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Chapter Text

Aemond Targaryen had long since mastered the art of control.

He had to.

From the moment the gods had cursed him with the body of an omega, he had waged war against his own flesh. He refused to yield, refused to bow to the instincts that clawed at his spine, demanding submission. He had carved his own path in fire and fury, willing himself into something greater than the limitations of his wretched biology.

Omegas were weak. Soft. Frail things meant to be protected, possessed, bred. Aemond had spent his entire life proving that he was none of those things.

And yet, as he strode through the Red Keep’s corridors, summoned to his father’s side without explanation, irritation simmered beneath his carefully maintained composure.

King Viserys rarely concerned himself with Aemond. The old man barely regarded him unless forced to. His attentions were always reserved for his precious daughter Rhaenyra and her bastard sons, lavishing them with the warmth and approval he had never spared for Aemond.

So why now? Why this sudden summons?

Aemond’s stomach coiled with unease.

The guards outside the royal solar barely looked at him as they pushed open the heavy wooden doors. The scent of illness hung thick in the air—Viserys’s slow decay was impossible to ignore now. The king sat slumped upon a cushioned chair, his skin pallid, breath wheezing with every shallow exhale. He looked like a man half in the grave, and Aemond wondered—not for the first time—how much longer the Stranger would toy with him before finally pulling him under.

Beside him stood Queen Alicent.

His mother’s hands were tightly clasped, her knuckles pale with strain. Her face was carefully neutral, but Aemond had spent years reading the fine lines of her expressions. She was displeased. Worse—she was resigned.

That sent a sliver of unease creeping down his spine.

“Father,” Aemond said, bowing his head in cold deference. His voice was calm, measured, betraying none of his apprehension.

Viserys smiled weakly. “Come, my son. Stand before me.”

Aemond obeyed, though every instinct screamed at him to turn and leave before he was ensnared in whatever scheme had been woven in his absence.

The flickering candlelight cast long shadows across the chamber. The silence stretched unbearably between them, and in it, Aemond could hear the faint, ragged wheeze of his father’s failing lungs.

Viserys studied him for a long moment, something unreadable flickering in his dull, milk-clouded eyes. It was not pride. It was not affection.

It was sorrow.

Aemond’s stomach twisted violently.

He hated that look. That pitying, regretful gaze that men always cast upon him when they remembered what he was. When they remembered what his body would always betray him as.

“I have made arrangements,” Viserys finally said, his voice weaker than Aemond had ever heard it. “To ensure the peace of this realm. To mend the wounds that have festered between our families.”

Aemond’s fingers twitched at his sides. A slow, creeping dread slithered up his spine.

Viserys exhaled heavily, as though the weight of his own words exhausted him. “You are to wed-”

Aemond’s world stilled. “No.”

The words crashed into him like a blade to the gut, stealing the breath from his lungs.

For a moment, he could do nothing but stare, his body locked in place. He felt as if the air had been stolen from the room, thick and suffocating, pressing in on him from all sides.

His gaze snapped to his mother, searching for some sign that this was a cruel jest, that she would deny this madness. But Alicent remained silent, her hands gripping one another so tightly they trembled. “With Prince Lucerys-” 

Aemond’s pulse thundered in his ears.

“No.”

His voice was sharp, cutting through the heavy silence like the crack of a whip.

Viserys sighed, as if he had expected this. “Aemond, my son—”

“No.” Aemond’s voice rose, edged with barely restrained fury. He stepped forward, his entire body taut with rage. “You would have me wed the bastard? He's brother took my eye! You would have me lie beneath him like some docile thing? I would sooner let Vhagar rip him apart limb by limb.”

“Aemond.” His mother’s voice was soft, pleading.

His hands curled into fists, nails digging into his palms so hard he felt the sharp sting of skin breaking.

“This is not a request,” Viserys said tiredly. “It is my will as king. This feud between you cannot continue. The realm must see that we are united, not divided.”

“The realm?” Aemond let out a harsh, humorless laugh. “Do you think the realm will forget what was done to me simply because you parade me before them as that bastard’s omega? Do you think they will see anything other than a mockery?”

Viserys exhaled heavily. “You are a prince of the realm, Aemond. And an omega, whether you wish to acknowledge it or not. This match will strengthen the family, secure your future. It is not a punishment, but a necessity.”

Aemond wanted to scream. To rip the heavy tapestries from the walls and burn this wretched castle to the ground.

His entire life, he had fought to escape this fate.

He had starved himself of softness, dulled his body to the whispers of instinct. He had trained until his bones ached, sharpened himself into a weapon so that no one would ever look at him and see an omega.

And now—this.

This final insult. This degradation.

Lucerys Velaryon.

Aemond could still hear this night's laughter ringing in his ears, the boy’s wide, frightened eyes as he ran, the moment before steel cut flesh and Aemond’s world turned red. His fingers ghosted over the scar that marred his face, the permanent, grotesque reminder of his shame.

And now, his father would have him bound to the a child. A child, 15 years old.

His body recoiled at the thought. His instincts churned, sickened and twisted.

Lucerys was an alpha.

Aemond had spent years convincing himself that he would never kneel before one. That he would never allow his body to betray him, never let himself become what nature had tried to make him.

His breath came too fast, too shallow.

He needed to leave before he lost the last shreds of control he had.

Instead, he forced his voice into something cold, something sharp as glass.

“You may command me as your son,” he said, voice trembling with barely restrained fury. “But I will never be his. I can't be, he's still a baby.”

Viserys only looked at him, weary and unyielding. “ He will grow… The betrothal will be announced by sundown. Rhaenyra and her family will be at the Keep soon. ”

Aemond turned on his heel and strode from the room before he did something unforgivable.

He did not hear his mother call after him. He did not care for the guards who stepped hastily aside at the fury etched across his face.

He only knew that his world, already carved by loss and resentment, had just tilted irreversibly into something crueler.

Aemond Targaryen would marry Lucerys Velaryon.

But he would never love him.

Aemond’s steps were swift, his boots striking the stone floor with sharp, deliberate force as he stormed through the halls of the Red Keep. Fury burned in his veins, hot and all-consuming, threatening to spill over in ways he could not afford.

To be shackled to Lucerys Velaryon.

The mere thought of it made his stomach churn, his entire body recoiling in disgust. His father, in all his weakness, had sealed his fate with little more than a tired sigh. It did not matter how much Aemond fought, how much he bled to carve out a place for himself outside the confines of his cursed biology. He was still seen as something to be bartered, something to be claimed.

His breath came too fast, too shallow. He needed control.

And then, the sky split with the deep, resonant roar of dragons.

Aemond stilled.

He turned sharply, his gaze snapping toward the nearest window. The sky beyond the city walls churned with shadow and fire, five great beasts descending through the pale afternoon light.

His fingers curled into fists as he recognized them instantly.

Syrax, golden and elegant, her great wings glinting in the sunlight. Caraxes, Blood Wyrm, long and serpentine, his scarlet scales like fresh-spilled blood against the sky. Vermax and Arrax, smaller but no less significant, circling protectively around their mother’s beast. And Tyraxes, just a tiny shadow of purple.

Rhaenyra and her bastards had come.  

Aemond’s jaw clenched, his teeth grinding together so hard it sent a sharp jolt of pain through his skull. The sight of them, so smug in their unity, so sure of their place in this world, filled him with a hatred so raw it made his vision blur.

They were coming for him.

For his humiliation.

For the final chain his father meant to lock around his throat.

The walls of the Red Keep suddenly felt suffocating, pressing in on him from all sides. If he remained here, he would do something reckless. Something that would make his father’s pathetic decrees meaningless, because there would be no Lucerys Velaryon left to wed if Aemond let himself slip.

No.

Not yet.

With a sharp turn, Aemond tore himself away from the window, his cloak snapping at his heels as he strode toward the courtyard. His body was tight with unspent fury, his blood a molten current surging beneath his skin. He needed steel in his hands. He needed movement, the clash of blades, the bite of pain—something to ground himself before he burned alive from the inside out.

The moment he stepped onto the hard-packed earth of the training yard, his voice rang out, sharp and commanding.

“You.”

Ser Arryk Cargyll, the first knight in his line of sight, turned swiftly at the call. The man’s expression barely had time to shift from confusion to understanding before Aemond reached for the sword at his waist.

“Draw your sword,” Aemond ordered, his grip firm, his tone brooking no argument.

Ser Arryk hesitated. “My prince, I—”

“Do not make me repeat myself,” Aemond snapped, unsheathing his own longsword. The steel caught the afternoon sun, gleaming bright and hungry. “Draw your blade and face me.”

There was a beat of silence before Ser Arryk nodded stiffly and obeyed, drawing his sword with practiced ease.

Aemond did not wait.

He lunged.

His first strike was brutal, unrelenting, the force of it sending vibrations up his arms, the impact ringing through the courtyard like the toll of a bell.

Ser Arryk barely managed to parry in time, his expression shifting from hesitation to focus. He was a Kingsguard, sworn to be one of the best warriors in the realm. But Aemond did not fight like a man merely testing his skill. He fought like a man with something to prove.

Aemond pressed forward, each strike sharper, heavier, harder than the last. His movements were calculated, precise, but there was fire burning beneath them, a fury barely leashed. He attacked with the relentless precision of a warrior who had spent years honing himself into something formidable, something beyond the confines of what the gods had cursed him with.

Ser Arryk grunted as he met each blow, his footing slipping slightly as he was forced back. The courtyard had gone silent. Other knights and squires had paused their own drills to watch.

Aemond did not care.

This was not for them.

This was for him.

The steel sang as their swords clashed, the weight of every unspoken word, every bitter resentment, channeled into Aemond’s strikes. He did not slow, did not relent, until finally—Ser Arryk made a mistake.

It was small, almost imperceptible, but Aemond had spent years learning how to exploit even the smallest weaknesses. His sword flicked forward, disarming the knight in one swift movement. Ser Arryk’s blade clattered to the ground, and before he could react, Aemond drove his own blade forward, stopping just short of the knight’s throat.

The world stood still.

Aemond’s breath was ragged, his muscles taut with restrained violence.

His heart thundered in his chest, but the fire in his veins had not dimmed. If anything, it burned hotter.

He wanted more.

Slowly, he lowered his blade, stepping back as Ser Arryk exhaled heavily, nodding in stiff respect.

“My prince,” the knight murmured.

Aemond barely heard him.

His body still burned, his instincts still screamed.

His eye locked onto another figure in the yard.

“You.”

Ser Erryk Cargyll, twin to the man he had just bested, stiffened under the weight of his glare.

“Draw your sword,” Aemond ordered, his voice cutting through the tense silence like steel against stone.

Ser Erryk hesitated, glancing at his brother, but he knew better than to refuse. With a measured breath, he drew his blade and took his stance.

Aemond lunged.

The clash of steel rang out, sharper, more vicious than before. Ser Erryk was skilled—perhaps even a better swordsman than his brother—but Aemond was relentless.

He struck like a storm, fast and merciless, his blade a blur of silver. Erryk parried, barely holding his ground, but Aemond was already pushing forward.

He would not yield.

He would never yield.

Erryk managed to land a strike—his sword cutting a thin line across Aemond’s forearm—but Aemond did not even flinch. Pain was nothing.

He knocked Erryk’s sword aside with a brutal swing, stepping into his guard and slamming the hilt of his weapon into the knight’s ribs. Erryk grunted, stumbling back, and before he could recover, Aemond kicked his feet from under him, sending him crashing to the ground.

Aemond pressed his blade against Erryk’s throat, his chest rising and falling, barely winded.

“Yield,” he commanded, voice low and cold.

Erryk swallowed hard. “I yield, my prince.”

Aemond turned away before the words had even fully left his mouth.

The knights stood frozen, watching him with careful eyes, uncertain whether they should intervene.

He raised his sword again, pointing to another man.

“And you, uncle.”

Ser Gwayne Hightower stepped forward, his expression unreadable, but before Aemond could strike, slow, deliberate applause shattered the silence.

Mocking.

Aemond stilled, his breath sharp as a blade’s edge.

He turned.

And there they stood.

Jacaerys Velaryon, the bastard who had stolen his eye, and Lucerys Velaryon, the child who was meant to be his husband, hovered just beyond the gathered knights.

Jace stood at the front, his curls wind-tousled, his Velaryon-blue cloak draped elegantly over his shoulders. His lips curled into a knowing smile. Behind him, half-hidden, Lucerys clung to his older brother’s arm, his wide brown eyes filled with something between fear and defiance.

Aemond’s grip on his sword tightened until his knuckles turned white.

“Well fought, uncle,” Jace drawled, his voice lilting with insufferable amusement. “You do love putting on a show, don’t you?”

Aemond’s nostrils flared. He felt the fire in his chest surge higher, licking at his ribs, his throat, his mind.

He was here.

He had seen him.

Aemond’s entire body recoiled with the weight of his presence, his instincts raging against what his father had decreed.

To belong to them.

Unthinkable. Unforgivable.

His lips curled into a sneer. “You mock me at your own peril, Velaryon.”

Jace only smiled. “Oh, I would never dare.”

Lucerys shrank further behind his brother, his hands gripping Jace’s sleeve.

The watching knights shifted uneasily, sensing the storm that loomed between them.

Aemond did not move.

For a long, suffocating moment, they simply stared.

The fire inside him burned hotter, sharper, deadlier.

This was not over.

Not by a long shot.

Chapter Text

The corridors of the Red Keep swallowed him whole, stone walls closing in like the jaws of an ancient beast. His boots struck the floor in a relentless cadence, echoing the hammering of his heart, his cloak billowing behind him like a stormcloud snapping at his heels. Faces blurred past—servants, guards, courtiers—but he saw none of them. His mind was a tempest: Jacaerys’s smirk, Lucerys’s trembling hands, his father’s suffocating decree. He was twenty, a man tempered by loss and fury, his body a weapon honed through years of discipline. To be bound to a boy five years his junior, a child who hadn’t even grown into his own strength—it clawed at his spine, a degradation that threatened to unravel every thread of control he’d woven around himself.

He needed to purge it—not with steel, not with the hollow clash of blades. He needed something fiercer, something to rip through the storm in his blood and leave him raw but whole. Aegon.

Their secret was a jagged blade they’d wielded in the dark for years—since Aemond was sixteen and Aegon eighteen—a pact forged in defiance against their father, their roles, their fates. It wasn’t love, not for Aemond; it was a clash of flesh and need, a way to steal back power from a world that sought to crush them. Aegon never flinched from his edges, never demanded the softness Aemond had starved out of himself. He gave and took with reckless abandon, and right now, Aemond needed him to take it all—until Lucerys’s childish face was ashes, until Jacaerys’s taunts were fucked out of his bones.

The doors to Aegon’s chambers loomed ahead, dark oak gouged and weathered, the three-headed dragon carved into its surface glaring down like a silent accusation. Aemond didn’t knock—never did. His palm slammed against the wood, the impact jarring up his arm as the doors flew inward, hinges groaning in protest. The sound ricocheted through the dim, cavernous room, a herald to the tempest he carried.

The air inside was a stifling haze—sour with spilled wine, thick with the musk of sweat and unwashed linen, undercut by the faint smoke of a fire dwindled to embers. Candles guttered on a cluttered table, wax dripping in slow, molten trails, casting flickering shadows over the disarray. Aegon sprawled across his bed, a portrait of deliberate ruin—silver hair tangled over the pillows like tarnished steel, tunic hanging open to reveal a pale chest scored with faint scars and fading bruises from nights past. One leg dangled off the mattress, bare foot brushing the floor, while his hand rested lazily on an empty goblet, its rim stained red. A flagon teetered on the bedside table, its contents seeping into the wood in a dark, glistening pool. He was excess incarnate—dissolute, unrepentant, a prince who wore his failures like a crown.

His violet eyes, heavy with drink, flicked toward Aemond, a slow, crooked smirk curling his lips. “Well, fuck me,” he slurred, voice rough and languid. “You look like someone pissed in your wine, little brother. What’s the matter now?”

Aemond didn’t answer. Words were shackles, and he was too bound already. He crossed the room in long, predatory strides, his cloak a storm trailing in his wake. The heat in his chest was a beast, clawing at his ribs, spilling into his trembling hands, his quickening pulse, the tight knot of need coiling low in his gut. Aegon’s smirk faltered as Aemond loomed over him, replaced by a glint of recognition—a spark that flared in those violet eyes, acknowledging the wildfire blazing in Aemond’s own.

Aemond’s hands shot out, seizing Aegon by the front of his tunic and yanking him upright with a force that sent the goblet clattering to the floor. Wine splashed across the stone in a dark, arterial spray, pooling beneath the bed, but neither spared it a glance. Aemond crashed his lips against Aegon’s—a brutal, punishing kiss, all teeth and heat and the sharp bite of wine clinging to his brother’s tongue. It was a collision—a war waged in the press of mouths, the scrape of stubble, the faint copper tang where Aemond’s teeth grazed too hard. Aegon grunted, his hands fisting in Aemond’s tunic, pulling him closer as if to meet the challenge head-on.

For a moment, Aegon stiffened, caught off guard, but then he melted into it—his hands sliding up Aemond’s back, tangling in his hair, kissing back with a ferocity that bordered on reverence. There was a thread of longing beneath it, a softness Aemond refused to acknowledge, woven into years of stolen nights. Aegon loved him—quietly, desperately, a truth that trembled in the way his fingers lingered at the nape of Aemond’s neck, the way his breath hitched when their lips parted for a fleeting gasp. Aemond didn’t love him. Never had. Aegon was a tool, a release, a mirror for his chaos—but that didn’t stop Aegon from wanting more.

They broke apart, foreheads pressed together, breaths mingling in the stifling air. Aemond’s chest heaved, his lips bruised and tingling, his blood still molten beneath his skin. “Father’s betrothed me to that fucking child,” he snarled, voice trembling with rage, hot against Aegon’s lips. “Lucerys Velaryon. Fifteen, barely weaned, and I’m to be his omega.”

Aegon blinked, then barked a laugh—sharp, incredulous. “The little bastard? Gods, that’s poetic. The kid whose brother took your eye, and now you’re to warm his bed? Viserys has outdone himself.”

“Shut up,” Aemond snapped, shoving him back against the bed, hands still gripping his tunic as if letting go would unravel him. “It’s not him I can’t stand. It’s Jacaerys—strutting like he owns the world, mocking me with every breath. He’s the one I want to gut.”

Aegon’s laughter faded, his eyes narrowing as a flicker of jealousy—or recognition—flashed across his face before vanishing beneath his usual irreverence. “Jace, hm? Always did get under your skin. What’s he done now?”

“He’s here,” Aemond hissed, jaw clenched. “They’re all here—Rhaenyra’s brood, gloating over my humiliation.”

Aegon tilted his head, grin returning, slow and wicked. “So you come to me to fuck away the pain? I’m flattered, brother.” His hands slid down Aemond’s chest, teasing, possessive. “Let’s make it a good one—something to spit in the old man’s face.”

He surged forward, capturing Aemond’s lips again, and this time there was no hesitation—only a raw, messy collision of need and defiance. Aegon’s hands roamed, tugging at Aemond’s cloak, his tunic, pulling him down onto the bed in a tangle of limbs and heat. Aemond let himself fall into it, let the familiar rhythm of Aegon’s touch drown out the world beyond these walls. The firelight danced over them, painting their skin in shades of gold and shadow as they lost themselves in each other. Aegon murmured his name—soft, reverent, a plea disguised as a taunt—and Aemond ignored it, focusing instead on the burn of teeth against his throat, the press of hands that knew him too well.

For Aegon, this was love, twisted and unspoken. For Aemond, it was war—a battlefield where he could wrest back what the world sought to strip from him, a jagged edge of control carved out of chaos. But tonight, Aegon held the reins, and Aemond let him—needed him to—because the fire in his blood demanded a surrender he could shape, a release he could wield like a blade.

The bed creaked beneath them, its ancient frame groaning under the weight of their unleashed storm, as Aegon shoved Aemond down with a force that rattled the bones of the mattress. His hands clamped onto Aemond’s wrists, slamming them above his head with a bruising grip, nails biting into pale skin until thin rivulets of red welled up, stark against the white. Aemond hissed, teeth bared in a feral snarl, his body arching upward in defiance even as he permitted the restraint—a taut bowstring straining against its limits.

Aegon’s lips crashed against his, a brutal, punishing collision that split the air with the wet smack of flesh and the sharp clack of teeth. It was no kiss of affection but a war waged in the press of mouths—heat and violence, the sour bite of wine staining Aegon’s tongue mingling with the faint copper tang where his teeth grazed Aemond’s lower lip too hard, drawing a bead of blood. Aemond snarled into it, a low, guttural sound that vibrated in his chest, his hands flexing against Aegon’s iron hold, testing the strength that pinned him. Aegon only tightened his grip, grinding Aemond’s wrists into the rough furs until the bones creaked, the friction burning against his skin. “Stay down,” Aegon growled, his voice a rough, slurred rasp thickened by drink and command, his hips pressing down hard against Aemond’s—a deliberate challenge that stoked the wildfire blazing in Aemond’s veins.

Aemond’s chest heaved, his lips bruised and tingling with the phantom sting of Aegon’s bite, but he didn’t yield—not fully. His defiance flared, a sharp twist of his hips bucking upward, nearly unseating Aegon in a burst of raw strength. But Aegon was faster, stronger in this moment, fueled by a reckless hunger that matched Aemond’s own. His knee drove between Aemond’s thighs with a jolt of force, prying them apart until the muscles strained, a grunt tearing from Aemond’s throat as his head tipped back involuntarily. The pale line of his throat lay exposed, a vulnerability he despised, and Aegon seized it without hesitation—teeth sinking into the tender flesh just below Aemond’s jaw, hard enough to draw a sharp, involuntary gasp, hard enough to leave a crescent of red that would darken to purple by dawn. Aemond’s hands twitched, still pinned, as Aegon’s free hand roamed—clawing at the black tunic, tearing it open with a ragged rip that echoed off the stone walls, the fabric parting to reveal the lean, scarred planes of Aemond’s chest.

The air in the chamber was a stifling haze, thick with the sour reek of spilled wine, the musky tang of sweat, and the faint, acrid bite of smoke curling from the dying embers in the hearth. Candles guttered on a cluttered table, their flickering light casting jagged shadows over the disarray—wine-stained goblets toppled in pools of red, wax dripping in slow, molten trails onto the wood. Aegon released Aemond’s wrists with a sudden jerk, his hands dropping to yank at Aemond’s belt, the leather snapping free with a sharp crack that reverberated like a whip’s lash. Aemond’s hands shot up, freed at last, clawing at Aegon’s shoulders with a vengeance—nails raking bloody trails through the open tunic, shredding the fabric further until it hung in tattered strips, revealing the pale, bruise-mottled expanse of Aegon’s chest. Aegon didn’t flinch—only grinned, a wicked, wild slash of teeth glinting in the firelight, as he shoved Aemond’s trousers down with rough impatience. The fabric caught briefly on his hips, snagging on the sharp jut of bone, before Aemond kicked it away in a tangle of frustration, his legs bare and trembling with coiled tension. Aegon followed suit, shedding his own trousers in a chaotic flurry, the cloth discarded like shed skin, leaving them both flushed and exposed—skin marked with the ghosts of old bruises and the fresh, angry red of their mutual violence.

Aegon paused for a fleeting moment, his violet eyes—blown wide with lust and drink—locking onto Aemond’s single, burning gaze. There was a flicker there, a shadow of something softer, something Aemond refused to name, but it vanished beneath the feral hunger that drove them both. Aegon spat into his palm, a rough, deliberate gesture, the sound wet and crude in the heavy silence, and slicked himself with a single, brutal stroke—his hand trembling faintly with the force of his own need. He aligned their bodies with a precision born of years of this jagged dance, his hands gripping Aemond’s hips with a strength that dug into the flesh, lifting him slightly off the furs as if to claim every inch.

The first thrust was merciless, a brutal invasion that split Aemond open with a force that tore a ragged, primal cry from his throat—a sound he couldn’t stifle, raw and unbidden. The bedframe slammed against the stone wall, a thunderous crash that drowned out the faint crackle of the hearth, the wood splintering faintly under the strain. Aegon didn’t ease into it—there was no gentleness in the fire that drove him, no mercy in the rhythm he set. Each thrust was a hammer blow, relentless and punishing, forcing Aemond deeper into the mattress until the furs bunched and slid beneath him, the coarse fibers scraping against his sweat-slick back. Aemond’s hands clawed at Aegon’s back, nails digging in until blood welled beneath them, thin streaks of red smearing across pale skin, but he didn’t push away—only pulled harder, urging Aegon on with a desperation that bordered on madness. His breath came in short, broken gasps, each one punctuated by the brutal slap of flesh against flesh, the sound echoing in the cavernous room like a war drum.

“Fuck—harder,” Aemond snarled, his voice fracturing into shards as Aegon’s hips snapped forward again, the impact jarring through his bones. His legs hooked around Aegon’s waist, heels digging into the small of his back with bruising force, spurring him deeper, wilder, as if he could drive the chaos out of his mind through the sheer violence of their union. Aegon’s hand shot to Aemond’s throat, fingers wrapping around it—not to choke, but to hold, to feel the erratic thud of Aemond’s pulse beneath his palm, a lifeline in the storm. The pressure was firm, possessive, anchoring Aegon as he drove harder, his breath ragged and hot against Aemond’s ear. Aemond’s pulse thrummed wildly, a fierce counterpoint to the relentless cadence of their bodies, his chest heaving with each brutal thrust.

Aegon’s other hand gripped Aemond’s hip, yanking him upward into each stroke with a force that left bruises blooming beneath his fingers—dark, mottled flowers that would linger for days. Aemond’s head lolled back against the furs, mouth slack, a torrent of curses and gasps spilling from his lips—half-coherent pleas lost to the haze of pain and need. “Aegon—gods—don’t stop—” His voice cracked, raw and desperate, a sound torn from the depths of him, and Aegon’s grin widened, a feral slash of teeth glinting in the firelight as he shifted his angle—driving deeper, harder, until Aemond’s body seized beneath him. A guttural shout ripped from Aemond’s throat, his spine arching off the mattress, every muscle taut and trembling as the sensation crashed through him like a breaking wave.

His hands flew to the headboard, fingers gripping the carved wood so hard his knuckles blanched white, the frame groaning and splintering under the strain—a sharp crack splitting the air as a sliver of oak gave way. Aegon’s teeth found Aemond’s shoulder, sinking in with a vicious bite that drew a fresh gasp, the taste of salt and skin fueling the chaos that consumed them. Blood prickled at the surface, a faint smear against Aegon’s lips as he thrust harder, the rhythm growing erratic, wild, a beast unleashed. Aemond’s cries sharpened, jagged and unrestrained, his body shuddering beneath the onslaught—muscles quivering, sweat beading on his brow, his silver hair plastered to his forehead in damp, tangled strands. He didn’t beg for mercy—wouldn’t—only took it, every brutal second, as if it could scour away the world beyond these walls, burn Lucerys’s face from his mind, silence Jacaerys’s mocking laughter.

The tension in Aegon snapped first, a white-hot surge that tore through him with a low, guttural growl—a sound that rumbled deep in his chest, animal and unrestrained. He buried himself deep, hips grinding against Aemond’s with a force that made the bed shudder, spilling into him with a violence that left his hands trembling where they gripped Aemond’s flesh. His fingers tightened, digging into Aemond’s throat and hip until the skin blanched beneath them, a final claim as his body stilled, chest heaving with ragged breaths. Aemond followed moments later, the coil in his gut unraveling with a broken snarl—a sound wrenched from his core as his body convulsed beneath Aegon’s weight. His release painted his stomach in messy, glistening streaks, hot against his cooling skin, the sensation sharp and overwhelming as it ripped through him.

The air hung heavy, thick with the aftermath—panting breaths mingling in the stifling haze, the creak of the battered bed settling into silence, the faint drip of wax from the guttering candles pooling on the table. Aegon collapsed onto Aemond, his chest heaving, his weight a crushing anchor that pinned Aemond to the mattress, their sweat-slick bodies pressed together in a tangle of limbs. For a long moment, neither moved—only the sound of their breathing filled the space, a fragile truce woven through the wreckage of their violence. Aemond’s arm throbbed where Aegon’s nails had torn into him, a dull ache pulsing beneath the sting of sweat in the cuts, his body a map of bruises and bites that ached with every shallow breath. Aegon’s head rested against Aemond’s shoulder, silver hair tangled and damp, his breath hot and uneven against Aemond’s skin, a faint tremor running through him as the fire ebbed.

Aegon stirred first, lifting his head with a lazy, sated grin, his lips swollen and bruised, a faint smear of Aemond’s blood lingering at the corner of his mouth. “Feel better?” he rasped, voice hoarse and frayed, one hand flopping onto Aemond’s chest in a gesture too soft, too familiar—a tenderness that clashed with the brutality they’d just shared.

Aemond shoved it off with a grimace, rolling Aegon aside with a sharp twist of his body, the ache in his muscles settling deep into his bones. “Shut up,” he muttered, dragging a hand through his sweat-slick hair, strands clinging to his fingers as he stared at the shadowed ceiling rather than Aegon’s face. The fire was gone, snuffed out into a hollow exhaustion that weighed on his limbs, but the burden of Lucerys, Jacaerys, his father—it still pressed against his ribs, unyielding, a stone lodged in his chest.

Aegon’s chuckle hung in the air, a low, jagged rasp that scraped against the oppressive silence, his elbow propped carelessly on the mattress as he watched Aemond with those too-knowing violet eyes. The guttering candlelight bathed his bruised lips and tangled silver hair in a dance of gold and shadow, casting fleeting glints across the sweat-streaked planes of his chest, still heaving with the uneven rhythm of their earlier exertion. Aemond lay beside him, the ache of their violent clash sinking deep into his bones, his sweat-slick skin prickling as it cooled against the coarse, rumpled furs. His single eye traced the fissures in the stone ceiling, searching the cracks as if they could chart an escape from the suffocating weight crushing his chest—Lucerys’s trembling hands, Jacaerys’s insufferable smirk, his father’s decree tightening like a noose with every labored breath.

“You’ll survive, little brother. You always do,” Aegon murmured, his voice softer now, laced with that unspoken longing Aemond refused to name. His fingers twitched, hovering as if to reach out again, but he caught himself, curling them into the blood-streaked furs instead, the red smears stark against the pale fur. “Even if they chain you to that whelp, you’ll find a way to make him bleed for it—cut him down to size, eh?”

Aemond’s jaw tightened, the muscles pulsing beneath his skin like a coiled spring. “I’d rather gut him and his bastard brother than let them parade me like some trussed-up prize,” he spat, his voice a low, venomous hiss, each word sharp as shattered glass. “Father thinks this will mend the realm? It’ll only break me—or I’ll break them first.”

Aegon snorted, shifting to prop himself higher, the bedframe creaking under his shifting weight, a faint groan of wood against stone. “Break you? Please. You’re too stubborn to shatter, Aemond. You’ll bend the world to your will before it dares bend you.” He paused, his grin creeping back, sharp and wicked, a glint of teeth in the dim light. “Or you’ll just keep crawling to me to fuck the rage out of your skull. Seems to do the trick, doesn’t it?”

Aemond’s eye snapped to him, narrowing into a cold, piercing glare that could’ve cut steel. “Don’t flatter yourself,” he muttered, the edge in his voice blunted by the hollow exhaustion seeping into his limbs, a dull throb pulsing through the cuts and bruises littering his skin. He dragged a hand over his face, wiping away the sweat beading on his brow, the faint sting of torn flesh grounding him in the wreckage of their act. “It’s a means to an end. Nothing more.”

Aegon’s grin faltered, a flicker of something raw—hurt, perhaps, or weary resignation—flashing through his gaze before he buried it beneath a mask of mockery. He leaned back on his elbows with an exaggerated sigh, the furs shifting beneath him. “A means to an end,” he echoed, his tone dripping with sardonic bite. “You wound me, brother. Here I thought I was your grand salvation, your shining knight in tarnished armor.”

“Salvation,” Aemond scoffed, the word sour and bitter on his tongue, like bile rising in his throat. “You’re a drunken fool who can’t even save himself from drowning in your own cups.”

“And yet here you are, sprawled in my bed, bleeding and spent,” Aegon retorted, his voice light but edged with a barb that sank deep. He reached for the flagon on the bedside table, its surface slick with spilled wine, and tipped it to his lips—only to find it empty. A curse slipped from him, low and guttural, as he hurled it aside with a clatter, the metal ringing against the stone floor. “So, what’s your grand plan, then? Ride off with Vhagar and torch Driftmark to cinders? Or just sulk until the wedding bells strangle you?”

Aemond’s lips curled into a sneer, his retort poised like a blade on his tongue, but before he could strike, the heavy oak doors to Aegon’s chambers exploded inward with a deafening crash. The sound splintered the air like a thunderclap, the hinges shrieking in protest as a frigid gust swept in from the corridor, snuffing out the nearest candle in a hiss of smoke and wax. Both brothers froze, their heads whipping toward the intrusion, the air thickening with sudden dread.

Queen Alicent stood framed in the threshold, her silhouette a tempest of fury cloaked in green silk, the dim torchlight from the hall casting her in a halo of flickering orange. Her auburn hair was pulled taut, but wild tendrils had escaped, framing her face in a chaotic crown that spoke of her haste. Her hands were clenched into fists at her sides, knuckles blanched white, and her eyes—sharp, blazing, unyielding—swept over the scene with a ferocity that could’ve ignited the stone itself. Aegon, half-naked and sprawled in disarray, his tunic a tattered ruin hanging off his shoulders; Aemond, shirtless and marked by violence, the furs barely concealing the red welts and drying blood streaking his chest; the room a battlefield of shattered goblets, spilled wine pooling like blood, and the musky reek of sweat and sin hanging thick in the air. Her lips pressed into a thin, trembling line, and the space around her crackled with the raw force of her rage.

“What in the Seven Hells is this?” Her voice sliced through the silence, cold and sharp as Valyrian steel, each syllable dripping with a fury that teetered on the edge of disbelief. She surged forward, her skirts swishing against the stone with a sound like a blade being drawn, her gaze darting between her sons with a mix of revulsion and despair. “I come to drag you, Aegon, from your endless debauchery, and instead I find—this?” Her hand flung out, trembling, gesturing at the blood-streaked furs, the chaos they’d wrought, her voice rising with every step.

Aegon recovered first, his grin sliding back into place like a well-worn shield, though it didn’t reach the wary glint in his eyes. “Mother,” he drawled, easing himself upright with a lazy stretch, his tone thick with insolent amusement. “You’ve caught us at a bad time. Or perhaps a good one, depending on your taste.”

