeling too intense, no joy she can experience, no fear that can challenge her motivations.

She’s like a natural disaster, driven by greater forces, devastating, impassible, unavoidable.

She is not the master of her own fate anymore, nor the captain of her soul. They are. She is the mouthpiece, the sword in the darkness, the instrument of vengeance and justice perhaps. But she is not herself. A vacant space lies in her chest, where her heart used to be. Or perhaps, it is just frozen in time and waiting for spring to come.

Like the world after an endless winter, after a long night, perhaps it’s waiting for the prince that was promised.

Edwyn falls asleep quickly after their lasts words, but Naera doesn’t.

She escapes from his clawing, stifling embrace and crawls to the other side of the bed. There is no comfort to be found in his arms, nor warmth enough to defrost her numb limbs.

She cannot rest while her head is full of cryptic dreams, one-eyed princes and irresistible desires of revenge. She feels like a hungry wolf in a land without lambs to devour, like a dragon with no fire. In this world, she is powerless. In truth, she is more of a dragon without wings. Moonfang has died that night and it left a hole in her chest, hollow and weeping tears of invisible blood. Although, what she feels is not loss or grief, but pure helplessness. She is crippled, maimed, limited in her actions. Moonfang was her weapon, her sword of flames — she made her their equal. And she gave her only asset away to save the life of Rhaenyra’s son.

Without Moonfang, what is she if not a dead girl ?

She is a dreamer, yes.

But dreams don’t win wars. Dragons do.

Chapter Text

Aemond walks the never-ending halls of Dragonstone for the second time in his life. The first time he came here, he was just a boy and didn’t have any shackles binding his hands, nor guards digging the tip of their fingers into the flesh of his arms. Just a boy, so young he still had a head full of dreams. As he walked in the steps of his great ancestors, he wished for an extraordinary destiny. His mother Alicent had bent to reach his ear and pour into his soul a promise she’ll never be able to fulfill. “This will all be yours someday,” she had said, rubbing her gentle hands on his shoulders. How could it be his ? How could anything ever belong to him ? All he has to his name is a sword, an ancestral dragon and a sin he could never wash off. Kinslayer.

Ser Steffon Darklyn and his peer Ser Erryk Cargyll force him to the ground when they arrive before the Queen. Unlike Aegon, she has no throne to sit in. She spends her days next to the Painted Table, sends ravens and dragons to every corner of the realm, dispenses orders, but never fights. She is dignified in ignominy. A Queen that rules over a bunch of renegades, bastards and broken things. All those who once swore to defend her claim when the time comes are dead. They have passed their oaths onto their successors, sons and daughters alike — but none of them is fighting this war willingly. This is not their war. This is not Aemond’s war. This was not Naera’s war.

But all Targaryens do is take, not give. This crown, like any of the things they have ever coveted, will come with blood stains and ashes. An heavy price to pay, for sure.

He refuses to kneel before his sister, crowned with a circlet of golden crests. Ser Steffon Darklyn loses his temper and strikes him first, leaving a trail of red at the corner of the prince’s mouth. Aemond spits blood to Rhaenyra’s feet. Darklyn hits him again, landing his boot in his back and pressing the boy’s body down to the floor. Aemond’s face meet the cold tiles, as the kingsguard squashes his foot on his neck.

Jacaerys breaks the silence first, stepping forward into the light with Baela on his trail. “Your Grace, I have brought this traitor before you. He is responsible for many deaths and many losses. What shall we do to punish him ?”

Whispers rise and crawl across the room, but the Queen stands impassible, a thoughtful expression locked on her eerie face. She gauges at her brother. It’s curious how they are bound by blood, yet complete strangers. Rhaenyra knows nothing about him, shares no fond memories with him. Only rumors and resentment. She watches at the flow of white hair spreading on the dark tiles like moon rays piercing through the trees at night and wonders if her husband will ever forgive what she’ll do next.

“Should the Prince Aemond, like any of my brothers, walk the path of righteousness and recognize me as the legitimate ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, I’ll myself walk the path to forgiveness,” the Black Queen declares, tone so calm it nearly becomes disturbing.

Agitation takes over the room. Jacaerys casts a distressed gaze to Baela, who lowers her own to her feet. The poor girl is mad with grief. She drives her nails through the flesh of her palm and swallows all the swearwords that come to clog her mouth. Next to Rhaena, Lucerys is just as uneasy. The man that has tried to slaughter him breathes the same air and it makes it impossible to inhale. It sickens the boy.

“Never,” Aemond hisses with a grin. “If a queen you must be sister, be the queen of whores.”

Another hit, heavier and more violent than the precedent, lands at the back of her head. It knocks against the stones and loosens his eyepatch. The leather strap breaks and Steffon Darklyn casts it away. He pulls onto his hair, forcing his head up. The audience sees how bruised and blood the prince’s face is now. Darklyn’s violence knows little limits, especially when insults are thrown at his monarch.

Aemond’s laughs bursts through the silence and reverberate between empty walls. His evil sneer sounds like the greatest insult into everyone’s ears. He has murdered their beloved princess, helped to bring down another, attempted to slay the queen’s son — and now he dared to laugh at all of their faces.

“You are lucky my husband is not here, young brother.”

“Quite the contrary I think. Had Daemon been here, he would have ended this farce sooner,” the One-Eye snarls. “He would have chopped the head off my shoulders and sent it to my mother as a gift. Daemon sure knows how to inspire respect. A quality you cruelly lack, dear sister.”

“Take him,” the Queen commands, already turning back to the mad prince.

Darklyn and Cargyll lift his body off the floor and drag him into the hallways again. Aemond keeps laughing, sneer resonating loud and clear between the walls as the kingsguard bring him into the lowest levels of the fortress. Down and down they go, walking along gloomy stairs that lead into the depths of the earth. They rip off his leather doublet and the laces of his shoes before they throw him into one of the bleakest cells. As they close the door, Ser Erryk’s sorry gaze lingers on the boy. He stares at the prince and wonders what would’ve happened, had he refused to help him get the princesses Rhaenys and Naera out of the Red Keep. How many innocent lives, including theirs, would have been spared ? Both princesses now lied cold and silent in graves made of waves and stones, lips sealed for eternity. Perhaps they had both wished for a less brutal destiny.

Aemond surrenders to silence while the door is closed and the dungeon empty of any presence, apart from his. Thick walls of black stone offer a home to his insanity. Alone, with just a shirt and a his leather trousers, he sits in the dimness and allows his heart some time to mourn his losses.

Back in the Painted Table Room, he has said terrible things. Lies, to content their prying hears, to add to his legend. But the truth of his heart is darker, colder, harder to believe.

Once again, he grieves for a girl lost in the waves. Beaten black and blue by the tides, carried by the currents to warmer seas perhaps.

One question torments him day and night. How ?

How come she knew he was in Storm’s End ? How come she knew he would chase his nephew through the storm ? How come she knew exactly where to find them, how to save Lucerys and Arrax from Vhagar’s jaw ? This is conundrum. A complete mystery. For days, he goes over their shared memories with a fine-tooth comb.

As far as they lead him, they go all the way back to Summerhall, then to High Tide. He sees the frightened and silent little girl she used to be, so discreet people barely noticed her presence. Reminiscences bring him back to his home in King’s Landing. He thinks of the night of her arrival, when he found her so erratic and terrified in the hallways. An other time, when she fell asleep in the Godswood and startled when he woke her up. He thinks of all the times she looked so puzzled, so lost with her vacant eyes and face aghast. An expression he has only seen on one person alive before, his sister Heleana.

Over the course of days, Aemond gathers enough clues to make up his mind. She has mentioned a dream she had made about him. “I have dreamt about you once,” she had said. “Or in fact I haven’t. I was asked who my enemies were and I imagined you would stand proud, leading the way. The truth of the matter is, you have never even walked among them. You have never hated me, quite the contrary.” These were her famous last words, the very last time he has heard her sweet, honey-like voice. When she spoke of her dream that day, he ignored her. In truth, he ignored everything she said — it was his desperate method to let her go. Had he asnwered to her confessions, all bravery would have eluded to his body. He would have dragged her back inside, kept her into the stone towers of the Red Keep forever. He would have married her. Protected her. Loved her.

And these words wouldn’t have been her last.

Aemond receives very little visits, apart from Ser Erryk’s twice a day. He comes with food at dawn and at dusk. At midday, another keeper comes. He brings a book, paper, quill, ink and his share of the royal dishes. Aemond eats, sleeps, thinks. This is all he does.

When Cargyll comes, he does not answer to his questions. When the keeper comes, he takes the plate and leaves the rest. He does not need books to keep his mind sane, nor paper to let his mother know he’s safe. All he wants is silence and contemplation, so he can crack the code before Daemon Targaryen comes to drive Dark Sister through his guts.

Before the Stranger comes to claim his soul, Aemond wants to decipher the enigma Naera Targaryen has left behind. He wants to spend the last days of his life doing what he was born to do : love her.

Aemond ignores that elsewhere, she breathes.

Leagues away from the fuming hills of Dragonstone, she sails across the Narrow Sea on a Tarth ship. When the morning begins, she escapes from the gloomy cabin to catch sight of the sun rising. She bends over the balustrade and watches the delightful spectacle the skies offer to her eyes. The world is different out there. Wilder. Stranger. More distant.

The sun used to be warmer and brighter. The sea more majestic, less dreary. The wind more tepid and sweet, loaded with far-off scents of spices, salt, heat.

She contemplates every differences she observes, how differently her body reacts to its surroundings and sensations. A part of her still lies in the depths of the ocean. The waves have washed her humanity off, leaving her with broken pieces to put back together.

Everything seems dull, empty, hollow. She feels like a conjured soul trapped into a doll.

She wonders if she’s still human.

Edwyn is what binds her to the real world. He comes for her every morning, every noon, every evening, with freshly cooked meals and some mead. He stays at night and they laugh, talk, recall of their respective childhoods. They share fond moments of complicity.

They always have, even when he used to serve her father. Edwyn would always walk behind her, tell her if her braids were loose or if her dress fell in a bad way. He would arrange the creases, flatten the folds, hold the doors, tighten the strands of hair. He would always care for her, even when her parents were too busy to pay attention to their own daughter. When Aegon locked himself in his office, he often asked his sworn sword to make sure his wife and daughter were safe in their solars. Edwyn would then come, check on them, spend some time with Medea on the terrace. He was a friend of the family, and a loyal one.

Even now, he was. When everyone else in the world has given up on her, forgotten her existence, he is here. Helping her to come back home, making sure she’s safe.

They have been sailing across the Narrow Sea for four days and still, there is no sight of Dragonstone. Nor any sign of any other ship on the way. An eerie omen.

On that night, Naera is called by the world she truly belongs to. There is no place on earth where she feels more at home, more true and complete than when she wanders in her dreams.

This time, she walks in the fresh waters of a beach with dark sands, shores she recognizes immediately. Dragonstone lies before her eyes, majestic under a cloudless sky. Roars come from behind and she lowers herself into the waves, recalling of a dreadful vision she had months before. But this time, Vhagar is not the only dragon that flies above the sea. Next to her are Meraxes, nimble and silvery, and Balerion the Black Dread, so immense his red wings block the sun. Kings and queens of the skies above, the very weapons that brought Westeros down to its knees a century ago. The Red Man has once spoken of Vhagar as one of his creations, one of his children. R’hllor has crafted these blessed creatures the same way he has crafted the Targaryens — with fire and blood. It makes them so special into the girl’s eyes.

They are more divine, more holy than her kind will ever be. Than anything else in the world. The purest manifestation of her god’s will, innocent of all sin. All they do is eat and sleep the day away in the shade of their favourite caves, mate and dance in the skies. They ignore everything of the man’s world, of its conflicts and share of misery. Every evil they do, they do it because some mad man is pulling the reins.

They disappear behind the Dragonmont, the highest summit in Dragonstone. For a moment, Naera ceases to breathe. She stares at the mountain, heart still throbbing with fear in her chest.

One dragon emerges behind the Dragonmont in the east, clawing his way up into the stones and the smoke. Naera watches as he progresses towards the peak. He is enormous, even from afar. She thinks it might be Balerion, but when she narrows her eyes and takes a closer look, she notices the somber colour of his wings. This is not the Black Dread, this is some different creature. More dreadful, more fearsome.

A terrifying roar flies thick and fast across the clear sky and tears her courage apart. The dragon looks in her direction, with gleaming, piercing, unfaltering silver eyes. Naera collapses into the waves, crippled by a sudden terror. The Red Man takes shape on the beach, blurry and uncertain at first. Or at least, she thinks this is the Red Man. But when he removes his hood, she is surprised to recognize another man. Silver-haired and purple-eyed, with a straight nose and an imperial gaze. This is the man from her first dream in Dragonstone.

This is Balerion’s master himself. This is Aegon, first of his name. The Conqueror.

He turns to the beast behind him and Naera swears he chuckles.

“You are a dragon,” he chortles. “Why would you fear another dragon ?”

It is strange how his words echoes R’hllor’s, how they seem to be bound to one another. How they are both bound to her.

“Visenya used to be scared of Vhagar. The beast nearly tore her arm off once,” Aegon relates as he walks into the waters to offer his distant descendant a hand. “But quickly enough, my sister understood you cannot be a dragon if you don’t have a dragon. I am sure you understand it as well, my child.”

“Aemond Targaryen killed my dragon,” she hisses, digging her angry hands into the sands. “He ripped off my wings. He killed me.”

Aegon’s smile doesn’t fade. Quite the contrary, it seems to amuse him even more. “But you’re not dead, my child.”

“I would rather be dead,” Naera spits, casting her teary glance away.

The conqueror steps into the waters, drenching his boots in the meantime. He is fast to reduce the distance between him and his sobbing descendant. He crouches down to her level and lands a hot hand on her cheek, spreading confidence, reassurance and warmth in just one touch. “Come to Dragonstone, and perhaps I’ll show you a way.”

“I am coming to Dragonstone,” she answers. “Show me now.”

“No you are not. You are heading west.”

As soon as she wakes up, she runs to the window, sweat still thick on her skin, breath short and panting. Every morning she has observed the sun rise in the sky and never has she questioned the direction the ship took. What she sees behind the stained-glass sows discord in her mind. They’re not going northeast, they are going west, as Aegon predicted it.

Once again, she is struck by the unsettling accuracy of her dreams. But she is also left with very few time to react before Edwyn comes. She dresses herself in the first place, putting on one of the sailor’s uniform he has brought her. She ties a thin strip of leather around her two braids, pinches her cheeks like every morning before.

She reaches for the small knife she hid in under her belt, one of the few artefacts that survived the wreckage on Tarth’s shores and conceals it once again.

When Edwyn finally comes, she sits by the window and reads a book under the morning light. He drops the plates on the table and walks to greet her, landing his ocean coloured eyes on her pale figure. The gold in her hair has already begun to fade. More and more, silver claims her beauty again.

“How was your sleep ?” she inquires.

“Nice,” he answers with his morning raspy voice. “Yours ?”

“Good,” she sighs. “When are we arriving in Dragonstone ?”

The golden knight’s gaze grows elusive, distant. He looks into the glass as he gives her insight. “Soon, Princess.”

“What do you mean, soon ? Dragonstone is a five-days trip from Tarth, with mediocre conditions. All we have had since we left Evenfall Hall are gracious winds and a warming sun, so tell me Ser Edwyn, why is Dragonstone still out of sight ?”

Edwyn gulps with a great difficulty. She notices the way his fingers pick up the scabs around his nails nervously. He’s lying to her.

“Why are we heading west, Ser Edwyn ?” Naera insists, landing her disapproving glare on the man. “Where are we going ?”

Edwyn seems to ponder on the question for a while, coughs as he tries to clear his throat. She repeats the question again, articulating every single word. She lays inquiring purple eyes on him, so intense they sting the surface of his skin.

“Somewhere safe,” Edwyn mutters. “Dragonstone is not safe.”

“Who are you to decide where I should or should not go ? What is safe for me ? What are you to me ? A father ? A brother ? A husband ? A king ?”

“No. I’m your sworn sword,” he answers, eluding to her destructive and wroth glare. “I must keep you safe.”

“Where were you when Aemond Targaryen murdered my dragon and threw me into the sea ? Did you keep me safe that day ?” she spits, icy eyes now full of contempt and resentment. She slams the book close on her lap and casts it aside. “Do not forget yourself, Edwyn of Tarth. You are under my command, and I command you to tell me where we are going. Right now.”

“King’s Landing.”