“Hold your tongue!” Alicent barked, her voice cracking like a whip as she closed the distance, her fury a living thing that seemed to pulse in the air. She lunged at Aegon, her hands seizing the tattered remnants of his tunic with a vicious yank, dragging him from the bed with a force that sent the furs sliding to the floor in a heap. He stumbled, caught off guard, his bare feet scrabbling against the stone as she hauled him upright, her nails digging into his shoulders. “You insolent wretch!” she hissed, shaking him hard, her knuckles whitening as she gripped him. With a sharp motion, she shoved him back, her open palm cracking against his chest with a dull thud, leaving a faint red mark blooming on his pale skin. “You disgrace yourself—disgrace us all—with this filth!”

Aegon staggered, his grin faltering into a grimace as he caught himself against the bedpost, rubbing at his chest with a low grunt. “Easy, Mother,” he muttered, his voice strained but still edged with defiance. “It’s just a bit of fun—”

“Fun?” Alicent’s voice rose to a near-shriek, her eyes blazing as she rounded on him again, her hand darting out to seize his arm and wrench it down, pinning it against the wood. “You call this fun? You’re a prince, not some tavern cur to wallow in your own ruin!” She released him with a shove, her breath coming in sharp, ragged gasps as she turned her wrath toward Aemond.

Aemond had gone rigid at her entrance, the exhaustion in his limbs replaced by a surge of icy fury that straightened his spine. He shoved himself upright, the furs falling away to reveal the full extent of Aegon’s marks—red welts crisscrossing his chest, bite marks weeping faint beads of blood, scratches glistening with drying crimson. “Do not speak to me of madness,” he hissed, his voice low and lethal, each word a dagger aimed at her heart. “You stood there, silent, while Father sold me to that child. You let him chain me to Rhaenyra’s spawn, and now you dare judge me?”

Alicent’s face paled, her lips trembling, but her eyes burned brighter, a wildfire of anger and anguish. “I did what I could,” she said, her voice cracking under the weight of her own desperation. “I pleaded with him, Aemond—I begged him to reconsider—but he is king, and his will is law. You think I wanted this? You think I relish seeing my son reduced to—to this?” Her gaze flicked to Aegon, then back to Aemond, her disgust a tangible force. She stepped closer, her hands trembling as she clasped them before her, then unclenched them, her fingers twitching with barely restrained violence.

Aegon laughed, a harsh, barking sound that sliced through the tension, leaning against the bedpost with a mocking tilt of his head. “Oh, come now, Mother. Don’t play the shocked maiden. You’ve known what we are for years—your perfect little soldiers, breaking ourselves for your wars. What’s a bit of blood between brothers?” He gestured lazily at the bed, the smeared red on his hands, his tone dripping with bitter jest.

Alicent’s eyes narrowed to slits, her breath hitching as she loomed over them both, her presence a storm ready to break. “You are princes of the realm,” she said, her voice quivering with rage, each word a hammer blow. “Not beasts to rut and brawl in the dark. The court whispers, the realm watches, and you—you give them this to devour? Do you have any idea what this could cost us?” Her gaze locked onto Aemond, and something shifted in her expression—fury hardening into something colder, more cutting.

Aemond rose to his feet in a fluid, defiant motion, snatching his cloak from the floor and flinging it over his shoulders with a sharp snap of fabric, the wool billowing like a dark wing. “Let them whisper,” he said, his voice ice and steel, his single eye boring into hers with unyielding resolve. “Let them choke on their gossip. I’ll not be tamed—not by Father, not by you, and certainly not by that bastard boy.”

Alicent’s hands dropped to her sides, her shoulders slumping for a fleeting moment, but her fury flared anew, her face twisting with a mother’s scorn. “You,” she spat, stepping closer until she was mere inches from him, her voice dropping to a venomous whisper. “You’re nothing but a whore—selling yourself to your brother’s bed to spite us all.” Before Aemond could react, her hand lashed out, cracking across his face with a resounding slap that echoed off the stone walls. The force snapped his head to the side, a red handprint blooming on his cheek, the sting sharp and immediate, his silver hair falling across his face like a curtain.

Aemond’s breath hitched, his body going still as death, the air between them crackling with the aftermath. His hand twitched toward his face, then fell, his eye blazing with a fury so cold it could’ve frozen the room. “You’ll regret that,” he said, his voice a low, dangerous growl, each word deliberate and final.

Alicent’s chest heaved, her hand still raised, trembling with the force of her strike. “You will destroy us all with this defiance,” she whispered, her voice breaking with fear and rage. “You think you can fight the world, Aemond, but it will crush you—and us with you.”

Aemond didn’t respond, his gaze locked with Alicent’s for a long, suffocating moment, the air thick with unspoken threats. The sting of her slap burned on his cheek, a livid red handprint pulsing beneath his skin, but it was the cold fury in his chest that held him rigid, a coiled serpent ready to strike. His single eye bore into hers, unblinking, a storm of ice and fire that promised retribution—not now, not here, but soon. The silence stretched taut, a bowstring on the verge of snapping, the only sound the faint drip of wax from the guttering candles and the shallow, uneven rasp of their breaths.

Alicent’s chest heaved, her hand still raised, trembling with the aftermath of her strike, her green eyes flickering with a volatile mix of rage and despair. Her lips parted as if to speak, but no words came—only a sharp exhale, a sound of frustration and fear swallowed by the weight of the moment. Behind her, Aegon leaned against the bedpost, his grin extinguished, replaced by a cold, wary edge that sharpened his features. “Maybe we’re already crushed,” he muttered again, louder this time, his voice a low, bitter thread weaving through the tension. His violet eyes drifted to the shadows, distant and hollow, as if he saw something beyond the wreckage of their fractured family.

Aemond broke the stalemate first, his body unfurling with a slow, deliberate grace that belied the storm raging within. He rose from the bed in a single fluid motion, the furs sliding off him like shed skin, pooling at his feet in a tangled heap. The air bit at his sweat-slick skin, raising gooseflesh along the lean, scarred planes of his chest, where Aegon’s marks—red welts, bite marks, scratches glistening with drying blood—stood out starkly against his pallor. He stood tall, unbowed, his silver hair falling in damp, tangled strands across his face, partially obscuring the handprint that marred his cheek. The movement sent a dull ache rippling through his bruised muscles, but he ignored it, his expression a mask of cold defiance as he turned from Alicent’s blazing stare.

Without a word, he bent to retrieve his discarded tunic from the floor, the black fabric crumpled and torn where Aegon’s hands had clawed at it. He shook it out with a sharp flick, the sound crisp in the heavy silence, and pulled it over his head, wincing faintly as the rough cloth scraped against the raw bite on his shoulder. The tunic hung unevenly, one sleeve ripped at the seam, exposing the pale curve of his arm where fresh bruises bloomed like dark flowers. He smoothed it down with a steady hand, his fingers lingering briefly over the blood-streaked hem, a silent testament to the violence they’d shared. Next, he snatched his trousers from the tangled pile at the bed’s edge, stepping into them with a practiced ease, the leather creaking as he tugged them up over his hips. The belt followed, retrieved from beneath the bed with a faint clink of metal, and he fastened it with a sharp, decisive jerk, the buckle glinting dully in the firelight.

Alicent watched him, her hands dropping to her sides, fingers flexing as if she longed to strike again—or to reach out, though she’d never admit it. “You think this changes anything?” she said at last, her voice low and tremulous, threaded with a mother’s anguish beneath the steel. “Dressing yourself like a prince doesn’t erase what you’ve done—what you are.”

Aemond paused, his hands stilling on the clasp of his cloak as he retrieved it from the floor, the heavy wool damp with sweat and wine. He flung it over his shoulders with a snap, the fabric billowing briefly before settling around him like a stormcloud, the hem brushing the stone with a soft hiss. He turned to face her, his eye glinting with a cold, unyielding light, the red mark on his cheek a vivid slash against his pale skin. “What I am,” he said, his voice a quiet, dangerous drawl, “is your son—forged by your schemes, bound by your silence. If I’m a whore, Mother, it’s because you let me be sold.”

Alicent flinched as if struck, her lips parting in a sharp intake of breath, but she held his gaze, her fury warring with a flicker of guilt that she quickly smothered. “You twist everything,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “I fought for you—for all of us. But you’d rather burn it all down than bend.”

“Better to burn than kneel,” Aemond replied, his tone flat and final, a blade sliding home. He adjusted the cloak, pulling the hood up to shadow his face, the silver strands of his hair disappearing beneath the dark wool. The weight of it settled over him like armor, a barrier against her words, her wrath, the world beyond these walls.

Aegon shifted, pushing off the bedpost with a groan, his bare feet scuffing against the stone as he stepped closer, his tattered tunic hanging off one shoulder. “He’s right, you know,” he said, his voice rough but edged with a rare clarity, the mockery gone. “We’re all just pieces on your board, Mother. You move us, break us, and then rage when we bleed.” He gestured vaguely at the room—the shattered goblets, the blood-smeared furs, the wreckage of their defiance—his lips twisting into a faint, bitter smile.

Alicent’s gaze snapped to him, her eyes narrowing, but the fire in them dimmed slightly, replaced by a weary exasperation. “And you,” she said, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper, “you drown yourself in wine and flesh to escape it. You’re no better—you’re worse. At least he fights. You just wallow.”

Aegon shrugged, the movement careless, but his eyes darkened, a shadow passing over his features. “Maybe I like the muck,” he muttered, turning away to retrieve the empty flagon from the floor, rolling it between his hands as if it could still offer solace. “Keeps the stench of duty off me.”

Aemond watched them for a moment longer, the fractured tableau of his family etched into his mind—his mother’s trembling rage, his brother’s hollow defiance, the air thick with the weight of their shared ruin. Then he turned, his boots striking the stone with a relentless cadence, each step a declaration of intent. He didn’t look back as he reached the doors, his hand slamming against the weathered oak to shove them open, the hinges groaning in protest as they swung wide. The cold air of the corridor rushed in, sharp and biting, tugging at his cloak as he stepped into the shadows beyond.

The door slammed shut behind him with a resounding thud, the sound echoing through the chamber like a final judgment. Alicent stood motionless, her breath shallow, her hands clenched into fists at her sides as the silence settled, heavy and oppressive. Aegon glanced at her, then away, tossing the flagon onto the bed with a dull clink, his shoulders slumping as he sank back against the post.

“Gone to plot his revenge, no doubt,” he said, his voice a low murmur, tinged with something that might’ve been admiration—or pity. “You’ve lit a fire under him now, Mother. Best hope it doesn’t burn us all.”

Alicent didn’t reply, her gaze fixed on the closed doors, her face a mask of fury and fear. The candlelight flickered, casting long shadows across the room, and the weight of their fractured house pressed down harder than ever.

Chapter Text

The grand dining hall of the Red Keep shimmered with a brittle, ostentatious splendor, its towering vaulted ceiling a cavern of ancient stone crowned with tapestries that sang of dragonfire and conquest—scenes of Targaryen triumph now faded, their threads unraveling at the edges like the fragile bonds of the family they immortalized. Long tables stretched the length of the chamber, groaning beneath the weight of a lavish feast: glistening slabs of roasted boar, their skin crackling with fat; pheasants steamed in fragrant herbs, their feathers plucked and replaced with golden glaze; bowls of honey-drizzled fruits gleamed like jewels, their sweetness cloying in the heavy air. The mingled scents of spiced wine, sizzling meat, and the faint tang of charred wood from the hearths thickened the atmosphere, a sensory assault that pressed against the skin like a velvet shroud. Candelabras blazed along the walls, their hundred flickering flames casting a restless golden glow across the gathered faces—some alight with anticipation, others shadowed with unease, all caught in the orbit of an event poised to fracture the night. It was a rare convergence, a forced melding of Targaryen and Velaryon blood under King Viserys’s faltering command, and the tension hung like a thunderhead, swollen and ready to burst.

Aemond sat near the head of the table, his posture a study in rigid defiance, his single eye fixed on the empty silver plate before him as if it were a battlefield to be conquered. He was clad in an emerald green gown, its rich fabric shimmering faintly in the candlelight—a deliberate choice, a nod to his Hightower blood, yet a mockery of the occasion’s formality. The gown’s high collar rose stiffly to his jaw, encasing his neck in a fortress of silk, while a thin, translucent veil draped from the collar’s edge, cascading over his neckline and shoulders to cloak them in a gauzy shroud. The veil shifted with each subtle breath, a ghostly ripple that obscured the bruises and bite marks Aegon had left earlier that day—marks of violence and need now hidden from prying eyes, though their ache pulsed beneath the fabric, a secret rebellion against the decorum forced upon him. His silver hair was swept back in a tight braid, the strands gleaming like polished steel, accentuating the sharp, angular planes of his face. The faint red handprint from Alicent’s slap lingered on his cheek, a livid slash against his pallor, half-shadowed by the veil’s edge—a silent testament to the storm that had preceded this feast. His hands rested on the table, fingers curled loosely around the stem of an untouched goblet, the dark wine within it still as blood, reflecting the flickering light in ominous ripples. Every muscle in his body thrummed with a barely leashed fury, a coiled spring threatening to snap.

Across from him, Aegon sprawled in his seat with the languid insolence of a man who had long since abandoned pretense, a flagon already half-drained clutched in his hand. His violet eyes glinted with a volatile mix of amusement and bitterness, the candlelight catching the sweat-streaked sheen of his pale chest where his tattered tunic hung open, its fabric shredded from their earlier clash. The faint red mark where Alicent’s palm had struck him bloomed like a rose against his skin, a companion to the fading bruises from nights past. He tilted his head back, draining the last of his wine with a slow, deliberate flourish, the liquid staining his lips a deeper red as they curled into a crooked smirk. He caught Aemond’s glare and held it, his gaze a taunting spark in the dimness. “You’re brooding again, little brother,” he murmured, voice low and slurred, thick with drink and provocation, just loud enough to prick the silence between them. “Careful, or your face’ll stick that way—might scare the poor boy off before you even get to the bedding.”

Aemond’s eye narrowed to a razor’s edge, his grip tightening on the goblet until the silver groaned faintly under the pressure, his knuckles blanching white. The veil shifted slightly as his jaw clenched, a ripple of green shadow across his throat. “Keep your tongue behind your teeth, Aegon,” he hissed, his voice a low, venomous thread that cut through the hum of the hall, “or I’ll carve it out and feed it to you.”

Aegon’s chuckle rasped like dry leaves against stone, a grating sound that scraped against the ambient murmur, but he held his brother’s stare for a moment longer before leaning back with exaggerated nonchalance. He reached for a nearby pitcher, the wine sloshing carelessly over the rim as he refilled his flagon, droplets splattering onto the table like blood on snow. “Touchy,” he muttered, smirking into his drink, though the amusement didn’t quite reach his eyes.

At the head of the table, King Viserys sat propped in a high-backed chair, his frail form swallowed by heavy robes of black and gold, the Targaryen sigil embroidered in thread that had lost its luster. His hands trembled as they rested on the armrests, the skin stretched thin over knotted veins, and his breath rattled with every shallow inhale—a faint, persistent wheeze that punctuated the clatter of plates and the low drone of voices. His face was a mask of pallor, his once-sharp features softened by decay, his milky eyes clouded with the haze of a man clinging to life by threads. Beside him, Queen Alicent sat with a stillness that belied the storm brewing beneath her surface, her green silk gown a mirror to Aemond’s, though hers was pristine, its folds cascading with an elegance that spoke of control. Her hands were folded tightly in her lap, the knuckles pale with strain, and her auburn hair was pinned in a severe coil, tendrils escaping to frame her face like cracks in a facade. She cast fleeting, wary glances at Aemond, her lips pressed into a thin, trembling line, the raw memory of their earlier confrontation a wound still bleeding between them.

To Viserys’s left, Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen held her place with a regal ease that bordered on defiance, her silver-gold hair woven into intricate braids that gleamed like molten metal, her black-and-red gown a bold declaration of her lineage and her claim. Her husband, Daemon Targaryen, lounged beside her with a predator’s grace, his sharp features alight with a dark, amused glint, one hand resting idly on the hilt of Dark Sister where it hung at his hip, the steel catching the light in menacing flashes. Their sons—Jacaerys, Lucerys, and Joffrey—formed a tight-knit row, a unified front of Velaryon blood and Targaryen fire. Jacaerys, seventeen and poised, exuded a quiet confidence, his dark curls framing a face that blended his mother’s beauty with his father’s edge, his blue cloak draped over his shoulders with an elegance that mocked Aemond’s own disarray. Beside him, Lucerys, fifteen and slight, fidgeted nervously, his small hands twisting together beneath the table, his brown eyes—wide and doe-like—darting around the hall in quick, anxious sweeps. They lingered on Aemond for a fleeting, fearful moment, catching the glint of his single eye through the veil, before dropping to the table, his cheeks flushing with a mix of dread and shame. Joffrey, younger and oblivious, sat at the end, his small fingers tearing at a piece of bread with childish indifference, crumbs scattering across his velvet tunic.

The hall thrummed with the low buzz of conversation—courtiers and lesser lords exchanging wary glances over their goblets, their voices a soft undercurrent to the clink of silver against porcelain and the crackle of the hearths. Servants moved like shadows along the edges, refilling pitchers and clearing plates, their footsteps muffled by the thick rugs that lined the stone floor. But as Viserys raised a trembling hand, the noise stilled, a ripple of silence spreading outward like a stone dropped into a glassy pond, the air growing taut with expectation.

“My family,” Viserys began, his voice frail but resolute, carrying the fading weight of a king’s command despite its tremor. “We are gathered here tonight not merely to feast, but to heal.” He paused, his chest rising with a labored breath, the wheeze sharp in the stillness. “For too long, our house has been divided—wounded by mistrust, by old grievances that have festered like sores beneath the skin. But no more.”

Aemond’s stomach twisted violently, a cold dread coiling tighter with every word, sinking its claws into his spine. He knew what was coming—had known since the moment his father summoned him to the solar, since the words had first spilled from that decaying mouth—but hearing it spoken aloud here, before the court, before them, made it real in a way that seared his flesh. His fingers tightened around the goblet, the silver cool against his palm, and the veil shivered faintly as his breath quickened, a gossamer curtain concealing the rage that burned beneath.

Viserys’s milky eyes swept the table, lingering on Rhaenyra with a faint, weary smile that carried the ghost of paternal warmth, before shifting to Aemond. The sorrow in that gaze—the pitying, regretful weight of it—struck Aemond like a blade, twisting deep. He hated it, hated the way it stripped him bare, reducing him to the omega they all saw when they looked at him. “To mend these wounds,” Viserys continued, his voice faltering briefly before steadying with effort, “I have made a decision. A union to bind us, to show the realm that House Targaryen stands as one.”

Alicent’s hands clenched tighter in her lap, the green silk of her gown wrinkling under the pressure, her knuckles whitening until they seemed ready to split the skin. Her gaze remained fixed on some distant point beyond the hall, her face a mask of resignation edged with fury, though she held her silence like a shield.

“It is my will,” Viserys said, his voice rising slightly, a fragile echo of the king he’d once been, “that my son, Prince Aemond Targaryen, be betrothed to Prince Lucerys Velaryon.”

The words crashed into the hall like a thunderclap, reverberating off the stone walls with a force that silenced even the faintest rustle of fabric. Time seemed to halt, the air thickening into a suffocating mire as every eye turned—first to Aemond, then to Lucerys, then to the frail king who had dared to speak such a decree. The candelabras flickered, their flames dipping as if bowing to the weight of the moment, casting jagged shadows across the faces frozen in shock, disbelief, or grim acceptance.

Aemond’s world tilted on its axis. His breath caught in his throat, sharp and jagged, a shard of glass lodging in his chest as the fire within him flared into something molten, something that threatened to consume him whole. The veil trembled against his skin, a fragile barrier that did nothing to shield him from the weight of their stares. His eye snapped to Lucerys, who shrank back in his seat, his small frame quaking under the announcement’s burden. The boy’s hands gripped the table’s edge, his knuckles paling, his brown eyes wide and glistening with unshed tears as he stared at the polished wood, too afraid to meet Aemond’s gaze. Jacaerys stiffened beside him, his jaw clenching tight, the earlier flicker of amusement snuffed out by a surge of protective anger that darkened his features, his hand twitching toward his brother’s arm.

Aegon let out a sharp, incredulous laugh, the sound slicing through the silence like a dagger through flesh. “Well, fuck me,” he muttered, loud enough for the table to hear, tipping his flagon in a mocking toast that sloshed wine onto his wrist. “That’s one way to stitch up a feud—thread the needle right through Aemond’s pride.” His grin bared his teeth, a feral slash of amusement that didn’t reach his eyes, which glinted with a bitter edge.

“Aegon,” Alicent snapped, her voice low and venomous, cutting through the air like a whip. Her eyes flashed with warning, a storm brewing behind their green depths, but he ignored her, leaning forward with a taunting tilt of his head.

“What’s the matter, little brother?” Aegon continued, his tone dripping with mockery as he gestured vaguely toward Lucerys with his flagon. “Not keen on warming the boy’s bed? He’s a bit scrawny, sure—barely a handful there—but give him a few years, he might grow into it. Maybe even grow a spine to match.”

“Enough!” Alicent’s hand slammed against the table, the sound a sharp, resounding crack that jolted the hall, silverware rattling against plates. Her chest heaved, her composure fracturing as she glared at Aegon with a fury that could’ve scorched the stone, then turned her blazing stare to Aemond. He hadn’t moved, hadn’t spoken, his silence a deafening roar that drowned out even Aegon’s jibes. The veil shifted faintly with his breath, a green shimmer in the firelight, concealing the storm that raged beneath his skin.

Rhaenyra’s voice cut through the tension, smooth and measured, though laced with an edge of steel that belied her calm. “This is a wise decision, Father,” she said, her tone a careful balance of deference and authority. “A union between our houses strengthens us all—shows the realm our unity.” She inclined her head toward Lucerys, her hand resting lightly on his shoulder, fingers curling with a gesture both comforting and possessive, anchoring him to her side. “Luke will do his duty, as will Aemond.”

Luke’s eyes darted to his mother, wide and pleading, a silent cry for reprieve, but his lips remained sealed, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard against the lump lodged there. His small frame seemed to shrink further, his shoulders hunching as if to disappear into the velvet of his tunic. Jacaerys leaned closer, his dark curls brushing Luke’s ear as he murmured something too low for Aemond to catch—a reassurance, a warning, a vow—his body tilting protectively, a shield against the weight of the hall’s scrutiny.

Daemon chuckled, a low, dangerous sound that rolled from his chest like distant thunder, his fingers drumming idly on the table in a rhythm that matched the flicker of the candles. “A fine match,” he drawled, his gaze flicking to Aemond with a glint of provocation, sharp and deliberate. “The boy’s an alpha, after all—Targaryen as he is. And you, nephew—well, you’ve always been… adaptable, haven’t you? That veil’s a nice touch—hides the marks well.” His lips curled into a smirk, his eyes lingering on the green shroud with a knowing glint that stoked the fire in Aemond’s chest.

Aemond’s head snapped up, his eye locking onto Daemon’s through the veil, a fury so cold it could’ve frozen the hall solid blazing in its depths. His lips curled into a sneer, the veil trembling as his breath quickened, but he held his tongue, the effort a physical ache that strained every tendon in his neck. His hands trembled faintly, the goblet in his grip creaking under the pressure, the silver threatening to buckle as his nails dug into his palm through the fabric of his sleeve.

Viserys raised a hand again, the motion slow and laborious, his voice weary but firm as it cut through the rising tide of murmurs. “This betrothal will be announced to the court at sundown tomorrow,” he said, each word a struggle against his failing lungs. “Preparations will begin at once—letters sent, vows drafted. I expect you all to honor this—for the sake of our house, for the sake of peace.” His gaze lingered on Aemond, heavy with that damnable sorrow, before drifting to Lucerys, softening briefly with a grandfather’s fleeting tenderness.

The hall erupted into a wave of hushed murmurs, a ripple of voices swelling among the courtiers like wind through dry grass—speculation, shock, unease—but Aemond heard none of it. His vision tunneled, narrowing to Lucerys’s pale, frightened face, the boy’s trembling hands clutching the table; then to Jacaerys’s clenched jaw, his dark eyes flashing with a brother’s rage; then to the frail king who had just shackled him to a fate he’d spent his life defying. The emerald gown felt like a cage, the veil a noose tightening around his throat, the fabric whispering against his skin with every shallow breath.

He shoved his chair back with a harsh, grating scrape, the sound jarring against the polished stone floor, a discordant note that silenced the murmurs for a heartbeat. He rose to his feet in a single, fluid motion, the gown’s hem sweeping the ground with a soft rustle, the veil billowing faintly as he turned. Every eye turned to him—courtiers, knights, family—but he didn’t care, didn’t see them. His cloak, draped over the chair’s back, was snatched up with a sharp flick, and he flung it over his shoulders, the heavy wool clashing with the green silk, its dark folds swallowing the shimmer of the gown. His boots struck the floor with a relentless cadence as he strode toward the doors, his back a wall of black and green fury, the veil trailing behind him like a wraith.

“Aemond!” Alicent’s voice rang out, sharp and desperate, cutting through the din like a blade, but he didn’t falter, didn’t slow. Her cry was swallowed by the rising tide of sound—Jacaerys’s low, angry murmur to Rhaenyra, Aegon’s mocking laughter bubbling up again, Daemon’s amused snort—but Aemond was already at the doors, his hands slamming against the weathered oak with a force that sent them crashing open, the hinges groaning in protest.

The cold air of the corridor rushed in, sharp and biting, tugging at the veil and cloak as he stepped into the shadows beyond. It hit him like a slap, stinging his face where Alicent’s handprint still burned, but it did nothing to cool the molten rage searing his chest. The doors swung shut behind him with a resounding thud, the sound echoing through the hall like a death knell, sealing him off from the chaos within.

He stood alone in the corridor, his breath coming in ragged, shuddering gasps, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, the emerald gown trembling with the force of his fury. The veil clung to his skin, damp with sweat, a fragile shroud that hid nothing from himself—the marks beneath it throbbed, a map of his defiance, his shame, his need. The betrothal was real now, spoken before the court, sealed by his father’s will. Lucerys Velaryon, a trembling alpha child, was to be his husband—a chain forged in the king’s weakness, a humiliation he could neither escape nor endure.

He would never forgive this.

Not his father, whose pitying gaze had stripped him bare. Not his mother, whose silence had sold him to this fate. Not Rhaenyra, whose calm acceptance mocked his torment, nor her bastards, whose presence taunted him with every breath. And certainly not Lucerys, whose fear only deepened the wound.

The fire in his blood roared, a beast clawing at his ribs, demanding release. He turned sharply, his boots echoing in the empty corridor as he moved toward the training yard—or perhaps Aegon’s chambers, or Vhagar’s lair. Steel wouldn’t be enough this time, nor would the clash of blades dull the edge of his rage. He needed something fiercer, something to burn away the chains they’d forged around him—something to keep him from breaking under the weight of this night.

Behind him, the hall buzzed with renewed fervor—Jacaerys’s voice rising in quiet, furious protest to Rhaenyra, Aegon’s laughter swelling into a drunken cackle, Alicent’s hissed reprimands cutting through the din—but it all faded into a dull, distant roar as Aemond disappeared into the shadows, the emerald veil a fleeting shimmer against the dark.

The corridors of the Red Keep had spat Aemond out into the night, their shadowed stone jaws releasing him only to trap him in the open maw of the courtyard. His boots pounded the winding stairs with a relentless, echoing rhythm, each step a hammer blow against the suffocating weight of his father’s decree. The emerald gown clung to his sweat-soaked skin, its rich silk whispering with every furious stride, the thin veil fluttering against his throat like a dying moth, damp where his ragged breaths had soaked it through. The heavy wool cloak snapped at his heels, a dark tempest trailing him, its weight a tether against the fire that roared in his chest—a blaze stoked by betrayal, humiliation, and the jagged shard of Lucerys Velaryon’s name lodged in his mind. His braid had unraveled in his haste, silver strands lashing across his face, snagging on the livid red handprint Alicent’s slap had left—a pulsing mark that mirrored the deeper wounds beneath the veil: Aegon’s bites, his scratches, the bruises that throbbed with a dull, insistent ache, souvenirs of a violence he’d sought to purge this night’s torment. The air bit at his lungs, frigid and sharp with the scent of early spring—wet earth, budding leaves, and the faint rot of the city beyond—stinging with every shuddering gasp as he descended.

Lucerys Velaryon. Fifteen. A trembling alpha child. His husband.

The thought was a dagger, twisting deeper with every repetition, shredding the iron control he’d forged over years of defiance. His hands clenched into fists, nails biting into his palms through the gown’s sleeves, the faint sting a lifeline as he emerged into the courtyard. The Red Keep towered above, its black spires clawing at a bruised purple sky, the last threads of daylight bleeding into a dusk streaked with violet and ash. From beyond the walls, the distant roar of King’s Landing swelled—a chaotic symphony of cartwheels grinding over cobblestones, hawkers’ hoarse cries, and the restless murmur of the smallfolk—a dull drone that clashed with the chaos churning within him, a tempest of rage and despair he could neither silence nor contain.

The courtyard stretched before him, a hard-packed expanse of earth encircled by torchlit walls, the flickering flames casting long, jagged shadows that danced across the ground like specters of his fury. The air was colder here, laced with the metallic tang of steel and the earthy musk of churned dirt, a raw contrast to the cloying opulence of the dining hall’s spiced wine and sizzling fat. Training dummies—crudely carved wooden figures, their surfaces scarred and splintered from countless blows—stood in a silent row along the far edge, their blank, weathered faces a mockery of his restraint. Aemond’s single eye locked onto the nearest one, the "toy board" as the squires dubbed it, its battered frame a canvas for the storm he carried. His hand shot to the longsword at his hip, the blade he’d insisted on wearing beneath the cloak despite the feast’s formality—a rebellion he’d refused to relinquish. The steel sang as he drew it, a high, piercing note that sliced through the night, the hilt cold and steady in his grip, a familiar weight against the unraveling edges of his mind.

Ser Glendon Good stood waiting near the dummies, a broad-shouldered silhouette cloaked in the white of the Kingsguard, his armor glinting faintly under the torchlight’s restless glow. His face was weathered, etched with the lines of a life spent in service, his dark hair streaked with gray at the temples, yet his stance was unyielding—a rock against the gale of Aemond’s rage. His brown eyes, steady and assessing, tracked Aemond’s approach, the faintest crease of concern tugging at his brow, though his expression remained a mask of calm resolve. Glendon had been Aemond’s sworn shield since the day he’d claimed Vhagar, a silent sentinel who’d stood by through battles of steel and soul, witnessing his prince’s darkest moments without recoil. Tonight, he wore no helm, only his sword and shield—the latter propped against a nearby rack, its surface etched with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen, dulled by years of wear. His presence was a quiet anchor, a contrast to the chaos Aemond dragged with him.

“My prince,” Glendon greeted, his voice low and even, a gravelly timbre that cut through the courtyard’s stillness without echoing the hall’s turmoil. He inclined his head slightly, his gaze flickering over the emerald gown, the clinging veil, the sword gleaming in Aemond’s hand, but he offered no judgment—only a tacit recognition of the storm before him.

Aemond didn’t answer, his breath still tearing from his chest in sharp, uneven bursts as he closed the distance to the training dummies. The dummy loomed in his vision, a faceless proxy for every chain that bound him—Viserys’s pitying gaze, Alicent’s trembling silence, Jacaerys’s insufferable smirk, Lucerys’s quaking fear. He lunged without hesitation, his sword arcing through the air in a brutal, downward slash that struck the wooden figure with a resounding crack. Splinters erupted, the impact reverberating up his arm, a sharp jolt that fed the fire in his veins rather than dousing it. The veil fluttered wildly with the motion, catching the wind, a green shimmer against the dark, but he ignored it, his focus narrowing to the rhythm of destruction—a cadence to drown out the decree still ringing in his ears.

He struck again, a vicious horizontal cut that carved a deep gash across the dummy’s chest, the wood groaning under the force, its fibers splitting with a dry, protesting snap. His muscles burned, the ache of Aegon’s earlier violence merging with the strain, but he welcomed it—pain was a tether, a lifeline against the molten rage threatening to consume him. “They think they can bind me,” he snarled, his voice a low, guttural rasp, the words spilling out as he drove his blade into the training dummy’s side, the steel biting deep with a crunch. “To that—that child.” Another strike, a diagonal slash that sent a chunk of wood spinning to the dirt, landing with a dull thud, dust rising in a faint cloud around it.

Glendon watched in silence, his arms crossed over his chest, the torchlight glinting off the polished edges of his armor as he shifted his weight subtly. He made no move to intervene, no attempt to quell the storm—years at Aemond’s side had taught him the futility of words when the prince’s blood ran this hot. “The king’s will is a heavy thing,” he said at last, his tone measured, neutral, as Aemond’s blade hacked into the dummy’s shoulder, shearing off a splintered fragment that clattered to the ground. “But you’ve borne heavier.”

Aemond’s eye snapped to him, a blaze of ice and fire piercing through the veil, his breath heaving as he paused, the sword trembling in his grip. “Don’t,” he spat, the word a whipcrack that lashed the air between them. “Don’t speak of it like it’s some noble burden. It’s a shackle—a humiliation.” He turned back to the training dummy, his next strike a savage thrust that punched through its center, the wood splitting with a wet, cracking sound, the blade lodging deep. He yanked it free with a grunt, the motion jerking the veil against his throat, the fabric snagging briefly on the rough edge of his jaw, tugging at the tender skin beneath.

Glendon’s jaw tightened, a flicker of something—pity, frustration, or perhaps a deeper recognition—passing through his steady gaze, but he held his silence, letting it stretch taut between them. The courtyard was quiet save for the rasp of Aemond’s breath, the distant hum of the city beyond the walls, and the faint crackle of the torches, their flames swaying in the night breeze. The dummy stood battered before him, a ruin of gashes and splintered edges, a fractured mirror to the chaos within.

Aemond stepped back, his chest heaving, the sword lowering slightly as he stared at the wreckage he’d wrought. The fire still burned, unspent, a beast pacing behind his ribs, but the exertion had blunted its edge, leaving a hollow ache that pulsed in time with his bruises. The emerald gown hung heavy on his frame, the veil clinging to his sweat-slick skin, a reminder of the cage he couldn’t shed. “He’s fifteen,” he muttered, almost to himself, his voice raw and fraying, a threadbare whisper against the night. “A boy who flinches at shadows. And I’m to be his—his omega.” The word dripped with venom, a curse spat into the dark, his lip curling in disgust as he sheathed the sword with a sharp, decisive motion, the steel sliding home with a faint hiss.