He has not wavered for one second before dropping the ominous answer. The girl gushes, hides her anger, swallows her own fire. Her face flusters with fury. Edwyn faces the dragon and eyes at its rage. Every breath he takes sounds like a mockery, a joke, a jest. An insult.

“Why ?” the silver-haired princess demands, hand already reaching for the sharp blade concealed by the folds of her shirt.

“I didn’t have a choice,” the golden man begins to confess, voice altered by the emotions. His pale blue eyes darken a bit. “My brother found out about you. He wrote to the queen, reported that you were alive. She wants you, Princess. She wants to trade you for her son.”

It makes sense now, why they have embarked on one of Rynden’s personal ships. He has ordered this expedition, plotted the trap that slowly closes over her.

“Rhaenyra has the One-Eye,” Edwyn holds forth. “They will punish him for your murder. If Alicent proves that you are alive, she’ll give you back to your family. She’ll treat you well, I am sure of it. You’ll be home in no—”

“This is war Edwyn,” she interrupts as she rises from her seat. “Men go over the lands, putting their enemies to the sword, raping the women and murdering the children. Horrible deeds are done as we speak. Even if I’m alive, Rhaenyra will punish my cousin for the crimes of his clan. I will punish him.”

She brings her face closer, defiant fiery eyes tearing the poor man apart, robbing him of all bravery left. “Tell your men to head to Dragonstone now.”

“I can’t.”

“Do it now.”

“No.”

Steel swooshes in the air, cuts clean through his sunkissed skin. The dagger drives through his throat, like an arrow shot from the heights. Edwyn chokes on the blood that drowns his lungs and floods his mouth. Blue and trembling eyes beg her for reasons to such cruelty. She removes the blade, no light adorning her lilac gaze.

Edwyn begins to falter. He brings his hands to his neck and presses on the weeping wound. Red tears sputter from the gaping cut and paint her clothes with crimson. The knight crumbles to the ground with a thudding sound.

Naera looks down on him, wiping the blood off the blade with the folds of her shirt. There is not a single trace of emotion on her face — no distress, no fear, no anger. Nothing. Just cold blood.

“You failed my father and you failed me. The price of your failure is blood.”

For a moment, she stares at the dead man with the sentiment of a work well done, of justice. All should know that she is not the fearful girl she used to be. Now she has claws, fangs, scales, gleaming lilac eyes.

Blood of the dragon courses through her veins like a fever and for the first time in three months, she feels truly alive. Once the heat of the action has passed, she trips Edwyn of his possessions. She pulls off the golden rings and sapphires of his fingers, searches his pockets, takes his sword and daggers and throw them onto the bed.

When she’s done with her robbery, she pushes the door of her quarters, covered in the knight’s blood from head to toe. Her silver hair dance into the wind, stained with touches of red, pink and crimson. She smiles through the blood and casts a first indigo purse onto the deck. It crashes on the wooden boards and spits golden dragons. The coins roll at the captain’s feet. He raises his dark gaze and dusky face to meet hers.

“My good friends,” she begins. “I have earned you a ship and freedom.”

On one of their late night talks, Edwyn has revealed that Daavos and his companions had been captured by his brother’s soldiers some months prior. Since then, they served as corsairs in his fleet. Their mission was simple : stop any pirate ship that would attempt to attack merchant ones. They were slaves more than they were soldiers. In the eyes of the Lord of Tarth, Daavos and his crew mates were nothing but prisoners. Not partners.

“Take me to Dragonstone, or return me to your master if you wish. But you’ll live a miserable life under his command. Help me, and sail wherever you want next. Volantis, Lys, Meereen, Qarth, Astapor. Name it and sail.”

Daavos glances sideways at his second in command. The latter nods and Daavos drops the hand he had brought to his curved sabre.

Naera smiles. “To Dragonstone then. You’ll have more gold Daavos. Consider this a sign of my gratitude.”

The sailors rush to rudder, ropes and sails. They switch direction as soon as their captain commands it. Naera stays on the deck until the dead of night. She stares at the stars in the sky and the moon, bright and vivid above the waters. She mumbles words of faith and devotion to her precious god and guide. She prays to R’hllor, pour her gratitude into the air, thanks him for the heart of fire he has placed within her chest.

“I swear it to you R’hllor, I’ll kneel to no man. No one that has betrayed me will ever walk free. One by one, I will take them down.”

She pauses amidst her fervent promise, lowering her gaze to the waters. “I will kill them all. Each and everyone of them.”

This is one of these war councils the Blacks hold so often these days. The youngest spirits are invited, as always. Rhaena and Lucerys sit in a corner of the room and listen to what ideas wiser minds bring to the Painted Table. Jacaerys has become a general in his mother’s army. His heroic capture of the One-Eye has lead many to respect him. Now they listen to his ideas and consider their potentials. Baela also stands next to her betrothed. But her face is grim, tarnished by sorrow. She keeps her hands joined and her gaze low, distant and vacant. Twice grief has stricken her. First, the Stranger claimed her best friend and now, he came for her grandmother as well. She has urged Jacaerys to marry her at once, but the young prince has refused her. He pretexted that war was offered poor circumstances for their wedding. He wanted their love to blossom under better tidings, in times of peace.

When in truth, there is no space left for Baela in his heart. In the North, the boy has met a girl that possessed him whole. The more he delayed his marriage to his cousin, the more he could dream about her. Sara Snow was her name.

The only person that shares her pain in the room is Corlys Velaryon, her grandfather. When Jacaerys brought the news of Meleys and Rhaenys’s deaths to the Black Council, the Sea Snake broke into reproaches. He held Rhaenyra responsible for the passing of his beloved wife. Had the queen decided to send more forces into the battle, more dragons against Sunfyre and Vhagar, Rhaenys would have survived. Or at least, that’s what the resenting councilor claims.

They go over the battle plans again, move pawns along the map. The Vale has declared for them, as well as the North. Daemon has conquered the Riverlands and Cregan Stark’s armies march towards the Trident as they speak. Slowly but surely, the teeth of the trap close over the Hightowers. They are still confined in the Red Keep, using King’s Landing as a base for their operations. The necessity of an attack on the capital becomes evident now. They must ready to strike soon.

But first, they must fight the Triarchy in the Gullet. Since Aegon is severely injured and Sunfyre thus riderless, and Aemond made prisoner, these should be an easy win. The Velaryon fleet as well as the two dragons will leave in the three days, destroy the Triarchy’s fleet and secure the Blackwater Bay for battle. A faultless plan.

Ser Erryk Cargyll rushes into the room, white cloak floating behind his broad frame. The Black Queen escapes from the discussions and turns to her leal servant, wiggling her fingers at him to invite the man to pour his knowledge into her ears.

She listens with a thoughtful expression on her eerie, unique face.

“Go with Ser Steffon,” she declares. “Bring them to me.”

The two queensguards leave together, under the inquiring eyes of the audience. Rhaenyra ignores their misplaced curiosity, discards their interrogations and returns to the elaboration of their strategy.

On the small harbour below, the blue-sailed ship berths. More men have joined Ser Erryk and Ser Steffon. The restricted escort awaits on the docks, hands locked around the hilts of their swords as they scrutinize the newcomers. Archers on the ramparts above are ready to shoot their arrows.

A dark-skinned pirate emerges from the heights of the deck first, dropping his weapon to the ground as a sign of diligence. Ser Steffon is the first to speak.

“What brings you to Dragonstone, stormlanders ?”

Daavos answers with his croaky voice and strong accent. “I am no stormlander. I am Daavos of Myr.”

“And what brings you here, Daavos of Myr ?” Ser Erryk demands next.

“Me.”

A sweeter voice rises from the ship, matching a smaller silhouette. A silver-haired girl stands on the prow, clothes stained with dark brown splatters. Cargyll narrows his eyes and what he sees on that boat leaves his mouth agape.

“Low your bows,” he shouts to the archers before he turns to his peer. “This is the queen’s cousin. This is Daemon’s ward.”

Steffon’s dark and mousy gaze widens. He sends it in direction of the bloody girl. “This cannot be, Ser Erryk. The girl is dead. The One-Eye has—”

“Alert the Queen, Darklyn. Now.”

A storm of white and gold elbows its way through the small troop and climbs the stairs back to the castle. Ser Erryk surges forwards. Daavos and his men prepare the ladder. They cast it above the balustrade and send a few crew mates to make sure the platform is safe.

Naera walks first after them, basking again in the glory of her family’s ancestral seat. The endless bridge and its crooked stairs carved into dark stone unravel before her eyes, as awe-inspiring as she recalls. Ser Erryk Cargyll offers her a hand when she hops down from the plank. She sees it in his eyes — he himself cannot believe what he is looking at right now.

“Take me to my kin Ser Erryk,” she softly asks, granting the man an endearing smile. “I have missed them all so dearly.”

Vhagar’s menacing wails reverberates into the air, breaking the emotion of the moment. The heedless beast that she is calls for her master and flies aimlessly in the sky, drawing circles around the island like a bird of prey. Naera lifts her gaze towards the firmament and follows the large dragon with her pale lilac eyes. There she is, the beast that devoured Moonfang. There she soars, free and painless.

Naera rivets her glare on the Conqueror and swears upon her father’s memory that she will bring this beast down from the sky herself, dragging it to the ground with her bare hands if she must. She will punish Vhagar for her voracity, but first, she must let the world know who she is now. What she has done to come back home.

She walks in the hallways wearing the same clothes as two days before. Edwyn’s blood has dried thick on her shirt and doublet, sullying the linen with his infamy. She has not wept for him, not regretted her abominable gesture. He has betrayed her. He has betrayed her father. He intended to sell her to the Greens, like a vulgar piece of cattle to trade. He has baffled her in every way possible and paid the price in fire and blood. Now his corpse rots somewhere in the Narrow Sea and fishes come to gnaw it.

When she enters the Painted Table Room, all eyes turn to her. Baela gasps, brings her hands over her mouth. Corlys Velaryon leans onto his cane. Jace and Luke trade unbelieving glances. Rhaena shrugs where she stands, rearing back into the shadows to escape to the madness of the scene.

Naera strides across the room, until she reaches her cousin the queen. She kneels before Rhaenyra Targaryen and all in the room cease to breathe.

“I am Naera Targaryen, daughter to Aegon the Brave. I have fallen in battle. I have died and reborn.”

Rhaenyra rises from her seat, drawing a gasp from the whole audience. She bends over the kneeling silhouette, soft hands coming for the pink strands scattering the silver waves of the girl’s hair.

“I have come to serve my queen. I am ready to fight.”

“I can see you have already started cousin,” Rhaenyra mutters, observing the stains. “Whose blood is this ?”

“A traitor’s,” Naera responds, gritting her teeth as she raises her gaze to meet the queen’s. “I was sold by the Lord of Tarth to the Queen Alicent. I have freed myself from their yoke. This blood is theirs.”

“Let’s wash it off then.”

Chapter Text

Wind howls into the bleak walls of Dragonstone at nightfall. A storm comes from the open sea with a pouring rain and deafening thunder. Most souls seek refuge in the castle. Apart from the sentries posted all around the island in their small towers, everyone remains confined and sheltered by the centuries old fortress.

Storm fits Dragonstone the most. The bolts of lightning breathe life into the stronghold. Its towers themselves are designed to resist the challenging weather — they rise like shapr spears into the sky, dragon fangs built onto the rocks.

After her reappearance, the sea has enraged — as if the gods had waited for her to reach safety before unleashing their anger upon the shores. Daavos’s newfound ship and freedom patiently wait in the small inn for the sun to come out. Tomorrow morning, they’ll sail back home. Away from the dangerous beaches of Tarth and Rynden’s desires of revenge. Away from Westeros and its wars, miseries and dangers. To show her gratitude, the Princess of Summerhall has offered them to extend their stay but the adventurous has refused. He took the gold and promised they would be gone on the morrow.

The Small Council has melted until a few members remained. The Velaryons, the princes and the princesses, the Queen and her two guards, and Naera. For long minutes, they waited for the room to empty. Once the undesirable ears had gone outside and the doors closed, they engaged into a more serious conversation. Family and no one else.

A chair was brought to the princess, which she refused. She stood before them all, prouder and stronger than she has ever been. Long, endless even, strands of silver roll over her shoulders like ocean waves. Touches of pink and crimson come here and there to tint the white sea with blood, like tides under a setting sun. Brown stains cover her ecru coloured shirt, crude testimonies of her cruelty. She has not washed the blood off, nor changed her clothes. A choice she has made to show the world what she’s made of — fire and blood, with a dash of madness. Just like the rest of them all.

Baela lays wavering eyes on her cousin, whom she loves so dearly and has mourned for three months straight. Many times, she has cried herself to sleep under the cold sheets, praying the gods to return her sister-like friend. She grieved for her the way she has once grieved for her mother. She spoke the greater forces with an open-heart and an innocent tongue. Now that she looks at the bloody princess breathing the same ashy air as her, she begins to believe they may have listened to her plea.

But the observant princess cannot ignore the differences she notices on her cousin. She is slimmer than before, bones poking under her skin in some spots. Her face is emaciated, ridden of the roundness of her cheeks. Her skin colourless, apart from the faint bruises than blossom like violets here and there. Her most prominent feature are her eyes — they burn like two beacons, a warmer shade of purple that the rest of them. She is animated by pure fire and Baela can see it in her gaze. The flames consume her soul from within, dictate her behaviour. To stand in the same room as her is nearly oppressive in the moment. It feels like being trapped in the same cage as a dragon, so close to the scales that you could feel their heat sizzle your skin.

They question her, one by one. She tells her tale with a remarkable calm and composure, going over the details of her reappearance without omitting anything. Of course, she speaks of Yssa and Wyll, the brave peasants that have helped her when she needed them the most. Rhaenyra confirms that generosity will be shown to these people, as a sign of gratitude for the assistance they have given to her kin. Then Naera is asked about how she escaped Tarth, and she mentions Edwyn’s help, the Tarth ship, the captive pirates. When she uncovers Edwyn’s treason, there is not a slight shadow of remorse in her tone. She admits she has killed him in cold-blood. “He attacked me, threatened me. He said I would be brought to Aegon the Usurper. I defended myself, I killed the bloody traitor.”

The audience swallows her truths and choose to ignore the hints of lie her voice conceals so well. Rhaenyra and her faithful Hand the Lord Corlys Velaryon trade concerned glances. Corlys speaks next, putting out loud the question that burned the queen’s lips.

“How you have survived such a fall is a mystery to us all, including you Princess. A gift from the Gods, indubitably. However, I am afraid I must ask. How did you know the Prince Aemond would come for Lucerys in Storm’s End ?”

There is a pause and Corlys stares at the girl with his mouth half-opened, as if he wasn’t done talking. He takes support on the Painted Table, leaving the cane aside. “How did you know where they would be, amidst a violent storm ? No dragonrider, as skilled as they may be, could have done what you’ve done that day. How did you save my grandson ?”

Naera looks down and tries her best to dismiss the images that come to her brain, still so vivid in her brain she nearly faints when she reminisces them. She sees Vhagar emerging from the sea, mouth agape — a maw so wide, so gigantic she felt her heart stop in her chest. A true vision of horror. She remembers how fast she ran barefoot on the beach to escape her own prophecy, how fast she hopped on Moonfang’s back and whipped her scales with the reins. How thick the tears were on her face. How fervent were the prayers in her mouth. “Save the boy,” she begged R’hllor. “Save him and I’ll fight Vhagar, but save him.”

She cannot bring herself to say the words. There are two persons on earth who know what she truly is, what her true nature is. They call her many names and thinks of her in a variety of others. Witch. Princess. Orphan. Dragon. Dead. Reborn.

“I sensed it,” the silver-haired princess mutters, eluding to the queen’s piercing gaze.

Rhaenyra has two gifts : her beauty and her persuasion. She is so charismatic, so irresistible it is impossible to stare at her eyes and lie. No one has ever succeed in that task, no one has ever influenced her in any way — not even her father the King, nor her husband Daemon. She crafts the world and bends it to her liking, not the contrary. In this very moment, the revenant could have bent to her as well. Say whatever would please her.

“Sensed it ?” Corlys echoes, emphasizing his skepticism. The man walks around the table, drawing shapes with his fingers as he moves. “Truly Princess, you can enlighten us more.”

“Naera,” the Black Queen begins, as she paces the length of the room to meet the girl. She lands a gentle hand on her shoulder, pressing it softly for a moment before she drops it. Rhaenyra reaches for the girl fingers, warming them between hers. “No one here can express more gratitude for your sacrifice more than me. You have saved my son from the savagery of my brother, at the risk of your own life. Blessed be the Seven, you have survived this perilous task. But we have mourned you for endless days and endless nights. We have searched for answers everywhere and found none.”