Glendon shifted, uncrossing his arms, his hand resting lightly on the pommel of his own sword—a gesture of readiness, though he made no move to draw it. “Age doesn’t make the man,” he said quietly, his eyes fixed on Aemond’s profile, the sharp line of his jaw beneath the veil, the scarred cheek half-shadowed by torchlight. “Nor the alpha. You’ve faced worse than a frightened lad and come out the other side.”

Aemond’s laugh was harsh, humorless, a jagged sound that ricocheted off the courtyard walls. “Worse?” He turned fully to face Glendon, his eye glinting with a cold, unyielding light, the veil casting faint green shadows across his face. “You think a dragon’s jaws are worse than this? At least Vhagar gave me strength—scars I could wield. This—” He gestured vaguely with a trembling hand, the sword now sheathed but its weight still pulling at his hip. “This strips me bare, makes me a thing to be claimed. By him.”

Glendon met his gaze unflinchingly, his expression a mask of calm resolve, though something deeper flickered in his brown eyes—a quiet intensity, a recognition that went beyond duty. “You’re no one’s thing, my prince,” he said, his voice firm, a steady steel beneath the gravel. “Not the king’s, not the boy’s. You’re Aemond Targaryen—rider of Vhagar, blood of the dragon. Chains don’t hold you unless you let them.”

For a moment, Aemond stilled, the words sinking into the tempest of his mind, a lifeline he wanted to grasp but couldn’t quite reach. His breath hitched, the fire in his chest flaring anew—not rage now, but something rawer, more primal, a need he couldn’t name but felt in every taut muscle, every thudding heartbeat. His eye lingered on Glendon, tracing the weathered lines of his face, the broad planes of his shoulders, the quiet strength that had shadowed him through years of battles and stolen nights. They’d done this before—twice in the armory’s shadowed corners, once beneath Vhagar’s looming bulk in the dragonpit—moments of collision born from fury and desperation, a release neither spoke of after. And now, with the weight of the betrothal crushing him, that need surged again, a tide he couldn’t stem.

He turned sharply, his boots scuffing the dirt as he strode toward the storage shed next to the training yard, a squat structure of weathered wood and iron, its door ajar, spilling faint torchlight into the dark. “Come,” he barked over his shoulder, his voice rough, commanding, brooking no refusal. The veil fluttered as he moved, a green wraith against the night, the gown’s hem dragging faintly in the dust.

Glendon hesitated, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his face, but then he followed, his steps steady, deliberate, the clink of his armor a soft counterpoint to Aemond’s urgency. He knew what this was—had known since the first time, when Aemond’s rage had spilled over into something else, something they’d both taken and given in silence. His hand tightened briefly on his sword pommel, then fell away as he crossed the threshold behind Aemond, the door creaking shut with a dull thud that sealed them into the shed’s dim confines.

The air inside was thick with the musty scent of old straw, leather, and rust—sacks of grain slumped against the walls, racks of dulled practice blades leaning haphazardly, a single lantern flickering weakly from a hook overhead. The space was cramped, the shadows deep, the torchlight from outside seeping through the slats in thin, golden threads. Aemond turned as the door closed, his eye blazing through the veil, his breath still ragged, his hands trembling as he yanked the cloak from his shoulders, letting it fall to the straw-strewn floor in a heavy heap. The gown shimmered faintly, its emerald hue a stark contrast to the shed’s drabness, the veil clinging to his throat like a second skin.

Glendon stepped closer, his armor clinking softly, his eyes locked on Aemond’s—searching, steady, a quiet question beneath the resolve. Aemond didn’t wait for an answer. His hands shot out, seizing Glendon’s breastplate and pulling him forward with a force that sent the knight’s shield clattering against a rack. Their lips crashed together—a brutal, desperate collision, all teeth and heat, the veil catching between them, tearing faintly at the edge as Aemond’s fingers dug into the cold steel of Glendon’s armor. Glendon grunted, his hands rising to grip Aemond’s arms, steadying him even as he kissed back with a ferocity that matched the prince’s need—a hunger tempered by years of restraint, now unleashed in the shed’s shadowed embrace.

Aemond shoved him back against the wall, the wood creaking under the impact, his hands clawing at the straps of Glendon’s armor with a frantic urgency. The breastplate loosened with a metallic groan, falling to the floor with a dull clang, and Aemond’s fingers tore at the gambeson beneath, ripping it open to reveal the broad, scarred expanse of Glendon’s chest. His breath hitched, a sharp intake against Glendon’s lips, as he pressed himself closer, the emerald gown bunching between them, the veil slipping to one side to expose the red welts and bite marks on his neck—marks of Aegon now joined by this new claim. Glendon’s hands slid up Aemond’s back, rough and calloused, tugging at the gown’s high collar until it gave way with a soft rip, the silk parting to bare his shoulders, the veil falling to the straw in a crumpled heap.

There was no gentleness here, no tenderness—only a raw, jagged need, a collision of flesh and fury. Aemond’s hands roamed Glendon’s chest, nails raking red lines across his skin, while Glendon’s fingers dug into Aemond’s hips, yanking him closer until their bodies ground together, the heat of their clash drowning out the cold. Aemond’s breath came in broken gasps, his voice fracturing into a low, primal growl—“Harder”—as he shoved Glendon down onto a pile of sacks, the grain shifting beneath them with a rustling crunch. Glendon obeyed, his hands gripping Aemond’s thighs with bruising force, pulling him atop him as their mouths met again, the taste of sweat and steel mingling with the faint copper tang where Aemond’s teeth grazed too hard.

The shed trembled with their violence—the sacks creaking, the racks rattling, the lantern swaying overhead, casting wild shadows across the walls. Aemond’s gown rode up, the silk tangling around his hips as he tore at Glendon’s trousers, the leather giving way with a sharp snap. There was no pause, no hesitation—only the frantic rhythm of their need, a storm that built and broke in a matter of moments. Glendon’s hands steadied Aemond as he moved, his grip firm, anchoring, his breath hot and ragged against Aemond’s throat as they lost themselves in the act—a release that was as much defiance as it was desire, a reclaiming of control in a world that sought to strip it from him.

The shed’s air thickened with the heat of their collision, a stifling haze of sweat, straw, and the faint rust of dulled blades stacked against the walls. The lantern overhead creaked as it swayed, its dim flame casting wild, jagged shadows that danced across the weathered wood and slumped grain sacks, a chaotic mirror to the storm of their entwined bodies. Aemond’s breath tore from his throat in broken, guttural gasps, his chest heaving as he shoved Glendon down onto the pile of sacks, the burlap rustling and crunching beneath the knight’s weight. The emerald gown clung to his sweat-slick skin, its torn silk bunched around his hips, the high collar ripped open to bare his shoulders and the throbbing welts of Aegon’s earlier violence—red slashes and bite marks stark against his pale flesh, exposed now that the veil lay crumpled in the straw, a discarded relic of his earlier restraint.

Glendon’s hands gripped Aemond’s arms, his calloused fingers steadying him as their mouths clashed—a brutal, desperate meeting of lips and teeth, the taste of sweat and steel sharp on their tongues, laced with the faint copper tang where Aemond’s bite had grazed too hard. The knight’s gambeson hung open, its edges frayed from Aemond’s frantic tearing, revealing the broad, scarred expanse of his chest, now marked with fresh red lines from Aemond’s nails. His trousers were half-undone, the leather parted with a sharp snap by Aemond’s hands, and the air between them thrummed with a need too fierce to pause, too jagged to temper.

But Aemond’s rage still burned, a fire clawing at his ribs, unquenched by the wreckage of the training dummy or the chaos of their initial clash. The weight of his father’s decree—Lucerys Velaryon, a trembling alpha child, his husband—pressed down like a yoke, and he needed to break it, to seize something back from the night’s humiliation. With a low, primal snarl, he yanked Glendon upright, the knight’s back slamming against the shed’s wall with a creak of wood, his breath hitching as Aemond’s hands seized his hips. “On your feet,” Aemond rasped, his voice rough and commanding, a thread of steel beneath the fraying edge of his fury. His eye blazed through the dimness, a cold fire locking onto Glendon’s steady brown gaze—a demand, a vow, a need he wouldn’t voice but couldn’t suppress.

Glendon’s jaw tightened, a flicker of understanding passing through his weathered features, his hands rising to brace against the wall as he pushed himself up. He towered over Aemond for a moment, his broad frame a solid silhouette in the flickering light, but there was no challenge in his eyes—only a quiet acquiescence, a recognition of the storm driving the prince. Aemond didn’t wait. His hands tore at Glendon’s trousers, yanking them down with a rough jerk, the leather scraping against the knight’s thighs as it fell to his knees. “Now,” Aemond growled, his fingers digging into Glendon’s hips, pulling him closer as he sank onto the sacks, straddling the pile with his legs spread wide. The gown rode up, its torn silk tangling around his waist, exposing the taut lines of his hips, the sweat glistening on his skin a stark contrast to the emerald fabric.

Glendon exhaled sharply, a sound caught between a grunt and a groan, his hands gripping Aemond’s shoulders as he stepped forward, positioning himself between the prince’s thighs. The shed’s cramped confines pressed in, the air heavy with the musk of their exertion, the faint creak of wood and rustle of straw amplifying every shift. Aemond’s breath hitched as he reached down, his trembling fingers guiding Glendon’s cock—hard and hot against his palm—positioning it as he lifted himself slightly, the sacks shifting beneath him with a crunch. “Take me,” he snarled, his voice fracturing into a low, desperate edge, his eye blazing with a cold, unyielding light. It wasn’t surrender—it was a claim, a defiance, a way to burn away the chains of the betrothal through the act itself.

Glendon’s hands slid to Aemond’s hips, his grip firm and steadying as he thrust upward, a slow, deliberate motion that drew a sharp gasp from Aemond’s lips. The stretch was immediate, a raw, visceral jolt that seared through him, drowning out the echoes of the dining hall—Viserys’s pity, Lucerys’s fear, the weight of the word omega. Aemond’s head tipped back, his silver hair spilling across the sacks in a tangled, sweat-soaked mess, as he began to move—riding Glendon with a punishing rhythm that matched the fury still simmering in his blood. The sacks creaked beneath them, grain spilling from torn seams, the shed trembling with the force of their collision. Glendon’s breath came in ragged bursts, hot against Aemond’s throat as he matched the pace, his hands guiding Aemond’s hips with a bruising grip, anchoring him even as the prince took control.

Aemond’s nails raked down Glendon’s chest, leaving red trails across the scarred skin as he drove himself harder, faster—a desperate bid to purge the shame that clung to him like damp silk. “Yes,” he hissed, his voice breaking into a low moan, his eye half-lidded but burning with intensity. The torn gown bunched higher, its silk catching on Glendon’s armor straps, a chaotic tangle of green and steel that mirrored the chaos within him. His thighs flexed, muscles straining as he rode Glendon’s cock, the heat and friction building a white-hot tension that coiled tighter with every thrust, every shuddering breath.

Glendon leaned forward, his forehead brushing Aemond’s sweat-damp hair, his hands tightening on the prince’s hips as he thrust up to meet him, the rhythm growing erratic, driven by a shared need that neither could name. The lantern swung wildly above, its flickering light casting their shadows in a frenzied dance across the shed’s walls—two figures locked in a storm of flesh and will, the world beyond reduced to a distant hum. Aemond’s breath fractured into sharp, uneven gasps, his fingers digging into Glendon’s shoulders as the tension snapped—a brutal, all-consuming release that tore a choked growl from his throat, his body shuddering as he clenched around Glendon, the fire in his chest finally spilling over in a wave of heat and defiance.

Glendon followed moments later, a low, ragged groan escaping him as his hands tightened on Aemond’s hips, his thrusts faltering as he spilled inside, his chest heaving against the prince’s. The shed fell silent save for their panting breaths, the creak of settling sacks, and the faint drip of sweat hitting the straw below. The air hung heavy, thick with the musk of their exertion, the lantern’s flame steadying as the shadows softened around them.

Aemond slumped forward, his forehead resting against Glendon’s shoulder, his chest rising and falling with labored breaths, his silver hair clinging to the knight’s sweat-slick skin. The gown was a ruin—torn at the collar, bunched at his waist, streaked with dust and straw—but he made no move to fix it, his eye fixed on the shed’s low ceiling, a cold, unreadable glint in its depths. Glendon’s hands loosened their grip, sliding to Aemond’s thighs as he steadied them both, his breath still uneven as he leaned back against the wall, his trousers tangled around his knees, his gambeson open and askew.

“They’ll see,” Aemond muttered, his voice low and hoarse, a vow carved into the stillness as he dragged a trembling hand through his hair. “They’ll all see what happens when they try to chain me.” The words were a lifeline, a thread of defiance he clung to in the aftermath, the fire in his blood banked but not extinguished.

Glendon shifted, his hands resting lightly on Aemond’s hips, his expression steady despite the flush on his weathered face. “Aye,” he murmured, his tone quiet but firm, a promise forged in the heat of their clash. “They will.”

The torchlight seeping through the slats cast their shadows long and jagged across the shed, the air settling into a heavy stillness around them. Outside, the Red Keep loomed silent and unyielding, its halls still alive with the echoes of Viserys’s decree, but here, in this cramped, shadowed space, Aemond had seized something back—however fleeting. The training dummy lay broken in the courtyard beyond, the shed now a battlefield of flesh and will, but the war, he knew, was far from over. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, the ache of his bruises a reminder of the fight still to come.

Chapter Text

The shed was a tomb of shadows and stale air when the first gray tendrils of dawn crept through the slats, seeping past the weathered wood to cast a cold, ashen light over the wreckage within. The lantern had guttered out sometime in the night, its flame snuffed by neglect, leaving only the faint shimmer of torchlight from the courtyard beyond to pierce the gloom. Straw littered the dirt floor in tangled clumps, streaked with dust and the faint, dark smears of spilled blood—remnants of the storm that had consumed Aemond and Glendon hours before. The air hung heavy with the musk of sweat, the earthy tang of grain, and the sharp, metallic bite of rust from the practice blades slumped against the racks. The sacks beneath them sagged under their weight, grain spilling from torn seams to pool in uneven heaps, a makeshift bed now crumpled and defiled.

Aemond lay sprawled across the burlap, his body a map of exhaustion and ruin, the emerald gown a tattered shroud that clung to his sweat-slick skin. The silk was bunched at his hips, its high collar ripped wide to bare his shoulders and chest, exposing the livid welts and bite marks Aegon had left—joined now by fresher trails from Glendon’s nails, red and raw against his pallor. His silver hair spilled across the sacks in a damp, tangled mess, strands plastered to his forehead and neck, the braid long unraveled in the night’s chaos. His single violet eye was closed, his breath shallow and uneven, a faint tremor running through his limbs as he hovered on the edge of a restless, broken sleep. The veil, once a fragile shield, lay discarded in the straw, a crumpled wraith of green silk streaked with dirt, its edges frayed where it had caught on Glendon’s armor.

Glendon rested atop him, his broad frame a heavy anchor pinning Aemond to the sacks, his scarred chest pressed against the prince’s back. His white cloak was tangled beneath them, its pristine wool stained with sweat and straw, a mockery of his Kingsguard oath now twisted into this illicit knot. His trousers hung half-laced around his thighs, the leather parted from Aemond’s frantic hands, and his gambeson lay open, its edges frayed where it had been torn. His breath rumbled low and steady against Aemond’s neck, a faint snore breaking the silence as his weight shifted slightly, the knot still binding them—a painful, intimate tether that pulsed with every subtle movement. His hands, calloused and strong, rested loosely on Aemond’s hips, fingers curled against the bruised flesh as if reluctant to let go, even in sleep.

The weathered door exploded inward with a deafening crash, the hinges shrieking as it slammed against the wall, a frigid gust from the courtyard sweeping through to sway the lantern wildly, its flame guttering in protest. Shadows swallowed the shed, pierced only by the wavering torchlight spilling from beyond the slats, casting jagged specters that danced across the wood. Aemond’s eye fluttered open, a sluggish, disoriented blink, his mind clawing through the fog of exhaustion as the sharp, staccato clack of heels against the dirt floor jolted him from the edge of oblivion. Glendon tensed atop him, his body stiffening as a low, startled groan rumbled in his throat, the sudden intrusion wrenching him awake. His movement tugged at the knot, a painful, wet pull that tore a choked, guttural cry from Aemond’s lips, his hands twitching weakly against the straw as agony flared through his tender, oversensitive flesh. His breath hitched in sharp, ragged bursts, his body trembling as he struggled to orient himself, the world a blur of pain and shadow.

Alicent Hightower stormed into the shed, a tempest clad in widow’s green, her auburn hair escaping its careful braid in wild, tangled tendrils that framed her flushed, contorted face. Her green eyes blazed with a fury that could have scorched the Seven Kingdoms to ash, her lips trembling with the force of her rage, her breath coming in harsh, uneven gasps. Her hands, usually so composed, shook violently as she advanced on the sacks, her skirts swishing with each furious step, the sound a whipcrack that sliced through the stillness. She had come from Aegon’s chambers, her mind a roiling storm of disbelief, betrayal, and dawning horror. In a few hours, Aemond—her second son, her fierce, unyielding omega—was to be formally betrothed to Lucerys Velaryon, a 15-year-old alpha thrust upon him by Viserys’s decree to bind their fractured houses. It was a humiliation Aemond had raged against, a yoke he’d sought to escape through defiance—and through Aegon.

“You whore!” Alicent’s voice erupted like a thunderbolt, high and piercing, quivering with a rage that teetered on the brink of madness as she lunged for Aemond. Her hands seized his shoulders, nails sinking into the bruised, sweat-slick flesh beneath the torn emerald gown with a venomous grip that drew a sharp hiss from his lips. She yanked him upward, wrenching his head from the straw with a savage force that jolted his entire body, shaking him as if she could purge the sin from his bones. “Wake up, you wretched sinner! Look at what you’ve done—hours before you’re bound to that boy!” Her breath was a scalding gust against his face, her eyes wild with a fury that masked the anguish clawing at her heart, her voice cracking with the weight of her disillusionment.

Aemond’s frame shuddered under her assault, a pained gasp breaking from his bruised lips as the knot tugged agonizingly within him, a fresh wave of torment searing through his tender flesh. His violet eye, bleary and unfocused, struggled to fix on her, his mind reeling as exhaustion warred with the shock of her presence, his body too broken to resist. Glendon scrambled back, the sudden movement tearing them apart with a wet, wrenching pull that left Aemond trembling, a hoarse cry ripping from his throat as the knight stumbled off the sacks. Glendon’s trousers hung half-laced, his face a mask of flushed shame and alarm as he fumbled for his white cloak amidst the straw, retreating to the shadowed corner near the weapon racks, his armor clinking faintly in his haste, his breath ragged with panic.

Alicent spared him no glance, her wrath a blazing arrow aimed solely at her son. She towered over Aemond, her hands clawing at his arms, shaking him again with a ferocity that rattled his fragile frame atop the shifting grain. “You opened your legs to an alpha like some dockside whore!” she spat, her voice splintering with disgust, each word a lash that flayed him deeper than steel. “A disgrace! Dishonorable! Hours before you’re to stand before the court, betrothed to Lucerys, and you throw every shred of virtue I bled to give you into this filth!” Her hand reared back, and the slap landed with a resounding crack, the sound ricocheting off the wooden walls like a thunderclap. Aemond’s head snapped to the side, his cheek stinging as a fresh bruise bloomed against the pale skin already marred by Glendon’s teeth, a thin trickle of blood welling at the corner of his mouth where her ring had caught him.

“You whore!” she screamed again, her voice soaring to a fevered, shattering pitch as she struck him once more, her palm slamming against his jaw with a force that jarred his teeth, the taste of copper flooding his tongue. “Sinning against the Seven, against your house, against me—on the eve of your duty! You’re no son of mine—you’re a stain, a wretched blight!” Her hands descended in a relentless storm, slaps morphing into blows, her fists pounding against his shoulders, his chest, the scarred expanse of his back where Glendon’s nails had left their trails. Each strike was a thunderous echo, her knuckles bruising his flesh beneath the torn gown, her ragged sobs breaking through the rage.

Alicent’s fingers twisted into his hair, yanking his head back with a savage tug that tore a sharp, pained yelp from his throat, forcing him to meet her gaze. Her face was a mask of fury and grief, tears streaking her flushed cheeks, her green eyes burning with a mother’s betrayed love and a queen’s shattered pride. “Look at me, you whore!” she hissed, her voice low and venomous, trembling with the effort to hold herself together. “I didn’t believe it, didn’t want to believe it, but it’s clear now, isn’t it? My two sons are disgusting whores.” She shook her head, a bitter, choking laugh escaping her lips as she shoved him back, sending him sprawling onto the furs, his chest heaving as he gasped for air, the knot’s lingering ache pulsing in time with his racing pulse. “You think you’re defying fate? You’re a disgrace, dishonorable, a whore who’s dragged our name through the mud on the very night you’re to be bound!”

Aemond’s body jolted with each blow, his breath fracturing into sharp, pained gasps, but something ignited beneath the pain—a cold, unyielding ember that flared into defiance. His eye sharpened, the haze of exhaustion burning away as he seized her wrists mid-strike, his grip iron despite the tremble in his hands. “Enough,” he snarled, his voice low and raw, a blade cutting through her tirade. He shoved her back, the force sending her stumbling a step, her skirts tangling as she caught herself against the wall with a sharp gasp. His chest heaved, sweat and blood mingling on his skin, the gown a ruin that bared his wounds to the dawn’s unforgiving light. “It is not up to the court to question my virtue. You call me a whore? You, who stood silent while king father sold me to that child? And you call that loyalty?”

She stepped back, her hands trembling violently, her breath coming in sharp, ragged bursts as she glared down at him, her chest rising and falling with the effort to contain her unraveling emotions. “Virtuous?” she sneered, her voice dripping with scorn as she paced a tight circle before the bed, her skirts swishing like a storm against the stone. “You dare claim virtue when you lie here, knotted by some lowborn cur, hours before you’re to engagement Lucerys Velaryon? You’re a sinner, Aemond—a whore who’ll burn for this, and I’ll be damned if I let you taint this house further.” Her eyes flicked to Glendon, who stood rigid against the wall, his head bowed, his knuckles white as he clutched his cloak, sweat beading on his brow. “And you,” she snapped, her voice cutting like ice through the haze. “Out. Now. Before I have you stripped of that cloak and flayed for daring to touch him.”

Glendon flinched, his gaze darting to Aemond—a fleeting flicker of guilt and regret—but Alicent’s glare was a blade at his throat. He stumbled toward the door, his armor clattering as he gathered it in his arms, fleeing into the courtyard with a haste that left the air colder in his wake. The doors thudded shut behind him, a hollow echo that sealed Aemond in with his mother’s wrath.

Alicent turned back to him, her hands clenching into fists at her sides, her breath steadying into a low, simmering rage. “This lies, your ruin, this betrothal—it ends here,” she whispered, her voice a venomous promise laced with despair. “I’ll see you cleansed of this dishonor, Aemond, if I have to scour it from your flesh myself before you stand before that boy.” Her gaze raked over his bruised, trembling form—his skin a tapestry of Glendon’s roughness and her own blows, his eye half-lidded with exhaustion, his body a crumpled relic of the dragon he’d once been.

Alicent loomed over Aemond, her silhouette a jagged specter against the dawn’s cold light seeping through the shed’s slats, her green gown a shroud of fury and despair. Her auburn hair hung in wild tendrils, framing a face flushed with rage and streaked with tears, her green eyes glinting like shards of broken glass. The air between them crackled, thick with the musk of sweat, the copper tang of blood, and the lingering echo of her screams. Aemond knelt atop the sagging sacks, his chest heaving, his silver hair a damp curtain across his battered face—bruises blooming where her fists had struck, a thin trickle of blood staining his lip, the torn emerald gown bunched around his hips like a fallen banner. His single violet eye blazed with defiance, a cold fire that met her gaze unyielding, even as his body trembled with exhaustion and the lingering ache of the knot’s brutal severance.

Her hands unclenched briefly, fingers twitching as if to strike again, but she stilled them, pressing them against her sides with a shuddering breath that rattled in her chest. The storm of her rage subsided into a low, simmering current, her voice dropping to a hoarse, venomous whisper that cut deeper than her blows. “Get up,” she said, each word a deliberate shard of ice, her eyes raking over his disheveled form with a disgust that bordered on anguish. “Go to your chambers. Now. Wash yourself—every trace of this filth, every mark of that cur’s hands—before anyone sees you like this.” Her lips curled into a sneer, her gaze lingering on the red welts and bite marks crisscrossing his chest, the sweat-slick skin glistening in the ashen light. “You’ll not parade this disgrace through the Keep, Aemond. Not a soul will know what you’ve done—not the guards, not the maids, not Rhaenyra’s spies. Move unseen, or I swear by the Seven, I’ll drag you there myself and scrub you raw.”

Aemond’s jaw tightened, his teeth grinding audibly as he forced himself to his feet, the sacks shifting beneath him with a rustling crunch. His legs trembled, the ache of the night sinking into his bones, but he straightened his spine with a defiant grace, the tattered gown slipping further to pool around his thighs. He bent to snatch his cloak from the straw, the heavy wool damp and streaked with dirt, and flung it over his shoulders with a sharp snap, the fabric billowing briefly before settling around him like a stormcloud. The hood shadowed his face, concealing the fresh bruises and the blood crusting at his mouth, but his eye burned through the dimness, a silent vow of retribution. “You think water will cleanse this?” he rasped, his voice low and frayed, dripping with bitter scorn. “You think it erases what you’ve all made me? Spare me your sanctimony, Mother—I reek of your failures as much as his sweat.”

Alicent’s breath hitched, a sharp intake that trembled with the effort to hold her fracturing composure. Her hands balled into fists again, knuckles whitening as she took a step closer, her skirts swishing against the dirt floor like a blade drawn across stone. “You’ll do as I command,” she hissed, her voice quivering with a fury that masked the despair clawing at her throat. “You’ve shamed us enough—shamed me enough. I’ll not have the court whispering of my son’s whoredom hours before you’re bound to Lucerys Velaryon. You’ll go, you’ll wash, and you’ll stand before them as a suitable omega , not this—this wretched thing you’ve made yourself.” Her gaze flicked to the discarded veil, crumpled in the straw like a fallen leaf, and her lips pressed into a thin, trembling line.

Aemond’s sneer deepened, a flash of teeth stained with blood as he adjusted the cloak, pulling it tighter around his frame to shroud the ruin of the gown. “An omega,” he echoed, the word a mocking hiss that lingered in the air like smoke. “An omega to be paraded and claimed by a trembling boy—your precious peace offering. Don’t pretend this is about honor, Mother. It’s about your fear—fear of what they’ll see when they look at me, fear of what their lies have already sown.” He took a step toward the door, his boots scuffing the dirt, his breath steadying into a cold, deliberate rhythm. “I’ll go. I’ll wash. But it changes nothing—your chains still choke me.”

Alicent’s eyes narrowed, her chest rising with a ragged breath as she watched him move, her hands twitching as if to seize him again. Then she turned sharply, her gaze hardening into a steely resolve, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous murmur. “I’m going to the maester,” she said, the words a quiet thunder that rumbled through the shed’s stillness. “I'll ask him to brew some moon tea—strong enough to scour this sin from your body before it takes root. You’ll drink it, Aemond, every bitter drop, and pray it’s enough to undo what you’ve let that knight sow.” Her lips curled into a grimace, a flicker of revulsion crossing her face as she glanced at the empty space where Glendon had stood, the straw still bearing the imprint of his retreat. “No bastard will come of this—no stain deeper than the one you’ve already carved into our name.”

Aemond froze at the threshold, his hand gripping the weathered doorframe, his knuckles whitening as her words sank into him like a blade. His eye flicked back to her, a storm of fury and defiance swirling in its violet depths, but he held his tongue, the effort a physical ache that strained his jaw. The mention of moon tea—a bitter draught to purge any chance of a child—twisted something deep in his gut, a raw, primal rage at the thought of her stripping even this from him, reducing his rebellion to a stain she could erase. But he swallowed it, the taste of blood and bile mingling on his tongue, and straightened, his cloak snapping faintly in the frigid gust that swept through the open door. “Do what you must,” he said at last, his voice a low, venomous drawl, each word deliberate and final. “Fetch your poison. But know this—I’ll not bend for you, nor for him, nor for any tea you force down my throat. This isn’t over.”

Alicent’s face paled, her lips parting as if to retort, but the words died in her throat, choked by the weight of his stare. Her hands trembled at her sides, her breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps as she watched him step into the courtyard, the dawn’s pale light swallowing his shadow. The cold air rushed in, tugging at her skirts and stinging her tear-streaked cheeks, but she stood rooted, her gaze fixed on the empty doorway, the silence settling around her like a shroud. The shed was a tomb once more, the straw and spilled grain a mute testament to the wreckage of their night, the air thick with the ghosts of her fury and his defiance.

Aemond moved through the courtyard with a predator’s grace, his boots silent against the hard-packed earth, his cloak billowing behind him like a dark wing. The Keep loomed above, its spires clawing at a sky now streaked with the faint blush of morning, the distant hum of waking servants a dull drone beneath the pounding of his pulse. His body ached—bruises pulsing, flesh raw—but he forced himself onward, slipping through the shadowed corridors unseen, a wraith cloaked in wool and wrath. His chambers awaited, a sanctuary of cold stone where he could wash away the night’s filth, but the fire in his chest burned unquenched, a vow etched into his bones: they would not break him—not Alicent, not Viserys, not Lucerys.

Behind him, Alicent turned on her heel, her skirts swishing as she stormed from the shed, her steps sharp and purposeful against the dirt. The maester’s tower was her destination, her mind a roiling storm of determination and despair. Moon tea—bitter, merciless—would be her weapon, a final act to cleanse this sin before the court’s eyes turned to her son. But as she moved, her hands clenched into fists, her breath hitching with a sob she refused to release, a single thought gnawed at her: Aemond’s fire was a dragon’s flame, and no tea, no chains, no betrothal could snuff it out.

Chapter Text

The solar of Rhaenyra Targaryen’s chambers in the Red Keep was a fragile bastion of quiet amid the ceaseless clamor of the castle—a sanctuary carved from stone and shadow, its opulence softened by time and wear. High, arched windows lined the eastern wall, their panes of thick, rippled glass framed in iron, admitting a muted dawn light that filtered through heavy crimson curtains. The fabric, embroidered with faint traces of silver dragons, hung like blood-soaked banners, dulling the sun’s glare to a warm, sanguine glow that pooled across the room in uneven patches. The walls bore the weight of history in faded tapestries of Old Valyria—dragons with wings spread wide soared over jagged volcanic peaks, their scales once gleaming with threads of gold and silver, now dulled and frayed at the edges, unraveling like the memories of a lost empire. The air was thick with the scent of lavender oil, its sweetness undercut by the sharper tang of parchment and the faint, acrid bite of smoke curling from a brazier in the corner. Its embers glowed a sullen red, spitting faint crackles into the stillness, a heartbeat struggling to persist.

At the room’s center stood a carved oak table, its surface a battlefield of maps, letters, and wax-sealed scrolls, their edges curling inward from the damp sea air that clung to Rhaenyra’s retinue even here, far from the salt-crusted cliffs of Dragonstone. A quill lay abandoned beside an inkpot, its feather bent and splotched with black, as if its last words had been written in haste. The stone floor, cold and unyielding beneath, was softened by a single rug—its deep red weave worn thin by years of restless feet, the threads unraveling in places to reveal the gray beneath, a silent testament to the weight of those who had paced its length. The chamber thrummed with an unspoken tension, a stillness that felt more like the hush before a storm than true peace, every sound—the brazier’s sputter, the distant clatter of servants beyond the walls—magnified in the heavy air.

Rhaenyra Targaryen sat in a high-backed chair of dark wood, its arms carved with curling vines that seemed to twist beneath her touch. Her posture was regal, spine straight as a blade, yet there was a weariness in the faint slump of her shoulders, a burden no crown could fully conceal. Her silver-gold hair spilled over her back in loose, unbraided waves, catching the brazier’s glow like molten metal, shimmering faintly with each subtle shift. She wore a gown of black and red, its fabric clinging to her frame with a somber elegance—sleeves slashed to reveal crimson silk beneath, the bodice embroidered with tiny dragons that glinted like embers in the dim light. Her hands rested in her lap, fingers laced so tightly that her knuckles stood out stark and pale against the dark cloth, a silent signal of the storm brewing beneath her calm. Her violet eyes, sharp as Valyrian steel, tracked her son’s restless movements across the rug, their depths flickering with a mother’s concern and a queen’s unyielding resolve. The betrothal decree—spoken hours ago in the dining hall by Viserys’s frail, trembling voice—hung between them like a specter, its echoes igniting the Red Keep with whispers and leaving her second son adrift in its wake.

Lucerys Velaryon—though the name still sat uneasily on his shoulders, a borrowed mantle he could never fully claim—moved with the jittery urgency of a trapped creature, his boots scuffing the rug in short, uneven steps that left faint trails in its threadbare weave. At fifteen, he was slight, his frame almost swallowed by the sea-green velvet tunic he wore, its hem stitched with silver waves that shimmered like ripples on a restless tide. The garment hung loose on his narrow shoulders, its rich hue clashing with the pallor of his skin, which gleamed faintly with sweat despite the morning’s lingering chill. His dark curls clung to his forehead in damp, unruly strands, framing a face too soft for the harsh edges of this court—high cheekbones flushed with exertion, a small mouth trembling at the corners. His brown eyes, wide and glistening with a vulnerability he couldn’t hide, darted from the windows to the floor, avoiding his mother’s gaze as if it might burn him. His hands twisted together in a ceaseless dance, fingers knotting and unknotting until the pale skin reddened raw, a mirror to the turmoil roiling within. The night pressed down on him—Viserys’s decree, Aemond’s towering fury at the feast, the hall’s suffocating stares—and it showed in the shallow, ragged rise of his chest, the faint quiver of his lip as he fought to hold himself together.

“Luke,” Rhaenyra said at last, her voice cutting through the solar’s stillness like a blade wrapped in silk—a low, steady thread woven with a mother’s warmth and a queen’s command. “Sit. You’ll wear a trench in that rug if you keep pacing like this.”

Lucerys froze mid-step, his body jolting as if struck, his head jerking toward her with a flicker of panic in his wide eyes before they dropped again to the floor, shadowed by the curls that fell across his brow. “I can’t,” he muttered, his voice small and fraying, a thread pulled too tight and threatening to snap. “I can’t sit—not now, not after…” He trailed off, his hands clenching into fists at his sides, knuckles whitening as he resumed his pacing, each step a restless flutter against invisible bars. His boots dragged faintly, the sound a soft rasp against the rug, a counterpoint to the brazier’s dying crackle.