Her cousin pauses for a while. She walks towards a small cabinet and draws some letters that she shoves in the girl’s hand. “From your mother in Pentos. See Naera, we were not the only ones mourning you. She needs to know.”

When Naera looks down on her mother’s cursive handwriting so neat on the parchment, tears come to her eyes for the first time in what seemed like an eternity. Hot burning tears paint her cheeks in silence and she weeps like a child all over again. Through her blurry vision, she distinguishes a few words. Along the letters, the handwriting becomes more trembling, more harsh, more rushed. Medea’s grief showed through her words and her distress tore her daughter’s being apart. Her soul shattered on the inside.

Once again, Rhaenyra has found a way to weave her way into the cracks.

“I want to write to my mother Your Grace,” the girl mumbles.

Rhaenyra looks above her cousin’s shoulder. “Clear the room,” she commands. And just like that, they all walk to the door and Ser Steffon Darklyn and his peer Ser Erryk Cargyll close the heavy gates after them.

“Of course you will,” the queen reassures her, rubbing the skin of the back of her hand in soft strokes. “As soon as this is done, you will find a hot bath poured for you in your solars, a raven, paper and ink. But first tell me, and me only if you so wish to. How did you know ?”

Naera sighs, air weighing down her sore lungs. “I dreamt about it.”

Rhaenyra rears back slightly in astonishment, but the endearing expression adorning her face doesn’t change. “Dreamt ?” she echoes, implicitly demanding further explanations.

“Yes my Queen. Dreamt it. I had a vision first, when I was walking down the beach,” she confesses, a searing pain flaring in her chest as she confronts the dreadful memories all over again. “It was overwhelming at first, I thought I was going mad for good. I ran along the shores to the Dragonmont, where I found Moonfang. I followed my instinct and Moonfang Arrax’s trail. And then Vhagar…” Naera interrupts her tale, blocking on the ominous name. “Vhagar killed Moonfang. I jumped from my saddle. I didn’t want her to devour me. I abandoned her.”

After the weeping comes the sobbing and the cruel realization of Moonfang’s loss. It hits her all the sudden, like a meteor striking from the ends of the universe. Aemond Targaryen killed my dragon. He ripped off my wings. He killed me, she recalls and repeats in the secrecy of her thoughts.

Rhaenyra circles her arms around her like Daemon has done many times before, when they both grieved the death of Aegon back in King’s Landing. She wets the red brocade with her tears, but the Queen only tightens her embrace, making it even more comforting. They stay like that for a few moments, sharing each other’s warmth and pouring strength into one another.

“Thank you again,” Rhaenyra whispers into the princess’s ear. “My gratitude will never end Naera, I mean it. Name something you want and I’ll give it to you. Anything you wish for.”

“Can you bring the dead back to life ?”

Rhaenyra stops breathing, thinking of her own father that has passed leagues away in his cold featherbed, alone in the dark amidst kin he barely loved. She wonders if he has thought about her in his last moments, or if he has called her mother’s name into the dark. She thinks of a dark-haired man with equally dark blue eyes, steady arms that broke bones like they were twigs. A strong man, whose ghost still haunted her children’s gaze.

“No my sweet child,” the Black Queen bemoans as she cups the girl’s face between her hands. “But I think you may know someone who does. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be here.”

His name has not been uttered yet she can feel the Red Man’s presence in the fire that crinkles in the hearth. In the warmth of Rhaenyra’s breath fanning over her face. In the heat that wraps her heart. In the memories of a deep sea and a dark doom. Everywhere she goes, the Red Man follows.

“Go to your chambers and rest,” Rhaenyra resumes. “Tomorrow we’ll talk again. We should receive word from your uncle anytime now.”

“Good, I’ll write to him too,” Naera answers. “Rest well my Queen.”

“You too, my dear cousin.”

She has been alone in her bedchambers for hours now. Ladymaids have come to help her bathe. They scrubbed her skin with rough sponges and soap, perhaps in the hope of washing off the bruises in the same time. But the marks of the sea’s brutality are still vividly printed on her limbs.

Once the ladymaids left, silence and peace returned to the room. She slid her broken body into a nightshift and threw a velvety robe over her shoulders. Nights in Dragonstone are colder than in Tarth, but the comfort her chambers offer has nothing to do with the rustic lifestyle of the fishermen couple. Nets have traded place with rich curtains of heavy silk, rough linen covers with silken sheets and furs. In the candlelight, she writes letters to her revered mother and uncle, both lost in the distance.

At first, it is hard to lay the words on the paper. Hard to tell them what they will refuse to believe. “Dear mother, it is me your dead daughter. I have come back from the dead, do not worry for me, I am safe with the Queen Rhaenyra. War is alright, perfectly fine.” She realizes only now how ridiculous this sounds.

How unbelievable all of this is.

In less than six months, her life has drastically changed.

She has lost her father and was parted from her mother, whom she loved more than anything else in the world. Then, she has been betrothed to her vile cousin, whom she hates even more now. Moonfang was slain, devoured by an horrible beast. She died, was reborn and betrayed. She ran away, she cursed, she murdered.

She misses the girl she used to be. The sweet and lonesome Naera, sleeping and reading the day away in the Godswood. She used to think she was miserable back then, alone in the Red Keep without a friend to talk to, or parents to lean on. But the truth is, these times were blessed.

The lost princess of Summerhall drops the quill as soon as she hears the knock on her door. She rises from her seat and paces the short distance to the door, which she opens at once.

Never-ending ringlets of silver and a sunkissed girl appear before her eyes, with a soft expression on her face. Baela stares at her, on the verge of tears.

The girl falls on her neck, closing her arms around Naera as she snugs her nose on the curve of her shoulders. Naera returns the embrace, holding Baela close against her chest. She holds her and she feels all the sorrow that has burdened her cousin drop from her frail shoulders. She feels her tears dampen her robe as well as the warmth of her touch. She fills her nose with the distinctive smell of her hair, loaded with scents of rose and honey alike.

This is home where home is. Where Baela is, and nowhere else.

“Come,” Naera sighs as she takes her teary cousin into the room.

They sit together on the soft covers and the silver-haired princess offers a handkerchief to the weeping girl. Baela wipes the hot tears off her pretty face.

And then she goes over the same question as the Small Council before, and Naera offers her the same answers. She tells her sister-like friend of her adventures in Tarth and the knowledge she earned there, among the small folks of the Stormlands. Baela finds her stories touching and they talk until the light of the candles goes out on the desk and bedside tables.

Only then they slip under the covers like they used to do as young girls, finding comfort in the warmth of the various furs and layers of silk. They turn to one another, resting their face on the soft pillows and the moon is the only light they need to lull them to sleep. Silver beams poke through the tiny windows and bathe the room in faint shades of grey. The moon has always bound them. Moondancer. Moonfang. Silver beauties wrapped in grey and black gowns, mind so sharp they could slice any enemy. Together, they make a formidable duo. Baela often dreams of future days, where she will be queen of the Seven Kingdoms and rule alongside her husband Jacaerys. Naera will stand by her side and be what the Hand will be to her husband. A true friend, loyal and unwavering.

“How was it ? Falling into the sea ?” Baela risks herself to ask, captivated by her cousin’s tale. “You don’t have to answer if it’s too hard for you.”

Oh yes it is, more than words can tell. But Naera is sick of secrets and she wants to unravel the intricacies of her life before the eyes of the kin she loves the most.

“Cold,” she answers, losing her aimless gaze into the shadows of the room. “I fell into silence and darkness. I felt so strange. I walked for days, it seemed to me. Weeks perhaps ? I don’t know. I’m sure I have died, Baela. Before the tides brought me back to the shores of Tarth, I was dead. I saw dead people.”

“Who did you see ?”

Naera discerns a gleam of hope in Baela’s eyes, and it breaks her heart to darken it. “Aegon, as in Aegon the Conqueror.”

“Aegon ? That’s all ?”

“Yes, he’s the only one I saw in the darkness,” she confesses.

“How did you know it was Aegon ?”

“I know because I have seen him before. In this very room,” Naera resumes. “He sat on the bed where you lie on my first in Dragonstone, and spoke to me about a dream he had back when he was young.”

Baela’s eyes widen in amazement. “You saw him ? Aegon the Conqueror ? Here, where I lie ?”

The words thicken in her mouth, binding her tongue to her lips. “Yes. I saw him here. I saw many things to be fair.”

For a handful of moments, Baela revels in silence and contemplation. Naera’s anguish takes over and she does not dare to break the stifling quietude. She wonders if Baela believes her at all.

“What else did you see ?” she inquires, voice so tender it dissipates her cousin’s fears.

The girl thinks of the first dream she ever had, with Vhagar on top of a hill and a silver-haired lady standing before the beast. The woman yelled dracarys into the air and the dragon rained fire on her. She was just a child back then and yet, she foresaw the impending death of Laena Velaryon. Baela’s mother.

“Have you seen how this war will end ?” Baela insists, already fantasizing on the princess’s prophecies.

“No,” Naera refutes with a sigh. “Dreams are like riddles you slowly learn to solve. They can be horrendous and terrifying, or sweet and intoxicating. It twists your mind Baela. Sometimes, I see things in the broad daylight and I’m not even asleep. I thought I was going mad.”

“Did you see something when you…?” Baela refuses to say the words again, but Naera understands the question all the same.

“I saw Vhagar on the beach, as clear as I see you now. And then I knew something terrible was about to happen to Lucerys. I felt it in my bones, in my guts, everywhere. I could not escape the feeling,” she confesses, lowering her gaze to the soft and bouncy mattress. “I hoped to save Lucerys, find a way to warn him. I never thought I would lose Moonfang, nor my life. I wasn’t prepared to loose you.”

There is another pause, another silence that falls over the room. Again, Baela is the first one to break it.

“He is here you know,” she mutters, tongue heavy with disdain and spite.

Naera blurts a muffled sigh, but no words escape the tight seal of her lips. Baela keeps speaking. She goes over the details of his capture, how glorious Jacaerys looked as he dragged the treacherous prince across the Throne Room. She spoke of Aemond’s bloody face, loosened eyepatch and revealed sapphire with disdain and vehemence alike. Naera listened to her description, heart half-broken, half full of revenge.

“Why should I care ?” The silver-haired princess responds, tone more stingy than she thought it will be. “Your father and the Queen will punish him as they see fit, do what’s best for our interests. As they always do, Baela.”

The latter assents with a nod and a faint, yet tender smile. “We should sleep now,” Naera resumes, rising from the featherbed to blow out all the candles. “Good night Baela.”

“Good night Naera,” the girl answers as soon as her sister-like cousin has joined her under the warm covers. “I have never been more happy.”

Twelve days go by, or at least that’s what he believes. Down here, there is no sunlight, no moonlight — no real light at all. There is a dim and subtle glow that comes from the torches. Drops of water fall on the damp stone floors and sing the same song for hours. Guards come and go, drop by some books and victuals and barely say a word to him.

He is not a prisoner, he is an animal in a cage. All he is given is food and distractions to keep the madness away. The Blacks are only doing the bare minimum to keep him alive and nothing more.

Three more days pass by with the same routine, but on the fourth morning, Ser Erryk Cargyll comes with a few more men — all in armour. The queensguard opens the heavy door with a big rusty key, hands loaded with shackles. Two men enter the cell to hold the boy down while Cargyll frees him from his chains. For a moment, Aemond caresses the hope that a negotiation has been brokered. But the frail expectations die when new shackles are bound to his wrists and ankles. They help him to rise on his feet.

“Come,” Cargyll mutters. “The Queen has decided to show some mercy and treat you like the prince that you are.”

Aemond doesn’t answer to the man’s slight provocation and follows in silence. He is dragged upstairs and in the maze of hallways Dragonstone homes, before the prying eyes of his sister’s despicable court. Fools, jesters and reprobates, all lawless and faithless men. The forsaken prince stares at them all with his lonesome eye and thus satisfies their thirst for sensation. He wields his sapphire coloured eye at them, like a mad man with a sword.

Ser Cargyll and his companions lead him into a remote tower of the fortress, far from the life that swarms in the warmer levels. Far from his cousins, nephews and sister on their open balconies and painted tables. He is thrown into a dark room, vast and richly decorated. But empty all the same.

Ser Erryk removes the shackles and closes the door behind him without a word.

Aemond sweeps across the chamber and observes the Blacks’s cleverness — there are windows yes, but windows they are arrow slits. Too thin to let him see much outside the walls, too thin to let him catch a good sight of Vhagar howling his name into the wind. This way, he cannot command her to burn Rhaenyra’s garrisons to the ground, nor let her know his presence. They are smarter than he thinks.

Surely, this new cell is more comfortable than the precedent, but it is as boring as it promises to be. The one-eyed prince mopes around all day and knows nothing of the life past these walls.

He paces the length of the room all over again, blaming himself for a crime he did not commit.

In the western wing of the somber castle, the Black Queen supervises one of many of the Small Council meetings. But this time, her son Jacaerys Velaryon leads the debates.

The boy maintains that in order to win this war, the Blacks must put to their advantage their greatest asset : the dragons. Many run around the island riderless. Dragons are powerful creatures, bound to the blood of the Targaryens by history and hints of magic. His idea is quite simple.

They must recruit dragonseeds. Forgotten children of Valyrian blood, worthy enough of such a creature.

Jacaerys and his grandfather the Lord Hand have taken the liberty to bring two of these potential riders before the court : Addam and Alyn Velaryon, both rumored bastards of the late Ser Laenor, which greatly displeased the queen at first. But after discussions and honeyed talk, the idea started to grow on her. She agreed to it all.

Naera stands among the councilors disheartened and silent. She listens as her family redacts a list of candidates and volunteers, and omits her name.

It seems to her than someone quite familiar hides among the Blacks at this very moment. She looks at the mantlepiece on the other side of the room and catches glimpse of a vivid apparition. Leaning against the chimney, the true master of Dragonstone presides over the council, both his arms crossed over his chest. Blackfyre swings at his belt, hilt gleaming with the reflection of the flames. He wears black with hints of red and silver hair like a crown on his head. Aegon the Conqueror stares at the girl from where he stands and she feels her soul set ablaze.

His presence is obnubilating — she cannot focus on whatever cause the Prince and the Hand are advocating for, nor sense Baela’s reassuring presence by her side. Persons become blurry silhouettes and she sees nothing but the tall dragon leaning against the hearth, with a slight grin on his lips.

“Blood of my blood,” he chimes through his smile. “Claim what’s yours, like I have claimed what was mine.”

Aegon’s voice covers everything else is the room. It’s thundering, captivating even. “An eye for an eye, a dragon for a dragon.”

Naera recalls of Aegon’s promise back on the ship. Come to me in Dragonstone, and perhaps I’ll show you the way.

She gathers enough courage to speak and meets with the Black Queen when the room empties. Rhaenyra seems surprised at first, but she is willing to listen anyway. She sits next to the fire on a velvety arm-chair and when she glances at the monarch, Naera swears she can see Aegon all over again. Rhaenyra has the same silver hair of course and the same eyes as well, but she has his nose, his chin, his aura. Naera stares and truly believes she is in presence of the rightful ruler of the Seven Kingdoms.

“Pardon me my Queen, I did not mean to bother,” Naera begins her plea, conscious that she is robbing her cousin of some precious moments of rest.

In times of war, tranquility has an expensive price. Rhaenyra spends her nights tossing and turning in her featherbed, mourning a child the circumstances have not allowed her to cry for and praying for the safety of a family she struggles to keep together. Daemon puts the Riverlands to the fire and sword while she is confined in Dragonstone, presiding countless councils and reunions. She hides in the shadows like a queen of cravens and cowards, and despises herself for it. Her younger self would have climbed on Syrax’s back and sacked the Riverlands along with Daemon. But now she is a mother of five and queen of seven kingdoms, not the adventurous youngster she used to be.

When the Black Queen lays her dazzling purple eyes on her younger cousin, she sees the fiery princess she could have been. But she also reads desolation, despair and a thirst for revenge in the princess’s gaze. Just like herself, Naera Targaryen has been stripped off of everything she had.

Men fight to conquer kingdoms, castles, titles — a name to remember. Women fight for dignity and justice — they fight to reconquer what has been robbed of their hands, because they are women. Rhaenyra knows it well. She is waging a war for a crown to which she was promised from a young age.

“What is it you wished to discuss ?” Rhaenyra inquires, landing her gentle hand over the girl’s shoulder again.