Rhaenyra’s lips pressed into a thin line, a shadow of frustration crossing her features—lines deepening briefly at the corners of her mouth, a fleeting crack in her composure—before she softened it with a sigh, leaning forward slightly in her chair. The movement rustled her gown, the crimson silk beneath her sleeves catching the light like spilled blood. “Come here,” she said, her tone gentler now, almost coaxing, as she patted the cushioned seat beside her—a smaller chair, its red velvet faded to a dusty rose, its edges worn smooth by years of use. “Talk to me, Luke. I can’t help you if you keep it locked inside, festering like a wound.”

He hesitated, his boots scuffing once more in a halting shuffle, his gaze flickering to the chair and then away, as if it were a trap he couldn’t trust. Then, with a slump that belied his youth, he crossed the short distance and sank into the seat, his body folding into itself like a crumpled parchment. His hands fell to his lap, trembling faintly, fingers twitching as if they longed to resume their restless dance. He stared at them, his brow furrowing, as if the lines of his palms held answers he couldn’t decipher. The brazier’s heat brushed his cheek, drawing a faint flush to his pale skin—a bloom of pink against the pallor—but it did nothing to thaw the deeper chill that clung to him, a cold born not of the air but of dread. For a long moment, silence stretched between them, broken only by the embers’ faint sputter and the distant murmur of the Keep stirring awake beyond the thick stone walls. Then his voice broke through, fragile and jagged, barely above a whisper, as if the words had been clawing at his throat all night.

“I’m afraid of him,” Lucerys said, the confession spilling out in a rush, raw and unpolished, each syllable trembling with a fear he couldn’t contain. His eyes flicked up to Rhaenyra’s, wide and glistening with unshed tears, their brown depths reflecting the brazier’s glow like pools of molten earth, before dropping again, ashamed of their honesty. “Aemond—he terrifies me, Mother. I saw him last night, the way he looked at me—like I was nothing, like he’d rather burn me alive than marry me. I think… I think he’ll kill me.”

Rhaenyra’s breath caught, a sharp intake she masked with a slow, deliberate exhale, her hands tightening in her lap until the fabric of her gown creased beneath her grip. Her violet eyes softened for a fleeting moment, a mother’s anguish flickering through them, before they hardened again, studying her son’s hunched form with a fierce intensity. “Luke,” she began, her tone firm but threaded with reassurance, a lifeline cast into his spiraling fear, “Aemond is fierce, yes—wild, even—but he’s not a fool. He knows the weight of this union, what it means for the realm, for our family. He won’t harm you—not when every eye in this court is watching, waiting for him to falter.”

“You don’t know that!” Lucerys’s voice cracked, rising with a sudden, desperate edge as he twisted in the chair to face her, his small hands gripping the wooden arms until the old oak groaned under the pressure. His curls bounced with the movement, clinging tighter to his sweat-damp brow, and his eyes—red-rimmed now—locked onto hers with a raw, pleading intensity. “You didn’t see him in the yard yesterday—tearing into those knights like they were straw dolls, like he wanted to rip the world apart with his bare hands. Blood on his blade, on his face—he didn’t even flinch. And then at the feast—he didn’t look human, Mother. He stormed out like he’d rather die than sit there with us, with me. He hates me—he hates all of us. Jace says he’s always been like that, cold and sharp as a blade, but this… this is different. This is personal.”

Rhaenyra reached out, her hand closing over his with a steadying grip, her fingers cool and firm against his trembling ones, the calluses of a dragonrider faint against her skin. “He’s angry,” she said, her voice a calm anchor in the tide of his panic, low and resonant, cutting through the haze of his fear. “He’s been angry since the night Jacaerys' took his eye—since before that, even, when he was a boy overlooked and festering in his own pride. But anger doesn’t mean murder, Luke. He’s bound by the same decree you are—your grandfather’s will, the scrutiny of this court, the fragile peace we’re all clinging to. He can’t escape that, no matter how much he rages.”

Lucerys shook his head violently, pulling his hand free with a sharp jerk that sent a faint tremor through the chair, his curls swaying as he leaned forward, elbows digging into his knees, face buried in his palms. “You don’t understand,” he mumbled into his hands, his voice muffled but thick with despair, each word a stone dropped into dark water. “This marriage—it’ll never happen. He’ll find a way out—he’ll burn the whole Keep down before he lets it bind him to me. And if it does…” He lifted his head, his eyes glistening with tears that clung to his lashes, locking onto hers with a desperation that bordered on terror. “He’ll cheat on me. I know he will. He’ll take every alpha, every beta, every knight, every damned soul he can find, just to spite me—to spite you. And I’ll be left there, raising his bastards as punishment for being one myself, while he laughs and watches me break.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and bitter, a child’s fear twisted into a wound that sliced deeper than any blade. Rhaenyra’s face hardened, her violet eyes narrowing as a flicker of anger—protective, fierce, draconic—flared within them, burning away the softness that had briefly surfaced. Her jaw clenched, a muscle ticking faintly beneath her pale skin, but she tempered the rage, her hand hovering near his shoulder before settling there with a gentle, grounding squeeze. “Luke,” she said, her voice low and fierce, a dragon’s growl rumbling beneath the calm, “you are not a bastard in my eyes, nor in the eyes of those who matter. You are my son—Velaryon by name, Targaryen by blood, heir to the Driftwood Throne and more. Aemond’s spite can’t change that, nor can his actions define you. You are not his to punish.”

“But it will define me!” Lucerys shot back, his voice breaking into a sob he choked back, swiping at his eyes with the heel of his hand, leaving a smear of red across his cheek where the skin had chafed. “He’ll make it define me. He’ll parade his lovers, his children—those silver-haired bastards with his smirk—and I’ll have to stand there, watch it happen, because I’m the weak one, the one who flinches. Everyone already whispers it—Jace hears them in the corridors, even if he won’t tell me the worst of it. They’ll say I deserve it, that it’s justice for what we did to him, for what I am. And he’ll laugh—just like Aegon did last night, spilling wine and mocking me while the whole hall stared.”

Rhaenyra’s jaw tightened further, her fingers digging into his shoulder with a strength that steadied him, anchoring him in the storm of his own making. “Aegon’s a drunken fool who laughs at shadows to drown his own rot,” she said, her tone sharp enough to cut stone, each word honed like a blade. “And Aemond—yes, he’s a fire that burns too bright, too wild, consuming everything in its path. But you’re not weak, Luke. You’re young, untested, still finding your footing—but you’ve got dragon’s blood in you, same as him, same as me. He can’t break you unless you let him, unless you hand him the torch and step into the flames yourself.”

Lucerys’s laugh was bitter, a small, fractured sound that shook his slight frame as he slumped back in the chair, his head tipping to stare at the ceiling through a sheen of tears that blurred the tapestries above into smears of color. “Dragon’s blood,” he echoed, the words dripping with scorn, a venom turned inward. “What good is it when I can’t even look at him without shaking? When I see that scar—jagged and white across his face—and know we put it there, know he’ll never forget it? He’ll never forgive me, Mother. He’ll kill me—or he’ll make me wish he had. And if he doesn’t…” His voice dropped to a whisper, trembling with a fear too deep to name, barely audible over the brazier’s faint hiss. “I’ll spend my life raising his bastards, pretending they’re mine, while he smirks and calls me the fool, the cuckold, the shadow of a prince.”

Rhaenyra rose abruptly, her gown rustling like the wings of a dragon stirring from slumber, the crimson silk flashing as she stepped before him. She towered over his hunched form, her presence filling the solar—a queen, a mother, a dragon unbowed, her shadow stretching long across the rug in the brazier’s dying light. She seized his chin gently but firmly, her fingers cool against his tear-streaked skin, tilting his face up until his glistening eyes met hers. Her gaze blazed with a fierce, unyielding light, violet depths burning with a fire that could melt steel. “Listen to me,” she said, her voice a low, resonant command that drowned out the embers’ crackle, the distant hum beyond the walls, reverberating through the stone like a decree from the gods themselves. “You are not his victim, nor his punishment. This marriage, if it comes, will be what we make it—what you make it. Aemond can rage, he can stray, he can spit venom all he likes, but he doesn’t own you. You’ll stand beside him—not beneath him—and you’ll show him what strength looks like, even if it’s quiet, even if it trembles, even if it takes time to forge.”

Lucerys stared up at her, his breath hitching, tears spilling over despite his efforts to hold them back, tracing glistening paths down his cheeks to drip onto the velvet of his tunic. “I don’t know how,” he whispered, his voice breaking into a sob he couldn’t stifle, his small hands clutching at the chair’s arms until his nails dug into the wood, leaving faint crescent marks. “I don’t know how to face him—I don’t want to face him. I see him, and all I see is that night—the blood, the screams, his eye staring at me from the sand. I can’t do this, Mother.”

Rhaenyra’s expression softened, the fire in her eyes dimming into a tender resolve as she sank to her knees before him, the rustle of her gown a hushed echo in the stillness. Her hands cupped his face, thumbs brushing away the tears that streaked his cheeks, her touch firm yet gentle, a lifeline in the dark. “You will,” she murmured, her voice a promise woven with steel and love, soft but unyielding as dragonhide. “Because you’re mine, Luke—my son, my blood, my heart. And I’ll be with you, every step, until you find your fire—until you stand tall and claim what’s yours. He won’t kill you. He won’t break you. We’ll forge this peace together—and if he dares cross that line, Vhagar or no, I’ll see him answer for it, on my honor as your mother and your queen.”

The solar fell silent, the weight of her words settling over them like a shield—fragile, trembling, but forged in the heat of her will. Lucerys’s sobs quieted into shuddering breaths, his hands rising hesitantly to grip hers, his fingers small and trembling against her steady ones, clinging to her strength as if it were the only solid thing in a world tilting beneath him. The brazier’s embers flickered low, casting their shadows long and intertwined across the stone, a tableau of defiance and vulnerability locked together. Outside, the Red Keep stirred, its corridors alive with the dawn’s first whispers—of Aemond’s defiance, of Alicent’s wrath, of a betrothal poised to shatter or bind them all. But here, in this fleeting moment, it was just a mother and her son, holding fast against the storm that loomed beyond the walls.

The silence shattered with a sharp rap at the door, a sound that jolted Lucerys upright, his hands slipping from Rhaenyra’s as his head whipped toward the entrance. Rhaenyra rose smoothly, her gown pooling around her like spilled ink, her expression shifting from tenderness to guarded alertness in an instant. “Enter,” she called, her voice regaining its regal edge, a command that brooked no hesitation.

The heavy oak door creaked open, revealing a slight figure cloaked in drab gray—a woman, her face shadowed by a hood, her movements quick and purposeful as she slipped inside and shut the door behind her with a soft thud. She was one of Rhaenyra’s spies, a kitchen maid by day whose unassuming presence let her drift through the Keep’s underbelly unnoticed, her ears attuned to every whisper. Her name was Lysa, though few knew it, and her sharp hazel eyes glinted beneath the hood as she dipped into a hurried curtsy, her rough hands twisting nervously in the folds of her skirt.

“Your Grace,” Lysa said, her voice low and urgent, roughened by years of smoke and toil, “I beg pardon for the intrusion, but there’s news—fresh as the dawn and dark as the storm that brought it.” She paused, glancing at Lucerys, her gaze flickering with unease before returning to Rhaenyra. “It’s Prince Aemond. He’s been missing since last night—slipped out after the feast, they say, and no one knew where. The guards lost him in the dark, and the queen’s men were tearing their hair out searching. But he’s just stumbled back—minutes ago, through the eastern gate.”

Rhaenyra’s brow arched, her lips parting slightly as she stepped forward, the brazier’s light catching the silver in her hair. “Stumbled back?” she repeated, her tone deceptively calm, though a spark of curiosity—or suspicion—flared in her eyes. “Speak plainly, Lysa. What state is he in?”

Lysa swallowed, her hands twisting tighter in her skirt, the fabric bunching beneath her fingers. “Bruised, Your Grace, and torn to rags—his cloak shredded, his tunic half-open, stained with mud and what might’ve been blood. His hair’s a tangle, soaked through, and he’s limping like he’s been caught in a gale—or fought one. The stableboys saw him first, staggering in like he’d ridden through the night, though Vhagar’s still in her lair, untouched. He wouldn’t speak—just glared through them and headed for his chambers. The whole yard’s buzzing now—some say he’s been brawling, others whisper he fled to defy the betrothal. Whatever it was, he looks like the storm itself spat him out.”

Lucerys’s breath hitched audibly, his hands clenching into fists in his lap, his wide eyes darting from Lysa to Rhaenyra, a fresh wave of fear washing over his face. “He’s… he’s back?” he whispered, his voice trembling, barely audible, as if speaking it aloud might summon Aemond through the walls. “What was he doing? Where did he go?”

Rhaenyra’s gaze flicked to her son, her expression tightening, before returning to Lysa with a nod. “Thank you, Lysa. Keep your ears open—bring me anything else you hear, no matter how small.” The spy curtsied again, slipping out as swiftly as she’d come, the door closing with a soft click that echoed in the sudden stillness.

Rhaenyra turned to Lucerys, her hands clasping before her, her posture steady despite the new weight Lysa’s words had dropped into the room. “He’s alive, Luke,” she said, her voice firm, cutting through the rising panic she could see in his eyes. “Bruised, yes, and reckless—but alive. Whatever he’s been doing, it hasn’t undone the decree. He’s still here, still bound.”

“But what if he was running?” Lucerys’s voice rose, sharp with desperation, his hands gripping the chair again as he leaned forward, his curls falling into his eyes. “What if he went out there to—to plan something, to fight it? He comes back like that, looking like he’s been through a war—what’s to stop him from turning that on me?”

Rhaenyra stepped closer, her shadow falling over him, her presence a bulwark against his spiraling fear. “Nothing’s changed,” she said, her tone resolute, though her eyes betrayed a flicker of calculation, a mind already turning over the implications of Aemond’s state. “He can storm and rage all he likes—ride into the night, tear himself apart—but he’s back, and he’s still within these walls. That’s what matters. We’ll watch him, Luke. I’ll have eyes on him—more than Alicent ever could. He won’t touch you. Not while I breathe.”

Lucerys nodded faintly, his breath still uneven, his hands trembling as they fell back to his lap. The brazier’s last embers sputtered out, plunging the room into a deeper gloom, the crimson light from the windows fading as clouds gathered beyond the glass. The storm Lysa spoke of seemed to linger in the air, a shadow of Aemond’s fury pressing against the walls, and in that moment, the solar felt less like a sanctuary and more like a cage—holding them all, waiting to see who would break first.

The silence that followed Lysa’s departure was a brittle, fragile thing, delicate as the last ember flickering out in the brazier’s iron cradle, plunging Rhaenyra’s solar into a dim, crimson-tinged gloom. Thick clouds rolled across the sky beyond the rippled glass, swallowing the dawn’s frail light and casting the room in a heavy shroud of shadow. The air thickened with the promise of rain—a storm brewing beyond the Red Keep’s walls and within its stone heart, its scent seeping through the cracks: damp earth, salt, and a faint metallic tang that clung to the senses. Lucerys Velaryon sat hunched in the faded rose chair, his slight frame swallowed by the sea-green velvet tunic that draped over him, its silver-stitched waves shimmering faintly like ripples on a restless tide. His hands knotted tightly in his lap, fingers twisting until the knuckles blanched, creasing the rich fabric beneath them. His wide brown eyes—molten earth flecked with amber—stared blankly at the threadbare rug, its weave scarred by the frantic trails of his earlier pacing, now blurred into shadow. His breath came shallow and ragged, each exhale a shudder that betrayed the alpha’s fear clawing at his chest, a primal instinct warring with the trembling vulnerability of youth.

Rhaenyra Targaryen stood before him, her regal silhouette framed against the muted glow of the eastern windows, her black-and-red gown pooling like spilled ink across the cold stone floor. Her hands remained clasped before her, knuckles stark and pale against the dark fabric, a silent testament to the tension she held in check. Her expression was a mask of resolute calm—violet eyes sharp as Valyrian steel, a queen’s gaze softened only by the quiet ferocity of a mother’s love—but beneath it lay a weariness etched into the faint lines at her brow, the subtle slump of her shoulders beneath the weight of her crownless burden. Her silver-gold hair cascaded over her back in loose waves, catching the brazier’s dying light like molten metal, shimmering with each subtle shift. She watched her son for a long moment, the faint rustle of her crimson-slashed sleeves the only sound as she adjusted her stance, her presence filling the solar like a dragon coiled in wait.

“You need to see him,” she said at last, her voice slicing through the stillness with the precision of a blade—low, steady, threaded with an inevitability that made Lucerys flinch as though struck. “Today. Now.”

Lucerys’s head snapped up, his dark curls bouncing against his sweat-damp brow, his eyes widening with a fresh surge of panic that deepened their brown to a molten, stormy hue. “What?” The word escaped in a ragged breath, barely audible over the distant rumble of thunder creeping closer, a growl echoing the alpha within him—faint, untested, but stirring. His hands gripped the chair’s carved arms, nails digging into the worn oak until it groaned faintly under the pressure, his alpha strength betraying him even as his voice trembled. “No—no, Mother, I can’t. Not now—not after what Lysa said. He’s—he’s a mess, bruised, bloody—what if he’s angry? What if he challenges me?”

“Enough, Luke.” Rhaenyra’s tone sharpened, a whip-crack of command that silenced his protests, though her eyes flickered briefly with sympathy before hardening into resolve. She stepped closer, her shadow falling over him, heavy and unyielding, the scent of lavender oil and dragon-smoke clinging to her like a second skin. “You’re not a child hiding behind my skirts anymore—nor an alpha cowering from an omega’s temper. Aemond is back within these walls, bound by the same decree you are, and you will face him. Not as a victim, not as a shadow, but as my son. You’ll go to his chambers, you’ll speak to him, and you’ll show him you’re not the trembling boy he expects.”

Lucerys shook his head violently, his curls swaying as he shrank back into the chair, his small frame curling inward as if he could escape the alpha’s fire simmering beneath his fear. “I can’t,” he choked out, his voice breaking into a sob he swallowed down, swiping at his eyes with a trembling hand, leaving a faint smear of red where the skin chafed. “You don’t understand—he hates me. He’s an omega, Mother, but he’s—he’s feral, wilder than any alpha I’ve ever seen. What am I supposed to say? ‘Sorry for your eye, let’s be wed’? He’ll laugh—or he’ll—he’ll provoke me, push me until I snap, and I don’t know if I can stop myself.”

Rhaenyra’s jaw clenched, a muscle ticking faintly beneath her pale skin, but she knelt before him, her gown rustling like the whisper of dragon wings as she settled onto the rug. Her hands seized his, prying them from the chair with a firm yet gentle grip, her cool fingers closing around his trembling ones—alpha strength meeting her steady resolve. “You’ll say what needs saying,” she murmured, her voice softening into a lifeline woven with steel, her violet eyes locking onto his with an intensity that pinned him in place. “You’ll stand there, look him in that damned sapphire eye if he shows it, and remind him this isn’t his choice alone—it’s yours, too, alpha or not. He can storm and rage, but he can’t undo your grandfather’s decree. And neither can you, Luke. Hiding here won’t tame the fire in your blood—or his.”

His breath hitched, tears welling anew in his eyes, glistening on his lashes as he stared at her, his small hands trembling in hers, the alpha scent of salt and storm rising faintly from his skin despite his fear. “But what if he fights me?” he whispered, the words raw with a terror that stripped him bare, his alpha instincts warring with his dread. “He’s an omega, but he’s stronger—faster. What if he smells my fear, uses it against me? What if he—he mocks me, or worse, submits just to spite me? I’m not—I’m not ready for that.”

“Then you stand your ground,” Rhaenyra cut in, her tone fierce and unyielding, her grip tightening until he winced faintly, her nails pressing crescents into his skin. “You use your alpha if you must, Luke—you fight, you hold him back, and you run to me if it comes to that. I’ll deal with him—Vhagar or no, I’ll see him humbled if he dares cross you. But you will not let fear rule you—not an alpha, not my son. You’re a dragon, not prey. Go.”

The finality in her voice brooked no argument, a queen’s command wrapped in a mother’s desperate hope. Lucerys stared at her, his chest heaving with ragged breaths, tears spilling over to trace hot paths down his cheeks, mingling with the faint alpha musk that clung to him—sea-salt and pine, sharp with panic. He wanted to protest, to cling to her hands and beg to stay in the solar’s fragile safety, but the weight of her gaze—the fire in her eyes, the steel in her spine—pressed down on him until his resistance crumbled. With a shuddering nod, he pulled his hands free and stood, his legs trembling beneath him, the sea-green tunic swaying as he steadied himself against the chair, his scent flaring briefly before subsiding.

Rhaenyra rose with him, her presence towering and unshakable, a pillar of strength he could feel even as he turned away. “Take Ser Erryk with you,” she added, her voice softening slightly, a concession to his fear. “He’ll wait outside the door. You won’t be alone.”

Lucerys nodded again, mute and hollow, his boots scuffing the rug as he shuffled toward the door. His hand hesitated on the iron handle, fingers trembling as they brushed the cold metal, the alpha within him growling faintly—a weak, untested rumble—before he pushed it open and slipped into the corridor beyond. The heavy oak thudded shut behind him, the sound echoing like a tomb sealing shut, reverberating through the stone.

---

The Red Keep’s labyrinthine halls engulfed him, their torchlit shadows stretching long and jagged across the flagstones as he made his way to Aemond’s chambers. Ser Erryk Cargyll followed at a discreet distance, his white cloak a silent anchor against the clatter of armor and the distant murmur of servants stirring the castle awake. Lucerys’s boots echoed faintly, each step a reluctant drumbeat, his breath shallow and rapid as he clutched his arms around himself, the sea-green velvet offering little warmth against the chill seeping from the walls—or the deeper cold of his own dread. His alpha scent trailed him like a ghost—salt and storm, sharpened by fear—drawing curious glances from passing maids who quickly averted their eyes.

Aemond’s quarters lay in the Tower of the Hand, a wing carved from darker stone, its corridors narrower and more oppressive, as if mirroring the omega who claimed them. The air here was thick and warm, heavy with the musk of leather, the sharp bite of steel, and something sweeter—jasmine and ember, an omega’s scent twisted with defiance and rage, lingering like a warning. Lucerys paused before the heavy door—black oak banded with iron, its surface scarred and pitted from years of use—his hand hovering uncertainly as his heart hammered against his ribs, a primal rhythm that pulsed in his ears. He glanced back at Ser Erryk, stationed a few paces away, the knight’s stoic nod offering a flicker of courage he grasped like a lifeline, his alpha instincts bristling faintly beneath his skin.

With a trembling breath, he rapped his knuckles against the wood—three sharp, hesitant knocks that rang too loud in the stillness, reverberating down the hall. No answer came. He waited, counting the seconds in the rapid thud of his pulse, his fingers twisting together until the skin reddened, the alpha scent flaring stronger—salt and pine, edged with sweat. Then, faintly, a sound—a low splash, a ripple of water—drifted through the door, followed by a muffled curse in a voice he knew too well, sharp and edged with irritation, laced with that omega sweetness that made his stomach twist.

Lucerys swallowed hard, his throat dry as ash, and pushed the door open a crack, the hinges creaking faintly as he peered inside. The chamber beyond was dim, lit only by a scattering of candles flickering in iron sconces along the walls and the sullen glow of a brazier near the bed, its embers casting dancing shadows across the stone. The air was warm and heavy, thick with steam that curled upward in lazy tendrils, carrying the scent of soap, blood, and that unmistakable omega musk—jasmine and ember, sharp with defiance, intoxicating and repellent all at once. At the far end of the room, beyond a clutter of armor stands and a table strewn with maps, daggers, and a cracked goblet still wet with wine, stood a wide copper tub, its surface rippling with water that gleamed faintly in the candlelight.

Aemond Targaryen lounged within it, his long, lean frame half-submerged, one arm draped carelessly over the tub’s edge while the other rested beneath the water, fingers flexing faintly. His silver hair, usually a sleek cascade, hung in wet, tangled strands that clung to his shoulders and chest, darkened to a dull platinum by the bath, dripping water that traced glistening paths down his pale skin. His head was tilted back against the rim, eye closed—violet or sapphire, Lucerys couldn’t tell—his sharp features softened by the steam but no less menacing, a predator at rest. Bruises bloomed across his skin like storm clouds—purple and black along his ribs, a jagged red scrape tracing his collarbone, a faint swelling at his jaw where the candlelight caught the edge of a mark. His dress and cloak, shredded and mud-streaked as Lysa had described, lay in a crumpled heap beside the tub, stained dark with blood and earth, the omega scent rising from them in waves—jasmine and ember, twisted with rage.

He hadn’t noticed Lucerys yet—or if he had, he gave no sign. The water lapped faintly against the copper as he shifted, a low hiss escaping his lips as he flexed his bruised hand, the knuckles raw and split, a faint sheen of blood mixing with the water. The sound jolted Lucerys, his breath catching as he froze in the doorway, one hand gripping the frame until his nails dug into the wood, his alpha scent flaring—salt and storm, sharp with fear—clashing with Aemond’s omega musk in the heavy air.

“Aemond?” The name slipped out before he could stop it, small and tremulous, barely audible over the water’s soft murmur, his voice cracking on the second syllable as the alpha within him faltered. He winced at the sound, his free hand clutching the edge of his tunic as if it could shield him, the scent of his fear thickening the steam.

Aemond’s head snapped up, his eye flying open—violet, not sapphire, blazing with a sudden, feral intensity that pinned Lucerys where he stood. The steam parted as he straightened, water sloshing against the tub’s sides, his wet hair sliding back to reveal the jagged white scar bisecting his face, the sapphire socket hidden beneath a damp lock. His lips curled into a sneer, sharp and venomous, as he took in Lucerys’s slight, trembling form framed in the doorway, the alpha scent hitting him like a wave—salt and pine, raw with panic. His nostrils flared faintly, catching it, and his sneer deepened, a spark of cruel amusement flickering in his violet eye.

“What the hell are you doing here, alpha?” Aemond’s voice was a low growl, roughened by exhaustion and a dark, simmering rage, the omega sweetness in his tone—jasmine and ember—lacing it with mockery. He didn’t move to cover himself, his bruised chest rising and falling with slow, deliberate breaths, water dripping from his hair to trace paths down his sharp cheekbones, his omega scent flaring stronger in defiance—taunting, provocative. “Come to gawk at the battered omega? Or did your mother send you to stake your claim, little lord Strong?”

Lucerys flinched at the words, his face paling as he took an instinctive step back, his boots scuffing the stone threshold, his alpha instincts roaring faintly—urging him to assert, to dominate—yet drowned by the terror coiling in his gut. “I—I didn’t—” he stammered, his voice faltering as his wide eyes darted from Aemond’s scarred face to the bruises mottling his skin, then back again, unable to settle, the omega’s scent overwhelming him—jasmine and ember, sharp and intoxicating. “She—she told me to come. I didn’t want to, I swear, I just—she said I had to see you, to—to talk—”

Aemond’s laugh was a sharp, bitter bark, cutting through Lucerys’s stumbling words like a blade, his omega musk spiking—jasmine and ember, laced with scorn—as he leaned forward, water rippling around him, his violet eye narrowing to a slit. “Talk?” he echoed, his tone dripping with venom as he bared his teeth in a mocking grin, water splashing onto the floor. “What could you possibly have to say to me, Lucerys? Come to beg forgiveness we for carving me open? Or to whimper about how unfair it is—poor, trembling alpha, shackled to the omega you brother maimed?” He gestured to himself with a mocking sweep of his hand, water cascading down his bruised chest, his sneer twisting into something crueler, his scent flaring—provocative, daring Lucerys to react. “Get out. I’m not here for your sniveling—or your scent stinking up my chambers.”

Lucerys’s chest heaved, his breath coming in short, panicked gasps as he hovered in the doorway, torn between fleeing and the alpha urge to stand his ground, his scent clashing with Aemond’s—salt and storm against jasmine and ember, a primal standoff. “I—I don’t want to be here either,” he blurted, his voice rising with a desperate edge, his hands twisting together until the knuckles whitened, his alpha growl faint but present, trembling beneath his fear. “I didn’t ask for this—any of it! But she—she said I had to, that we’re bound now, and I—I don’t know what you were doing out there, but you—you look like you’ve been through hell, and I—”

“Stop talking,” Aemond snapped, his voice a lash that silenced Lucerys mid-sentence, his bruised hand slamming against the tub’s edge with a wet thud that sent water spilling over the side, his omega scent spiking—jasmine and ember, sharp with rage. His eye blazed, the violet darkening to a storm-laden hue, and he rose slightly, water cascading down his lean frame as he glared across the room, his posture a challenge despite his omega status—unyielding, untamed. “You think I care what you think? What you smell? I don’t need your pity—or your mother’s alpha pup skulking at my door.” His gaze flicked briefly to the corridor beyond, where Ser Erryk’s shadow lingered, before returning to Lucerys with a venomous intensity, his scent flaring again—taunting, daring. “Get out, or I’ll make you regret stepping into my den.”

Lucerys stumbled back, his boots slipping on the damp stone as he retreated fully into the hall, his trembling hands fumbling for the door, his alpha scent—salt and storm—receding under the weight of Aemond’s omega defiance. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, the words spilling out in a rush, raw and broken, as he yanked the door shut behind him with a shuddering bang. The sound echoed down the corridor, mingling with the faint splash of water from within, and he pressed his back against the cold wall, his chest heaving as tears welled anew in his eyes, his alpha growl fading into a whimper.

Ser Erryk stepped forward, his white cloak rustling faintly, his stern face softening with a flicker of concern as he took in Lucerys’s crumpled form. “My prince?” he murmured, his voice low and steady, a hand resting lightly on his sword hilt. “Are you well?”

Lucerys shook his head, his curls clinging to his tear-streaked face as he slid down the wall, knees buckling beneath him until he sat crumpled on the stone, his alpha scent—salt and pine—muted by defeat. “No,” he whispered, his voice a fractured sob, barely audible over the distant rumble of thunder. “No, I’m not.”

Inside, the faint sound of water lapping against copper resumed, punctuated by a low, bitter curse that drifted through the door—an omega’s storm contained, but far from spent, its scent lingering in the air like a challenge unanswered. The Red Keep held its breath, its walls trembling with the weight of what loomed ahead—a bond forged in blood and fire, teetering on the edge of collapse.

Chapter Text

The corridors of the Red Keep were a labyrinth of shadow and stone, their torchlit gloom swallowing Lucerys Velaryon as he fled Aemond’s chambers. His boots struck the flagstones in a frantic, uneven rhythm, the sound echoing off the walls like the pulse of a hunted creature. The air was cold, biting at his tear-streaked cheeks, but it did nothing to quell the heat of panic surging through him—his alpha scent, salt and storm, trailing behind like a ghost, sharp with fear and shame. Ser Erryk Cargyll followed at a measured pace, his white cloak a silent anchor, but Lucerys barely registered his presence. His mind was a tempest: Aemond’s violet eye, blazing with venom; the omega’s scent, jasmine and ember, choking the air with defiance; the bruises mottling his pale skin, a map of a night Lucerys couldn’t fathom. He stumbled slightly, one hand grazing the rough stone wall for balance, his breath hitching in shallow, ragged gasps as he fought to hold himself together.

He had faced Aemond, as Rhaenyra commanded. He had stood in that steaming, shadowed chamber, his alpha instincts clawing at him to assert or flee, and he had crumbled. Aemond’s words—sharp as Valyrian steel, laced with that mocking omega sweetness—had flayed him raw, stripping away the fragile courage he’d clung to. “Get out, or I’ll make you regret stepping into my den.” The threat lingered, a blade pressed to his throat, and Lucerys felt its weight with every step, his small hands twisting together until the knuckles reddened, his sea-green tunic creasing beneath his grip. He was an alpha, Rhaenyra’s son, a dragon by blood—but before Aemond, he was nothing, a trembling boy dwarfed by an omega who burned like dragonfire.

The corridor opened into a wider hall, its vaulted ceiling lost in shadow, where the faint clatter of servants and the distant roar of a waking castle stirred the air. Lucerys slowed, his chest heaving as he pressed himself against a tapestry—a faded scene of Aegon the Conqueror astride Balerion, the dragon’s wings fraying at the edges. He sank to the floor, knees buckling beneath him, his curls clinging to his sweat-damp brow as he buried his face in his hands. Tears spilled over, hot and silent, soaking his palms, his alpha scent spiking—salt and pine, bitter with defeat. Ser Erryk paused a few paces away, his stern face softening with a flicker of pity, but he said nothing, his hand resting on his sword hilt as he stood sentinel.

“I can’t do this,” Lucerys whispered, the words muffled against his hands, a confession meant for no one but himself. “I can’t face him again—not ever.” The memory of Aemond’s sneer, his bruised, unyielding form rising from the tub, seared itself into his mind, a brand he couldn’t shake. He saw the omega’s scar—jagged and white, a silent accusation—and felt the weight of that night on Driftmark crush him anew: the blood, the screams, the moment his brother’s blade had carved Aemond’s face and sealed their fates. Lucerys’s hands trembled, his nails digging into his scalp as he fought the sob clawing at his throat. He was an alpha, but Aemond was a storm, and Lucerys was drowning in its wake.

A soft rustle broke his spiral—a faint swish of fabric, a scent of lavender and dragon-smoke cutting through his own. He looked up, blinking through tears, to find Rhaenyra standing over him, her black-and-red gown pooling like blood on the stone floor. Her silver-gold hair gleamed faintly in the torchlight, loose waves framing a face that was both fierce and tender, her violet eyes sharp with concern but unyielding in their resolve. She had followed him, or perhaps she’d known he’d falter, her presence a beacon in the dark. Behind her, the corridor stretched empty, Ser Erryk having melted into the shadows at her silent command.

“Luke,” she said, her voice low and steady, a mother’s warmth laced with a queen’s steel as she knelt before him, her skirts rustling softly. Her hands reached for his, prying them gently from his face, her cool fingers closing around his trembling ones with a strength that anchored him. “What happened? Speak to me.”

Lucerys’s breath hitched, his eyes glistening as they met hers, the words tumbling out in a rush, raw and fractured. “I saw him, Mother—like you said. He was… he was in a tub, bruised and bloody, like he’d fought a war and barely walked away. He—he laughed at me, mocked me, called me ‘little lord Strong’ and told me to get out. His scent—it was everywhere, jasmine and ember, so strong I couldn’t think. He looked at me like I was nothing, like he’d kill me just for breathing his air.” His voice broke into a sob, his small frame shuddering as he clutched her hands tighter, his alpha scent flaring—salt and storm, sharp with despair. “I tried, I swear I did, but I can’t—I can’t do this. He’ll destroy me.”