Naera’s gaze eludes to the queen’s, searching for courage in every dark corner of the room. Searching for Aegon the Conqueror perhaps, and beg him with demanding lilac eyes to grant her some his bravery. Yet the Throne Room of Dragonstone is empty, ridden of any soul expected theirs. She returns her lilac glance to the soft Black Queen.

“Half a moon ago, you promised me something your Grace,” Naera begins, not faltering as her lips utter the demand. “You said you would give me anything I ask, because I have saved your son from our enemies.”

“It is correct Naera, I have said such a thing. Did you think of anything that would gladden your heart ?” the purple-eyed queen responds, gaze still kind and endearing.

Naera gulps painfully, swallows her cowardice and sends it howl into the darkness of her soul.

“I want to volunteer as a candidate,” she declares.

Rhaenyra’s expression goes from consideration to dismay. She frowns her brows and it darkens the delicate shade of her eyes.

“Daemon will not allow it,” the Black Queen mutters.

“Anything you ask, you said,” Naera protests, holding the woman’s hands between her heated fingers. “This is what I ask of you my Queen, let me go out there and claim a mount for myself.”

“Naera…,” Rhaenyra interrupts. “Ask for anything else. Marriage, exile, Summerhall. Anything, but not this.”

The girl’s face flares with frustration. She tightens her grip on the queen’s fingers and doesn’t even realize what she’s doing. Blood of the dragon thickens and boil in her veins, urging her to fight for what’s hers.

“You owe me a debt Queen Rhaenyra,” she dares to point out. “I have sacrificed my dragon to save your son. Lucerys lives because of Moonfang and I. Had we not been here, fishes would have feasted on the prince’s corpse and you would have mourned another child.”

“Your uncle has been through too much,” Rhaenyra observes, lowering her gaze on their intertwined hands. She can feel the girl’s pulse between her fingers, as well as the heat of her anger. She knows how it feels to be desperate for justice. The woman that she is wants to say yes, but she thinks of a rogue prince waging her war in the Riverlands and it cripples her heart. “He has grieved for you more than any of us here. Did you think he would ?”

“No,” Naera confesses, taken aback by the queen’s approach on the question. “I’m his ward and niece.”

“Yes,” Rhaenyra answers. “And more,” she adds as she rubs the back of her cousin’s hands with soft thumbs. “I trust my husband has loved his brothers equally, but Aegon was something else to him. My father was the king, the heir, the dutiful and peaceful Viserys. But your father was the adventurous cadet. They were like-minded, both free-spirit and bellicose. When Daemon was in exile in Pentos with Laena Velaryon, your father never ceased to write to him. Countless ravens he has sent over the sea and never did he turned his back to his brother.They have never given up on each other. When Aegon died, Daemon was inconsolable. When you died, he cried for three nights straight. I had to beg him not to go with Caraxes and burn the Capital to the ground. I had to threaten him to keep him here, Naera. Do not think Daemon considers you less than one of his daughters. You are the blood of his blood.”

The Black Queen pauses amidst her tale, only to leave a soft sigh escape the threshold of her rosy lips. “This decision is not mine to take Naera. Daemon will return from the Riverlands before the moon ends. Ask him yourself. Plea your cause to your uncle if you wish, but I refuse to be the one who seals your fate.”

“As you wish my Queen,” Naera blatantly mumbles as she stalks out of the room and keep her tears to herself.

Pure fury courses through her veins and makes every moment more dangerous than the last. She paces the maze of Dragonstone, flustered and disheartened. She crazes as her mind goes over less righteous ways to accomplish her revenge.

She has not survived death only to be treated like a child she cannot be anymore. She refuses to be kept in a golden cage while others fight this war. She wants to fight. She wants to taste blood again. She wants to be alive again, not trapped in another gilded reverie.

Another monarch has promised her a dragon. If the Black Queen refuses to fulfill her promise, the Conqueror will.

An eye for an eye, a dragon for a dragon. Claim what’s yours, like I have claimed what’s mine.

Before claiming the dragon, she must claim the eye.

The one last eye.

Chapter Text

The Throne Room’s air is heated. Tension is so thick in the air one could cut through it with a knife. Advising lords come and go at the Queen’s side and poison her mind with their opinions. Besides Rhaenyra stands her faithful Lord Hand Corlys Velaryon and her bellicose husband, the Prince Daemon. The one who elaborates their strategies and the one who executes them.

He has returned to Dragonstone for merely three days, but he already misses the freedom the Riverlands offered. Back there, the lands were easily taken, the objectives easily conquered. To this bunch of peasants and fishermen, Daemon and his dragon were plagues sent by the gods. They kneeled before them and every lord from the Trident to the Golden Tooth agreed to support the rightful queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Those who resisted her authority risked the same destiny as Harrenhal, a century ago. When Harren the Black had refused to surrender to Aegon, the latter had laid a curse upon the dark fortress. “When the sun sets, your line shall end.” In the twilight, Balerion blocked the remaining light of the sun and showered Harren’s castle in dragonfire. They cooked in walls of stone until dawn and some said Aegon fed the fuming corpses to his mount. The lesson was learned by all. As they remembered Aegon’s cruelty, lords of the Riverlands did not dare to question the queen’s legitimacy.

Yet Daemon’s face bears the marks of worry and exhaustion. In Dragonstone, he faces more challenges and battles than in the Riverlands. He stands at his wife’s side and leans on Dark Sister, as if it were a cane and him an old man. He remains silent, spares his tongue the effort of contradict her councilors.

Earlier today, a raven arrived from the Capital. It announced the imminent arrival of a Green delegation to Dragonstone. The usurpers were finally ready to negotiate the prince’s liberation. The letter was written by the Queen Mother herself and sealed by her hand. “Rhaenyra,” she pleaded in dark brown ink. “You and I are both mothers. My firstborn is severely injured, my first daughter is mourning her own and my second son rots in your dungeons. Where is your mercy ?” Alicent Hightower’s desperate call had quite the opposite effect — it only enraged the Blacks even more, made them proud and confident. They could already taste the victory on their tongue and hear songs to their glory. Daemon listened as his wife read her old friend’s words but believed none of it. He saw clear through the Queen Mother’s white lies.

Despite his efforts to contain their feverish enthusiast, they played with the pawns on the Painted Table as if they were playing chess. All black pawns crowded the Crownlands, ready to swallow King’s Landing whole. There it was, their infamous plan. Strike when Alicent begs for mercy and bring the Greens down to their knees. When Jacaerys spoke of an attack of the Capital, Rhaenyra agreed to listen. The boy-prince went over the details of his grandsire’s strategy — dragons would lead the armies on the battlefield and besiege the city as long as it is necessary. The Triarchy has been defeated in the Stepstones, which meant they controlled the sea routes as well. The Velaryon fleet would invade the Blackwater Bay to prevent anyone from fleeing the Capital and Rhaenyra would sit her father’s throne for good. She smiled to the idea when Lord Corlys concluded his grandson’s explanations.

Daemon couldn’t repress a derisive snicker, but his peers chose to ignore him and the Rogue Prince sunk into the shadows of the hall. He glanced at his two daughters, standing proud alongside their intendeds and participating to the heated debates and there he understood — he didn’t belong here. He belongs with dragons, not mere mortals. He is not a man fitted for discussions, he is fire made flesh — impulsive, unpredictable, unstoppable.

In all of Westeros and perhaps Essos even, there is only one soul similar to his. Someone with a free-spirit and little morals, someone with bloody hands and a deadly tongue. Someone whose’s soul bears the same marks of infamy, whose eyes have seen enough horrors to freeze one’s heart with terror. There is only one little girl and it’s not Rhaenyra, nor Baela, nor Rhaena, nor Laena Velaryon herself, but Naera Targaryen. The Undead, they call her now when she’s not listening. Three days now that he walks the same hallways as her and spends his nights trying to understand what miracle brought her back to him. Three nights now that he speaks to the flames and thanks his brother’s god. He speaks to R’hllor in the tongue of dragons, in the tongue of fire and the Red God listens. Perhaps he has earned himself another believer.

She isn’t the same as before, in both body and spirit. She is slimmer, but her skin is darker — there is a subtle tan to it, but no red to adorn her cheeks. Sun has revealed the freckles and dried her lips. Rhaenyra said that she spent most of her days on the beaches since her return, watching at the dragons flying above the sea. She said that his niece fled the crowds and the loud discussions of the Throne Room and preferred the song of the waves, that perhaps it soothed her mind. She had always been a loner, Daemon thought, but it is true that she is colder now, so calm and quiet it is almost disturbing. As if she’d been drained of her emotions, her body is like a hollow shell of flesh. She’s like cold embers in the hearth when morning comes — she has survived the night but has no warmth, nor light left to give. In his joy to retrieve his niece safe and sound, he also felt saddened by her icy touch and temper. Daemon held her for long minutes and kissed her forehead, but felt no heat coming from her skin, no bliss fill her heart. It felt like holding a ghost.

The audience stops talking and the silence drags Daemon out of his contemplation. All eyes turn to the stairs and the silhouette that hurtle down the steps, dressed in dirty clothes and a riding attire. Naera paces the distance to the Painted Table and faces the rest of her kin with her impassible stare.

“I have come to claim what’s owed Your Grace.”

Rhaenyra grimaces as she brings her hands over her belly, still healing from the wounds dead Visenya inflicted on the way out. But it is not reminiscing pain that makes her face twitch, but distress. She turns to Corlys for assistance with her puppy violet eyes and avoids Daemon’s piercing glare at all cost. If she meets his mulberry coloured eyes, she’s afraid of what she might find.

Naera cocks her head to the side and her glance goes from the Black Queen to her husband. “Has my uncle made up his mind yet ?”

It is Daemon’s turn to pull a face, but his grimace is more amused than Rhaenyra’s. He straightens his spine, using Dark Sister as a symbol of his indubitable might as he walks into the light. Gleaming dark amethysts stare back into his niece’s lilac beacons and a smirk comes to adorn his face. “About what ?” the Rogue Prince inquires.

Rhaenyra chooses honesty over a dangerous lie. Her silence has done enough to conceal the truth. Had they been alone in a room, Daemon would have crushed her for this and deep down inside she knows it. Queen or not, he’ll punish her for her imprudence. “The Princess Naera considers her service to the Crown a debt to be paid. She has saved Lucerys’s life and sacrificed a dragon for his safety. She wants to candidate.”

Apart from Naera and the Queen herself, no one knew about their little conversation. In Rhaenyra’s mouth, her demand sounds impudent but when the words come to Daemon’s ears, it only makes his grin grow in intensity. Whispers rise in the room but Naera doesn’t let them cut through her thick scales. She stands tall and proud, fortified by the the blood of the dragon running through her veins.

“You put bastards and peasants on dragonback but you refuse your own kin,” Naera hisses. “I am the blood of Old Valyria, Your Grace. I have an equal claim to greatness.”

“Who would you claim ?” the Lord Hand intervenes, trying his best to ignore Daemon’s insisting gaze. “Hugh Hammer has Vermithor, Ulf the White Silverwing, Hull Brothers have Seasmoke and Grey Ghost. Who would you go to war with, sweet child ? Sheepstealer ?”

The man snickers and carries the rest of the audience with him. Rhaenyra starts to speak and puts an end to their mockery.

“As I have said before, this decision is not mine to take Naera,” the Black Queen answers, tight-lipped.

“It is now,” the silver-haired princess mutters as she slams her hand on the table.

When her delicate fingers retire, a small rounded stone rolls over the Painted Table. It follows the course of the map and stops in a pond of fire where the Trident begins. The gleaming sapphire lands in the God’s Eye and draws a dreadful whimper from the audience. Rhaenyra stares at the purple-blue jewel and its unfathomable depths, likeness to an eye that seems to stare back at the queen. She wavers and looks away, but Daemon doesn’t. This time, his smile is too big to be concealed — it reveals two rows of white pointy teeth and hints of pride.

It is Aemond’s eye she has brought to the Painted Table. She has captured the murderous prince and robbed the Blacks of their most precious asset. A cruel, daring yet brilliant plan.

With one wave of her hand, Rhaenyra commands her queensguard to seize the girl but before they could lie hands on her, she speaks again.

“The One-Eye is my prisoner now. You’ll never find him without me,” she threatens. “Touch me and he is gone forever.”

“What have you done to him ?” Corlys blurted. “Princess, you cannot play with so many lives. Much is at stake here—”

“Oh, I am not playing Lord Hand,” Naera refutes, grinning to match her uncle’s expression. “An eye for an eye, a dragon for a dragon. Pay your debt now my Queen, or I’ll come back with another eye.”

The night is dark and full of terrors, but tonight he is visited by sweet dreams only.

Aemond lies in the damp grass under a warm summer sun. An apple tree casts its cool shade over his head and when he rises from his bed of lush herbs, he is blinded by the light. His eye slowly accommodates to the dazzling sunlight and catches glimpse of tall stained-glass windows and grey-stone walls, surrounded by mountains and orchards, ponds and flowers. Summerhall lies before his eyes, as splendid and sweet as he remembers it. This place is the closest thing to heaven on earth. As a boy he used to run around the orchards and play hide and seek with the rest of his cousins, or bathe in the refreshing waters of the blue-coloured ponds while their mothers drank tea. Summerhall has always been a blessed place but when the awe has passed, melancholy takes over his heart. He thinks of the lively little princess that used to follow Helaena everywhere and he mourns her once more.

However, she has not deserted his dreams. This time, she doesn’t emerge from dark waters of a troubling lake. She dances alone barefoot on the grass under the setting sun, silver hair turned to gold by the dimming light. She wears the same white dress as before, but the crown on her head has blossomed. The dead laurels and thorns have turned to thistles and marigolds, bay leafs and daisies on top of her head. She smiles and laughs, more dazzling than the sun could ever be. Aemond runs to her and she doesn’t run, nor vanish. He holds her tight, filling his nose with the honey-scented smell of her summer skin. She has come like spring after a long winter — her sacred touch breathes life into his dead limbs, a beat to his numb and heavy heart. He kisses the irresistible curve of her neck and climbs its delightful slope all the way to her heart-shaped lips, his panting breath fanning over her sunkissed skin. It seems to him that he is climbing a mountain, a stairway to heaven. He comes to her kisses with the fire of an unchained meteor, spilling tears of gold against the tenderness of her face.

They feverish embrace seems to last forever, he cannot let go of her. Still, she finds a way out of his arms and captures his hand in her grasp. She grasps his hand yes, and grasps his heart in same time. She pulls on his arm and drags him across the meadows where the mountains begins to rise high. The sky darkens above their heads and day turns to night. They reach a clearing and she lets go of his hand.

She turns to him with playful eyes and a soft smile, but when she speaks her voice has nothing tender to it. It’s thundering and hollow. “Why don’t you run away ?”

When he wakes up from his dream, he feels damp clothes sticking to his skin. A cold wind sweeps across the room and Aemond realizes this is not his solars surrounding him, but a gloomy cavern made of dark stone. The prince observes and wonders if the queensguard have come during the night to take him to a bleaker dungeons. He lowers his gaze to his hands and feet, still shackled by heavy chains. He tries to get up but hears the metallic sound of a blade being drawn from its sheath. Cold steel meets with his neck and forces his chin up.

“I guess my dear sister has finally decided to put an end to my misery ?” Aemond blurts out, unable to glance sideways at the bearer of the blade.

He ears a chuckle first. “No, but I have.”

Aemond turns his head to the side and the blade draws blood from his milky skin, but the pain is moot compared to what his eye sees. She stands in the daylight, in the entrance of the cave, silver hair twirling and dancing in the wind. The sword she holds casts its glow over her face and reveals lilac eyes full of contempt. She has traded her white gown for a dragonriding armor, swords and daggers. In Summerhall, she wore attires dedicated to leisures and pleasures, here in the dusky cave, she wears breeches, boots and silver plates. For a moment he stares with his mouth agape at the apparition and wonders if he isn’t still dreaming.

Naera wipes the small drops of blood pooling at the ends of her blade and puts it back in its sheath. She crouches down to his level, not faltering a little. His lips trembles with a thousand questions and his heart throbs erratically in his chest, so loud he is afraid she might hear it go mad within his bones.

He has seen her fall across the sky and sink into an ocean of grey clouds. He has watched and begged Vhagar to stop, thrown his body into the void to reach for her hand. He was ready to dive into the sea and follow her, if only Vhagar had allowed it. He has cried her name into the storms, broken his voice in the process. He has wept for this dead princess every day of his life since her fall and blamed himself for her death.

And yet, there she is staring at him with unfathomable pale violet eyes and tight lips. The more the moments pass, the less unreal she seems. Is this some cruel joke from the Gods, Aemond wonders. But he is naive to think the Seven have a power of life and death above all things, for it is R’hllor who brings light upon the darkness and fights the long night. It is R’hllor who pulled her dead body from the cold sea and filled her loins with his heat. It is R’hllor who has saved her, guided her to this very moment, gifted her with some of his powers. She is one of them now, one of the Red Priests — kissed by the shadows, blessed by the fire. A blanket of darkness wrapped around a heart of flames.

She is a warrior of light — a Lightbringer.

The silver-headed princess cocks her head to the side and rivets her gaze on him. She lingers on his features for a brief moment, observing the dark circles around his eye and the bruises running along his skin. It bears the marks of Rhaenyra’s guards’s cruelty, guilt perhaps and exhaustion. For months now, he has been atoning for his crimes. Imprisonment looks awful on him.

He sits on the damp ground, breeches sullied by the mud and eye glinting in equal parts terror and fascination. She wonders how he feels now. Does he think he has finally gone to madness ? For the first time ever, she is the dragon and him the prey.

Yes for a moment, she holds him whole in her claws but the shock quickly dissipates. Aemond gathers what remains of his broken spirits and put the pieces back together. He thinks of stolen kisses first, and forbidden touches in the hallways and alleys. He thinks of her face drenched in tears, body twitching in pleasure, mean words and eyes bidding farewell. He thinks of the many letters he has thought of writing and the gift he has passed onto Ser Erryk for her. Sapphires suit you better than rubies, he had written on a tiny piece of parchment with his own ring. The same ring returned to him with a disturbing note. It’s coming for you too.

She has never died, nor succumbed to the tremendous sea. It was her from the start, playing with his sanity, plotting her vengeance from whatever dim chamber of Dragonstone. He ignores everything of the ordeal she’s been through to return home and to her kin, what she has sacrificed to be here. She has crawled at the surface of the earth, bloodied her hands, frozen her heart, doomed her soul — not for glory nor personal satisfaction, but for peace. Her sole desire comes in the shape of wings strong enough to take her to the ends of the world, where she’ll happily live the rest of her days in the purest oblivion.

“It cannot be. This cannot be you,” the One-Eye stammers, gaze trembling to match his tone. His erratic eye crazes at the sight of her face, intact and bewitching. “This cannot be, you fell. I saw it Naera, you died.”

He has called her by her name — the first time in months he has dared to utter it. Naera. He forbade himself to bring this dreadful word to his lips. Naera. A forsaken memory fading into the waves and washed up by the tides. Naera. The one who lights the way.

The warrior princess crouches down, a cape of silvery hair draping her shoulders and the wind brings the sweet smell of her skin to his nose. Ashes and roses merged together, with touches of smoke and salt from the air. It arouses so much memories he has to look away to keep the tears to his eye.

“You and I have unfinished business,” she mutters, laying a scornful glare on him.

Something crumbles in his chest and a vivid pain flares and spreads to his entire body like a scorching fire. With one glance, she has set his soul ablaze.

He scrambles to get on his knees and like a beggar in the ruin, he lends supplicating hands in her direction. “You shouldn’t have been here. It should have been Lucerys, not you. It was an accident. I didn’t mean to, I only wanted to frighten the boy, I—”

“This is a lie,” the resentful princess interrupts.

“I swear on my life it’s no lie !” the poor man refutes, his tortured expression betraying whatever sentiments his heart harbours. “You must believe me.”

“It doesn’t matter what I believe. What matters now is that I don’t have a name, nor a home, nor a dragon anymore because of you.”

Aemond stays with his mouth half-opened and the words refuses to pass the threshold of his lips.

“It is only justice you help me reconquer it all,” she continues. “I want you to put out your eye in payment for my life.”

His heart skips a beat. She draws the dagger from its sheath. The blade dances between her fingers, curved and gleaming like a dragon’s fang made of steel. Aemond feels like a child all over again, beaten black and blue by his cousins and fighting for his survival. He sees Lucerys’s knife again and his body remembers the searing pain his cruelty has aroused. His face twitches with fear as he pushes on the ground with his feet, rearing back until he hits the cold wall of the cave.

She stares at him and reads the limpid terror his in dark mulberry eyes. It draws a faint grin from her. “I don’t butcher princes. The sapphire will do.”

Aemond nods without a word. She casts the dagger aside and surges forward, kneeling on the mud herself to reach for his face. “Let me help,” whispers in a breath. Soft fingers smelling of flowers come for the straps of his eye-patch and loosen its hold, until it falls in the palm of her hands. Her touch is so dear to him. He recalls of the first time she has ever cared to touch his face, when she used her mother’s remedies to wipe away the blood of his wounds and soothes the bruises on his skin. The very moment he realized that perhaps, a part of him had always loved her and would always do so. The very moment he realized he wanted her to touch him over and over again and take away his fears, pains, sorrows and shames.

He can’t help but to capture her hands in his fingers, now calloused and quivering. He raises his face towards her with his scar completely revealed to her eyes for the first time. She sees what him for what he is now. A broken boy with a broken face, and nothing to brag about.

“I should have never let you go. I thought you would be safer here, that you would be happier with Baela. I know how much you love her. You are like sisters, aren’t you ? You have always been, I remember it well still. I wanted you to be happy, not dead.” He apologizes for the bluntness of his revelation, when in truth, he regrets none of it. For a brief moment, her eyes glint with something close enough to tenderness and he sees her soul shudder behind her mask of indifference. “You were right,” he mumbles. “I have never hated you. Not even a little.”

“The eye,” she insists, choosing to ignore his words. “Give it to me now.”

There is nothing he can do or say to make her change her mind.

Not without pain, he removes the shimmering sapphire from his maimed eye socket and drops it in the palm of her hand. She is quick to get on her feet, capturing the small treasure between her clenched fingers. With her other hand, she throws a bag at his feet. “Victuals,” she blurts. Before she leaves the cave, she unties her cape and gives it to the prince. “I’ll be back soon enough, get warm and don’t move. Dragons hate the sound of chains.”

“I’ll wait for you then”, he responds with a weak smile.

Before the day ends, she returns to the cave. The sun has already begun to fall from his height in the sky and the dark stones around them are now bathed in golden hues. Her arms are loaded with an heavy rope and there is no sword hanging from her belt anymore — only the dagger, inherited from her father. She paces the distance to the cave, slightly panting from all the effort. She follows a white haired man, invisible to the eyes of mere mortals. Only the dead can see the dead.

Aegon leads the way and takes her into the depths of the Dragonmont, where Aemond waits with no knowledge of where he stays, nor what fate awaits him. She walks in her forebear’s steps and none of them dare to speak a single word. In the dying light of the days, dragon cries fly thick and fast across the sky.

Aegon stops before the entrance of the cave and turns to the girl below. He narrows his eyes and his thundering voice resonates in the stormy air. “What are you ready to forsake to gain a dragon ? What are you willing to sacrifice, little warrior ?” He asks, landing a burning hand on her shoulder. “Everything,” she answers, admitting with a great bitterness that she is indeed ready to throw anyone into the dragon’s lair if it meant she would become his mistress. The blood of her ancestors thickens and burns in her veins, it calls for greatness and she’s ready to answer. It calls for its kindred spirits, hiding in the misty peaks of the eastern side of the Dragonmont.

Naera enters the cave and disappears into the darkness of the tunnel. Aemond is there, pacing the length of the cavity and dragging his chains on the ground. She eludes to his inquiring gaze and the sight of his sorry, shattered, tortured slender face. She ignores the thorn in her heart that twitches every time she glimpses at the bruises blooming on his pallid skin or the down-turned curve of his lips. She blinds herself to his despair and unlocks the shackles that bind his hands and feet. The metal chain fall heavily to the ground and she is sure their loud clinking will summon the infamous dwellers of the Dragonmont.

She flees him and he begs for her attention and for answers perhaps. He cannot look away from her. He cannot look away from the Dragonwitch, so desperate to be whole again that she is willing to torch down the Seven Kingdoms for another pair of wings. He contemplates the disaster he has created and his guilty conscience strikes again.

“I could take you away from here.”

This time, the princess cannot ignore his presence nor play the card of indifference. She turns to him with dark eyes, scarcely brightened by hints of fury. Aemond reaches for her a wild strand of hair that has escaped her braid, twirls it around his fingers before tucking it behind her ear. She watches as he plays with the silver of her hair, breath suspended in time.

“We could go wherever you want, flee this land of woe. Volantis, Meereen, Qarth, Sothoyros, Asshai,” he whispers, boldened by his newfound freedom. “We could fly over Valyria and contemplate its ruins,” the prince continues as their foreheads collide against one another. She’s so close he can smell the tart and sugary scent of the tea she has drank before, the tangy signature of the lemon cakes she must have devoured. They seem to call his name, these plump heart-shaped lips. “Name it Naera, and I’ll take you there. I’ll do anything for you. I’ll give you anything you want. Name it,” he insists, capturing her hands in his grasp and kissing her smooth fingers. “A word from you and I’ll give you the world.”

Like many times before, she’s impassible and yet she does not run. She is frozen when she stands and Aemond doesn’t know if her revealed neck in an invitation or a trap. He yields anyway. His chapped lips come for her creamy skin, skimming over its surface with the tip of his nose. When they meet the object of their desire, they stop and utter their prayer once again. “Take everything from me,” he murmurs in a hot breath. “It has always been yours anyway.”

“What would I do with it ?” she responds, sharp tongue cutting clean through ego.

He grins to her insolence, her undying insolence and kisses the biting lips that speak such harmful words. For a good handful of seconds, she refuses to succumb to the temptation. She denies it all, dismisses the soft warmth that fills her belly up and breathes life into her lungs. It melts her from within, until she cannot resist his feverish touch anymore. It reminds her of the girl she used to be when days were simpler.

But she knows that there is no destiny where the Rogue Princess and the Kinslayer could live together in peace. They are mortal enemies now, not forbidden lovers.

A hot tear rolls along her cheek as she pulls away from his embrace. She wipes it before he can see it and points out the northern entrance of the cave.

“They’ll be waiting for you on the beaches and the hills,” Naera mumbles. “Walk down the path and you’ll risk capture, but if you walk south, you might find Vhagar.”

The prince nods, and she resumes. “Do whatever you like with your life One-Eye, but do not give it to me. I do not want it.”

It takes Aemond the world not to collapse, as if she reached for the beating heart in his chest and fed it to the famished dragons. She fastens the rope around her arm and begins to walk in the opposite direction, without ever casting a glance over her shoulder.

If she does, she’ll run back to him and beg him to take her to whatever land lies behind the Shadows.

She refuses to give satisfaction to the man that slaughtered her mount and sent her into the appalling abysses of the Narrow Sea. Whatever affection her heart harbours, she must go past it.

Whatever life he has imagined for them, he must forget. For she will not turn back, nor falter.

Her destiny awaits at the end of this tunnel. It sleeps on a bed of bones, dark and dreadful. But she is not afraid, for she walks with a conqueror and a heart of fire.

The night is dark and full of terrors, but for those who believe in the flames and the shadows, it is a playground — not a hell.

Chapter Text

“Why are you doing this ?” Aemond cries to the hollow stones and his cracking voice echoes. With all the will and pride he possesses, he keeps his legs locked where he stands and fights the urge of running to her until they get sore. In her eyes he has read nothing but despair and loathing. Her silence sounded like a cry for help. He sees her for what she is now: a little broken orphan, sitting on a pile of ashes and bones and trying to put the pieces together. She’s desperate to exist, to be reckoned, to make people remember her name. Although she has wept all the tears in her body, she still is the girl he has caught crying on the way to the Dragonpit. She’s mourning a father she still adores — a feeling he does not know, his own father has never shown much affection towards any children coming from Alicent’s womb — and thus, his children have never returned any.

There is a place on earth where they could belong, he is sure of it. Where he could spend the rest of his days drinking the fire that seeps at the seams of her lips and watch as her belly bumps and swells with their babes. A place where she’ll be just Naera and he’ll just be Aemond. Not princes and princesses made enemies by somebody else’s decree.

A dark force locks his feet to the ground and forces himself to watch powerless as she sinks into the shadows of the cave with her ropes, blades and bunch of fearless ambitions. He watches and feels the guilt squish his heart, drain it of its dignity. If she runs into the monster’s lair today, it’s because of what he has done. It’s because of his cruelty and thirst for revenge she is so eager to meet her demise. For a reason still unknown to him, she has stopped Vhagar from devouring Arrax and his puny rider. Moonfang ended in the conqueror’s maw and Lucerys flew far and free from the aerial battle, to tell the tale of Aemond Targaryen’s evil deeds. Kinslayer, he has brought back to his mother’s council and Rhaenyra’s partisans used his terrible mistake to discredit his brother the king.

Gods know what’s on her mind now that she has rebelled against her own clan to satisfy her personal desires. He wonders how she has accomplished the exploit of bringing the Black Queen and her suitors down to their knees with a simple sapphire and some stingy words.

She runs far from the forsaken prince and does not care if he runs for freedom or if he is captured. She hears his question, it echoes between the walls of dark stone. Why are you doing this, it asks. I’m returning the favour, she thinks as she paces the steep path out of the tunnel.

In the darkest moments of her life, the Greens had seen fit to betroth her to one of their sons while she was still mourning the loss of her father. It was one of their vain attempts at taming the girl, breaking her spirits. Little did they know that this very prince they had chosen for her was already trapped in her nets. How she has managed to capture his soul and claim it without a word is a mystery to him. She is the hands above him, the cunning puppeteer commanding his every moves. When danger comes and brings along the shadow of the Stranger, he thinks about Naera Targaryen first, and the rest of his family comes second. In his cosmos, she’s the sun and his whole life revolves around her.

He cannot let her walk into the beast’s lair and watch as she fails. Dragons are merciless creatures, no easily swayed by the will of men. A few of Rhaenyra’s partisans have already tried to tame the beasts and each of them failed. Steffon Darklyn ended up devoured by the Cannibal, Silver Denys got his arm torn off by Sheepstealer — they are just a few examples lost in a long list. She is the blood of the dragon, yes. But will they feel it when she comes to their lairs and throws chains over their necks to claim them ?

Aemond has observed the ropes she has brought along. They are thick and sturdy, so heavy she had to wrap them around her to carry them around. These ropes are not made for Sheepstealer, who is barely larger than two horses merged together, but for a beast much bigger than that. There is only one dragon on Dragonstone the Targaryens have always refused to bother. A creature so solitary and menacing it was forced into exile by his peers on the eastern side of the Dragonmont. Rumors relate its size. Records speak of a beast larger than Caraxes, Meleys and Vermithor alike, with jet-black scales, dark wings and gleaming golden eyes. They say he devours every creatures that sets foot on his territory, men and dragons alike. They call him The Cannibal.

The One-Eye casts a last glance at the wavering light coming from the entrance of the cave. A warm summer breeze engulfs into the tunnel, swirls and sings its song. Aemond knows Vhagar is close, he can feel her presence in his veins. His mind can sense her. Yet he renounces to the centuries old conqueror as well as the calling of the freedom and turns to the uncertain darkness of the cave. He must save Naera from her follies.

For his silver princess, he’ll dive into the pits of hell is he must.

The air smells of sulfur, smoke and sea. The stone has cracked in certain spots and holes in the soil sputter fumes from the bowels of the earth. Targaryens are made of fire and blood, and their island was crafted at their image: with fire and earth. It’s like walking on a massive mountain made of flames.

The light at the end of the tunnel is golden-blue, altered by the late hour. She tightens her grip around the rope as she steps into the twilight, purple eyes sweeping across the corrie. It is similar to what the rumors have reported. A gloomy cirque on the eastern side of the mountain silent and misty, and covered in a bed of bones. She stops on the craggy ledge and stares at the sleepy beast, as dark and fearsome has described by the tales. A row of spikes runs along its spine, bones pierce the flesh of its holed wings and a glinting blue eye that opens when the noise of hastened steps reaches its ears.

The Cannibal rises from his bed of human and dragon bones, drawing himself to his full height. Naera is frozen where she stands, unable to think straight when she’s confronted to the dark blue-scaled beast. He is bigger than everything she has ever seen, more dreadful than Vhagar even. He looks at her with a pair of icy eyes, gauging the trembling girl and probably wondering what royal blood tastes like.

Naera stares and prays — begs even — R’hllor for support. Dead lips tremble as they speak their litany without a sound*. R’hllor come to me, light my path, fill my heart with fire for the night is dark and full of terror*, she unceasingly repeats. Come to me, she beseeches her beloved god.