Rhaenyra’s jaw tightened, a muscle ticking faintly beneath her pale skin, but her eyes softened, a flicker of anguish passing through them before she steeled herself. She shifted closer, one hand rising to cup his tear-streaked cheek, her thumb brushing away the dampness with a tenderness that belied the fire in her gaze. “He won’t destroy you,” she said, her voice a low, resonant promise, cutting through the haze of his fear like a blade. “Aemond can rage, he can mock, he can bare his teeth all he likes, but he’s as trapped in this as you are—bound by Viserys’s decree, by the eyes of this court, by me. You faced him, Luke—that’s more than most would dare, alpha or not. You’re stronger than you know.”

Lucerys shook his head, his curls swaying as he pulled back slightly, his hands slipping from hers to clutch at his knees, his voice a trembling whisper. “I’m not strong—not like you, not like Jace. I’m an alpha, but I—I flinched, Mother. I ran. He smelled my fear, I know he did, and he’ll use it. He’ll keep pushing until I break, until I’m nothing but the bastard he thinks I am.” His eyes dropped to the floor, tracing the frayed threads of the tapestry, a dragon’s wing unraveling like his own resolve. “What if he’s been out there planning—scheming to ruin me, to defy this betrothal? Lysa said he looked like he’d been through a storm. What if it wasn’t just a brawl? What if he’s… with someone else already?”

Rhaenyra’s expression darkened, a flicker of draconic fury flaring in her violet eyes at the mention of Aemond’s state, her hands clenching briefly in her lap before she steadied them. She rose, pulling Lucerys gently to his feet with her, her grip firm but not unkind, her presence towering as she guided him to stand straight. “If he’s been reckless, if he’s strayed, it changes nothing,” she said, her tone sharp and unyielding, a dragon’s growl rumbling beneath the calm. “This betrothal is your grandfather’s will, sealed before the court, and Aemond can’t undo it with a night’s folly—nor can he redefine you with his scorn. You’re my son, Luke—Targaryen, Velaryon, alpha. His chaos doesn’t diminish that. Let him storm. We’ll meet it with fire of our own.”

Lucerys nodded faintly, his breath still uneven, his small hands trembling as they clung to hers, the alpha scent—salt and pine—settling into a quieter note, tempered by her strength. “But what do I do now?” he whispered, his voice raw with vulnerability, his wide eyes searching hers for answers. “I can’t keep facing him—not like that, not alone. He’ll eat me alive.”

Rhaenyra’s lips curved into a faint, resolute smile, a spark of calculation glinting in her eyes as she squeezed his hands, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “You won’t be alone,” she said, her tone laced with a quiet ferocity that promised protection and retribution in equal measure. “I’ll have eyes on him—Lysa, others, watching his every move. And you’ll learn, Luke. You’ll train with Jace, with Daemon if need be, to hone that alpha fire in you until you can stand against him without flinching. For now, you rest, you breathe, and you let me handle the storm. But you will face him again—because you must, and because you can.”

The words settled over him like a shield, fragile but forged in her will, and Lucerys felt the weight of his fear ease, if only slightly. He nodded again, his tears drying on his cheeks as he straightened, the sea-green tunic swaying faintly as he steadied himself. Rhaenyra released his hands, stepping back to let him stand on his own, her silhouette a pillar of strength against the shadowed hall. “Go to your chambers,” she said, her voice softening into a mother’s command. “Wash, eat, rest. I’ll come to you later. We’ll face this together.”

Lucerys turned, his boots scuffing the stone as he moved down the corridor, Ser Erryk falling into step behind him, a silent guardian. The Keep’s hum grew louder—servants’ footsteps, the clatter of armor, the distant roar of dragons stirring in their pits—but Lucerys felt a small spark of resolve flicker in his chest, kindled by Rhaenyra’s words. He was still afraid, still trembling, but he was her son, and that was enough for now.

------------

Aemond Targaryen lingered in the copper tub, its once-steaming water now tepid, the surface trembling with each measured breath he drew, rippling like a disturbed pond under a storm’s first gust. The chamber’s heavy air clung to his skin, saturated with his omega scent—jasmine and ember, a volatile blend of defiance and restrained fury, laced with the metallic tang of blood and the faint, clean bite of soap. His silver hair, heavy with water, plastered itself to his shoulders and back in tangled, dripping strands, each droplet tracing a slow, deliberate path down his bruised torso. Purple and black mottled his pale skin, blooming like storm clouds across his ribs, collarbone, and the lean planes of his chest—a brutal canvas of the night’s rebellion. His violet eye, sharp and unyielding, fixed on the vaulted ceiling, tracing the spiderweb cracks in the ancient stone as if they might unravel the chaos churning within him. The sapphire in his empty socket, hidden beneath a damp lock of hair, gleamed faintly in the candlelight, a cold, unblinking witness to his turmoil. Beneath the water, his bruised hand flexed, knuckles raw and split, each movement sending a dull, throbbing ache through his bones, a reminder of the violence he’d sought and the fire it had failed to quench.

Lucerys Velaryon’s intrusion had been a spark flung into dry tinder, igniting the rage that smoldered beneath Aemond’s carefully guarded surface. The boy’s voice—high, trembling, fractured by fear—had grated against his nerves, each syllable a reminder of the chains Viserys’s decree had forged around him. Lucerys’s alpha scent, salt and storm, thick with panic, had flooded the room, clashing with Aemond’s omega notes in a discordant symphony that set his instincts alight. Aemond’s lips curled into a sneer at the memory, his teeth bared faintly, a predator’s reflex as he shifted in the tub, water sloshing softly against the copper sides. He had wanted to surge from the water, to seize the boy by his sea-green tunic and shake him until that trembling ceased—not out of cruelty, but out of a desperate need to force him to stand, to fight, to be something more than the weakling who flinched under his gaze. But he hadn’t. He’d remained submerged, his omega instincts snarling against the alpha’s scent, his control a fraying thread stretched taut, holding only by the thinnest margin of will.

The night beyond the Red Keep’s walls had been his rebellion, a reckless, brutal plunge into the storm’s heart to drown the weight of his father’s will. He hadn’t planned it—hadn’t thought beyond the clawing need to escape the suffocating press of Lucerys’s name, Jacaerys’s mocking smirk, Alicent’s silent, sanctimonious betrayal. The bruises on his body told a fragmented tale: a brawl in a shadowed alley off the Street of Silk, where fists and steel had clashed with sellswords who didn’t know his name, their blows landing hard against his ribs until blood flecked his lips; a reckless ride through the rain-soaked Kingsroad, Vhagar left behind in her pit to avoid the court’s prying eyes, the wind tearing at his cloak as he pushed his mount to its limits; a fleeting, violent encounter in a tavern’s back room, a stranger’s hands leaving marks he’d scrubbed raw in the tub, their face a blur he couldn’t—wouldn’t—recall. It hadn’t been enough. The fire in his chest still roared, unquenched, and Lucerys’s trembling presence had only stoked it higher, a fresh log tossed onto an inferno.

The chamber was a cocoon of shadow and stone, its high windows shuttered against the dawn, the only light spilling from a cluster of candles on a nearby table, their flames flickering in the draft. Maps and daggers lay scattered across the table’s surface, remnants of Aemond’s restless planning, now forgotten in the wake of his exhaustion. The air was thick, heavy with his scent, the jasmine sharp and floral, the ember smoky and dangerous, curling through the room like a dragon’s breath. His bruised hand rested on the tub’s edge, fingers curling slightly, nails biting into the copper as he fought to anchor himself against the tide of his thoughts. Lucerys’s face—wide-eyed, tear-streaked, pale as sea foam—flashed in his mind, and Aemond shoved it away with a low growl, his omega scent flaring, a pulse of defiance that seemed to challenge the very walls.

A sharp rap at the door shattered the silence, jolting Aemond upright, water splashing onto the stone floor in a cold cascade. His violet eye snapped to the entrance, narrowing to a slit, his omega scent spiking—jasmine and ember, sharp with irritation—as a low growl rumbled in his throat. He expected Alicent, her pious venom cloaked in maternal concern, or perhaps a servant sent to drag him to some council or audience he had no patience for. “What now?” he barked, his voice rough, edged with menace, his bruised hand gripping the tub’s edge until the metal groaned faintly under his strength.

The door creaked open, revealing not Alicent but Aegon, his silver hair a tangled, unkempt mess, his violet eyes bleary with the dregs of last night’s wine and debauchery. He leaned against the doorframe, one hand clutching a half-empty flagon, the other braced against the stone, his wrinkled, wine-stained tunic hanging loosely on his frame. A faint smirk curled his lips, lazy and predatory, as he took in Aemond’s state—bruised, wet, glaring from the tub like a cornered dragon. “Well, fuck me,” Aegon drawled, his voice thick with drink but laced with a sharp, biting amusement, his alpha scent—sour wine and raw musk—cutting through the heavy air, clashing with Aemond’s omega notes in a way that made the room feel smaller, more volatile. “You look like you wrestled a storm and came out the loser, little brother. Heard you staggered in at dawn, looking like death’s own bastard, blood and mud caked to your boots. Care to share the tale, or is it too sordid even for me?”

Aemond’s sneer deepened, his violet eye narrowing to a cold, piercing point as he sank back into the tub, water lapping at his chest, the movement deliberate, almost dismissive. “Get out,” he snapped, his tone frigid, final, his omega scent spiking—jasmine and ember, a warning that carried the weight of a drawn blade. “I’m not in the mood for your drunken jests, Aegon. Find another fool to torment.”

Aegon chuckled, a low, throaty sound that echoed off the stone walls, undeterred by the venom in Aemond’s voice. He stepped into the room with a lazy swagger, the flagon swinging in his hand as he kicked the door shut behind him with a careless thud. “Oh, come now,” he said, his grin widening, a glint of mischief in his bleary eyes as he perched on the edge of the table, scattering maps and daggers with a reckless sweep of his arm. A dagger clattered to the floor, its blade catching the candlelight, and Aegon ignored it, his gaze fixed on Aemond. “You vanish into the night like some rogue sellsword, come back looking like you’ve been mauled by a dragon—or fucked by one—and now you’re sulking in a bath, all brooding and bruised? That’s a story, Aemond, one I’d wager is worth more than whatever pious shit Mother’s been screeching about in the sept. Spill it. Who’d you fight? Or was it a fuck that left you so prettily marked?” He gestured vaguely at Aemond’s bruises, his smirk sharp and knowing, his alpha scent thickening—sour wine and musk, a challenge that pressed against Aemond’s senses.

Aemond’s hand twitched beneath the water, fingers flexing as if reaching for a blade that wasn’t there, his omega scent flaring—jasmine and ember, sharp with rage, a wildfire ready to consume. “You’re a fool if you think I’ll entertain you,” he hissed, his voice low, venomous, each word dripping with disdain as his eye bored into Aegon’s, cold and unyielding. “Go drown in your wine and leave me be. I’ve had enough of this family’s chains for one day—yours included.”

Aegon’s grin faltered, a flicker of something sharper—jealousy, perhaps, or a buried recognition of the fire in Aemond’s words—flashing through his violet eyes before he masked it with a careless shrug. He took a swig from the flagon, wine dribbling down his chin, staining his tunic further as he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his tone lighter but edged with a barb. “Chains, hm? Seems you’re not the only one wearing them,” he said, his voice carrying a faint, bitter undercurrent. “Heard the little alpha pup was here—Lucerys, skulking at your door like a whipped dog, stinking of fear and salt. Bet he pissed himself when he saw you like this, all battered and glaring.” He gestured again at Aemond’s bruises, his smirk returning, cruel and knowing, his alpha scent sharpening—sour wine and musk, a deliberate prod. “Did you scare him off proper, or is he still sniffing around, hoping you’ll bare your neck like a good little omega?”

Aemond’s jaw clenched, his teeth grinding audibly, the sound sharp in the quiet room as a fresh surge of rage coiled in his chest, tight and searing. His omega scent spiked—jasmine and ember, laced with defiance, a storm of its own making. “He’s a child,” he spat, the word dripping with scorn as he shifted, water sloshing against the tub’s sides, his movements restless, predatory. “A trembling, sniveling boy who stinks of fear and thinks an alpha’s growl makes him a man. I sent him running—didn’t even have to leave the tub.” His lips curled into a bitter smile, a flash of teeth that didn’t reach his eye, the memory of Lucerys’s retreat a small, hollow victory that tasted like ash. “He’ll cry to Rhaenyra now, beg her to shield him from the ‘big, bad omega.’ Pathetic.”

Aegon laughed, a harsh, barking sound that reverberated off the stone walls, his flagon raised in a mocking toast, wine sloshing over the rim. “That’s my brother,” he said, his voice thick with amusement, his alpha scent—sour wine and musk—thickening the air, a heavy counterpoint to Aemond’s fiery notes. “Scaring off alphas without breaking a sweat. Gods, what a fucking mess this betrothal is—Viserys must’ve been deep in his cups when he dreamed that one up.” He paused, his grin fading slightly as he leaned forward, his bleary eyes narrowing with a sudden, piercing clarity, the haze of wine parting like clouds before a storm. “But you—you’re not just going to sit there and take it, are you? Last night wasn’t just a tantrum, Aemond. I know you. You’re scheming, aren’t you? What’s the plan? Burn the decree to ash? Ride Vhagar into the sunset? Or just keep fucking your way through the storm until it breaks?”

Aemond’s eye darkened, its violet hue deepening to a storm-laden shade that mirrored the clouds gathering beyond the Keep’s walls, his bruised hand tightening on the tub’s edge until the copper creaked faintly under his grip. The question hung in the air, heavy, demanding, and for a moment, he said nothing, his gaze fixed on Aegon, searching for something—loyalty, perhaps, or the flicker of a brother who might stand with him rather than mock from the sidelines. “There’s no plan,” he said at last, his voice low, deliberate, each word a stone dropped into dark, still water. “Not yet. I went out to feel something—anything—other than this cage. I fought, I bled, I took what I wanted—fists, steel, flesh, it didn’t matter. But it’s not enough. It’s never enough.” He leaned forward slightly, water cascading down his chest, his omega scent flaring—jasmine and ember, a challenge that filled the room, daring Aegon to meet it. “And you—what’s your role in this, Aegon? Keep mocking from your wine-soaked perch, or are you finally going to pick a side?”

Aegon’s grin vanished, his violet eyes flickering with something raw—anger, perhaps, or a buried loyalty he’d never admit to himself, let alone aloud. He set the flagon down on the table with a dull thud, the sound sharp in the tense silence, and leaned closer, his alpha scent sharpening—sour wine and musk, a counterpoint to Aemond’s omega fire that made the air crackle with unspoken tension. “My side’s wherever the wine flows and the chaos burns,” he said, his voice quieter now, edged with a rare sincerity that cut through his usual bravado. “But if you’re planning to tear this betrothal apart, little brother, you know I’m with you. Fuck Viserys, fuck Rhaenyra, fuck the whole damned court and their parchment promises. Just say the word, and we’ll make them choke on their own decrees—together.”

The air between them thrummed, charged with the weight of their words, their scents clashing—jasmine and ember against sour wine and musk—like dragons circling before a strike, each waiting for the other to move first. Aemond’s eye held Aegon’s, unblinking, searching for deceit or weakness, but finding only the reckless, unpolished truth of his brother’s defiance. The moment stretched, taut and electric, until Aegon moved, his movements sudden, decisive, as if propelled by the same fire that burned in Aemond’s chest.

Without warning, Aegon crossed the room in two strides, his boots scuffing the stone, and leaned over the tub, his hands plunging into the water with no hesitation. His fingers found Aemond’s waist, gripping the lean, bruised flesh with a possessive strength, and he pulled Aemond toward him, water surging over the tub’s edge in a cold, splashing wave. Aemond’s breath caught, his violet eye widening for a fraction of a second, his omega scent flaring—jasmine and ember, sharp with surprise but laced with something darker, hungrier. Before he could snarl or shove Aegon away, his brother’s lips crashed against his, a kiss that was all fire and fury, raw and unyielding, tasting of wine and defiance.

Aemond froze for a heartbeat, his bruised hands hovering above the water, his instincts torn between resistance and surrender. Aegon’s alpha scent—sour wine and musk, thick and overwhelming—flooded his senses, mingling with his own omega notes in a heady, volatile clash that made his pulse race. Then, something snapped within him, the fragile thread of his control unraveling, and he surged into the kiss, his lips parting as he met Aegon’s hunger with his own. His hands found Aegon’s shoulders, fingers digging into the wrinkled tunic, pulling him closer until their chests pressed together, water soaking Aegon’s clothes as the tub’s contents sloshed onto the floor. The kiss deepened, a battle of tongues and teeth, each movement a challenge, a claim, a rebellion against the chains that bound them both.

Aegon’s hands tightened on Aemond’s waist, his thumbs brushing the edges of the bruises with a rough tenderness that sent a shiver through Aemond’s frame. Aemond growled into the kiss, a low, omega rumble that vibrated against Aegon’s lips, his silver hair falling in damp strands across his face as he tilted his head, deepening the angle, claiming as much as he was claimed. The world narrowed to this—the heat of Aegon’s mouth, the press of his hands, the clash of their scents filling the air like a storm breaking. For a moment, there was no Lucerys, no Viserys, no betrothal, only the fire they shared, a dragon’s flame that burned away the weight of their cages.

They broke apart, gasping, their breaths mingling in the scant space between them, Aegon’s forehead resting against Aemond’s, his violet eyes gleaming with a mix of triumph and something softer, unguarded. Water dripped from Aemond’s hair, tracing paths down his scarred cheek, and Aegon’s thumb brushed it away, a fleeting gesture that held more weight than words. “That’s the Aemond I know,” Aegon murmured, his voice rough, almost reverent, his alpha scent steady now, a grounding force against Aemond’s wildfire. “No chains can hold you—not Viserys’s, not Rhaenyra’s, not even mine.”

Aemond’s lips curved into a faint, dangerous smile, his violet eye glinting with a renewed fire, his omega scent settling—jasmine and ember, still defiant but tempered by the moment’s clarity. “Not yet,” he murmured, his voice a low, velvet purr, the omega sweetness in it laced with steel. “But soon. Let them think they’ve tamed me. Let them parade their peace. I’ll burn it down when they least expect it—and you’ll be there, won’t you?”

Aegon’s grin returned, sharp and reckless, as he pulled back, his hands lingering on Aemond’s waist for a moment before releasing him. “Always,” he said, his voice light but heavy with promise as he straightened, snatching the flagon from the table. “Rest up, little brother. You’ll need it for the fire we’re brewing.” He turned, his boots scuffing the stone as he sauntered toward the door, leaving the air thick with their combined scents—jasmine and ember, sour wine and musk—and the unspoken vow of chaos to come.

Aemond sank back into the tub, the water now cold, his bruises aching as the silence settled around him, heavier now, charged with the memory of Aegon’s touch, his taste, his promise. The storm outside rumbled closer, thunder rolling through the stone walls, a mirror to the fire in his chest. Lucerys’s face—wide-eyed, trembling—flashed in his mind, and he shoved it away with a flicker of disdain, his omega scent flaring—jasmine and ember, unyielding, a dragon’s heart unbowed. They could chain him, parade him, call him whore or omega, but Aemond Targaryen would not break—not for Viserys, not for Alicent, not for the boy who carried his brother’s sin. The Red Keep would tremble before he was done, its stones scorched black, its peace reduced to ash.

The bathwater stilled, reflecting the flickering candlelight, and Aemond’s lips curved into a faint, dangerous smile, his violet eye gleaming with the promise of ruin. The storm was coming—and he would be its heart, with Aegon at his side, their fire a blaze no decree could contain.

Chapter Text

The storm had broken over King’s Landing, its fury lashing the Red Keep with sheets of rain that battered the stone walls and turned the courtyards to rivers of mud. Thunder rumbled through the Tower of the Hand, a low, resonant growl that seemed to echo the unrest within its shadowed corridors. Aemond Targaryon lay sprawled across his bed, the heavy furs tangled around his lean frame, his silver hair a damp, disheveled halo against the dark linen. The chamber was dim, lit only by the sullen glow of a single candle on a cluttered table, its flame flickering in the draft that seeped through the shuttered windows. His omega scent—jasmine and ember, muted now in sleep but still sharp with defiance—lingered in the air, mingling with the faint musk of rain and the acrid bite of extinguished coals in the brazier. Bruises still mottled his pale skin, purple and black fading to sickly yellow along his ribs and collarbone, a testament to his night of rebellion, though the raw scrapes on his knuckles had begun to scab over, dark and jagged against his pallor.

The air froze, the storm’s rumble fading to a dull hum as Aemond’s breath caught, his violet eye widening briefly before narrowing to a slit. His omega scent flared—jasmine and ember, a wildfire that choked the room with its intensity. His hands curled into fists, nails biting into his palms until blood welled beneath the scabs, a red trickle against his pallor. “Wed?” he hissed, the word a low, venomous growl that seemed to shake the walls, his body taut with rage. “Tonight? To that sniveling child, who’ll flee across the sea at first light? You stand there and tell me I’m to be bound to him, paraded like a prize, then left to rot while he plays at being a man?” He stepped toward her, bare feet silent on the stone, his omega scent spiking—provocative, daring, a dragon’s challenge. “You let this happen. You let Father sell me to a boy who can’t even meet my eye.”

Alicent flinched, anguish flickering in her eyes, but she straightened, her hands unclenching to signal the servants, who scurried forward, their movements quick and nervous. “I had no power to stop it,” she said, her voice low, tremulous, threaded with guilt and resolve. “Viserys’s health fails, Aemond—he clings to this union as his last act, a peace to bind our houses before Lucerys sails for his training. I begged him to delay, to reconsider, but he and Rhaenyra are unyielding. The boy’s voyage is set—five years at sea.” She paused, her gaze softening, a crack in her armor as she took in his bruised, defiant form. “You are my son, and I would spare you this if I could—but I cannot. So you will be prepared, and you will stand before the court tonight, as a prince, not the beast you’ve made yourself.”

Aemond’s laugh was a sharp, bitter bark, slicing through the heavy air, his omega scent flaring—jasmine and ember, laced with scorn—as he turned away, pacing to the table with a restless, predatory grace. “A prince,” he spat, seizing a dagger from the clutter, its blade flashing in the candlelight as he spun it in his hand, swift and precise. “You’ll drape me in silk, call me prince, but I’m nothing but a whore to you all—wed to a boy who’ll flee across the sea, leaving me to choke on your peace.” He whirled back, dagger still in hand, violet eye blazing with fury that could’ve set the room alight. “I’d sooner burn the sept to ash than vow myself to him.”

Alicent’s eyes narrowed, lips pressing thin as she stepped forward, undaunted by the blade or his storm. “You will not,” she said, her voice a venomous whisper, each word a hammer blow. “You think your rage frightens me? I’ve faced Viserys’s stubbornness, Rhaenyra’s schemes, the court’s whispers—I’ve borne it all for you, for this family. You will be bathed, dressed, and wed tonight, Aemond, because the alternative is ruin—for you, for us all.” She gestured to the servants, who hesitated before laying out black-and-green silks threaded with silver on the bed, the man opening the wooden box to reveal a silver circlet studded with emeralds, gleaming like dragon’s eyes.

Aemond’s grip on the dagger tightened, the blade trembling as he glared at the servants, his omega scent spiking—jasmine and ember, a warning that made the women flinch, their hands shaking as they smoothed the silks. “Get out,” he snarled, voice low and lethal, aimed at the servants, his violet eye flicking to Alicent with unyielding resolve. “I’ll not be primped for your farce.”

Alicent’s hand shot out, seizing his wrist—the one holding the dagger—with a strength that belied her frame, nails digging into his bruised skin until he hissed, the blade clattering to the table. “You will,” she growled, her green eyes boring into his with a ferocity to match his own. “You think you can defy the world alone, Aemond? It will crush you. These women will bathe you, dress you, make you presentable—not for Lucerys, not for Viserys, but for me. I will not watch my son destroy himself over a boy who’ll be gone by dawn.” She released his wrist, stepping back, chest heaving as she snapped at the servants, “Begin.”

The servants moved swiftly, spurred by her command, though their eyes darted nervously to Aemond, who stood rigid, his omega scent flaring—jasmine and ember, a storm contained but ready to break. The older woman, gray hair tucked beneath a cap, approached with a damp cloth, trembling as she reached for his arm to wipe away lingering grime. Aemond jerked back, lips baring in a silent snarl, but Alicent’s voice cut through like a lash. “Enough, Aemond, sit.”

His violet eye locked with hers, a silent battle in the charged air, his omega scent pulsing—jasmine and ember, defiant but fraying under her will. For a long moment, he didn’t move, chest rising with rapid breaths, the dagger’s hilt within reach. Then, with a low, bitter curse, he sank onto the bed’s edge, furs bunching beneath him, posture rigid but compliant, a dragon chained but unbowed. The older woman began her work, the cloth gliding over his bruised skin with careful strokes, cleaning away mud and blood. The younger woman combed his tangled silver hair, fingers deftly untangling knots, the strands gleaming like molten metal. The man set the wooden box on the table and withdrew, his task complete.

Alicent watched, hands clasped tightly, green eyes never leaving Aemond, anguish flickering as the servants transformed her son from battered warrior to courtly prince. “You think this will tame me,” Aemond murmured, voice a low, velvet purr, the omega sweetness laced with steel as the older woman cleaned his bruised ribs, her cloth cool against his skin. “You think silks and vows will make me his, even if he sails away for five years.” His violet eye flicked to Alicent, cold and unyielding, omega scent flaring—jasmine and ember, a challenge. “I’ll stand in your sept, Mother, but I’ll not be his—not tonight, not when he returns, not ever.”

Alicent’s lips trembled, despair cracking her resolve, but she straightened, voice steady as she met his gaze. “You don’t have to love him,” she said, soft but unyielding, a mother’s plea woven with a queen’s command. “You don’t have to be his. But you will marry him tonight, Aemond, because the realm demands it, and his absence will give us time to navigate this storm. Survive this night—stand tall, as you always have—and we’ll find a way when he returns.” 

Aemond’s sneer returned, faint but sharp, as the younger woman draped the black-and-green silks over his shoulders, the fabric heavy and cool. His omega scent settled—jasmine and ember, defiant but tempered by reluctant acceptance, a dragon biding its time. The servants worked silently, pinning silks, placing the circlet on his brow, its emeralds glinting. The storm roared outside, thunder mirroring the fire in Aemond’s chest, and as the silks were secured, he felt the night’s weight—a chain forged in fire, a battle he’d fight with every breath.

The older woman stepped back, folding her cloth, and the younger adjusted the circlet, its gleam catching the candlelight. Alicent nodded, a weary approval in her gaze, and turned to the door, pausing in the threshold. “Be ready by dusk,” she said, her voice a quiet command, heavy with unspoken promises. “The court waits, Aemond. Lucerys sails at dawn—give them a prince, not a ruin.”

The door closed with a soft thud, the servants slipping out, leaving Aemond alone, silks heavy on his shoulders, circlet cold against his brow. His omega scent—jasmine and ember—flared, a silent vow as he rose, bruised hand brushing the dagger’s hilt. The storm raged, and Aemond Targaryen, omega or not, would face it unbowed, a dragon ready to burn, even as Lucerys’s ship prepared to carry him far from the fire.

The storm’s unrelenting fury battered the stone walls, its torrential rain hammering the ancient stone walls like a war drum, each drop a staccato beat in a symphony of chaos. Thunder rolled through the Tower of the Hand, a deep, resonant growl that reverberated in the marrow, echoing the fire that smoldered in Aemond Targaryen’s chest. Alone now in his chamber, the heavy oak door sealed shut behind Queen Alicent and her retinue, the air was thick with his omega scent—jasmine and ember, a volatile blend of floral sweetness and smoldering defiance that pulsed in rhythm with the single candle flickering on a cluttered table. Its flame danced erratically, casting long, wavering shadows across the stone, illuminating the magnificent wedding robe draped across the bed—a masterpiece woven in a single night by the palace tailors.

The black silk shimmered like a starless night, its surface alive with intricate dragon-scale patterns in silver and green thread, each scale catching the dim light with a prismatic gleam. The fabric was heavy yet fluid, tailored to his lean, battle-hardened frame, its high collar and trailing sleeves adorned with emeralds that burned like dragonfire, their facets refracting the candle’s glow into shards of green light. This was no mere garment; it was armor, a declaration of his blood and his burden, as much a weapon as the dagger he cherished.

The emerald-studded circlet rested cold and unyielding on his brow, its weight a constant reminder of the night’s grim purpose—a marriage to Lucerys Velaryon, to be sealed in the sept before the boy’s dawn departure for five years of training at sea. Aemond’s violet eye, sharp and unyielding, burned with a fury that could have ignited the room, its intensity undimmed by the sapphire socket hidden beneath a cascade of silver hair. The strands, half-tamed by the servant’s comb, clung to his pale cheeks, their ends still wild, curling defiantly against the circlet’s polished surface. Bruises mottled his skin, purple and black fading to sickly yellow along his ribs and collarbone, each mark a testament to his night of rebellion—fists thrown in dark alleys, blood spilled under moonlight. The raw scrapes on his knuckles had scabbed over, dark and jagged against his pallor, a map of his defiance etched in flesh.

He stood motionless, the stone floor icy beneath his bare feet, his gaze locked on the dagger that lay where it had fallen on the table, its blade glinting like a vow of retribution. His bruised hand twitched, scabs cracking as he reached for it, fingers curling around the hilt with a reverence reserved for a lover, the leather grip worn smooth by years of his touch. “A prince,” he murmured, voice a low, bitter hiss, the omega sweetness in it laced with venom that could poison the air. “Draped in finery, crowned in emeralds, and sold to a boy who’ll flee before our vows are cold.”

He spun the dagger in his hand, the movement fluid, a dance of steel that betrayed the storm raging within. The robe’s hem brushed the floor, its silken whisper a counterpoint to the storm’s roar, and he sneered, the circlet tilting slightly, its emeralds flashing like dragon’s eyes in the gloom.

The chamber was a battlefield of chaos, a mirror to his unyielding spirit. Maps lay scattered across the table, their edges curling in the humid air, marked with ink and blood from plans half-formed and abandoned. A blood-streaked cloak lay crumpled in the corner, its folds heavy with mud and the memory of his rebellion. The copper tub stood abandoned, its water long drained, the floor beneath it slick with streaks of dirt and crimson, remnants of the tunic he’d torn off in defiance. A brazier, its coals long extinguished, gave off a faint acrid bite, mingling with the musk of rain that seeped through the shuttered windows. The stone walls seemed to pulse with his defiance, their cold, unyielding surfaces absorbing the heat of his omega scent—jasmine and ember, a wildfire barely contained.

Aemond paced to the tub, his bare feet silent on the stone, his reflection wavering in the faint sheen of water left at its bottom. The distorted image showed a prince in waiting, bruised but unbowed, the circlet a crown of thorns on his brow. His omega scent flared—jasmine and ember, sharp with contempt—as he seized a lavender-scented cloth from the pile left by the servants, its pristine folds an insult to his raw edges. He scrubbed at the lingering grime on his arms, each stroke deliberate, controlled, as if he could erase the night’s inevitability. The bruises on his ribs throbbed under the pressure, a dull, grounding ache that tethered him to his defiance, a reminder of the battles he’d chosen and the ones thrust upon him. His movements were precise but restless, a dragon caged in ritual, each action a rebellion against the fate awaiting him in the sept.

He tossed the soiled cloth aside, its lavender scent now tainted with mud and blood, and turned to the polished wooden box the servant had left. Flipping it open with a flick of his wrist, he revealed its contents nestled in black velvet: silver jewelry, each piece a mark of his bondage. Cufflinks etched with dragon claws gleamed coldly, their intricate designs a nod to his Targaryen blood. A chain bore a single emerald pendant, its stone a twin to those in his circlet, glowing with an inner fire. And there, at the center, a ring—its band heavy, simple, unadorned save for its weight, meant to mark him as Lucerys’s bound omega.

Aemond’s lip curled, his omega scent spiking—jasmine and ember, a flare of disgust—as he lifted the ring, holding it to the candlelight. The metal caught the flame, casting a cold, mocking glint across his bruised knuckles. “For Lucerys,” he murmured, voice dripping with mockery, the omega sweetness a blade honed to cut. “A trinket to chain me while he sails free.” He slipped it onto his finger, the metal icy against his skin, and clenched his fist, nails biting into his palm until blood welled beneath the scabs, a faint red smear staining the silver.

The wedding robe was next, its magnificence both armor and shackle, a creation that could only have been born from the fevered hands of the palace tailors working through the night. Aemond approached the bed, his fingers tracing the silk’s dragon-scale embroidery, each scale a masterpiece of silver and green thread, shimmering as if alive. The fabric was cool and heavy under his touch, its weight a promise of protection and a reminder of captivity. He shed the loose cloth the servants had left, letting it pool on the floor like shed skin, and lifted the robe with a reverence reserved for a blade. The black silk slid over his body like liquid night, molding to his lean, scarred frame, its surface rippling with every movement.

The high collar framed his throat, its emerald studs cold against his pulse, a constant pressure that mirrored the weight of his fate. The trailing sleeves, edged with silver, whispered against the stone as he moved, their length a regal burden, each fold catching the candlelight in a cascade of green and silver. He fastened the robe’s silver clasps with sharp, precise motions, each click a defiance, the fabric settling over his bruises like a second skin, concealing the marks of his rebellion while amplifying the fire within.

The emerald pendant came next, its chain icy against his collarbone as he draped it over his neck, the stone a bitter echo of the circlet’s gems, its weight a constant tug at his resolve. He adjusted the circlet, ensuring its emeralds caught the light like dragonfire, their facets refracting the candle’s glow into a halo of green sparks. His omega scent steadied—jasmine and ember, a controlled burn—as he stepped to the cracked mirror propped on the table, its surface warped but honest. The reflection showed a prince forged in fire, cloaked in a robe that was a testament to his blood and his burden.

The black silk shimmered, its dragon-scale patterns alive with movement, the emeralds at his throat and brow glowing with an otherworldly light. The bruises were hidden, the scabs obscured by silk and silver, but the defiance in his violet eye burned brighter than ever, a beacon of his unyielding spirit. His omega scent filled the room, a quiet challenge that dared the world to break him.

He was no meek omega, no courtly doll to be wed and forgotten. He was Aemond Targaryen, rider of Vhagar, the one-eyed dragon whose name struck fear into the hearts of men. He would enter that sept as a dragon, not a bride, his presence a storm to rival the one outside. His fingers brushed the dagger again, the hilt warm from his earlier touch, a fleeting temptation to carve his own path through the night. But he left it on the table, a silent vow that his rebellion would endure beyond steel, woven into every step, every glance, every breath he took in that cursed sept.