She hears a masculine voice coming from the top of the corrie. She rises her distressed gaze to the ridge and sees a white-haired man, pacing the length of the crest as he sings her father’s favourite nursery rhyme. Targaryens do have queer customs indeed, and their babies hear of the might of dragons as soon as they have ears to do so. Aegon Targaryen used to sing to his daughter about the greatness of creatures made of pure fire. Hāros Bartossi, he called his song. In the tongue of dragons, it meant Three Heads.

The Conqueror looks down to the girl from where he stands and for a moment, his own eyes seem to gleam with fire in the distance. He makes moves her panicked mind struggles to understand — in truth, he is inviting her to sing the song along.

The Cannibal has less patience than Aegon. He lowers his heavy head, fangs drooling in brown slobber. He stretches his spiky neck and the menace becomes more dreadful than ever. She readies herself to join the rest of the bones that litter the ground. She readies herself to feel the fire peel the flesh off her bones. Come to me, she prays one last time as she watches with her eyes wide opened The Cannibal’s maw unhinge.

Strong arms circle her waist and drag her back into the cave. Fire floods the entrance and skims at the surface of her skin, burning the linen of her shirt right off. Aemond holds her against his chest as if his own life was at stake. His panting jerky breath lands on her neck. He is tight-lipped, swallowing the destructive pain that ravages his arms. If the deadly dragon breath has only grazed the girl’s skin, it has bitten into the prince’s flesh. His wrists and forearms are a vivid hue of red and brown, skin charred by dragonfire. Naera lowers her glare onto the clenched and scorched limbs, her mouth agape. Fire cannot kill a dragon, but it can certainly harm him.

Aemond groans in her ears and she feels hot burning tears paint the surface of her cheeks. “Why did you come ?” she cries, her trembling voice betraying the emotions she had buried deep down inside. “Why can’t you just let me go ?”

“And mourn you a second time ? I’d rather die.”

She thinks of the shattered light his eye harboured when he first caught glimpse of her this morning and the pain flares in her chest. “You’re burnt,” the teary princess stammers. “It’s all burnt, you’re all—”

Another thought, more ominous and appalling than any other comes to her mind. Back when the sun was descending across the sky, Aegon the Conqueror has led her to the cave. Right before she entered the tunnel, he turned to her and asked her a terrible question.

What are you willing to sacrifice ?

Everything, she had answered.

Naera looks down on the charred arms that saved her from an imminent death and frees herself from their embrace, drawing an harrowing cry from the poor prince. “An eye for an eye, a dragon for a dragon,” she mumbles through the repressed sobs. The princess reaches for his blistered wounds, clasping her fingers around his arms as she drags him into the dying light of the day. He struggles and resists her grasp, crying in pain and cursing her name into the hot air. She deafens herself to the prince’s supplications. In any circumstances, he would have been able to overthrow the lithe girl that she is. But the ache crawling up his limbs is so grand, so terrible, so crippling there’s nothing he can do to fight it. Her soft fingers dive into the scorched flesh and feel like razor-sharp claw digging into his muscles.

She hides her face from his sight and sings Aegon’s song to cover his screams, her own voice shaking with sobs. The Cannibal has not moved. He still stands on the litter of bones that he calls home, vast wings folded over his flanks. She stares into his pale blue eyes and although he’s not anywhere to be seen, she hears Aegon’s voice speaking to her only.

What are you willing to sacrifice ?

Aemond stops wailing and she wonders if he has heard the dragon talking to her with their ancestor’s voice, or if it just the sight of the horrendous beast that paralyzes him with fear.

“Fire Breather, Winged Leader…” Naera sings as she stands on the ledge. “From my voice the fires have spoken.”

She lets go of Aemond’s arm, her small hand drenched in his blood. She steps back and he follows her move with his crushed and lonesome gaze. The light has faded and died in his jewel-like purple eye. As she swallows the bitter-tasting sorrow and guilt, she stares at this extraordinary man that lays a forlorn eye on her. Her trembling lips waver for some time, before she lands the fatal blow. She pushes him off the ledge and he collapse below on the bed of crushed bones, at the mercy of the terrible Cannibal.

“And the price has been paid,” she continues singing, unable to hold the silent tears that hurtle down her cheeks. In the pit below, Aemond has returned to screaming. Harrowing cries rise from below and she tries her best to sing her song louder than the mad man’s calls. “To you I sing,” she turns to The Cannibal. “As one we gather and with three heads, we shall fly as we were destined. Beautifully, freely.”

Something catches the beast attention. Perhaps it is the sacred song that has lulled the creature, but The Cannibal is not looking at them at all. His gaze is riveted on something else, above her head. Aemond’s begging has stopped, she quickly notices. The Cannibal rears back with slow steps and she understands now is the time.

Naera unravels her ropes and jumps into the pits, putting the dragon’s distraction to her advantage as she runs across the corrie as fast as she can. She throws the long reins over the beast’s neck twice, so it circles its throat and offers enough support to hop on his back. The Cannibal has never known the feeling of a saddle on his spine, nor the powerful bond with another living creature. When she climbs his rough scales for the first time, he screeches and flaps its wings nervously.

She sits atop the beast between two spikes and cries her commands into the air. “Dohaeras Cannibal, lykiri !” Naera has to repeat her words many times before the beast surrenders. The struggle lasts for a handful of minutes, yet it seems like an eternity. When The Cannibal eases, she searches for Aemond. But there is no one below, not a single living soul. Only bones littering the stones and adding to the legend of her new mount.

When she realizes what she has just done, Naera blurts out a crazed laughter. The Cannibal seems to join her in her celebration and groans with what the dragons have the closest to joy. Perhaps after all those years spent alone in this lair, he finally feels the warmth of a strong and undying bond. She can feel it. It’s like a drug, like pure heat running through her veins and making her heart throb erratically. It’s the purest form of freedom, bliss and power a mere mortal can feel. Her hands freely stroke his cold scales as repeats dohaeras and it feels like home at last. Wherever he is, she hopes her father still has eyes to witness her triumph.

“Soves,” she whispers as she winds the ends of the rope around her arms and clenches them between her strong grasp. The Cannibal begins the climb walls of the cirque and it is only then that she notices the vast shadow and gruesome silhouette that is thrown into relief by the moon. On top on the crest rests Vhagar and her wounded master, slouching over the saddle with his aching hands. The centuries old conqueror gauges her peer and The Cannibal answers with a captivated gaze. The two beasts seem to share some sort of mutual esteem. They speak a language none of them understands.

Naera glares at the broken prince and his unbound hair weaving into the night wind. She can feel his gaze on her, full of resentment and wrath. He could’ve commanded Vhagar to destroy the both of them right now, had he wished to. But the menacing Vhagar rears back, detaching bits of stone as she claws her way onto the Dragonmont. She soars high in the sky and takes her master far from this island of misery.

The princess watches with tears in her eyes and woe in her heart. Sorrow mixes with sheer happiness and leaves a bitter taste on her tongue. “Soves,” she repeats as she pulls onto the reins. “Soves, Cannibal.”

The Cannibal climbs the slope and leaps from the height of the Dragonmont, unfolding immense raven-coloured wings above the island. For hours she flies over the sea and offers her dolor to the skies and the God of Flames that dwells among the clouds. She lets the tears run along her cheeks and freeze into the icy night air. Victory has come with a terrible price.

She rides the infamous Cannibal until dawn.

Vhagar succeeds in bringing the One-Eye back home. She lands before the ruins of the Dragonpit and keepers hasten and teem around the gigantic beast. They are quick to observe the prince’s wounds and his difficulty to let go of the reins. When he opens up his palms, bits of his skin stay stuck on the leather. He tears his own body away from his mount and crawls along the ladder that saved his life from The Cannibal. Vhagar had sensed the fear and the pain crippling Aemond and came to the rescue, keeping the ravenous monster at bay. Before Vhagar soared far from Dragonstone, he caught a full glimpse of the triumphant princess, chanting and celebrating her victory over the infamously untamable dragon. Not for a single moment she did waver — she dragged him on the ground and threw him into the pit. She sacrificed his life willingly.

A part of him conjectures about her true intentions. He wonders if she has seized a golden opportunity or if it had been part of the plan from the beginning, if she knew he would come for her. There is a part of him that firmly believes Naera has been cruel enough to use his love for her as a shield against the dreadful Cannibal. Another part of the prince remembers the trembling of her voice when she sang a song in High Valyrian and believe she’s done her infamies reluctantly.

But the dragonfire is merciless. It gnaws the flesh to the bone and the pain is unceasing. It pulses and throbs, and it seems to him that a million needles are driven through his whole body. Agony and fury mix together and every time her dazzling face comes to haunt his thoughts, he hunts it down and casts it in the shadows. Of Naera Targaryen he only reminisces pain and revenge. Of her kisses he only remembers dolor and the taste of blood. She is death made flesh, everything she touches begins to wither, consumes with her flames and turns to ashes. Out of all the dragons that have walked this earth and flew across the sky, she’s the most fearsome and detestable. She disguises her evil malices in charms and glamours and the world forgives her cruelties. The truth is, she must be a witch. She must have sold her soul to whatever devil her mother adored and sacrificed her firstborn sons to. Medea must have consecrated her soul to her Demon of Flames in the early days of her life and made her a servant of their god. She cannot be trusted, nor loved. She is a rot, a disease, a plague. She seeks and destroys, that’s all she does.

Aegon has made a mistake in naming his daughter Naera, Aemond observes. For she is no light-bringer. She brings fire and desolation, darkness and woe.

As the maesters swarm around him to wrap his wounds in smelly bandages and unguents, Alicent Hightower prays and curses the Targaryens of Dragonstone for what they have done to her son. Otto swears upon revenge, that one day the Greens’s armies will march upon Rhaenyra’s estate and burn it to the ground if they must. But Aemond has his mind riveted on another prize, on another culprit. His misery is the result of his endless adoration for a girl that has never, not ever shared his sentiment. All those months, he has been foolish enough to believe her kisses held some sort of meaning, that perhaps he had a place in her heart as well. But yesterday’s treason has shown the cursed princess’s true colours. There is nothing left to love about her.

This unrequited love and undying devotion has nearly thrown him into the arms of the Stranger. He thinks about her last kiss, wet with shameful tears and hot on his hungry lips. It felt like feasting after days of famine.

And her absence leaves a void, a hole in his chest only the pain is daring enough to fill. For days, the One-Eye heals in his solars. Alicent pours into his mouth ridiculous amounts of milk of the poppy to keep the pain at bay, as she has done before with her husband. The medicine helps him sleep to say the least, to fight the fever. Strange dreams come to visit his nights and numerous naps. He wanders around the same lake as before, but Naera never emerges from the calm waters with her soaked white gown and a crown of thorns on her head. Sometimes, he walks on the shores for hours and searches the waves for a white spot lurking under the surface, but to no avail. He is all alone here, with the singing trees and the dancing waves.

Maesters come and go and put bandages on his wounds, and the prince puts bandages around his heart. The blood dries off on the gashes and slowly, they turn to scars. Thanks to Naera Targaryen, he has plenty of them to add to his collection.

Sweet summer ocean spray fills up the streets, salty and sweet to the nose. Below, the small folks hasten and swarm around the marketplace. They carry around bags of spices, crates of oranges and colourful rolls of cloth. Their merry reunion sings the song of the city. Many say that Pentos never sleeps and Naera is willing to believe it. She leans over her balcony and observes the world that unravels before her feet. Teeming in narrows alleys of red bricks, the crowds remind her of King’s Landing’s inhabitants — but with a touch exoticism. Here, the people have a curious sense of fashion. Masters of the city dress in orange and yellow, while the rest of the dignitaries are allowed more extravagance. Merchants from every corner of the world come to the harbour to sell their goods on the docks, adding to the range of faces she meets from her perched balcony. Even the more modest populations have queer clothings, dyed in a variety of shades going from a muddy brown to a deep ochre. Slaves walk the streets with their breasts revealed and neck circled with a fine strip of dark leather, men and woman alike. A symbol of their condition, Reggio Haratis had observed, to let everyone know they are at the service of a free man.

In King’s Landing, small folks live in squalor. Children have to fight in clandestine arenas to entertain the reprobates, women sleep in the streets and offer their virtues to the sailors and rotten princes. Men sell what they have left to feed what remains of their families. In Pentos, they are only slaves and free men, but no squalor nor misery. Masters treat their slaves as they please, but they owe them a house on top of their heads and enough food to satisfy their appetites. A terrible fate still, but perhaps it is slightly better than seeing your sons’s throats being slit at night for two loafs of bread.

“What do you see down here that catches your attention for so very long ?”

The girl turns and meets her mother’s golden eyes. Medea stands in the doorframe, dressed in a burgundy gown with red embroidered hems. Her raven-coloured hair does not bear the marks of the years passing — they stay as dark as ever, and her youthful expression never withers. She lays a tender gaze on the daughter she had mourned for days. Medea thought of throwing herself into a fire and join the rest of her family in R’hllor’s halls. But one night, the flames in the hearth began to dance and sing their own song. Do not weep my dear Medea, they intimated. The night that followed she dreamt of her own daughter running in the many gardens of Summerhall and her laughter echoed into the orchards. She ran after the girl to ask where her father was, to which Naera answered “not here with me.” From that very moment, Medea convinced herself that Naera had indeed survived and that she would return to her sooner or later.

But the daughter that came back to her has nothing to do with the girl she has left to Daemon. She used to burn like a bright flame. Now she’s a pile of sleeping embers.

“I don’t know Mother, I find these people fascinating,” Naera answers, still leaning against the window frame. “Is the prince feeling better already ?”

Medea drops her coffer on the table. The vials inside clink and the room fills up with the scents of magical herbs and ashes. Haratis Reggio has been feeling very sick these days and Medea is the only person he trusts with his life. He rules over Pentos from his bed, but the vultures already gather around him. They ready for the aftermath, try to gain influence and sway over the rest of the dignitaries. Medea can sense the treason in the air — she knows what it tastes and smells like, she has seen the same demons dance around her husbands for years before he passed.

“I was insured he does,” the sorceress mother answers. “But to be fair, I am not sure he will survive this. The evil has dug deep in his veins. His blood is darker and thicker than it should be. I think the prince is doomed.”

“Poor Haratis,” the girl sighs, ocean-spray winding her silver hair. Even the simple expression of her compassion sounds hollow. It makes Medea grimace.

“There is morel,” the red priestess continues, the sound of her hastened steps approaching the princess’s ears. “I’ve met with the Intendant. He says three persons have gone missing in the second half of the moon, and it adds to the five ones that have disappeared in the first half. Entire cattle are decimated in the blink of an eye. The Pentoshis are angry with you and your dragon—”

Naera turns to her mother, cocking a brow. “And ?”

Medea sighs heavily, as if she was pouring the entire content of her heart into the air. “Haratis and the rest of his counselors have met,” she begins as she reaches for her daughter’s hands. She rivets her golden gaze into her little girl’s eyes and hopes to find the beginning of a spark in there. “You must go. This dragon is a plague to this city.”

The silver-headed princess doesn’t answer first. Her eyes darken as she seems to contemplate dark designs. Medea doesn’t let go of her hands and clenches her fingers on her daughter’s limbs. Many times she has heard the stories of Targaryens gone to madness. Maegor, Visenya, Saera, Daemon even perhaps. Whenever they feel threatened, some strange disease in their dragon-blood awakens. They walk the earth only to spread woe and destruction wherever they go. They bring along the shadows of the Other as they ravage the lands.

Medea doesn’t want her daughter to surrender to the same darkness. She has raised her in the light of R’hllor and taught her how to tame the shadows, how not to fear them. But the more she takes a good look at Naera’s lilac eyes, the more she sees clouds of doubt and lightning of fury. She sees insanity weaving its way.

The mother tightens her grip over her daughter’s hands and hopes it will transmit all the love her heart is filled with. “You don’t belong here, sweet child. You are promised to something greater, I know it. I have seen it in the flames.”

“How could you say such a thing ?”

Naera’s voice breaks down and pure anger seeps through the cracks. “How could you say that to me after all the trials I’ve been through just to get back to you ? Do you have any idea of what I have done to survive this shitty world ?”

Medea frowns. “I know you’ve been through a lot—”

“A lot ?” Naera echoes, pulling away from her mother’s embrace. She points at the sea in the horizon and shouts her words for anyone below to hear. Expect they speak the languages of shadows and dragons, not the common tongue everybody is used to. “I fell into this very sea and drifted for many days before I hit the shores of Tarth. I was dead, Mother. I’ve seen dead people in my sleep, I’ve walked into a cold desert at night for what seemed like an eternity. I’ve followed R’hllor always and he made me do terrible things. I slit Edwin’s throat to get to Dragonstone. I disrespected my queen, I defied her authority just to be able to ride a dragon again in my life. I have thrown myself into the dragon’s lair and—” The girl stops, reminiscing of arms circling her waist and dragging her into safety. She remembers the terrible sight of these same arms charred and weeping blood. She remembers with how mercilessly she has dragged Aemond Targaryen into the pit and sacrificed him for a bit of freedom and glory. If felt like ripping her own heart apart and throwing it into the abyss for the monster to devour it. She remembers it all and suddenly, she cannot put words on her own infamies.