The storm outside roared, thunder shaking the walls as Aemond moved to the window, unlatching the shutters with a sharp, decisive tug. Rain lashed his face, cold and stinging, a baptism of defiance that he welcomed with a tilt of his head. The wind whipped his silver hair, tangling it around the circlet, its emeralds glinting like beacons in the gloom. His omega scent mingled with the rain—jasmine and ember, a wildfire unquenched by the deluge, its fragrance sharp and provocative, a challenge to the heavens themselves. He stared out at the blurred expanse of King’s Landing, the city drowning under the storm’s wrath, its lights flickering like dying stars. In his mind’s eye, he saw Lucerys’s ship waiting at the docks, its sails furled, its hull rocking in the churning waves, ready to carry the boy far from the fire Aemond would never let die. “Five years,” he whispered, voice a low, guttural growl, the omega sweetness laced with steel that could cut through stone. “Run, little lord. You’ll not outrun me.”

He slammed the shutters closed, the impact echoing like a war cry, plunging the room back into its dim, candlelit cocoon. The robe was immaculate, its dragon-scale embroidery shimmering like a living thing, the circlet perfectly aligned, its emeralds glowing with an inner fire. He crossed to the table, retrieving a small vial of jasmine oil from the clutter, its crystal surface catching the candlelight as he uncorked it. The fragrance was potent, a weapon as much as a mark, designed to amplify his omega scent and turn it into a blade. He dabbed it at his wrists, the pulse points warm beneath his touch, and then at his throat, the oil cool against his skin. The scent bloomed, sharp and provocative, a deliberate taunt to the court that would see him wed and abandoned in the same breath. His omega scent flared—jasmine and ember, a dragon’s promise, a wildfire that could consume the sept and all its hollow vows.

He returned to the mirror, his movements slow, deliberate, each step a rehearsal for the battle ahead. The reflection showed a prince transformed: the bruises hidden beneath the robe’s black silk, the scabs obscured by silver and emerald, the defiance in his violet eye a flame that no storm could extinguish. The robe’s trailing sleeves whispered against the stone, their silver edges catching the light, the high collar framing his face like a throne. The emerald pendant rested heavy against his chest, its stone a cold reminder of his bondage, but the circlet was his crown, its emeralds a declaration of his blood. Aemond’s lips curved, not a smile but a predator’s grin, as he adjusted the ring on his finger, the metal now warm against his skin, its weight a challenge he would bear and wield. The storm’s thunder was his heartbeat, each rumble a call to war, a reminder that he was no pawn, no bride, but a dragon forged in fire.

He lingered at the mirror, his violet eye tracing every detail—the way the robe clung to his shoulders, accentuating their breadth; the way the emeralds at his throat caught the light, drawing attention to the proud line of his jaw; the way his silver hair, even tamed, framed his face like a halo of moonlight. He was magnificent, a vision of Targaryen glory and Hightower resolve, and he knew it. The court would see him, and they would tremble—not for his beauty, but for the fire that burned beneath it, the promise of a dragon who would not be chained, not by vows, not by a boy who’d sail away, not by a realm that thought it could bend him.

He crossed to the table one last time, his fingers hovering over the dagger, its blade a silent ally, a temptation to carve his freedom in blood. But he let his hand fall, the gesture a vow that his rebellion would be subtler, sharper, a fire kindled in silence and stoked over years. He straightened, the robe’s silk rippling, and moved to the door, each step a declaration, the trailing sleeves whispering like a dragon’s wings. His omega scent trailed behind him—jasmine and ember, a banner of defiance, a promise of retribution. He paused at the threshold, hand on the iron ring, and cast a final glance at the dagger, its blade glinting in the candlelight like a star in the void.

“Let them see me,” he murmured, voice a velvet vow, the omega sweetness a blade honed to kill. “Let them fear me.” The door swung open, and Aemond Targaryen stepped into the torchlit corridor, the storm’s roar at his back, his omega scent a wildfire that would burn through the sept, through the court, through the years that Lucerys thought he could escape. The robe shimmered, its emeralds blazing, and Aemond walked as a prince forged for war, not vows, a dragon ready to consume the world, even as Lucerys’s ship waited to sail.

The corridor stretched before him, its walls lined with flickering torches that cast long, wavering shadows, their light dancing across the dragon-scale embroidery of his robe. Each step was deliberate, the silk rippling like liquid night, his omega scent a banner of rebellion that dared the stone itself to defy him. The storm’s roar seeped through the arrow slits, a counterpoint to the steady rhythm of his boots on the flagstones, each thunderclap fueling the fire in his blood. He was Aemond Targaryen, rider of Vhagar, and he would walk into the Great Hall not as a bride, but as a dragon, his presence a storm to rival the one outside.

As he rounded a corner, the corridor widened, and a familiar figure leaned against the wall, haloed by torchlight—Aegon Targaryen, his elder brother, clad in a crimson doublet slashed with black, a goblet dangling carelessly from one hand. Aegon’s silver hair was tousled, his violet eyes glinting with a mix of amusement and something sharper, a flicker of understanding that cut through his usual haze of wine and irreverence. His alpha scent—smoke and spiced wine—clashed with Aemond’s, a challenge met with defiance as Aemond slowed his pace, his lips curling into a faint, sardonic sneer.

“Well, well,” Aegon drawled, pushing off the wall with a lazy grace, his goblet sloshing as he gestured at Aemond’s robe. “Don’t you look the part, little brother? A proper omega bride, all silk and emeralds. The tailors outdid themselves, didn’t they?” His tone was mocking, but his eyes lingered on Aemond’s bruised knuckles, the faint red smear beneath the ring, and the unyielding fire in his violet eye. Aegon’s grin faltered, a shadow of something like respect—or pity—crossing his face.

Aemond’s omega scent flared—jasmine and ember, sharp with contempt—as he stopped, his trailing sleeves brushing the stone. “Spare me your jests, Aegon,” he said, voice a low, velvet purr, the omega sweetness laced with steel. “I’m no more a bride than you are a king. This farce is Father’s doing, not mine.” He tilted his head, the circlet catching the torchlight, its emeralds flashing. “Or have you come to gloat before I’m chained to that boy and left to rot while he sails away?”

Aegon chuckled, a rough, mirthless sound, and took a swig from his goblet, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Gloat? No, I’d rather drink to your misery than add to it.” He stepped closer, his alpha scent intensifying, smoke and spice pressing against Aemond’s wildfire. “But you’re wrong about one thing, brother. You’re not chained—not yet. That robe, that fire in your eye? You’re a dragon, not some simpering omega. Lucerys will learn that, if he’s fool enough to think this wedding tames you.” He paused, his gaze flicking to the ring on Aemond’s finger, and his voice softened, a rare crack in his bravado. “Five years is a long time, Aemond. You’ll outlast this. You always do.”

Aemond’s sneer softened, just for a moment, his violet eye narrowing as he studied Aegon. The words were unexpected, a fleeting glimpse of the brother beneath the wine-soaked mask, and they stirred something in Aemond—gratitude, perhaps, or a shared defiance against the world that sought to bend them. “Outlast,” he echoed, voice low, the omega sweetness a blade now sheathed. “I’ll do more than that, Aegon. I’ll make them all regret this night.” He straightened, the robe’s silk rippling, and gestured toward the corridor’s end, where the Great Hall awaited. “Walk with me. Let’s give the court a show they won’t forget.”

Aegon’s grin returned, sharp and reckless, and he fell into step beside Aemond, his goblet still in hand. “That’s the spirit,” he said, his tone light but his eyes keen, watching Aemond with a mix of admiration and wariness. “Let’s make them choke on their own pomp.” The brothers moved as one, their steps synchronized, Aemond’s robe trailing like a shadow, Aegon’s crimson doublet a blaze of defiance. The corridor echoed with the storm’s roar and the faint hum of voices from the Great Hall, growing louder as they approached the massive double doors, their iron hinges carved with dragons and crowned with torches.

As they neared, Aemond’s omega scent flared—jasmine and ember, a wildfire that seemed to ignite the air, drawing the eyes of the guards stationed at the doors. Their faces remained impassive, but their hands tightened on their spears, a subtle acknowledgment of the dragon in their midst. Aegon noticed, his grin widening, and he leaned closer, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “They’re already afraid of you,” he murmured, amusement lacing his words. “Good. Keep them that way.”

Aemond didn’t respond, his violet eye fixed on the doors as they swung open, revealing the Great Hall in all its splendor. The vast chamber was a sea of light and color, its high vaulted ceiling lost in shadows, its walls draped with banners of House Targaryen and Velaryon—crimson and black clashing with sea-green and silver. Torches blazed along the columns, their flames casting a warm glow over the assembled court, a throng of lords and ladies in silks and velvets, their faces a mix of awe, curiosity, and barely concealed fear. The air was thick with the scents of alpha, beta, and omega, a cacophony of power and submission, but Aemond’s scent—jasmine and ember—cut through it like a blade, commanding attention as he stepped into the hall.

The crowd parted, a ripple of whispers following in his wake, their eyes drawn to the magnificent robe, its dragon-scale embroidery shimmering under the torchlight, the emeralds at his throat and brow blazing like stars. Aemond moved with predatory grace, his trailing sleeves whispering against the polished stone floor, each step a declaration of his unbowed spirit. Aegon kept pace, his goblet now tucked into his belt, his posture loose but his eyes sharp, scanning the crowd for threats or allies. The dais loomed ahead, raised at the hall’s far end, where King Viserys sat slumped in his throne, his frail form draped in black and gold, his face pale and drawn. Beside him stood Rhaenyra, her black gown severe, her violet eyes cold as they met Aemond’s. And there, at the center of the dais, was Lucerys Velaryon.

The boy looked younger than his years, his dark curls tamed for once, his sea-green doublet adorned with silver seahorses, his posture stiff with nervous resolve. His alpha scent—salt and cedar, tentative but growing bolder—reached Aemond, a faint challenge that made his lips curl into a faint, dangerous smile. Lucerys’s eyes, wide and uncertain, flickered to Aemond’s robe, then to his violet eye, and he swallowed, his hands clenching at his sides. The court’s whispers grew louder, a buzz of anticipation and dread, as Aemond and Aegon approached the dais, their presence a storm within the storm.

Aegon leaned in one last time, his voice a low murmur meant only for Aemond. “He’s terrified,” he said, a hint of glee in his tone. “Poor bastard doesn’t know what he’s in for.” He clapped Aemond on the shoulder, a gesture both casual and possessive, and then stepped forward, raising his voice to carry over the crowd. “Lords and ladies, behold my brother, Aemond Targaryen, prince and dragon, here to bind our houses in fire and blood!” The words were laced with mockery, a jab at the court’s pomp, but they drew a murmur of approval, the crowd caught in the spell of Aemond’s presence.

Aemond’s omega scent flared—jasmine and ember, a wildfire that seemed to choke the hall—as he ascended the dais, his robe trailing like a shadow. He stopped before Lucerys, his violet eye locking onto the boy’s, his gaze a blade that could cut through steel. The court held its breath, the air taut with expectation, as Aegon stepped to Aemond’s side, his hand resting lightly on his brother’s arm. “He’s yours now, nephew,” Aegon said, his voice loud enough for the front rows to hear, his tone dripping with irony as he guided Aemond’s hand toward Lucerys. “Try not to break him before he sails.”

Lucerys’s face flushed, his alpha scent spiking—salt and cedar, laced with unease—as he took Aemond’s hand, his grip tentative, his fingers trembling faintly. Aemond’s smile widened, not a gesture of warmth but a predator’s baring of teeth, his omega scent pulsing—jasmine and ember, a challenge that made Lucerys’s eyes dart away. “Courage, little lord,” Aemond murmured, voice a low, velvet purr, the omega sweetness a blade honed to wound. “You’ll need it, come morning.”

Aegon stepped back, his grin sharp as he retreated to the dais’s edge, leaving Aemond and Lucerys alone before the court. The septon, a frail figure in white robes, shuffled forward, his voice trembling as he began the rites, his words drowned by the storm’s distant roar and the weight of Aemond’s presence. The omega prince stood tall, his robe shimmering, his circlet blazing, his violet eye never leaving Lucerys, who seemed to shrink under its intensity. The court watched, enthralled and terrified, as the dragon and the boy stood bound by vows neither wanted, the storm outside a mirror to the fire that would burn for five years, waiting for Lucerys’s return.

Chapter Text

The Red Keep loomed beneath a sky bruised with sorrow, its ancient towers draped in black banners that thrashed in the restless wind, their tattered edges fraying like the fragile threads of peace holding the realm together. King Viserys Targaryen, first of his name, had slipped into the Stranger’s embrace three nights past, his frail body finally succumbing to the weight of years and illness. The court pulsed with a volatile undercurrent—grief for the old king clashing with the fevered anticipation of Rhaenyra’s coronation, set to blaze forth at dawn like a dragon’s first roar. The air was heavy with the scents of myrrh and ambition, alpha and omega notes colliding in the torchlit corridors, a prelude to the storm brewing within the Keep’s unyielding stone walls. The rain had relented for now, but the cobblestones below gleamed wetly, catching the flickering torchlight and scattering it like embers across a battlefield.

Aemond Targaryen stood bent over at the window of his chamber in the Tower of the Hand, the heavy oak shutters flung wide to admit the damp, salt-laced breeze that carried the restless pulse of Blackwater Bay. King’s Landing sprawled before him, a labyrinth of flickering lights and shadowed alleys, its heartbeat quickening as the realm teetered on the edge of upheaval. Three years had passed since the bitter farce of his wedding, when Lucerys Velaryon—a trembling boy of fifteen, all wide eyes and faltering bravado—had stood before him in the sept, his alpha scent of salt and cedar quivering under the weight of Aemond’s cold, unyielding disdain. Three years since Lucerys had fled at dawn, sails catching the first light as he escaped across the sea, leaving Aemond bound by a silver ring and a hollow vow, a dragon chained in a court that whispered of his shame behind silken fans and goblets of Arbor gold, still clung to his finger, its band worn smooth by restless nights, its weight a constant spark to the wildfire that roared in his chest, unquenched and unrelenting.

His omega scent—jasmine and ember, sharp as a blade and provocative as a challenge—saturated the chamber, a barely contained inferno that curled through the air, mingling with the musky tang of sweat and the sour bite of spilled wine that clung to the stone floor. The room was a battlefield of its own, scarred by Aemond’s defiance: maps sprawled across an oaken table, their edges curling, stained with ink and the faint rust of dried blood; a dagger, its blade nicked from countless nights of restless spinning, glinting in the guttering candlelight; furs tangled across the bed, their fibers matted with the raw evidence of his latest rebellion. Bruises mottled his pale skin, purple fading to sickly yellow along his ribs and thighs, relics of a recent brawl in the city’s underbelly—Flea Bottom’s shadowed taverns, where he sought to drown the weight of his chains in blood, pain, and the fleeting thrill of violence.

Aemond’s hands gripped the window’s stone ledge, his knuckles whitening, the scabs on his fingers cracking faintly under the strain, smearing blood against the damp grit. His silver hair hung loose and tangled, strands catching the torchlight from the corridor below, shimmering like molten moonlight. The black silk tunic he wore was unbuttoned to the chest, its intricate dragon-scale embroidery glinting faintly, a shadow of the ceremonial robe he’d worn on that cursed wedding night. His violet eye was half-lidded, unfocused, lost in the haze of sensation that consumed him, while the sapphire in his empty socket—hidden beneath a lock of hair—gleamed coldly, a silent sentinel to the fire raging within. His omega scent pulsed—jasmine and ember, laced with a raw, primal heat—as Aegon’s hands clamped onto his hips, fingers digging into lean muscle with bruising, possessive force.

Aegon Targaryen was a storm unleashed, his alpha scent—smoke and spiced wine, thick with lust and recklessness—flooding the chamber, clashing with Aemond’s omega notes in a volatile, electric dance that made the air crackle with unspoken challenges. His silver hair was a disheveled mess, falling in sweat-slick strands across his brow, his crimson doublet long discarded in a crumpled heap by the bed. His bare chest pressed against Aemond’s back, the heat of his skin a searing counterpoint to the cool stone beneath Aemond’s palms, as he thrust with a relentless, punishing rhythm. Each movement was a claim, a rebellion, a defiant fuck you to the world that sought to bind them—their father’s decrees, their mother’s schemes, the realm’s suffocating expectations.

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” Aegon growled, his voice rough with drink and desire, frayed at the edges like the banners outside. His breath was hot against Aemond’s neck as he leaned closer, one hand sliding from Aemond’s hip to grip his shoulder, nails biting into the bruised flesh with a force that drew a sharp hiss. “Always so fucking defiant, even bent over like this.” His hips snapped forward, the impact wrenching a low, guttural moan from Aemond, his body arching instinctively, the stone ledge cold and slick under his trembling palms.

Aemond’s omega scent flared—jasmine and ember, a wildfire laced with raw, unyielding heat—as he pushed back against Aegon, meeting his rhythm with a ferocity that teetered on the edge of violence. “Less talking,” he snarled, his voice fracturing under the force of Aegon’s thrusts, the omega sweetness in his tone a blade dipped in venom. His head tipped forward, silver hair spilling across his face, clinging to his sweat-slick skin like a veil, the sapphire socket glinting faintly as he moved. His mind was a haze, the world beyond the window dissolving into a blur of light and shadow—Viserys’s death, Rhaenyra’s looming coronation, the court’s endless machinations all drowned in the storm of their union, reduced to ash in the face of this primal, defiant act.

This was their pact, a jagged blade forged in the shadowed corners of their youth, honed through years of defiance and desperation. It wasn’t love—not for Aemond, never for him, his heart too scarred, too guarded—but a war waged in flesh and fire, a way to seize back power from a world that sought to crush them beneath its weight. Aegon’s hands, rough and intimately familiar, knew every scar, every bruise, every hard-won edge of Aemond’s body, mapping them with a hunger that matched Aemond’s own. He gave without restraint, taking in return with a ferocity that left no room for doubt—this was a battlefield, and they were warriors, bound by blood and rebellion. Tonight, with Viserys’s death and Rhaenyra’s ascension casting long shadows over the Keep, the air crackled with a desperate urgency, a need to burn away the weight of what was to come in a blaze of defiance.

Aegon’s hand tightened on Aemond’s shoulder, his other gripping Aemond’s hip with a possessive strength that left bruises blooming beneath his fingers, purple and tender against pale skin. “You’re mine tonight,” he rasped, his voice a low, taunting growl, thick with the haze of wine and lust as he thrust harder, the bed creaking in protest, its carved dragon heads rattling against the stone wall. The sound mingled with the distant hum of the city below, the clatter of hooves on wet cobblestones, the low murmur of mourners gathering in the courtyard. His teeth grazed Aemond’s neck, a sharp bite that pierced the skin, drawing a faint bead of blood that mingled with the sweat, the sting a spark that fueled the chaos consuming them.

Aemond’s breath came in short, ragged gasps, each one punctuated by the brutal slap of flesh against flesh, his omega scent spiking—jasmine and ember, a wildfire that seemed to choke the very air from the room. His violet eye fluttered shut, his body trembling as the tension coiled tighter, a white-hot surge building in his gut, threatening to shatter him. He was lost in the fire, the world beyond the window irrelevant, reduced to a distant echo as he chased the edge of release. The court could scheme, the realm could fracture, but here, in this moment, there was only Aegon’s touch, the searing heat of their rebellion, the raw, unyielding power they carved from each other’s bodies.

Aegon’s rhythm faltered for a moment, his head lifting as his violet eyes—bleary but sharp—caught movement in the courtyard below. His lips curled into a slow, predatory grin, his alpha scent sharpening—smoke and spiced wine, laced with a sudden, wicked amusement. “Well, fuck me,” he murmured, his voice low and rough, a taunt wrapped in velvet as he leaned closer, his chest pressing harder against Aemond’s back. “Look who’s strutting back into the dragon’s den.” His hand shot from Aemond’s shoulder to his chin, fingers rough and calloused, seizing it with a firm, unyielding grip. He yanked Aemond’s head to the side, forcing his gaze toward the courtyard, his violet eye snapping open in a haze of irritation and heat.

Below, a procession entered through the gates, their torches blazing against the gloom, casting long shadows that danced across the wet cobblestones. Sea-green and silver banners snapped in the wind, the seahorse of House Velaryon gleaming in the firelight. At their center stood a figure Aemond hadn’t seen in three years, transformed by the sea’s unforgiving hand. Lucerys Velaryon was no longer the trembling boy who’d fled King’s Landing, his alpha scent quivering and his eyes wide with fear. He was a man now, his shoulders broad and unyielding, his dark curls cropped short, his face carved with sharp, angular lines that spoke of storms weathered and battles won. His cloak, heavy with salt and rain, billowed behind him, and his alpha scent—salt and cedar, now potent and tempered by steel—carried on the breeze, a bold challenge that reached the window despite the distance.

Aemond’s breath hitched, his omega scent flaring—jasmine and ember, a sudden spike of defiance—as Aegon’s grip on his chin tightened, forcing him to keep looking. “There’s your little lord,” Aegon rasped, his voice dripping with mockery, his lips brushing Aemond’s ear as he resumed his thrusts, slower now, deliberate, each one a taunt that matched his words. “All grown up, isn’t he? Bet he’s been dreaming of you, his omega, waiting to claim what’s his.” His teeth nipped at Aemond’s earlobe, a sharp sting that drew a low growl from Aemond’s throat, his body tensing under the dual assault of Aegon’s touch and the sight of Lucerys below.

Aemond’s violet eye narrowed, his gaze locking onto Lucerys despite the haze of sensation threatening to drown him. The boy—no, the man—stood tall, his posture steady, his dark eyes scanning the Keep’s towering walls as if searching for something, or someone. But the courtyard was a sea of movement, mourners and guards and flickering torches, and Lucerys’s gaze never lifted to the window, never found the figures silhouetted against the candlelight. Aemond’s lips curled into a faint, sardonic sneer, his omega scent pulsing—jasmine and ember, a wildfire that dared the world to challenge it. “He’s nothing,” he hissed, voice low and venomous, fracturing under the force of Aegon’s renewed rhythm. “A boy playing at alpha, stinking of salt and regret. He’ll choke on his vows before he touches me.”

Aegon chuckled, a low, throaty sound that vibrated against Aemond’s skin, his hand sliding from Aemond’s chin to his throat, fingers curling just enough to feel the erratic thud of his pulse. “That’s it,” he growled, his voice thick with approval, his alpha scent sharpening—smoke and spiced wine, a storm to match Aemond’s fire. “Let him dream. Let him think he can have you. We’ll burn that hope to ash.” His thrusts grew harder, more punishing, the bed creaking louder, the carved dragon heads rattling as if in protest. His other hand gripped Aemond’s hip with bruising force, anchoring him, claiming him, a silent vow that this—this fire, this rebellion—was theirs alone.

Aemond’s body trembled, caught between defiance and surrender, his omega scent spiking—jasmine and ember, a dragon’s roar that seemed to ignite the night itself. His violet eye flickered back to Lucerys, but the haze of sensation was too strong, Aegon’s touch too relentless. The courtyard blurred, Lucerys’s figure dissolving into the chaos of torchlight and shadow as Aemond’s focus shattered. His breath came in short, desperate gasps, each one punctuated by the brutal rhythm of Aegon’s thrusts, the tension coiling tighter, a white-hot surge building in his core. He didn’t care about Lucerys, not now—not with Aegon’s hands on him, not with the fire they shared burning away the world’s weight.

The tension snapped, a searing surge that tore through Aemond with a low, primal snarl—a sound wrenched from the depths of his soul as his body convulsed, his release spilling against the stone ledge, hot and messy, the sensation sharp and all-consuming. His omega scent flared—jasmine and ember, a wildfire that choked the air—as he braced against the window, his bruised hands gripping the stone until the scabs cracked, blood smearing against the grit in crimson streaks. Aegon followed moments later, his own release a violent surge that left his hands trembling where they gripped Aemond’s hips, his alpha scent—smoke and spiced wine—mingling with Aemond’s in a heady, volatile clash. He slumped against Aemond’s back, his chest heaving, his breath hot and uneven against Aemond’s neck, a faint tremor running through him as the fire ebbed.

The air hung heavy, thick with the aftermath—panting breaths, the creak of the bed settling into silence, the faint drip of wax from the guttering candle pooling on the table in amber rivulets. Aemond straightened, his omega scent settling—jasmine and ember, still defiant but tempered by the bone-deep exhaustion that followed such a storm. He adjusted his tunic, the black silk clinging to his sweat-slick skin, the dragon-scale embroidery catching the candlelight in faint, mocking glints. His violet eye opened, unfocused, staring out at the courtyard without truly seeing it, the procession below a blur of movement and torchlight. Lucerys was there, somewhere, his presence a faint echo in Aemond’s mind, overshadowed by the fire that still smoldered in his veins.

Aegon stirred, pulling back with a lazy, predatory grin, his violet eyes bleary but sharp as he tugged his trousers up, his alpha scent steady now, a grounding force in the chaos. “Gods, you’re a fucking tempest,” he rasped, voice hoarse and frayed, one hand flopping onto Aemond’s shoulder in a gesture too familiar, too soft for the violence they’d shared. “Feel better, or are we going again to spit in Rhaenyra’s face? Maybe give your little lord a proper show next time.” His grin widened, sharp and reckless, as he gestured vaguely toward the window, where the courtyard still hummed with activity.

Aemond shoved his hand off with a grimace, stepping away from the window, his omega scent spiking—jasmine and ember, sharp with irritation. “Enough,” he muttered, dragging a hand through his sweat-slick hair, strands clinging to his fingers like silver threads. He moved to the table, seizing the dagger with a fluid, practiced motion, spinning it in his hand, the blade catching the candlelight in a dance of steel and shadow. He turned to Aegon, his violet eye glinting with a renewed fire, cold and unyielding. “The funeral, the coronation—they’re coming. I’ll face them as a dragon, not a chained omega. Let the court whisper. Let Rhaenyra gloat. Let Lucerys dream his pathetic dreams. I’ll burn their peace to ash before I’m done.”

Aegon’s grin didn’t falter, his violet eyes gleaming with a mix of amusement and something darker—pride, perhaps, or a buried loyalty he’d never admit. He leaned against the bedpost, retrieving his goblet from the floor, its contents sloshing as he raised it in a mocking toast. “That’s my brother,” he said, his voice light but heavy with promise, his alpha scent—smoke and spiced wine—curling through the air like a challenge. “A dragon through and through. Let’s see how long this court lasts before it’s on its knees, begging for mercy.” He drank deeply, the wine staining his lips, his grin sharp as a blade.

The city’s hum grew louder, a distant echo of the storm to come, the wind carrying the faint roars of dragons circling Blackwater Bay. Aemond slipped the dagger into his belt, its weight a comfort, a reminder of the battles that awaited—battles of steel, of fire, of will. Lucerys Velaryon had returned, a man forged by the sea, but Aemond’s fire had burned too brightly tonight to care. Aegon’s touch had drowned the world, and in its ashes, Aemond stood unbowed, his omega scent a banner of rebellion that would blaze through the Red Keep, through Rhaenyra’s reign, through the years that thought they could chain him. The funeral would be a stage, the coronation a battlefield, and Aemond Targaryen would walk among them as a prince forged for war, his wildfire a force no alpha, no realm, could ever tame.

--

The Red Keep’s corridors twisted like the veins of a ancient beast, their stone walls draped in black banners that seemed to drink the torchlight, casting the faded tapestries—dragons rampant, their scales woven in tarnished gold—into a mournful gloom. Aemond Targaryen descended the spiral stair of the Tower of the Hand, his boots striking the worn stone with a deliberate, predatory rhythm, each step a silent vow of defiance. His black silk tunic was freshly tied, its dragon-scale embroidery glinting faintly in the flickering light, but the scent of his omega wildfire—jasmine and ember, still smoldering from his clash with Aegon—clung to him like a second skin, a banner of rebellion that refused to be tamed. The silver ring on his finger, a cold and unyielding reminder of his vows, gleamed as he adjusted the dagger at his belt, its weight anchoring him against the storm roiling in his chest.

The great hall awaited beyond massive oak doors, their carved three-headed dragon glaring with ruby eyes that pulsed in the torchlight. The murmur of voices seeped through, a tangle of condolence and conspiracy, the court gathered to mourn Viserys and to probe the shifting currents of Rhaenyra’s imminent reign. Aemond’s violet eye narrowed, the sapphire in his empty socket—veiled by a lock of silver hair—glinting coldly as he paused at the threshold. His omega scent flared—jasmine and ember, sharp with irritation—as he steeled himself for the spectacle within: the courtiers’ veiled glances, the whispers of his shame, the weight of a marriage that bound him like dragonfire-forged chains.

He shoved the doors open, the groan of ancient wood drowned by the swell of noise, and stepped into the hall. The vast chamber was a sea of black and crimson, lords and ladies in mourning silks, their faces masks of piety and ambition. Iron chandeliers hung from the vaulted ceiling, their candles dripping wax onto the polished marble floor, pooling like blood. The Iron Throne loomed at the far end, its jagged blades dull in the candlelight, a silent sentinel to the power soon to pass to Rhaenyra. Aemond’s gaze swept the room, his posture unyielding, a dragon among vipers, his omega scent a challenge that dared the court to meet his eye.

Then he saw them.

Near a cluster of Velaryon banners—sea-green silk embroidered with silver seahorses—stood Lucerys Velaryon, heir to the Driftwood Throne, returned from three years at sea. He was no longer the trembling boy Aemond remembered, all faltering bravado and wide-eyed fear. The sea had forged him into something sharper, stronger, his shoulders broad and unyielding, his face carved with angular lines that spoke of storms endured and battles won. His dark hair, no longer cropped but grown long, fell in loose waves below his chin, the strands catching the candlelight with a glossy sheen, framing his sharp jaw and dark eyes. His cloak, heavy with salt and rain, was flung back to reveal a doublet of deep indigo, its silver threading glinting like waves under moonlight. His alpha scent—salt and cedar, now potent and unyielding, tempered by steel and sea—rolled through the hall like a tide, commanding attention, asserting dominance without a word.

Beside him stood Jacaerys Velaryon, his eldest brother, the omega heir to Dragonstone. Jacaerys was a vision of Targaryen grace, his dark hair braided loosely, his black mourning tunic clinging to a lean, elegant frame. His omega scent—sweet honeysuckle and warm amber, soft yet piercing—mingled with Lucerys’s alpha notes, creating a heady, cloying wave that struck Aemond like a fist. The two were locked in a fierce embrace, Jacaerys’s arms wrapped tightly around Lucerys’s shoulders, his face pressed into the curve of his brother’s neck, a soft laugh escaping his lips as Lucerys murmured something low and intimate. The sight—their closeness, the way Lucerys’s hand rested possessively on Jacaerys’s waist, his long hair brushing Jacaerys’s cheek—twisted something in Aemond’s gut, a nausea that surged sharp and bitter, fueled by the overwhelming clash of their scents.

Aemond’s omega scent flared—jasmine and ember, a wildfire laced with rage—as he strode forward, his boots echoing against the marble, slicing through the court’s murmur. The crowd parted before him, their whispers trailing like smoke, their eyes darting between the omega prince and the Velaryon brothers. Aemond’s violet eye burned, his jaw clenched, the sapphire socket glinting faintly as he stopped a few paces from Lucerys and Jacaerys. The air crackled, the mingled scents—jasmine and ember, salt and cedar, honeysuckle and amber—clashing like blades in a duel.

“Husband,” Aemond called, his voice a low, velvet purr, the word dripping with mockery and venom, loud enough to ripple through the hall. The title hung heavy, a gauntlet thrown, a reminder of the vows forged three years ago in a sept reeking of wax and betrayal. His lips curled into a sardonic smile, his omega scent pulsing—jasmine and ember, a challenge that dared Lucerys to answer.

Lucerys’s head snapped up, his dark eyes locking onto Aemond’s with a steadiness that hadn’t existed three years ago. He released Jacaerys, his hand lingering briefly on his brother’s arm, his long hair shifting as he turned, the strands catching the light like dark waves. Jacaerys stepped back, his honeysuckle-amber scent softening as he glanced between them, his expression a mix of unease and curiosity. The hall fell silent, the courtiers’ whispers stilled, their gazes fixed on the confrontation unfolding before the Iron Throne.

Lucerys’s lips curved into a slow, deliberate smile, sharp and subtle, a blade cloaked in silk. “Aemond,” he said, his voice smooth and rich, carrying the cadence of the sea, each syllable honed to provoke. “My omega, come to welcome me after so long.” His alpha scent surged—salt and cedar, now laced with a commanding edge, a wave of pheromones that crashed over Aemond like a storm tide, pressing against his senses, urging submission. It was a calculated display, a mark of a true alpha who had mastered his power, wielding it like a weapon forged in the heart of the sea.

Aemond’s knees wavered for a heartbeat, his omega instincts flinching under the alpha pheromones before his will slammed down, his violet eye blazing with defiance. His omega scent flared—jasmine and ember, a wildfire burning hotter in response, refusing to yield. The nausea churned, fueled by Lucerys’s overpowering scent, Jacaerys’s cloying sweetness, and the lingering traces of Aegon—smoke and spiced wine, sex and sweat—that clung to his skin, unmistakable to an alpha’s honed senses. Lucerys’s smile widened, his dark eyes glinting with knowing amusement as he stepped closer, his boots silent on the marble, his alpha scent intensifying, wrapping around Aemond like a chain.

“You’ve been… occupied, I see,” Lucerys murmured, his voice low and intimate, meant for Aemond alone, though the courtiers strained to catch it. His gaze raked over Aemond, lingering on the faint bruises at his throat, the disheveled silver hair, the flush still staining his pale cheeks. “The scent of my uncle clings to you like a second skin. Did Aegon tire of his whores to keep you warm in my absence? Did Aegon find you more diverting than his usual fare to mark you so thoroughly?” The words were velvet-wrapped steel, a subtle mockery that sliced at Aemond’s pride, his omega status, the scandal of his defiance. The alpha pheromones pulsed again, stronger now, a pressure that made Aemond’s breath hitch, his omega scent wavering—jasmine and ember, flickering under the weight of Lucerys’s dominance.

Aemond’s hand twitched toward the dagger at his belt, his violet eye narrowing to a slit, the sapphire socket glinting coldly as he forced himself to stand taller, his omega scent surging—jasmine and ember, a dragon’s roar that refused to be subdued. “Careful, husband,” he hissed, the word laced with venom, his voice low and lethal, cutting through the haze of pheromones. “You’ve been at sea too long if you think your scent alone can bring me to heel. I’m no mare to be broken.” His lips curled into a sneer, his bruised fingers flexing, the ring on his hand catching the candlelight—a chain he wore but never chose.