“You didn’t go through all of these trials just to come back to me, Naera. You didn’t a dragon to come to Pentos, a ship would have sufficed,” Medea points out. “But you choose fire and blood, because that’s what you are deep down inside.”

The reality hits her, but she tries her best not to display her dismay. “When you were a child, you dreamt a lot,” Medea resumes. “Your father was worried you might grow into a sick child, that your mind would be poisoned from the start. You would come into our bed and snug between us under the covers. You would always run to your father and curl up in his arms, and then he would ask what dream you had. Do you remember any of them ?”

Naera lowers her eyes when her mother brings into light such vivid memories from her childhood and sends the tears away. She thinks of an enormous Vhagar breathing fire onto his last mistress. Dracarys, Laena Velaryon had chanted before the dragon turned her body to ashes. “No, I don’t,” she lies.

“Your dreams started with a fever like the one that took your brothers to the grave. Your skin was burning hot, like a cauldron in the flames. You were so young, barely two years old,” Medea recalls, trembling touches of light adorning her eagle-like golden eyes. “And you cried and cried, calling for me at any time of the night. Maesters said that you wouldn’t last the week. They prepared the pyre and sent words to the King. Your father refused to visit your room. No matter how much I begged him, he refused to come and see you. He spent his days on dragonback and it made me so mad. I didn’t understand back then. Why he refused to see our dying daughter and preferred Vermithor’s company to mine. I was angered, alone, powerless. I prayed and cried and cursed.”

As she recalls of the darkest days of her life, Medea doesn’t wipe the tears away. Naera observes each of them roll and fall, and the crack in her heart only widens. “The fever eventually dissipated and you told me about a man that stayed in your room every time I fell asleep next to you. White-haired and purple-eyed, tall and wearing a red cloak over a black armour. You said that he leaned over his long-sword in its sheath of black. You said that he told you tales of Old Valyria, stories that even the maesters have never heard of. They claimed it was a madness due to the fever, but your father refused to believe them. Although I had no idea who that man was, but Aegon knew.”

The girl’s eyes glint as she puts the pieces back together. “It was Aegon. The Conqueror,” Naera blurts out.

“So you remember him,” Medea observes.

For a few seconds, the girl wavers and wonders if now is the time to speak about the visions she had in Dragonstone. She puts everything into question, but keeps her wonderings to herself. She reminisces of Aegon’s undying presence in the halls of Dragonstone, on the beaches, in the caves. The sea, smoke and stones seemed to whisper his name in unison. She thinks about him, walking carelessly over the crest and singing his song to the dragon. White-hair cut short dance in the wind and show her the path to glory. What are you willing to sacrifice, he had asked before they entered the cave. This simple remembrance is enough to make her heart throb into her chest. Nearly six moons have passed and yet, his image has not lost a single detail. Even now, his strong masculine voice seems to echo in the distance.

“I thought R’hllor was the first one to visit my dreams,” the silver-headed princess confesses. “I have only met Aegon on my first day on Dragonstone, or so I thought.”

“No my dear child, you’ve met him a long time ago,” her mother refutes, finding a way to her daughter’s hands. “I don’t know what you are to him or to R’hllor, what role you have on this earth. But certainly, you’re not destined to wither here in Pentos.”

“But what if I want to ? What if I only want peace, even if I must ride to the ends of the world to have it ?”

Medea circles her daughter’s fingers and bathes them in the warmth of her hands, soft and supple. A faint smile comes to adorn her lips, tender and endearing. “When I hold your hands like that, I can read your heart. It is not peace you want, it is justice.”

“I have punished my enemies enough,” Naera breathes out, recalling of Aemond’s arms charred and his eye glinting in a terrific fit of rage.

“Have you ?” Medea questions. “Alicent Hightower and her serpent of a father have murdered your father. And still, they walk free.”

Nothing could have prepared her from such a blunt and brutal truth. Medea lets go of her daughter’s hands and rears back, eyes darkened by spite and hatred. Blood of the dragon boils within and pure fire runs through the girl’s veins. Fire devours her purple eyes, like two embers spitting blue flames.

“Is that true ?” Naera asks, bestowing the Hightowers a last chance of redemption.

“I have fled Westeros on Daemon’s orders because of them. There is no doubt about it Naera, they have slaughtered Aegon to put their own scions on the Throne. They knew your father would have stood with Rhaenyra and supported his niece’s claim. He would’ve remained leal to his brother’s last wish and not believed a single lie that came out of that bitch of a queen’s mouth.”

Medea pauses, exhaling in a sigh. She points at the window with her shaky fingers. “I have claimed one of Alicent’s grandchildren for what her son has done to you. I have sent the shadows to do my biddings, but I cannot send them to slaughter them all. R’hllor has helped you to claim the most dangerous dragon for a reason. Leave this place at once and avenge your father. Make them pay the price of their infamy.”

The sorceress with opal-coloured eyes stares straight into her soul, speaks to her core and reaches the heart hiding under the bones and the stones. Her own eyes weep tears of pure wrath. They paint her cheeks like gleaming golden streams. Her lips twist and twitch as she grits her teeth.

Naera clenches her fists, digging into the flesh of her palms with her nails. In the distance, a terrifying roar flies thick and fast. The city below hold its breath, paralyzed by dread. The Cannibal sings a song of fire and blood. He has heard his mistress’s fury, felt it rampage in his own soul.

“I will burn them all,” she mutters. “Each and every one of them. I will burn them all.”

Chapter Text

More than six months before, she has left this bloody island. Since her departure, little has changed. The Blacks are still plotting their war and training their dragonriders for glory. Their effectives have lost two of the oldest dragons in their arsenal, after Ulf the White and Hugh Hammer’s treason at the First Battle of Tumbleton. Vermithor and Silverwing, along with their despicable and opportunistic riders, have sided with the Greens and turned against Prince Jacaerys. They turned their beasts against the heir to the Iron Throne and Jacaerys died on that day. Rhaenyra grieves for her firstborn son and forgets the war she must wage.

Over the course of the past moons, the Blacks have lost many valuable assets. The Riverlands have been reconquered by the Kingmaker Criston Cole, fortified by a Green army and a bloodthirsty broken prince on dragonback. Prince Jacaerys died in Tumbleton, as well as his mount. Troops are disheartened and leaders exhausted. Many in Dragonstone fear for the outcome of this terrible war.

In King’s Landing, Aegon reigns over a realm of ashes and discord from a cold iron throne, with the knowledge that soon enough, his sister will come for him. While she mourns her lost son, her vile brother laughs at her despair.

Dark wings soar above Dragonstone and below, sentries rush on the ramparts. The word spread quick in the stronghold. The Cannibal has been sighted, a princess on his back.

When she lands, Daemon awaits already. Caraxes claws on the steep stones of the shore, his tail dancing like a serpent behind him. The scarlet dragon reveals two rows of sharp fangs, but compared to The Cannibal, Caraxes looks like a pet. The black beast with ice-coloured eyes faces his peer, bigger, stronger, mightier.

Daemon stands with his forearm resting on the hilt of Dark Sister, the slight shadow of a proud smile hovering on his lips. Naera hops down from dragonback and The Cannibal follows her with his bestial gaze as she paces the length of the beach.

Her uncle opens both his arms when she approaches and she sinks into his embrace, snugging her head where his doublet meets the skin of his neck. He drowns his tough hands in the interminable flow of her hair, she fills her nostrils with the scent of his skin. It’s familiar, it smells of ashes and leather alike. It smells like home.

“Mother told me,” the girl confesses as she buries her face deeper in her uncle’s collar.

She needs not to say more, for Daemon understands what she means with so little words. The man locks his arms around his protégée and glances at the unresting dragon that watches over her now. The Cannibal casts a shadow over the beach and even Caraxes seems calmer than usual.

“Come now,” Daemon murmurs, rubbing the skin of her cheeks with his calloused thumbs. “They are waiting for us.”

Rhaenyra is more than relieved to welcome her younger cousin and her fearsome mounts in their ranks again. Yet, when she walks into the Throne Room, she can feel all of her queen’s partisans’s gaze riveted on her. They blame her for the Kinslayer’s escape and the consequences that followed his evasion. The Blacks have lost the Riverlands to the mad prince and his century-old dragon Vhagar. In their eyes, she’s the ideal culprit.

They look at her and see a pile of revengeful flesh. They see a white rose and know nothing of the scales of steel that run along her skin like an armour. They know nothing of her obsidian heart, carved into dragonglass. They look at her and they think of that infamous coin the Gods flip every time a Targaryen is born.

Too bad she cares little about what they think. With one wave of her hand, she could cook them all in these very halls and their prying eyes would melt in their sockets. This is how restless and ruthless she has grown. In this heart of stone, there is no room left for mercy and patience. Those who have enough courage to offend her will have enough bravery to face her wrath.

On the following days, the Blacks finally agree on a strategy to bring King’s Landing down to its knees. Weeping Queen Rhaenyra gives her upheaval. The Capital will be the first to pay the price of her woe.

On the night before the battle, she is visited by night visions. For six months, she has kept her dreams at bay. No long-gone king of the Seven Kingdoms came to visit her in Pentos, no God of Flames as well. Across the Narrow Sea, her nights were more peaceful.

The stormy weather of Dragonstone vanishes and a new world comes to her sight. Vast meadows of green grass and weeds unravel before a tall fortress. It resembles the tower she has seen many times before in her dreams, the edifice that had no doors nor windows. But this hold doesn’t reach the clouds.

Naera stands on a field of mud and corpses at the feet of the keep. On the highest tower stands a silhouette she cannot truly see. Behind her, The Cannibal lurks, wings folded over his raven scales. He bares his teeth and breathes hot rancid air. And behind the both of them lies the God’s Eye and the Isle of Faces. She knows this place. This is Harrenhal.

The silver-headed princess lowers her gaze on her attire. She wears an armour. The black steel is stained with dry blood and splintered in some spots. A heavy sword swings at her belt. She unsheathes it, Valyrian steel gleaming like under the morning sun. From the height comes a screeching voice and Naera lowers Blackfyre and tilts her head up.

To the offense, Naera answers. But the words that come out of her mouth are not hers. She speaks them, but has no hold over any of them.

“Yield now and you may remain Lord of the Iron Islands. Yield now, and your sons will live to rule after you. I have eight thousand men outside your walls.”

The voice snaps back and this time, Naera discerns more of the speaker. Dark hair peek under the grey cloak and flow into the wind.

From up there, she hears a derisive chuckle. “What is outside of my walls is of no concern to me. Those walls are strong and thick.”

“But not so high as to keep out dragons,” the black-armoured princess responds, imperious voice cutting through the air.

“I built in stone. Stone does not burn.”

Naera rises the Conqueror’s legendary blade into the air. “When the sun sets,” she begins, driving the sword into the mud. “Your line shall end.”

Cold sheets stick to her skin when she wakes up. Baela stands on the doorframe, leaning against the decorated stone walls. Her expression is colder than the stones, the sheets and the breeze all at once. With her two arms crossed over her chest, she gauges at the drowsy princess.

“Father has required you get ready,” Baela blatantly mutters.

“How long have you been here ?” Naera inquires, the frowning of her eyes softening as she stares at her favourite person in the world.

“I’ve just arrived,” Baela gushes. “Be quick about it.”

The girl flees her cousin’s room and Naera jumps out of her bed, running after her barefoot on the icy tiles. “Baela, wait !” she blurts out, clasping the girl’s forearm.

The curly-haired beauty pulls her wrist away, pushing Naera aside. “Don’t touch me,” she seethes out.

Naera faces Baela’s gaze and finds nothing in her dark violet eyes, but resentment and a boiling anger. It breaks her heart to see that her sister-like friend considers her a traitor, like the rest of Rhaenyra’s court. In fact, the pain is terrible — like a blade driven through her heart and twisted in the wound.

“Baela…,” desperate Naera stammers, voice dying with a repressed sob. “I’m sorry I left. I needed it. I needed to see my mother, surely you can underst—”

“No I can’t,” the sunkissed girl snaps back. “And I don’t care what you have to say about it. I don’t care at all.”

“Don’t turn your back on me Baela.”

Dark violet eyes fluster with distilled fury, nostrils flare with unleashed anger. “Me ? Turning my back on you ? I’m not the craven here, I’m not the one that loves to disappears when shit goes down. You are. All you do is take and take and take it all, and never care what you give.” With her lips pinched together and face twisted in spite, Baela looks at her up and down. “I don’t know what my father sees in you. Or perhaps, I do. You and him have an equal taste for inconsiderate destruction.”

“I’m not to blame for Jacaerys’s death,” Naera blurts out, cocking her brow.

“Oh, no you’re not ?” Baela hisses. “Who do think rode Vhagar to battle and torn off Vermax’s wings ? Was it the wind ? Was it the Stranger ? Or was it your miserable flirt you pretend to hate ?”

She stays mouth agape at the accusation, wanting to utter some words in her defense. She thinks of burnt arms circling her waist and dragging her to safety, teary kisses and harrowing silent farewells. She thinks of Aemond Targaryen, slouched on Vhagar’s back as he holds onto the leathery reins with the charred flesh of his hands. She thinks of his proposal, made into the secrecy of the cave.

We could go wherever you want, flee this land of woe. Name it Naera, and I’ll take you there. I’ll do anything for you. I’ll give you anything that you want.

Sore heart weeps in a prison of bones and forbidden desires.

A word from you and I’ll give you the world.

Baela’s fury is just another dagger driven into her flesh.

“You’re rogue and selfish,” she spits. “Never talk to me ever again, Naera. You’re dead enough to me, now.”

A storm of silver ringlets stalks out of the hallway and leaves Naera to the contemplation of a long list of remorses.

Aemond’s name comes first, as it has always been.

Back when she was just a clueless child dreaming of burning towers full of sinners. She thought of him first, she always have in a way.

A part of her is still convinced that had she married him, things would have been different. Perhaps she could have softened his heart, indulged him to mercy. She would have kept him away from this dreadful war, dragged him to Summerhall, raised his sons in her father’s favourite place on earth. Perhaps Medea could have returned home as well and watch as her grandchildren grew in the orchards. She would have taught them everything about every sprout, weed, leaf or tree there is in the gardens and the forests. She would have bathed them into the turquoise waters of the ponds and laughed with them until their throats get raw from laughter.

Yes, she would have married him. Not in the gloomy Great Sept in King’s Landing, but in a red temple in Volantis or Dorne perhaps, where R’hllor is stronger than the usurpers.

There’ss this possibility that lingers at the back of her head and makes it difficult to sleep at night.

She puts on her riding leathers and plates of steel, bringing to life last night’s vision. She doesn’t take any time to glance at her reflection in the mirror, she need not to. The girl she’ll meet is rogue and selfish and despicable. She’ll hate her even more.

She attaches the daggers onto her belt and stalks out of the room, leather and steel singing the son of battle. Daemon awaits outside already, near the Dragonmont. Caraxes is ready, chains of the darkest iron swinging around his neck. He welcomes his niece with that self-satisfied smirk that never leaves his lips.

“The keepers have struggled with your mount, but we succeeded nevertheless.”

She has nothing to answer to her uncle’s small talk and simply whistles to let The Cannibal knows she’s more. The latter emerges from the smokes and the darkness, claws digging into the stone. He answers his mistress’s call and his obedience draws a chuckles from Daemon’s lips.

“Not even Aegon the Conqueror managed to tame that one,” the Rogue Prince observes. “You have no idea how admiring I am of you right now, Naera.”

“I don’t know if Naera did it,” she confesses in response, her hands reaching for her dragon’s jet-black scales. “I don’t know who she is anymore. I don’t know if this is me anymore.”

This is the name her father has chosen for her when she was born, the name he has called her many times before. In his mouth, it curled up perfectly. Naera, he sung with his irreproachable accent. A name fit for the daughter of a dragon and a witch, eerie and foreign.

“Perhaps Naera has truly died into the sea,” she resumes, clenched onto the ladder of chains. She pushes her feet on the ground and climbs all the way to the saddle.

She sits atop the most terrible beast this world has birthed and yearns for the drunkenness of a dance with the stars. She twirls the reins around her wrists and pulls on the chains. The Cannibal makes a deep grunt. This his way to let her know he’s ready.

Once again, her soft hand reach for the black scales crawling up his neck. She caresses the dragon’s skin and her lips utter the command without a sound. “Soves,” she murmurs and the wind swooshes under The Cannibal’s wings.

She fills her lungs with fresh air and leaves behind resentful cousins, grief and remorses. The Cannibal pierces through the morning clouds, like an obsidian comet on the rising sun. Caraxes follows closely, red wings spreading like a bird of prey’s. As they fly across the bleeding sky, Naera prepares for the battle to come.

She tightens her grip over the reins and readies herself to burn to the ground her forebears’s home. She prepares her heart for the violence she’s about to rain on her father’s enemies.

Today, The Cannibal will taste Hightower blood.

Ser Criston Cole is not the kind of man to slouch on an arm-chair and revel on his triumph. Although he has reconquered most of the Riverlands and ended the fratricidal civil war the Blacks have started, he doesn’t sit for a minute. But Aemond does.

With a glass of wine in one hand and a woman’s waist in the other, the prince of the Seven Kingdoms drinks the rest of the day away. Terrorized minstrels play their crooked melodies in the great hall of Harrenhal, while Aemond Targaryen sits on the Stone Throne that once belonged to Harren the Black. The fortress is no different from Dragonstone, except it is closer to a ruin than to a prestigious castle. The stone of the highest towers has melted and darkened.

It matches the hair colour of his new advisor, a raven lady whose home has always been Harrenhal. She’s older, wiser, less reckless than he is. She’s the river running, he is the untamable dragon. He strokes what little skin her dress reveals of her back and she sits on the armrest of his chair. His hand climbing and descending along her curves is a permanent reminder of his sway, of what he’s made of. Dragonfire caresses her skin and sets the waters ablaze.

Criston Cole storms into the room with so much brutality and determination the music stops playing. He doesn’t kneel before the makeshift ruler of this sorry place, nor before the bastard girl he has made his lover.

Aemond cocks a brow and rivets his one-sided gaze on the newcomer. “What news ?” The prince inquires.

“I will not spare any my Prince,” Criston hisses, dark hair curling on his forehead. “King’s Landing has fallen, the ravens report.”

“Dark wings, dark words,” Alys Rivers sings like a spell at her lover’s side. “What about my intended’s family ? Are they safe ?”

Criston doesn’t suffer the sight of this despicable girl, whose age is closer to his than to Aemond’s. He doesn’t bother to look at her for a single second. Instead, he keeps his somber glare on the prince, who has begun to straighten where he sits.

“The Queen Mother has been captured by Rhaenyra Targaryen, but she’s unarmed,” Criston mutters, voice spitting bitterness when the Black Queen’s name comes to his lips. Once they have tasted the sweet and intoxicating taste of her lips, body and the terrible power she hides between her legs. On his loneliest nights, the kingsguard still thinks of the way her hands clawed at the skin of his back as he fucked her for the first time, and guilty pleasure takes over. Too many years have passed now and the war has claimed what little remained of his affection for the dragon-queen. “She now sits the Iron Throne with her partisans by her side. Daemon Targaryen and his dragonriders have paved the way for her. They sacked the city, murdered your brother’s advisors. Each of their heads were mounted on spikes on each entrance of the capital, your grandsire included. They fed their remains to their dragons.”

“Where’s Aegon ?” Aemond grits his teeth. “What of Helaena and her children ?”

This time, Criston’s strong gaze falters. The poor man keeps his lips tight, reluctant to utter the truth. “The king has fled the massacres and sought refuge in Dragonstone. Your sister, my Prince. She threw herself from the highest tower of the Red Keep.”

The prince’s gaze begins to tremble. Alys turns to him, casting a glance over her shoulder to witness his distress. Criston takes advantage of the short silence and attempts to soothe the boy’s sorrow with a bunch of kind words.

“Aegon has fled and abandoned our sister to her demise,” the prince seethes, clenching his elongated fingers around his glass of wine. “He has abandoned our mother to these savages.”

“Your brother is gravely injured, my Prince. The safety of the king is above all else—”

“It is my family we are talking about,” Aemond shouts, jumping out of his stone-made throne. All eyes turn to the mad prince. Servants crawl back to their rat holes and the only ones who doesn’t look away from the catastrophe are Alys Rivers and Criston Cole. Both of them are used to the fits of rage of dragon-like men.

“Prepare Vhagar,” the One-Eye hisses after a pause.

“My prince, this is vain,” Criston opposes. “We should march south instead and meet with Lord Ormund Hightower, join forces with your mother’s support. You can rally the bannermen and retake the city, but first we must gather our armies.”

“I don’t need any army,” Aemond sneers. “I am the army.”

Empty halls reverberate slow paced steps, like a hollow melody sung by the void.

This red chambers and hallways used to be her playground, her home of some sort. Now every stone bears the mark of infamy, every room smells of treason and ash. Fire purifies every sin, R’hllor used to repeat, yet the dragonfire has not wiped off all the traces of evil from the Red Keep. Cruelty has built this place. Perhaps this is the reason behind the colour of the stones. Maegor has built his reign in fear and his stronghold with blood. No rain of fire could ever wash it away. It quintessential to this place — you win or you die.

Friendship is not something Naera masters, but along her life, she made two friends she has loved deeply. Yesterday, the first has scorned her name. Today, she must bury the second.

Rhaenyra has commanded her men to escort Alicent Hightower to her daughter’s pyre, erected before the ruins of the Dragonpit. But the queen’s counselors judged her noble initiative too reckless and advised the contrary. They took Alicent down the crypts as the Silent Sisters prepared Helaena’s body, crushed to pieces by the impact. The grieving mother was allowed a last farewell before her daughter’s corpse was taken away on a charriot.

Alicent kneeled on the stones and grasped her daughter’s ivory hair in her clenched fists, face torn apart by agony.

Naera stood in the same room as Alicent Hightower and watched the hot tears rampage along her cheeks. It felt strange to witness the Queen Mother’s sorrow, and share it in some way. Had it been Aegon lying here on that stone-made table, she wouldn’t have wept. But for Helaena, Naera’s tears are impossible to swallow. She allows them to spill and mourns the broken queen with all her heart. Yet, she doesn’t offer any support nor compassion to Alicent. She remembers of her own mother’s words, accusing this teary queen of murder and her heart returns to stone. Alicent’s time will also come, but Naera will make sure there is no one left to weep for her. She’ll die in indifference, forgotten by the masses.

Damnatio memoriae, or to be erased from history. These shall be Alicent’s punishment for her vanity and crooked faith. A death won’t be an example and she won’t be made a martyr. She’ll die alone, drowning in her own tears.

The door closes and Naera follows Helaena’s corpse, now wrapped in a scented shroud. The cortege descends the Street of Silk all the way to the Dragonpit, where a small crowd has been allowed to gather. Although this is her sister they’re burying today, Rhaenyra choose not to come. It would be too risky to stand in open ground, at the mercy of her rivals. The thick walls of the Red Keep offer more protection.

The Cannibal emerges from behind the ruins of the Dragonpit and the audience holds its breath. Since Vhagar, they have never seen a beast so imposing. Dark scales and dark wings linger over the place, reminding of Balerion’s own greatness. In the hands of Naera Targaryen, the Cannibal has lost most of his savagery. She has tamed a beast nearly as fearsome as Aegon’s mount and many men respect her for that.

Weepy suitors mourn the dead queen, but Naera swallows her sadness.

With one wave of her hand, she brings the Cannibal closer. The beast elongates its neck, fuming nostrils sputtering smoke as it bares its fang.

No Red Man nor lost conqueror stands across the pyre to give her courage this time. She faces her grief alone, utters the word alone, mourns alone. For the first time ever, she commands the Cannibal to rain fire.

Dracarys.

Helaena’s corpse fades into the blaze. The crowd dissolves and deserts the ruins. Only Naera stays long enough to watch the fire die and the wind carry some of the ashes to the open sea. When there is no eyes left to witness the girl’s misery, she steps forward and climbs the pile of fuming embers. She doesn’t dread the heat of the vacillating fire, nor the kiss of the flames. She knows Helaena’s despair was the result of Medea’s somber revenge. The Red Sorceress had invoked the shadows and ordered them to claim Helaena’s daughter in payment for Naera’s death. The knife had slit the little girl’s throat open and plunged Helaena into a slow agony, which only ended on the morning when she threw herself from a tall stone tower.

Naera weeps near the pyre until sunset. At dusk, she hops on the Cannibal’s back and pursues her race into the ethers. She dances with the stars, sowing tears and splinters of her broken heart loose on the wind.

Her thoughts wander in the darkest lands of her mind. She thinks of Baela and her murderous words. She thinks of Medea speaking of infamies. She thinks of her own father, lifeless to the end. She thinks of Daemon, and how much of a plague she must be to me.

She thinks of a One-Eye, gleaming into the dimness of a damp cave and strong arms dragging her into safety at their own peril. She thinks of wet feverish kisses and her lips trembling with sadness. She knew then that it was a farewell and allowed her heart to grieve the prince for six moons.

But six bloody moons were not enough to kill this twisted fantasy she keeps to herself.

Six bloody moons are meager and vain compared to the life of a dragon, to the life of a god.

What are they compared to love, she wonders. Will this hunger ever end ? Will the fire ever die ?

When Naera returns to solid ground and leaves the Cannibal to his wandering, she finds herself pacing up and down the road to the Red Keep. As soon as she passes the crimson gates and engages in the maze of courtyards and hallways, she notices that the lights of the Small Council room are still on. Even at such a late hour, Rhaenyra has gathered her leal counselors. Something must have happened. Something grave enough to drag them all of their bedchambers.

But what happens behind these closed doors are none of her business. Her heart is too heavy with sorrow and melancholy to be bothered by matters of the state. All she craves for are the warmth of her featherbed, a fire in the hearth, a bowl of fresh fruits to devour.

Tomorrow, they’ll let her know about their reunion, if they wish to. If they don’t, it doesn’t matter. What matters is peace of mind.

They gave to Naera Rhaenyra’s old solars, back when she was younger. Perhaps, this is her cousin’s way to show gratitude. After the Battle of Tumbleton, the Blacks have begun to question the rest of the dragonseeds’s fealty. Hugh Hammer and Ulf the White have turned against the Velaryon Prince and joined forces with the Greens armies marching towards the Riverlands. They proved themselves unworthy of any trust, of the noble mounts they ride. Rhaenyra wants them to pay the price of treason — but Syrax is idle and slow compared to Vermithor and Silverwing. Caraxes is strong for sure, but he doesn’t stand a chance against the two of them together. Rhaenyra needs the Cannibal to accomplish her revenge. This is why she never puts Naera’s loyalty into question. She needs her to crush her enemies.

The princess unbinds her hair and washes her body before she puts on a nightshift. The folded sheets seem to call her name from across the room. She’s patient enough to run the brush in her hair before yield to the temptation.

Curled up in the silken sheets, she cries herself to sleep. Her trembling lips murmur the names of the loved ones she has lost. She entrusts them to the night, confident that R’hllor will welcome them all in his warmth. But this list has another purpose. It gives her a reason to step out of that bed tomorrow, to get out of this gilded cage and fight.

Brothers.

A reason strong enough to pull her from her idleness and desires of peace.

Father.

For there can’t be peace without a war.

Rhaenys.

And no war without battles.

Jacaerys.

R’hllor has called her name in the darkness and she has heard him.

Helaena.

She will answer his call. She will bring retribution upon those who corrupt the light and sadden the hearts.

Fire will rain upon the traitors.

Fire will purify every sin.

“So, this is your solution,” Alys begins, rising from the tepid sheets of the bed they so often share. “You’ll make waves until your sister notices the storm ?”

Aemond has joined her under the covers late at night, in the hour of the witch. He has found her asleep already, in a cold room. The fire in the hearth had died, as well as the light of the candles. Under the moon, her bare back gleamed like snow. Raven coloured strands of hair rained upon her shoulders, like a waterfall of pure darkness. Rumors say she is a witch, and perhaps some of them are right. She sees many things, his Alys. Things he struggles to see himself.

The prince still smells of dragonfire, leather and ash. He likes to believe that it is the wine he drinks to numb the pain and quench his thirst that sends terrible dreams to haunt his nights. Perhaps it is punishment for the chaos he perpetrates. Perhaps it is the way of the Gods to remind him he is not free of his shackles yet. A part of him is still chained to that dreary caves in Dragonstone. To believe otherwise would be foolish, even for him.

Alys is just like the wine. A mean to contain his anger, to keep his scorched heart silent. She is heady enough to prevent his madness from spilling everywhere. When he’s full of rage, she fucks him. When he’s sad, she fucks him. Sex is the answer she has for his qualms. He pretends to love her and this is the only thing she lacks clarity for. She can’t see the lies in his touches and kisses. Dragons are hungry, pure creatures of fire. A river cannot quench their thirst. Blood does. Alys is only a distraction, a vain attempt at forgetting the dreams of wet princesses swimming in infinite lakes.

She feels cold to his touch. He takes her in every way a man can take a woman and contorts her body for her sole pleasure. But he draws little satisfaction from it and less fire than expected. Living with Alys Rivers felt like living a life without a sun. A long winter and no spring to come.

What a dishonest way to see it, Aemond thinks. This is not Alys’s presence that makes his life feel like a heatless, endless night. It is the sun’s absence that makes it so bleak. The scars running along his arms can testify. To fly too close to the sun is a dangerous thing. Although his heart still weeps for the loss of his favourite star, he doesn’t allow the tears to spill. Instead, they water his loins, drown his heart in his own despair.

On the outside, he’s a dragon made flesh. Inside, he’s a drowning man.

Aemond brings his arm up to cover his eye blinded by the morning light. “Criston Cole has chosen his way. I have my own,” he sighs.

“What if they come for you, no with one dragon but two ?” Alys inquires, caressing the bare skin of his chest with the tip of her fingers.

“They could try to kill me for a hundred years,” Aemond sneers. “And never succeed.”

“Don’t be so sure. I have heard the Prince Daemon is a fearsome warrior.”

“My uncle is a great warrior for sure, but his dragon is smaller compared to mine. Vhagar can end Caraxes with one bite,” the prince responds. “Let Daemon come for me, I am not scared of him.”

“Bigger means slower,” Alys observes, leaning over him for a kiss. “Your brother’s dragon is nowhere to be found, Dreamfyre is riderless, the Two Traitors refuse to cooperate until their demands are met. Apart from Daeron, you are the only rider left on the Greens’s side. They have Caraxes, Arrax, Moondancer, Sea Smoke, Grey Ghost and the Cannibal.”

Aemond winces. “The Cannibal is in Essos, with his rider,” he brutally answers, refusing to say her name and taste bitterness on his tongue. "Last time I heard, he plagued the people of Pentos."

“It was the Cannibal who set your sister’s funeral pyre on fire,” Alys reveals. “Not Caraxes, not Arrax, not Moondancer, not Sea Smoke, not Grey Ghost. But the Cannibal. Naera Targaryen has returned from her exile."

The One-Eye rises from the mattress, pacing the distance to the window. He looks outside and sees the God’s Eye unraveling at the feet of the fortress. Harrenhal is high enough to overlook a decent part of the region, but his vision is too blurry to see anything. In truth, the only thing he wants to do is too hide his distress from Alys. He has not run to the stained-glass windows just to admire the view. He has fled their bed so she cannot see how torn he is between relief and terror, between this twisted affliction he has for that dragon-witch who haunts his dreams so restlessly.

The simple thought of her makes him want to jump from that window. He recalls of her hair bouncing on her back like a cape of silver every time she moved. He remembers the heady taste of her lips, the way she has once pressed her body against him in the most delightful of all fevers. It’s enough to set his soul ablaze. Enough even, to make him run to Daemon Targaryen and meet his demise sooner. She makes him want to die.

Strange sentiments mix together and he does not know why his eye weeps for the most. There is wrath and despair for sure, but also an insidious hint of joy that leaves him wondering what good there ever was in loving her. As far as he can remember, Naera Targaryen has always been the object of his affection. Once, she has allowed Lucerys Velaryon to take his eye. Once, she has thrown him into the dragon’s lair. Many times she has tortured his heart.

He is strong for sure, but this love is evil.

This unrequited love.

This bad religion.

These cruel intentions.

"What will you do if they come for you, my love ?"

Alys’s voice resonates in the room. Aemond leans against the window frame and keeps his twisted desires to himself. “Let them come,” the one-eyed prince answers. “Let them taste fire and blood."