Lucerys tilted his head, his long hair shifting, the dark waves framing his sharp features as his smile held, cool and unyielding. “No mare.” he agreed, his voice deceptively soft, his dark eyes gleaming with a challenge. “A dragon, perhaps. But even dragons tire of fighting the tide.” He stepped closer, close enough that Aemond could feel the heat of his body, the overwhelming force of his salt-and-cedar scent, now laced with a subtle, mocking triumph. “Three years, Aemond, and still you wear my ring. Still you carry my name. Tell me, does it burn as much as you pretend it does?” His alpha pheromones surged again, a relentless wave that pressed against Aemond’s resolve, urging his omega instincts to yield.

The courtiers murmured, their whispers a low hum that rippled through the hall, their eyes darting between the alpha heir and the omega prince. Jacaerys shifted, his honeysuckle-amber scent spiking with unease, his hand brushing Lucerys’s arm as if to pull him back, but Lucerys ignored him, his focus locked on Aemond, his alpha pheromones a crushing force that made Aemond’s head swim, his omega instincts clawing at his control.

Aemond’s breath came shallow, his violet eye blazing with a fire that refused to gutter, his omega scent pulsing—jasmine and ember, a wildfire that burned through the nausea, through the weight of Lucerys’s dominance. “You mistake me for someone who bends. You reek of salt and bravado, but you’re still the boy who fled from me. Mock me again, husband, and I’ll make you choke on that scent before the night is out.” he snarled, his voice low and fractured, each word a blade aimed at Lucerys’s composure. “You may be heir to Driftmark, but you’re still the boy who fled from me. Keep your pheromones, your taunts. They’re nothing to a dragon’s fire.” He stepped forward, closing the distance, their scents clashing—jasmine and ember against salt and cedar, a storm of fire and sea that made the air crackle.

Lucerys held his ground, his smile sharpening, his alpha scent unwavering, a testament to the man he’d become. “We’ll see, Aemond,” he said, his voice a low promise, his dark eyes glinting with something dangerous—resolve, desire, retribution. “The funeral comes. The coronation follows. Plenty of time to test that fire of yours.” He leaned in, just enough that his breath brushed Aemond’s ear, his long hair grazing Aemond’s cheek, his alpha pheromones spiking one final time, a wave that nearly buckled Aemond’s knees. “Welcome me properly next time, husband. I’d hate to think you’ve forgotten your vows.”

He stepped back, his smile cool and controlled, turning to Jacaerys with a nod, his hand resting briefly on his brother’s shoulder as they moved toward the gathered Velaryon retinue. His long hair swayed with the motion, a dark cascade that caught the candlelight, a silent taunt as he walked away. The courtiers erupted into whispers, their eyes following Aemond, who stood rooted to the spot, his omega scent flaring—jasmine and ember, a wildfire that burned hotter for the challenge. The nausea lingered, a bitter aftertaste of Lucerys’s overpowering scent, Jacaerys’s sweetness, and the humiliating truth of Aegon’s mark on him, but Aemond’s violet eye gleamed with a cold, unyielding promise.

Let Lucerys wield his alpha pheromones like a conqueror, let him mock with that sea-honed tongue. Let the court watch, let Rhaenyra’s reign begin. Aemond Targaryen was no omega to be subdued, no prize to be claimed. He was a dragon, and dragons did not bow—not to the sea, not to vows, not to the weight of a ring that burned like a brand. The funeral would be a stage, the coronation a battlefield, and Aemond would meet Lucerys there, his fire ready to burn the heir of Driftmark to ash.

Chapter Text

The Hill of Rhaenys rose like a grieving titan beneath a sky bruised with sorrow, its jagged flanks veiled in a cold, clinging mist that drifted among the mourners gathered for King Viserys Targaryen’s funeral pyre. This ancient height, sacred to their blood, bore the blackened scars of centuries—stone seared by dragonflame, soil enriched with the powdered bones of kings. Black banners edged in crimson hung sodden and motionless, their three-headed dragons drooping as though the realm itself seemed to bow. At the summit waited the pyre: towering cedar and oak slick with pitch, draped in midnight silk that stirred only when the wind remembered to breathe. Upon its crest rested Viserys’s crown, rubies and emeralds dulled by the pallid light, as if even the stones refused to shine. Beneath the crown lay the king—small, wasted, wrapped in crimson velvet—already half-claimed by shadow.

The air was thick with wet earth, myrrh, and the coming bite of smoke, all of it threaded through with the restless tangle of alpha, beta, and omega scents: grief sharpened to a blade, ambition coiled like smoke, desire flickering beneath mourning black.

Aemond Targaryen stood at the pyre’s foot, straight and unyielding as drawn steel. His mourning robe—black silk worked with silver dragonscales—drank the gloom, the embroidery catching stray glimmers of mist like distant stars. An emerald circlet weighed upon his brow; a matching silver ring glinted on his finger, both cold reminders of a marriage he wore like an open wound. His scent—jasmine laced with smoldering ember—cut through the mist, fierce and defiant, a wildfire daring the rain to try its luck. Long silver hair was bound in a severe warrior’s braid, though defiant strands clung to his sharp cheekbones. One violet eye burned; the sapphire in the empty socket flashed coldly whenever the mist shifted. Beneath silk and scales, bruises throbbed—dark blossoms left by Aegon the night before—each pulse a secret anchor keeping fury from spilling over.

To his left stood Lucerys Velaryon, eighteen years carved by salt and storm into something harder than the boy Aemond remembered. Broad shoulders filled a cloak of sea-green and silver, seahorses worked in thread that caught what little light dared trespass. Dark hair fell in loose waves to his jaw, framing a face honed sharp: high cheekbones, stubborn mouth, eyes the color of deep water hiding reefs. His alpha scent—salt, cedar, and steel beneath—rolled forward in steady waves, clashing against Aemond’s fire until the air itself seemed to spark. The twin silver ring on Lucerys’s hand gleamed whenever he moved, a quiet, relentless claim.

Beside him, Jacaerys Velaryon—omega heir to Dragonstone—wore black worked with subtle crimson flame. His dark braid had begun to unravel; damp curls clung to tear-streaked cheeks. His scent—honeysuckle and warm amber—rose soft and piercing, weaving intimately with Lucerys’s until the two notes became one aching chord of shared grief.

The court formed a dark ring: Rhaenyra in severe black, violet eyes fixed on her father’s shroud; Alicent apart in defiant green, knuckles white; Aegon swaying at the edge, goblet tilting, scent of smoke and spiced wine drifting like a taunt.

Lucerys turned from the pyre and pulled Jacaerys into his arms without hesitation, as though the watching court were only fog. Jacaerys folded against him at once, fingers clutching sea-green wool, breath hitching on a broken sob. Lucerys’s long hair brushed his brother’s cheek as he pressed gentle kisses to forehead and temple—simple, fierce, unashamed. “He’s at peace now, Jace,” he murmured, voice low enough to carry over the wind yet soft enough to feel private. “The Stranger took him gently. We’ll carry his fire, you and I, through every storm to come.”

Jacaerys nodded against his shoulder, scent flaring sweet and raw. The court watched; some averted eyes, some stared openly, whispers rising like steam.

Aemond’s jaw locked. The sight twisted in his gut like a knife—Lucerys’s effortless tenderness, Jacaerys’s willing surrender—everything Aemond had sworn never to give or accept. Worse, Aegon’s scent still clung to his skin beneath the robe, unmistakable to any alpha nose. Nausea surged, hot and humiliating.

He stared at the pyre until the image burned away, nails biting half-moons into his palms.

Lucerys released Jacaerys only long enough to turn toward him. Dark eyes met violet without flinching. Alpha scent sharpened—salt and cedar edged with deliberate challenge.

“Husband,” Lucerys said, voice smooth as tide over stone, “you stand so silent, like a shadow among flames. Does the fire not call to you, as it does to us?”

The words slid under Aemond’s ribs like heated steel. For one heartbeat his knees threatened to dip; instinct flared, hot and treacherous. Then will slammed down, iron and dragonbone.

“The fire calls,” Aemond answered, voice low, sweet omega cadence wrapped around venom. “But it’s not your sea-soaked platitudes I hear, husband. Save your kisses for your brother—they’re wasted on me.”

Jacaerys stiffened, amber scent spiking with unease. Lucerys’s smile did not waver; it only grew thinner, sharper.

“Wasted?” he echoed softly. “I wonder, Aemond, what it is you crave, if not comfort. The scent of my uncle lingers on you still—does his fire burn hotter than mine?”

Gasps rippled outward; courtiers leaned forward like crows scenting carrion. Aemond’s hand twitched toward the dagger beneath his cloak, then stilled.

“You mistake defiance for desire,” he said, each word precise as a blade drawn across whetstone. “Your scent may drown the air, but it’ll never drown me. Mock me again, Lucerys, and I’ll show you what a dragon’s fire can do.”

Lucerys tilted his head, dark hair shifting like spilled ink. “A dragon’s fire,” he repeated, almost gentle. “I look forward to it, husband. The coronation awaits—plenty of time to test that flame.”

He turned away, guiding Jacaerys toward Rhaenyra, leaving Aemond alone with the rising heat and the roar in his blood.

The septon’s voice rose and the wind fought a losing battle as Rhaenyra stepped forward. Tears glittered on her lashes, yet her hand did not shake.

“Father,” she said, clear and unbroken, “you were the peace of our realm, the fire of our blood. You bound us in love, in duty, in dragonfire. We send you to the heavens as our ancestors before you, with the flame that forged our house.”

She lifted her gaze to Syrax. “Dracarys.”

The golden queen bellowed—a sound that cracked the sky—and a torrent of liquid fire poured forth. Cedar exploded into roaring gold; silk flashed to ash; crown and corpse alike vanished in a heartbeat beneath the dragon’s kiss. Heat blasted across the hill, driving mourners back a step, searing lungs, turning mist to steam.

Aemond did not move.

Smoke coiled upward, black and serpentine, carrying the last king of peace into a sky already gathering for war.

Aemond’s body moved before thought could catch it. He turned toward Lucerys as though pulled by an invisible thread, violet eye fluttering shut against the sight of his father’s shroud curling into glowing ash. Heat rolled over him in waves, mirroring the blaze in his veins, yet the true grief (sharp, unexpected) cracked open something behind his ribs. Viserys was gone: the king who had pitied him, who had chained him, who had never once seen the dragon beneath the omega skin. The loss struck harder than he expected, a silent wound bleeding fire.

His scent flared—jasmine and smoldering ember—raw, unguarded, carrying grief and fury in equal measure. For one treacherous heartbeat his body leaned, seeking the salt-and-cedar solidity beside him, craving the comfort biology screamed was his by right. Lucerys felt it; dark eyes flicked sideways, catching the tremor involuntary shift, the tremor in Aemond’s clenched fists. Something softened in the alpha’s face (recognition, perhaps, or the same cruel pity Viserys had worn). His arm tightened around Jacaerys, but his gaze lingered on Aemond, measuring the distance between them, weighing the urge to reach across it.

He did not. Jaw flexing, Lucerys turned back to his brother instead.

Jacaerys’s sobs had grown ragged. He pressed his face harder into Lucerys’s chest, tears soaking sea-green wool. “He’s gone, Luke,” he whispered, voice cracking like thin ice. “He’s really gone. How do we go on without him?”

Lucerys’s answer was immediate, lips brushing damp curls. “I know, Jace. I know. We’ll carry him with us, in every beat of our hearts, in every flame we kindle. You’re not alone—I’m here, always.”

The words were meant only for Jacaerys, yet they struck Aemond like thrown stones.

Something inside him snapped taut and broke. The pyre’s roar became a distant thunder; the world tilted. Scents collided—Lucerys’s relentless salt and cedar, Jacaerys’s choking honeysuckle, the ghost of Aegon’s smoke still clinging to his skin, the faint trace of Glendon Goode’s cedar-and leather from nights he refused to regret—until the air itself felt too thick to breathe. Dizziness surged, sudden and merciless. His knees buckled.

He turned blindly, robe flaring like a banner of surrender he would never claim, and staggered down the slope. Ash clung to his boots; the ground seemed to rise and fall beneath him like the deck of a storm-tossed ship. Whispers chased him—sharp, delighted, poisonous—but he could no longer separate voices from the blood pounding in his ears.

Ten steps. Twenty. The hill’s edge blurred. His hand groped for balance and found only smoke.

The world narrowed to heat and darkness, and then the earth rushed up to meet him.

He never felt the impact—only the sudden, shocking absence of everything: fire, grief, salt-scented arms that had not reached for him after all.

Strong arms locked around him an instant before the ground could claim him. Aemond sagged against a wall of muscle and heat, the world tilting back into balance as a familiar scent—woodsmoke, worn leather, and sharp Riverlands pine—cut through the choking haze.

Davos Blackwood.

The alpha’s grip was iron beneath velvet, one arm banded across Aemond’s back, the other clamped around his upper arm, holding him upright as though he weighed nothing. Dark, wind-tousled hair brushed Aemond’s cheek; a scarred face filled his wavering vision, hazel eyes fierce with worry and something older, hotter.

“Easy, my prince,” Davos said, voice low and rough as river stone. “I’ve got you.”

Aemond’s knees still trembled, but the spinning slowed. He drew a ragged breath, jasmine-ember flaring wild and mortified against the steady wash of woodsmoke that now wrapped him like a cloak. The court’s stares burned into his back; he felt Lucerys’s gaze like a harpoon between his ribs.

“Let me go,” he hissed, though his fingers betrayed him, knotting hard in blood-red wool and damp leather.

“Not yet,” Davos answered, calm, immovable. His thumb swept once across Aemond’s cheekbone, brushing away a tear the omega had not permitted. “Breathe. The fire took the king, not you. Not while I stand here.”

Across the smoke, Lucerys had gone rigid. Salt-and-cedar surged, sharp with possession, eyes narrowed to slits as he watched another alpha cradle what the law called his. Jacaerys lifted his head, confused, whispering, “Luke?” but Lucerys did not answer; his stare stayed locked on Davos’s hands, on the way Aemond—pale, shaking, furious—leaned into them anyway.

Rhaenyra’s gaze flicked over, dragonfire scent flaring once in warning, then away again. The court’s whispers rose like a tide.

Aemond straightened by slow degrees, pride dragging him upright even as his body still borrowed Davos’s strength. His voice, when it came, was quiet steel. “I don’t need your pity.”

Davos’s mouth curved, no mockery in it, only certainty. “Never pity, my prince. Only what was freely sworn, in blood and fire and nights you refuse to name.” His hand settled between Aemond’s shoulder blades, warm, claiming, defiant. “Dragons don’t fall. Not on my watch.”

The pyre roared behind them, gold and crimson and merciless, but in the small circle of woodsmoke and leather Aemond breathed again, held upright by an alpha who had never asked him to kneel, and hated himself for how desperately he needed it.

Lucerys took one stride forward, cloak snapping like a sail in a sudden squall. Salt-and-cedar rolled off him in a dark, furious wave, crashing against Davos’s woodsmoke.

“Aemond,” he said, voice low, edged with the hush before a storm breaks. “You’d let another hold you, here, before the court, before me?”

Aemond’s eye flashed open, violet and lethal. He straightened in Davos’s arms as though the words had poured steel into his spine.

“You hold your brother, husband,” he answered, soft, deadly, every syllable dripping venom. “I hold my own strength, wherever I find it. Question me again, and you’ll taste a dragon’s fire before the coronation dawns.”

Jacaerys’s fingers tightened on Lucerys’s sleeve, honeysuckle scent spiking with alarm, but Lucerys only stared, jaw locked, the tide inside him rising and rising until it seemed it must break. Then, with visible effort, he dragged his gaze away and folded Jacaerys close once more.

The reprieve lasted only a heartbeat.

The world tilted again. Aemond swayed; the pyre blurred into molten gold. Jasmine-ember flared wild, frantic, then guttered. His knees folded, silver hair spilling forward like spilled moonlight, and he fell.

Davos caught him first, arms locking tight. “Aemond!”

Lucerys was already moving. He tore free of Jacaerys and crossed the space in three long strides, cloak whipping behind him.

“Move,” he snarled at Davos, the single word a growl that promised violence.

Davos’s eyes flicked to the oncoming storm, weighed his odds, and stepped aside, though his hands lingered a moment longer than necessary before releasing his prince.

Lucerys swept Aemond up as though the omega weighed nothing, cradling him against his chest. One arm supported his back, the other cradled his head, fingers threading gently through the loosened braid until silver strands spilled over sea-green wool.

“Aemond,” he whispered, voice rough now, stripped of challenge and full of something raw. “You’re mine, husband, by word, by ring, by fire. Come back to me.”

Salt-and-cedar poured over the unconscious omega, steady, relentless, wrapping him like the tide around a half-buried blade. Aemond’s scent answered faintly, jasmine flickering once, defiant even in darkness, before settling into the cradle of Lucerys’s arms.

The pyre roared on, indifferent. The court watched, breathless. And Lucerys stood in the heart of the firelight, holding his unyielding, unbroken dragon as though the entire realm could burn before he let go.

The court closed in like a ring of ravens, black cloaks rustling, whispers rising sharp and hungry over the pyre’s roar. Dragon cries wheeled high above the smoke, mournful and distant, while every scent in the realm—grief, triumph, lust, fear—knotted together into something thick enough to choke on.

Jacaerys clung to Lucerys’s side, trembling. “Luke, is he—?”

Lucerys shook his head once, eyes never leaving Aemond’s pale face. Salt-and-cedar rolled from him in steady, claiming waves.

Rhaenyra stood motionless before the flames, violet gaze cutting across the scene. Syrax’s golden bulk loomed behind her, embers glowing in the dragon’s throat like captive stars. A single pulse of dragonfire-and-iron scent rippled outward—silent, absolute command. The court stilled.

Lucerys shifted Aemond higher against his chest and lifted his chin. “Ser Criston.”

The Lord Commander stepped through the smoke, white cloak streaked with ash. “My lord.”

“Clear the path to the Keep. My husband needs the maester—now.”

Criston’s eyes flicked to the unconscious omega, then back. “It will be done.” He snapped an order; spears angled outward, carving a corridor through the press of bodies.

Lucerys turned to the nearest squire—a wide-eyed boy half-hidden behind a banner. “You. Run ahead. Tell Grand Maester Gerardys to ready his chambers and his strongest restoratives. No detours, no gossip. Go.”

The boy bolted, cloak flapping like startled wings.

Jacaerys’s fingers dug into Lucerys’s sleeve. “Luke, let me come with you. He’s family, even if—”

“Stay with Mother,” Lucerys said, softer but immovable. “She needs one of us steady while the vultures circle. I have him.”

Jacaerys searched his face, eyes bright with unshed tears, then nodded once and stepped back.

Lucerys adjusted his grip, cradling Aemond closer. Silver hair spilled over sea-green wool; jasmine-ember, faint and flickering, answered the steady tide of salt-and-cedar that poured from his skin.

Without another word he started down the hill, the path parting before him like water before a ship’s prow, the pyre’s heat at his back and an unconscious dragon in his arms.

Davos Blackwood remained at the edge of the circle, unmoving, black-and-blood doublet dark with mist. His gaze stayed riveted on Aemond’s limp form, hazel eyes burning with a promise no law could erase. Woodsmoke curled from him once more (brief, deliberate), then subsided beneath a curt nod to Lucerys. Message sent, message received. He would wait.

Lucerys turned down the hill without looking back.

The guards closed ranks around him, steel ringing soft and steady, carving a silent path through ash and whispers. Firelight slid over Aemond’s face (high cheekbones, bruised shadows beneath closed lids, silver hair spilling like molten moonlight across Lucerys’s arm). Salt-and-cedar poured steady and warm, swallowing every foreign trace until only the two of them remained: sea carrying fire.

Behind them the court seethed, but the sound faded with every step. Syrax’s final roar rolled across the bay like distant thunder; the pyre cracked and sighed, sending fresh sparks heavenward.

Lucerys’s thumb found the faint, frantic pulse at Aemond’s wrist and stayed there, counting heartbeats the way sailors count stars. The Red Keep rose ahead, gates already yawning wide, torchlight spilling crimson across wet stone.

He bent his head until his lips nearly brushed the omega’s ear.

“You’ll burn again, husband,” he said, voice low, fierce, meant for no one else. “Brighter than any pyre. And I’ll be the one standing in the flames with you, whether you curse me for it or not.”

The wind snatched the words and carried them upward, mingling smoke with salt, jasmine with cedar, as the heir of Driftmark bore his unconscious dragon home.

______________

The Red Keep’s corridors swallowed them whole, torchlight bleeding crimson across stone as Lucerys carried Aemond deeper into the fortress. Boots and armor rang in disciplined cadence, yet every echo seemed to pulse with Lucerys’s scent alone: salt and cedar, fierce, unapologetic, claiming the very air. Guards flanked him like silver shadows, spears angled outward, but none dared crowd too close. In his arms Aemond lay light as a drawn blade, silver hair spilling loose, black silk robe shimmering with every shift of torch-glow. Jasmine-ember clung to him, faint, stubborn, refusing to gutter even now.

Lucerys did not look away from his husband’s face. He counted each shallow breath, felt each weak flutter of pulse beneath his thumb, and whispered against the shell of Aemond’s ear, “Stay with me. You’re too fierce to fade like this.”

The maester’s chambers welcomed them with warmth and the sharp bite of herbs. Candles guttered on every shelf; glass vials simmered over low flames, releasing coils of steam that curled like dragon smoke. Bundles of lavender and sage hung from the rafters, their scent almost strong enough to mask the wildfire rolling off the cot in waves.

Aemond’s single violet eye snapped open the instant linen touched his back.

He lay framed by candle-glow and spilled silver hair, robe parted just enough to reveal the pale column of his throat and the dark blossoms of bruises beneath collarbones. Sweat gleamed on sharp cheekbones; lips curled in immediate, arrogant disdain. Jasmine-ember exploded through the room, raw and aggressive, scorching the air until the candles themselves seemed to bow.

Lucerys stood at the bedside, cloak still clasped at his throat, sea-green wool stark against the chamber’s amber light. Salt-and-cedar answered the challenge at once, steady, relentless, rolling forward until the two scents collided and sparked like flint on steel.

Aemond’s gaze cut to him, violet and venomous, pride blazing brighter than any fever. The silver ring on his finger caught the light—cold, mocking, unbreakable.

Lucerys’s hands flexed at his sides, knuckles whitening. Three years of oceans between them, three years of rumors and rival scents clinging to his husband’s skin, three years of a marriage lived more in absence than presence—and still the sight of Aemond weak, defiant, breathtakingly alive, slammed into him like a broadside.

Neither spoke. The room itself seemed to hold its breath, herbs and candle-smoke and warring pheromones thick enough to taste.

Outside, the pyre still burned on the hill. Inside, dragon and tide faced each other across a narrow cot, the space between them crackling with everything they had never said.

The Red Keep’s corridors swallowed them whole, torchlight bleeding crimson across red stone as Lucerys carried Aemond deeper into the fortress’s heart. Boots struck flagstone in measured cadence, guards’ armor chiming soft escort; every scent of the outer world fell away, leaving only salt-and-cedar pouring from Lucerys like a living tide, claiming the air.

He did not pause until the maester’s chambers closed around them.

Warm candle-glow, crushed lavender, simmering tinctures. Shelves groaned beneath jars and ancient tomes; a scarred oak table stood sentinel in the center. On the wide cedar cot lay Aemond, black robe parted just enough to reveal the pale column of his throat, silver hair fanned across linen like spilled starlight. Sweat gleamed on sharp cheekbones; bruises shadowed the skin beneath one blazing violet eye. Jasmine-ember flooded the room—raw, defiant, edged with nausea and fury—scorching the herbal haze until the very candles seemed to gutter.

Lucerys stopped at the bedside, cloak settling in heavy folds. Salt-and-cedar surged again, answering the wildfire with storm-tide strength. His hands flexed, knuckles whitening against the urge to touch.

Aemond’s gaze snapped to him—one violet eye bright with contempt and challenge, lips thinned to a blade.

The silence stretched, thick enough to cut.

Then Aemond spoke, voice low, venom-sweet.  
“Enjoying the view, husband? Or did you carry me here just to gloat over a dragon brought low?”

Lucerys’s jaw flexed. He leaned in until the candlelight carved harsh shadows across both their faces.

“I carried you,” he said, quiet, lethal, “because no one else ever will. Not Blackwood. Not Aegon. Not whatever nameless alpha left bruises on your throat. Mine.”

Aemond’s eye narrowed, jasmine flaring hotter.  
“Yours?” A bitter laugh, soft and cutting. “You were at sea three years, husband. The ring on my finger grew cold while you chased horizons. Do not mistake absence for ownership.”

Lucerys’s hand rose—slow, deliberate—until his fingertips hovered a breath from Aemond’s cheek.  
“Then let it burn again.” His voice dropped to a rough murmur meant only for the omega beneath him. “I’m here now. And I’m not leaving.”

The air crackled—fire against tide, jasmine against cedar—neither yielding, both refusing to look away, while the candles burned lower and the Keep held its breath around them.

The maester’s chambers breathed warmth and sharp herbs, candle-flames trembling in the draft from a single arched window. Lavender, sage, simmering moonbloom, and old parchment hung heavy in the air, yet none could blunt the wildfire that suddenly scorched the room.

Aemond lay on the cedar cot, silver hair spilled like molten moonlight across crisp linen, black robe parted just enough to bare the pale column of his throat and the faint, unmistakable curve beneath it. One violet eye blazed open, sweat beading on alabaster skin, bruises blooming dark beneath sharp cheekbones. Jasmine-ember erupted—raw, vicious, edged with nausea and pure dragon arrogance—until the candles themselves seemed to shrink.

Lucerys stood over him, sea-green cloak heavy with the scent of salt and cedar, shoulders rigid, knuckles white.

Grand Maester Gerardys’s hands moved with practiced calm, pressing gently beneath the mourning robe. Aemond jerked away, snarling, “Don’t.”

The old man withdrew but did not flinch. “My prince,” he said softly, “you carry a child. Early yet, but unmistakable.”

The words struck like dragonfire.

Lucerys froze, alpha scent exploding into a storm. “A child?” His voice cracked low, lethal. “Whose is it, Aemond? Not mine—not after three years.”

Aemond’s eye narrowed to a slit, sapphire socket glinting cold. Silence was his only answer, jasmine flaring hotter, defiant.

Gerardys’s voice cut gently through the blaze. “I can brew moon tea, my prince. It would end the pregnancy, spare you the burden, and protect your health. It is your choice.”

Lucerys seized the offer like a drawn blade. “Do it,” he commanded. “Brew the moon tea, Maester. For Aemond’s health, for the realm, for… us.”

Aemond’s lips curled into a vicious sneer. “No,” he spat, voice velvet-wrapped venom. “I don’t want the child, but I’ll not drink your tea, Maester—not when it’s his will.” He jerked his chin at Lucerys. “You think you can command me? Erase my choices with a cup of bitter herbs because they don’t suit your pride? I’d rather carry this child to term and let the realm choke on their scandal than bend to you.”

Lucerys’s jaw locked, salt-and-cedar surging like a breaking wave. “You’d risk your health, your honor, for spite? This child isn’t mine, Aemond, and you know it. You’d let it grow, let it tear you apart, just to defy me? You’re a dragon, not a fool.”

Gerardys lifted a staying hand, beta scent steady as stone. “My lords, please. Prince Aemond, your health is my concern, as is the child’s, should you choose to carry it. Moon tea is but one option, and no choice will be forced upon you—not by me, not by anyone. You must rest. I’ll prepare chamomile and valerian. The decision can wait until you’re stronger.”

Aemond sank back, exhaustion dragging at him, but his eye never left Lucerys. “Brew your tincture, Maester,” he murmured, low and lethal. “But know this, Lucerys—I’ll choose my path, not you. Push me, and you’ll find a dragon’s fire burns hotter than your sea can bear. I’ll not be your tide-tamed omega, not now, not ever.”

Lucerys stepped back, fists unclenching by sheer will. “Rest, Aemond,” he said, voice rough with storm-held fury and something perilously close to fear. “We’ll settle this when you’re stronger. But I’ll not let you burn alone—not now, not ever, no matter how fiercely you fight me.”

Gerardys turned to his mortar, grinding herbs with quiet purpose. The chamber held its breath—lavender and valerian rising, jasmine and cedar locked in silent war—while outside the Red Keep the pyre’s embers cooled and the coronation waited like a drawn sword.

Chapter Text

The queen’s solar was a sanctuary of opulent confinement, its lofty ceilings adorned with frescoes of intertwining vines and blooming roses, their colors faded by time yet vibrant enough to cast an illusion of life across the cold stone. The artistry seemed to strangle the air, each painted petal a silent witness to the storm brewing within the chamber. Tall, arched windows of stained glass lined the eastern wall, their kaleidoscope of sapphire, emerald, and ruby fracturing the morning sunlight into a mosaic of restless colors that danced across the polished marble floor. The patterns clashed with the raw tension that pulsed in the room, their beauty a cruel contrast to the ugliness of the confrontation unfolding. A carved rosewood table stood at the center, its surface gleaming under the weight of a silver tray laden with untouched delicacies: a crystal decanter of Dornish red, its surface beaded with condensation; a bowl of dark grapes, their skins taut and glistening like amethysts; and a platter of honeyed figs, their sweetness cloying in the heavy air. The faint clink of the decanter against its tray was the only sound beyond the labored breaths of mother and son, a fragile note in a symphony of unspoken rage.

The air was thick with Alicent’s omega pheromones—lavender and incense, a scent that wove softness with an unyielding edge, like a prayer whispered over a blade. It carried the weight of her authority, her desperation, her fear, but it was nearly drowned by Aemond’s omega scent a wildfire that scorched the room with its defiant intensity, its heat a tangible force that seemed to shimmer in the fractured light. The clash of their scents was a battlefield, each note vying for dominance, filling the solar with a tension that pressed against the skin like a storm about to break.

Aemond stood near the table, his posture rigid, a blade forged in fury and pride. His black mourning robe clung to his lithe frame, its dragon-scale embroidery catching the stained-glass light in iridescent glints, each thread a testament to the Targaryen legacy he both claimed and scorned. His silver hair, once tightly braided, now hung loose in tangled strands, spilling over his shoulders like molten starlight, framing a face pale as moonstone. The bruises beneath his violet eye were stark, dark smudges that spoke of sleepless nights and reckless defiance, while the sapphire socket where his left eye once sat gleamed coldly, a permanent reminder of the price he’d paid for his pride. The silver ring on his finger, twin to Lucerys’s, caught the light with a mocking glint, a chain he wore but refused to bow to. His omega scent pulsed fierce and untamed, laced with a raw aggression that dared the world to challenge him. His hands trembled faintly, betraying the exhaustion that gnawed at his bones, but his posture remained a study in haughty certainty, his chin lifted, his violet eye blazing with a dragon’s unyielding fire.

Alicent sat in a high-backed chair of ebony and velvet, its cushions embroidered with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen, a symbol that seemed to mock the fracture of their family. Her green silk gown pooled around her like a gathering storm, its folds catching the light in soft ripples, a deceptive calm over the fury that simmered within. Her auburn hair was pinned in a severe knot, but errant strands had escaped, curling wildly about her face like tendrils of smoke, betraying the agitation she fought to conceal. Her hands gripped the armrests, her knuckles blanched white, the nails biting into the polished wood until faint crescents marred its surface. Her green eyes, sharp and unyielding, burned with a fury tempered by a mother’s anguish, their depths glistening with unshed tears she refused to let fall. Her omega scent—lavender and incense—surged, a commanding wave that sought to smother Aemond’s fire, its softness a veil over the steel of her resolve, yet trembling with the vulnerability of an omega who had fought too long to hold her family together.

“You shame us all,” Alicent began, her voice low and deliberate, each word a stone hurled with precision, honed by years of courtly warfare. “Pregnant, Aemond, and not by your husband. Do you comprehend the ruin this will unleash? The court’s whispers are already a venom, spreading through the Red Keep like wildfire. By the time Rhaenyra’s coronation dawns, they’ll have torn us to shreds.” Her lips pressed into a thin line, her gaze locked on Aemond, searching his pale face for some crack in his defiance, some sign that he understood the weight of his actions.

Aemond’s lips curled into a vicious sneer, his violet eye narrowing to a slit, the sapphire socket glinting like a frozen star. “The court’s whispers are an old song, Mother,” he retorted, his voice a velvet blade, smooth but edged with venom that dripped like poison. “They’ve feasted on our blood since I was a child, gnawing at every misstep, every scar. Why should I care for their hunger now?” His omega scent spiked a dragon’s roar that filled the room, its heat a defiance that refused to bow. “You stood silent when Father bound me to Lucerys, a boy half my age, a child who could never match my fire. You let me be sold like chattel, and now you dare judge the freedom I’ve clawed back?” He stepped forward, his boots striking the marble with a sharp, deliberate cadence, his cloak snapping behind him like a stormcloud trailing in his wake.

Alicent’s face tightened, her eyes flashing with an omega’s scorn, her scent sharpening with the biting edge of incense. “Freedom?” she spat, rising from her chair in a fluid motion, her skirts rustling like a blade drawn from its sheath. “You call this freedom, Aemond? Bedding half the realm in your reckless defiance, leaving a trail of scandal that threatens to choke us all? You carry a bastard’s child—Aegon, that Blackwood lord, a Kingsguard, or some nameless alpha you took to spite us. Do you even know whose it is?” Her voice rose, sharp and accusing, each word a lash that sought to cut through his arrogance. Her omega pheromones surged, pressing against Aemond’s senses, a desperate bid for control that trembled with her own vulnerability, her fear for the house she’d fought to uphold.

Aemond’s hands clenched into fists, his nails biting into his palms until blood welled beneath the scabs, the sharp sting grounding him against the storm of her words. “I know my choices,” he snarled, his voice low and lethal, each syllable a spark that threatened to ignite the room. “I chose to take back what this world would strip from me—my body, my will, my fire. None of you can claim that, not you, not Lucerys, not the gods themselves.” His violet eye burned, a defiant flame that dared her to push further, its amethyst depths glinting with a pride that bordered on madness. “You call it shame? I call it power—the power to defy a world that would see me kneel.” His omega scent flared, a wildfire that roared against her accusations, its heat a tangible force that seemed to shimmer in the air.

“Power?” Alicent’s voice cracked, a near-shriek that shattered the solar’s fragile calm, echoing off the stone walls like the toll of a bell. She closed the distance between them in three swift steps, her hands trembling with a fury that seemed to consume her. “You call this power? Dragging our house into the muck, parading your sins before the court like a banner? You’re a prince, Aemond, a Targaryen—not some tavern whore to spread your legs for any alpha who catches your eye!” Her words were venom, each one a lash that struck deeper than steel, and Aemond’s breath hitched, his arrogance faltering for a fleeting moment, a crack in the obsidian wall of his pride.

“Don’t,” he growled, his voice low and dangerous, his omega scent spiking with a mix of panic and resolve, its ember notes sharp enough to sting. “You don’t get to chain me with your words, Mother. You, who let Father barter me like a prize mare, who stood by while he shackled me to a boy who could never understand me. You speak of shame? Look to your own silence, your own complicity.” He stepped closer, his violet eye boring into hers, the sapphire socket a cold, unyielding void. “You’ve spent your life bending, Mother, twisting yourself to fit their decrees. I’d rather burn than live as you do.”

Alicent’s face twisted, her fury erupting like a storm breaking over Blackwater Bay. “You ungrateful wretch!” she screamed, her voice raw with anguish and rage, her omega scent—lavender and incense—flaring with a desperate intensity that trembled in the air. Her hand lashed out, seizing Aemond’s arm with a grip that belied her omega frame, her nails digging into his skin through the robe’s sleeve until red welts bloomed beneath the fabric. She yanked him forward, her strength fueled by years of suppressed rage, and shoved him hard against the rosewood table. The impact sent the silver tray rattling, the decanter tipping to spill Dornish red across the wood in a dark, arterial stain, the wine pooling like blood at Aemond’s feet. “I fought for you!” she roared, her voice cracking under the weight of her desperation, tears spilling down her cheeks, carving tracks through the powder on her face. “I begged Viserys to spare you this match, to protect you from this fate, but you—you spit on every sacrifice with this—this abomination in your womb!”

Aemond stumbled, his hip bruising against the table’s edge, the pain a sharp jolt that grounded him in the chaos. His omega scent flared a wildfire that roared against her assault—but his violet eye widened, a fleeting crack in his defiant facade. “Sacrifice?” he hissed, shoving himself upright, his silver hair falling across his face like a shield, its strands clinging to his sweat-damp skin. “Your sacrifices are chains, Mother. You’d have me kneel, broken and tame, to save your precious house. I’d rather burn it all down than live as your puppet.” His voice trembled with fury, but beneath it was a thread of pain, a wound reopened by her words, her touch, her judgment.

Alicent’s breath came in sharp, ragged gasps, her eyes wild with an omega’s desperation, her lavender and incense scent trembling with the weight of her anguish. “You’ll burn us all with you,” she whispered, her voice breaking, a fragile thread stretched to its limit. Her fury surged anew, and her hand lashed out, cracking across Aemond’s face with a resounding slap that echoed off the stone walls. The force snapped his head to the side, a red handprint blooming on his cheek, stark against his pale skin, his silver hair falling across the mark like a curtain of starlight. She didn’t stop, her hands seizing his shoulders, shaking him with a violence that rattled his teeth, her nails digging into the mourning robe until the fabric tore at the seams. “You think you’re a dragon?” she screamed, her voice fracturing into shards, tears streaming down her face, her omega scent pulsing with a raw, vulnerable edge. “You’re a fool, Aemond—a reckless, selfish fool who’ll drag us all to ruin with your pride!”

Aemond’s breath hitched, his body going still as death, the sting of her slap burning on his cheek like a brand. His omega scent pulsed, a raw, vulnerable edge cutting through the wildfire, but his violet eye blazed with a cold, unyielding promise. “Touch me again,” he said, his voice a low, lethal growl, each word deliberate and final, “and you’ll see a dragon’s fire, Mother. I’ll not be your pawn, nor Lucerys’s, nor anyone’s.” He shoved her hands away with a sudden burst of strength, his bruised fingers trembling as he stepped back, putting the table between them, his posture radiating a haughty certainty despite the tremor in his limbs. The spilled wine dripped onto the floor, its scent mingling with the lavender and jasmine, a bitter note in the air.

Alicent’s chest heaved, her hands trembling as she stared at him, her green eyes flickering with rage, fear, and a mother’s broken love. Her omega scent faltered, lavender and incense receding into a weary resignation, but her resolve held firm. She turned abruptly, her skirts sweeping the marble as she crossed to a small side table near the window, where a silver chalice rested beside a vial of dark liquid. The chalice was ornate, its surface etched with delicate filigree, but the liquid within was unassuming—a murky green, the moon tea she had prepared in secret, its scent bitter and herbaceous, cutting through the solar’s sweetness. Her hands shook as she lifted the chalice, the liquid sloshing faintly, and placed it on the rosewood table with a deliberate clink, the sound sharp in the heavy silence. “Drink it,” she said, her voice low and trembling, each word a plea cloaked in command. “End this, Aemond. Spare us the scandal, the ruin. You don’t want this child—not truly. Let it go, and reclaim your place before it’s too late.”

Aemond’s violet eye flicked to the chalice, the sapphire socket glinting coldly as he registered the moon tea’s presence. His omega scent spiked, laced with a raw, aggressive edge—as a storm of emotions churned within him. The child was a consequence of his rebellion, a life he had no desire to nurture, its father a mystery that gnawed at his pride—Aegon, Davos, Glendon, or the nameless alpha, a tangle he could not unravel. He had no love for the babe, no wish to carry it to term, to face the court’s whispers and the realm’s judgment. Yet the sight of the chalice, placed there by his mother’s hand, ignited a spark of defiance in his chest, a dragon’s pride that refused to bend to her will, to the chains she sought to tighten around him. His gaze snapped to Alicent, his lips parting in a silent snarl, but the weight of her words, her tears, her broken desperation, pressed against him like a tide.

For a long moment, he stood frozen, the air thick with their clashing scents, the chalice a silent sentinel between them. His violet eye darted back to the moon tea, its surface catching the stained-glass light in a faint, sickly shimmer. The truth was a blade in his gut: he didn’t want the child, had never wanted it, but to drink under her command felt like surrender, a betrayal of the fire that defined him. Yet the alternative—carrying the child, letting it grow, letting the scandal consume him—was a chain he could not bear. His pride warred with his exhaustion, his defiance with the hollow ache of his own choices, and slowly, agonizingly, the balance tipped.

With a sharp exhale, Aemond reached for the chalice, his bruised fingers wrapping around its cold silver, the filigree biting into his skin. His omega scent flared, a defiant spark that refused to gutter—as he lifted it to his lips, his violet eye locked on Alicent, burning with a cold, unyielding promise. “This isn’t for you,” he said, his voice a low, venomous whisper, each word a vow etched in wildfire. “This is for me—for my fire, my will. You’ll not claim this choice as yours.” He tilted the chalice, the moon tea’s bitter tang flooding his senses, its herbaceous bite sharp against his tongue. He drank deeply, the liquid sliding down his throat like a blade, each swallow a deliberate act of defiance, a reclamation of his autonomy even in this moment of capitulation. The chalice emptied, and he slammed it back onto the table with a resounding clink, the sound echoing like a final judgment.

Alicent’s breath caught, her green eyes widening as she watched him drink, her omega scent—lavender and incense—faltering, a storm receding into a fragile calm. Her hands unclenched, falling to her sides, her shoulders slumping as the weight of his choice settled over her. “Aemond,” she whispered, her voice trembling, a mother’s anguish breaking through her fury. “You’ve done the right thing—for once. But it doesn’t erase what you’ve done, what you’ve brought upon us.”

Aemond’s lips twitched, a bitter smile that held no warmth. “The right thing?” he echoed, his voice soft but sharp, a blade sliding home. “I’ve done what suits me, Mother, not you. Let the court whisper, let the realm choke on their scandal. I’ll burn brighter than their judgment, and you’ll see it consume them all.” He turned, his cloak snapping behind him as he strode toward the door, his boots striking the marble with a relentless cadence, each step a declaration of intent. The silver ring gleamed faintly, a chain he wore but did not bow to, a vow he’d never honor.

Alicent sank back into her chair, her hands covering her face, her shoulders trembling with silent sobs. The solar’s rainbow light dimmed as clouds passed over the sun, casting the room in shadow, the air heavy with the aftermath of their clash. The chalice stood empty on the table, its filigree glinting dully, a silent testament to Aemond’s choice. His omega scent lingered, a defiant flame that refused to gutter, a dragon bound by chains but never broken. The coronation loomed, a battlefield where his actions would ignite a war, and the Red Keep held its breath, waiting for the fire to consume them all. 

-----------------

The heavy oaken door of the queen’s solar slammed shut behind Aemond with a thunderous crash, its iron-banded weight sending a shudder through the stone corridors of the Red Keep. The sound echoed like a war drum, a hollow pulse that reverberated in his ears and matched the gnawing emptiness blooming in his chest, a void carved by the confrontation with his mother and the bitter choice he had made. His boots struck the flagstones with a relentless, almost mechanical cadence, each step a defiance against the pain he knew was coming, the black mourning robe trailing behind him like a stormcloud, its dragon-scale embroidery catching the flickering torchlight in iridescent glints that shimmered like the scales of Vhagar herself. The silver ring on his finger, twin to Lucerys’s, burned against his skin, its cold metal a mocking reminder of vows he had scorned, a chain he wore but refused to honor. His omega scent pulsed with a defiant heat, a fiery undercurrent that masked the faint tremor beginning to coil in his core, the first whisper of the storm he had unleashed within himself. The moon tea’s bitter tang clung to his tongue, its herbaceous bite sharp and unyielding, a prelude to the agony he knew would soon consume him. He had claimed this choice, seized it as an act of rebellion, but its weight now pressed against him, a blade poised at his throat, its edge gleaming with inevitability.

The corridors of the Red Keep twisted and turned, a labyrinth of shadow and stone that seemed to close in around him, their tapestries of ancient Targaryen conquests—dragons soaring over burning fields, their flames rendered in threads of crimson and gold—blurring past his vision as he moved toward his chambers. The air grew cooler, the torchlight dimmer, the sconces casting long, wavering shadows that danced across the walls like specters of his lineage, watching, judging. A slow, insidious burn was rising within him, a pain that began as a dull ache in his abdomen and spread through his veins like molten iron, searing his nerves with each heartbeat. His steps faltered, a sharp pang slicing through his lower belly, sudden and vicious, forcing him to brace a hand against the cold stone wall, its rough surface biting into his palm. His breath hitched, his omega scent sharpening with a raw, vulnerable edge that he despised, and he gritted his teeth against the pain, his violet eye narrowing to a slit, its amethyst depths glinting with a dragon’s unyielding fire. The sapphire socket where his left eye had once been gleamed coldly, a silent witness to his struggle, its polished surface reflecting the torchlight like a frozen star. He forced himself to straighten, his pride a shield against the weakness threatening to claim him, his silver hair falling across his face like a curtain, shielding him from the world. He would not falter here, not in the open where servants or guards might see, where their whispers could ignite anew, feeding the court’s ravenous hunger for scandal.

The journey to his chambers felt endless, each step a battle against the growing agony that clawed at his insides. By the time he reached the heavy door, carved with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen, the pain had deepened, a relentless vise that gripped his uterus and twisted, each wave more punishing than the last, a brutal reminder of the life he had chosen to end. He shoved the door open, the iron hinges groaning under the force, and staggered inside, slamming it shut with a violence that rattled the candelabras, their flames flickering wildly in the sudden draft. The room was a sanctuary of shadow, its heavy velvet curtains drawn tightly against the morning light, casting long, oppressive shadows across the furnishings: a canopied bed draped in black and crimson silks, its posts carved with coiling dragons; a polished ebony table strewn with scrolls, quills, and a half-melted candle, its wax pooled like blood; and a brazier glowing faintly in the corner, its embers smoldering with a sullen heat that did little to warm the chill in the air. The room smelled of old parchment, wax, and the faint, acrid tang of smoke, but Aemond’s omega scent overwhelmed it, its heat now laced with a sharp, panicked note as the moon tea’s effects took hold, a storm breaking within his body.

He stumbled to the bed, his cloak falling in a crumpled heap on the floor, its dragon-scale embroidery glinting dully in the dim light. He collapsed onto the edge of the mattress, his hands clutching at his abdomen, fingers digging into the black robe as if he could tear the pain away. The agony was a living thing, clawing at his insides with talons of fire, each contraction a searing jolt that ripped through his core, a brutal testament to the choice he had made. His breath came in short, ragged gasps, each inhale a struggle, each exhale a soft, involuntary moan he couldn’t suppress. Sweat beaded on his pale brow, trickling down his temples, matting his silver hair to his moonstone skin, its strands clinging like damp starlight. The bruises beneath his violet eye stood out starkly, dark smudges that spoke of sleepless nights and reckless defiance, while the sapphire socket pulsed with a cold, mocking light, as if it mocked his vulnerability. His omega scent surged, a raw cry that filled the room, its defiance undercut by the agony that threatened to break him.

The door creaked open, a faint sound that cut through the haze of pain like a blade, and Aemond’s head snapped up, his violet eye blazing with a volatile mix of fury and shame. A young handmaid, Lysa, slipped inside, her brown eyes wide with concern, her plain woolen gown rustling softly as she moved. Her face was pale, her lips pressed into a thin line, but her hands were steady, clutching a metal box etched with simple runes and a stack of thick linen towels, their edges frayed from years of use. Her omega scent—soft chamomile and honey—was a faint, soothing presence, a gentle counterpoint to the storm raging within Aemond, though it did little to ease the fire in his veins. “My prince,” she said, her voice trembling but resolute, honed by years of service in the Red Keep’s unforgiving halls. “The queen sent me. She said you’d… need this.” She hesitated, her gaze flickering to the floor, a flush of unease coloring her cheeks, then lifted the metal box, its contents glowing faintly with the heat of embers packed within, their warmth radiating through the iron.

Aemond’s lips curled into a sneer, his pride flaring despite the pain that wracked him, a dragon’s defiance that refused to bow even now. “The queen’s mercy,” he spat, his voice a low, venomous rasp, each word dripping with bitter irony, sharp enough to cut. “She’d have me tended like a wounded beast, as if her hands are clean of this.” His violet eye burned, daring Lysa to meet his gaze, but she kept her eyes lowered, her deference a shield against his wrath. He wanted to send her away, to bear this agony alone, to let the pain consume him as punishment for his choices, a fire he had kindled himself. But another contraction seized him, sharper and more vicious than before, and he doubled over, a choked groan tearing from his throat, raw and unbidden. His hands clawed at the bed linens, twisting the crimson fabric into knots, and his omega scent spiked, a desperate note that filled the room, a cry he could not silence.

Lysa moved quickly, her training overriding her fear, her movements precise despite the tension in her shoulders. She knelt beside the bed, setting the metal box on the floor with a soft clink and layering the towels over it, their thickness muffling the heat but allowing its warmth to seep through, a careful balance to soothe without burning. “Lie back, my prince,” she urged, her voice gentle but firm, her chamomile scent a faint anchor in the chaos that enveloped him. “The compress will help. It’ll ease the pain, draw the blood. You must let it work.” Her hands hovered, hesitant to touch him without permission, her brown eyes searching his face for consent, a flicker of compassion in their depths that Aemond both resented and clung to in his vulnerability.

His violet eye burned, a dragon’s defiance warring with the exhaustion that gnawed at his bones, a battle between pride and the relentless agony that threatened to break him. He wanted to refuse, to cast her out, to let the pain be his alone, a crucible to forge him anew. But the agony was a tide, unyielding and merciless, and his strength was waning, each contraction sapping the fire that defined him. With a sharp, reluctant nod, he relented, easing himself back onto the bed, his movements sluggish, each shift a burden that made him sweat and gasp, his breath hitching in his throat. Lysa carefully lifted the layered compress, its warmth radiating through the towels like a distant hearth, and placed it gently across his lower abdomen, her touch light but steady. The heat was immediate, a searing relief that battled the icy grip of the contractions, penetrating the inflamed muscles with a warmth that was both comfort and torment. Aemond’s breath hitched, his body tensing as the heat sank into him, then slowly relaxing as the pain shifted, its edges blunted by the compress’s steady warmth.

The compress was heavy, its weight pressing against the inflamed muscles, coaxing the blood to flow, and with it came a fresh wave of pain, sharper and more focused, as his body began to expel the remnants of his choice. Each contraction was a blade, slicing through his core, and Aemond’s hands gripped the bed linens, his knuckles white, his nails biting into his palms until blood welled beneath the scabs, its coppery tang mingling with the metallic scent of the blood now staining the linens beneath him. Sweat poured from his brow, soaking his silver hair, its strands clinging to his sweat-slick skin like damp starlight, and his omega scent pulsed with a raw, vulnerable edge, a cry that filled the room, mingling with the acrid tang of blood and the faint smoke from the brazier. His breath came in shallow, labored pants, each exhale a soft moan he couldn’t suppress, and moving became a torment, his limbs heavy as lead, his body a traitor to his will, betraying the dragon’s fire he had always claimed.

Lysa worked quietly, her hands steady despite the weight of her task, adjusting the compress with a practiced touch, replacing towels as they cooled, her chamomile scent a faint balm against the storm of Aemond’s pain. She murmured soft reassurances, her voice a low hum that blended with the crackle of the brazier, a gentle litany to anchor him in the chaos. “Breathe, my prince,” she whispered, her tone soft but certain. “The heat will help. It’s working, drawing it out. You’re almost through.” Aemond barely heard her, his world narrowed to the fire in his abdomen, the searing weight of the compress, the relentless ebb and flow of agony that marked each contraction. The moon tea was thorough, its effects brutal, and the blood came steadily now, a dark, heavy flow that soaked the linens, pooling beneath him in a warm, sticky tide that left him lightheaded, his vision blurring at the edges, the room tilting in and out of focus.

Time lost all meaning, the hours stretching into an eternity of pain, sweat, and blood, each moment measured by the rhythm of his suffering. Aemond’s violet eye drifted half-closed, its amethyst depths dulled by exhaustion, and the sapphire socket glinted dully in the dim light, a cold, unyielding reminder of the prices he had paid. His omega scent faltered, its heat dimming to a smoldering ember as his strength waned, though a defiant spark remained, a flicker of the dragon that refused to be extinguished. Lysa remained at his side, her presence a quiet anchor in the storm, her hands deft as she tended to him, cleaning the blood with gentle efficiency, refreshing the compress with fresh towels, offering sips of water when his lips grew parched, their cracked surface stinging with each swallow. “It’s almost done, my prince,” she whispered, her voice a lifeline in the haze. “The worst is passing. You’re strong—stronger than this.”

Aemond’s lips twitched, a ghost of his earlier sneer, a faint echo of the defiance that had carried him through the solar’s confrontation. He wanted to tell her she was wrong, that strength was a lie, that this pain was a chain he had forged himself, a punishment for his rebellion, his pride, his refusal to bend. But the words wouldn’t come, lost in the haze of exhaustion that enveloped him, a fog that dulled his senses and weighed his limbs like iron. The compress’s heat was a constant now, a lifeline that drew the pain outward, easing the contractions to a dull, throbbing ache, though each pulse was a reminder of the hollow space within him. The bleeding slowed, the linens no longer soaking through, and Aemond’s breaths grew steadier, though each one was a labor, his chest heavy with the weight of his choice, the loss he had chosen to bear.

As dawn broke, its pale, watery light seeping through the cracks in the velvet curtains, Aemond lay still, his body spent, his silver hair fanned across the pillow like a halo of starlight, its strands damp and tangled. The compress had cooled, its embers long since faded to ash, and Lysa carefully removed it, folding the bloodied towels with a practiced hand, her movements quiet to avoid disturbing him. She rose, her chamomile scent lingering faintly in the air, a soft counterpoint to the metallic tang of blood and the faint smoke from the brazier. She bowed her head, her brown eyes soft with compassion. “Rest now, my prince,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper, carrying the weight of her duty. “I’ll tell the queen it’s done.” She slipped from the room, the door closing softly behind her, its faint creak swallowed by the silence that settled over the chamber.

Aemond stared at the canopy above, its crimson folds blurring in his vision, their intricate embroidery of dragons and flames fading into a haze. The hollow ache where the child had been pulsed within him, a void that was both loss and liberation, a wound he had chosen to inflict. His omega scent stirred faintly, a defiant spark that refused to die, though it was tempered now, a flame banked by pain and exhaustion, its heat subdued but unextinguished. The silver ring gleamed on his finger, its cold metal a chain he wore but would never bow to, a vow he had scorned and would continue to defy. His violet eye burned with a cold, unyielding promise, its amethyst depths glinting with the fire of a dragon forged anew in the crucible of his own suffering. The coronation loomed on the horizon, a battlefield where his choices would ignite a war, where his defiance would burn brighter than the court’s judgment. For now, he lay still, his body a vessel of pain and pride, the Red Keep holding its breath around him, waiting for the flames to reignite, for the dragon to rise once more.

Chapter Text

The corridor beyond Aemond Targaryen’s chambers was a sepulcher of silence. The Red Keep seemed to tread softly, wary of the storm brewing within its omega prince. No guards’ boots rang against the flagstones, no maids darted through with hushed gossip, no torches flared with their restless dance. 

Stone walls, polished by centuries of whispered plots, stood sentinel. Their iron sconces cradled low flames, casting wavering shadows that writhed like ghosts across the cold floor. The air hung heavy, laced with iron and melted wax, bracing for the chaos coiled within Aemond’s chambers.

Aemond had not bled since dawn. The moon tea’s brutal alchemy had scoured him hollow, a vessel emptied by fire and pain. Yet he had risen, unyielding, to face the morning’s small council. 

His jaw clenched through the lords’ droning voices, their veiled barbs glancing off his obsidian pride. His violet eye, sharp as Valyrian steel, met each gaze unflinching. The sickly pallor clung to his moonstone skin, yellowing bruises bloomed at his jaw, and gray shadows pooled beneath his eyes.

In the training yard, his sword had been a fleeting anchor. Each swing was a rebellion against the ache gnawing at his womb, defying the body that sought to betray him. He had bound his ribs tightly, braided his silver hair with care, and donned a green silk tunic, its dragon-scale embroidery glinting like Vhagar’s hide. 

His sword belt was fastened with hands that refused to tremble. Nothing could change—not publicly. Not while Rhaenyra’s brood dined in the Keep’s halls, their eyes probing for fractures in his will.

Now he sat by the hearth, its embers smoldering with a sullen glow. The faint light did little to warm the chill seeping from the stone walls. His boots, unlaced and streaked with mud, lay discarded, their leather creased from restless pacing.

His black wool cloak pooled on the floor like a stormcloud, its hem frayed. The chamber was a battlefield of disarray. Crimson and black silks twisted on the unmade bed, mirroring the turmoil in his blood. 

An ebony table bore wine-stained letters, their parchment curling like dying leaves. A half-melted candle left wax pooled like congealed blood, its wick faintly smoking. The air was thick with smoke, old parchment, and the echo of last night’s clash with Lucerys—salt and cedar against Aemond’s jasmine and ember, scorched with rebellion.

A faint stain marred his tunic, a ghostly reminder of the blood he had shed. His skin was a map of war: bruises fading to sickly yellow, shadows deepening his face, lips pale and pinched. The sapphire socket where his left eye had been glinted coldly, mocking his fragility.

His omega scent pulsed, a defiant flame against the ache in his core. Its jasmine and ember notes burned with unyielding will. The silver ring, twin to Lucerys’s, gleamed dully, a vow he scorned.

He leaned forward, elbows on knees, silver hair falling loose, half-veiling his violet eye. That eye burned with a dragon’s fire. His scabbed hands twitched, fury simmering beneath his haughty posture, a dragon coiled, unyielding.

A sharp knock shattered the silence. The heavy oaken door groaned as Rhaenyra Targaryen stepped in without waiting. “May I?” she asked, her tone light but commanding, her foot already on the flagstones.

She was a vision of war cloaked in mourning. Her night-black gown, edged with blood-crimson, bore dragon embroidery curling like Valyrian blades. Her silver-gold braid coiled like a crown, errant strands catching the firelight in molten glints.

Her scent—cherrywood and roses, laced with steel—rolled through, a tidal wave challenging Aemond’s wildfire. Her alpha pheromones sparked a tension that crackled like lightning. Her violet eyes swept the room, noting the bed, letters, and blood-stain, then fixed on Aemond, unbowed.

“You’ve already stepped in,” Aemond muttered, venom in his drawl. He remained seated, posture coiled, like a dragon on its hoard. His violet eye lifted, sapphire socket glinting coldly. “Ask your questions and go.”

Rhaenyra’s lips curved into a razor’s smile. “Is that how you greet your queen?” she said, voice edged with steel. The door closed softly, swallowed by the chamber’s silence. “Or merely your kin?”

Aemond’s silence was a weapon, his violet eye unblinking, burning coldly. His fingers curled around the chair’s armrests, wood creaking. “Speak plainly, sister,” he said, his words lethal, sparking the air. “I’ve no patience for games.”

Rhaenyra moved with predatory grace, pausing behind an ebony chair. Its dragon embroidery was claimed by her touch. “You’ve had a long week, Aemond,” she said, her tone sharp. 

“The pyre for our father, the court’s scheming, your condition—it’s marked you.” Her gaze flicked to his tunic’s stain, his bruised jaw, his pallor. It was a scalpel, peeling back his defenses.

Aemond’s jaw tightened, but he held her stare, unyielding. “And you came to offer condolences?” His tone dripped scorn, his scent spiking, clashing with her cherrywood and roses. His fingers twitched, yearning for the sword across the table.

“Hardly,” Rhaenyra replied, her voice a velvet blade. She stepped closer, claiming the space, the air taut with their wills. “Lucerys left this room yesterday, shaken, his salt-and-cedar scent soured with fear.”

“He wouldn’t speak, but I know you, Aemond.” Her alpha pheromones surged, pressing for submission he’d never give. “I know the storm you carry, the blade you wield with words, and where you aim its wrath.”

Aemond’s lips curled into a sneer, his violet eye narrowing. “He’s sensitive,” he spat, each word a jab. “A child playing alpha, crumbling under sharp words. Not my fault he’s weak.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes darkened, her scent sharpening with steel. “Sensitive?” she echoed, low and dangerous. “You think you can crush him to soothe your wounds? Lucerys is mine—my son, my heir. I don’t take kindly to anyone bruising what’s mine.”

Aemond flinched, a catch in his breath, his jaw tightening. Her words struck deep, stirring shame beneath fury. The ring burned against his finger, a vow scorned.

“Yours,” he snarled, rising too fast, pain lancing his side. A grimace crossed his pale features, but he gripped the chair, knuckles white. “You parade him as heir while I’m shackled to a weakling. Look to your own house before lecturing me on pain.”

Rhaenyra’s inhale was sharp, her composure unwavering. Her scent surged, a storm tide crashing against him. She closed the distance, their faces inches apart, scents clashing—fire against steel.

“I don’t care if your body’s breaking,” she whispered, lethal. “I don’t care if you’ve lost what you thought to wield. That pain is yours, Aemond. But you will not turn it on Lucerys—not with words, hands, or fire. Not ever.”

Her words cut like a blade, his breath hitching, pain flaring. He gripped the chair, nails biting wood, splinters drawing blood. “You think to command me?” he snarled, voice fracturing. “Your crown gives you no power over me.”

“You mistake me,” Rhaenyra said, her voice a velvet vow. “This is a warning.” She stepped closer, eyes level, dragon against dragon. “Touch Lucerys again, and I’ll gut you like a traitor before the court.”

Aemond’s chest heaved, fury consuming him. His body betrayed him—pain, tremors, the ache pulsing. The silence stretched taut, filled by the hearth’s crackle and their ragged breaths.

Rhaenyra held his gaze, her pheromones a relentless tide. Then she stepped back, regal, fingers tracing the chair’s dragon scales. “Don’t mistake pain for permission,” she said, calm but final.

“We all bleed, Aemond. Some survive, forging strength from shards. Others drown, clawing at shadows.” She turned, her gown sweeping the flagstones, silver-gold hair catching firelight.

“Choose wisely, brother,” she whispered, her scent lingering—cherrywood, roses, steel. “You’re not untouchable—not anymore.” Rhaenyra’s final words hung in the air, sharp as Valyrian steel. The oaken door closed behind her with a silence that echoed louder than any slam, swallowed by the chamber’s oppressive weight. Her scent—cherrywood and roses, edged with steel—lingered, a fading challenge to Aemond’s own embered jasmine.

Aemond stood rigid, jaw clenched, his violet eye fixed on the door’s three-headed dragon carving. The legacy it represented bound him like a chain he vowed to shatter. Pain seared his side, a pulse matching the fury roaring in his chest. His hands trembled once before clenching, nails biting into scabbed palms, drawing blood.

The Red Keep seemed to hold its breath, its stones waiting for his fire to reignite. The hearth’s embers cast a sullen glow, barely warming the chill seeping from the walls. The room was chaos: crimson silks twisted on the unmade bed, wine-stained letters strewn across the ebony table, a blood-flecked stain marring his green silk tunic.

His omega scent flared, a defiant flame, its jasmine and ember notes sharp with rebellion. The silver ring, twin to Lucerys’s, gleamed dully, a vow he scorned. Beneath his tunic, the stain was a ghost of the moon tea’s brutal work, a reminder of the child he had erased. His skin bore the marks of war: yellowing bruises, gray shadows, a sapphire socket glinting coldly.

Rhaenyra’s warning—I will gut you like a traitor—stoked his tempest, a blade slicing through his pride. With a violent surge, he kicked the ebony armchair. Its frame skidded across the flagstones with a grating screech, cushions tumbling, the dragon embroidery twisting in protest. The impact reverberated through his leg, feeding his wrath.

He turned on the table by the hearth, his boot striking it down with savage force. Parchment scattered like wounded birds, wax splattered, a silver goblet rolled, spilling Arbor red that pooled like blood. The sour tang mingled with smoke, sharp in the air. The act was a roar against Rhaenyra’s steel, Lucerys’s fragility, and his own betraying body.

A vicious pain lanced his abdomen, doubling him over with a ragged gasp. His hands clutched his stomach, nails digging into silk, as if to cage the agony. Blood trickled down his legs, warm and sluggish, staining his black breeches. Its iron scent cut through the haze, the moon tea’s work returning, a cruel echo of loss.

He sank to one knee, silver hair veiling his face. The sapphire socket glinted, his violet eye squeezed shut against the searing pain. His hands gripped the table’s splintered edge, nails drawing fresh blood from wood. His breath came in shallow bursts, each a struggle against the clawing torment.

The blood seeped, a relentless tide whispering fragility, but his resolve held firm. He forced himself upright, movements deliberate, defying the agony that sought to chain him. His hands steadied, fingers curling, blood mingling with fresh cuts. His omega scent surged, a vow etched in wildfire, unyielding.

The room lay in ruin—chair toppled, table overturned, blood pooling—but it was his battlefield. Aemond stood tall, his violet eye burning toward the hearth’s embers, a mirror to the fire in his blood. A clash of his flame against Rhaenyra’s steel and Lucerys’s sea.

The chamber’s silence was a taut thread, ready to snap under the weight of Aemond’s pain. His violet eye burned toward the hearth, its embers a faint pulse against the stone walls’ chill. The air was heavy with the acrid sting of spilled wine and the faint musk of scorched wax, a fragile calm after his storm of rage.

A soft creak broke the stillness, the oaken door easing open. Aemond’s shoulders stiffened, his breath catching as a new scent flooded the room—sandalwood and storm-salt, warm yet edged with a restless energy. An alpha’s presence pressed against his senses, unyielding but not hostile, stirring the air like a gathering squall.

He squeezed his eyes shut, pain clawing at his abdomen, a relentless tide that threatened to unravel him. His knees buckled slightly, the room swaying as he gripped the splintered table for balance. Warm hands found his arms, steady and deliberate, their touch a grounding weight against his trembling frame.

The hands moved, gentle but firm, tracing the taut lines of his forearms, brushing over the bruises marring his pale skin. Fingers grazed his jaw, careful not to press too hard, skimming the yellowing marks of his earlier defiance. Aemond’s breath hitched, the unexpected tenderness a sharp contrast to the agony gnawing at his core.

The alpha guided him backward, steps slow and measured, until the edge of the bed pressed against his legs. Aemond sank onto the twisted crimson silks, the fabric cool against his fevered skin. The hands never left him, one resting on his shoulder, the other cradling his cheek, anchoring him through the haze of pain.

“I’m here, I’ve got you, Aem.” a voice murmured, low and loving, like a tide lapping at a weathered shore. It was a sound that pierced the storm within him, soft yet unyielding, carrying a warmth that made his chest ache with something unspoken. The scent of sandalwood grew stronger, mingling with the faint salt of sea air, wrapping around him like a cloak.

Aemond’s hands clenched the bed linens, nails catching on the silk, grounding him against the pain that pulsed with every heartbeat. The alpha’s touch lingered, a quiet promise that didn’t demand submission but offered solace. His breathing slowed, each exhale a struggle to hold onto his pride, to keep the walls of his heart intact.

The room’s shadows seemed to soften, the hearth’s glow casting a faint warmth across the disarray. The alpha knelt beside him, close enough that Aemond could feel the steady rhythm of his breath. The pain ebbed slightly, a fragile reprieve, but enough to let him surface from the depths of his torment.

He opened his eyes when he felt pressure on his forehead , the violet gaze meeting a pair of familiar brown ones, deep and steady, holding a quiet strength that didn’t falter. The sapphire socket gleamed in the dim light, a silent testament to his scars, but his focus was on the face before him. Aemond’s lips parted, his voice a hoarse whisper, barely audible over the hearth’s crackle. The word hung in the air, fragile yet heavy, as the Red Keep’s walls seemed to lean closer, holding their breath for what would follow.

“Bastard.”

Chapter Text

The Red Keep at night was a labyrinth of whispers and shadows, its silence a heavy, oppressive thing that clung to the ancient stones like damp moss. It was not a kind silence, not a restful one—it was the hush of secrets held too close, of truths buried beneath layers of intrigue and blood. The air itself seemed to hum with the weight of history, the ghosts of old betrayals lingering in the flicker of torchlight.

Lucerys Velaryon moved through the stone corridors like a wraith, his steps light but deliberate, his presence barely disturbing the stillness. His alpha scent, usually a vibrant pulse of salt and cedar, was muted tonight, tamped down to a low, restless hum. It carried an undercurrent of unease, a jagged edge that he couldn’t fully suppress. The confrontation with Aemond earlier that evening still burned in his memory, vivid and raw. Lucerys could still see the bruises marring Aemond’s pale skin, a map of violence etched across his collarbone and ribs, blooming like dark flowers against the alabaster. He could still smell Aemond’s omega scent—jasmine and ember, fierce and alive, crackling with rage and something deeper, something unspoken that had lodged itself in Lucerys’s chest like a splinter.

He told himself he was wandering the halls to clear his head, to think, to let the cool night air dull the ache of that encounter. He told himself he needed the solitude, the space to untangle the knot of emotions that Aemond always seemed to tie within him.

He was lying.

His path had taken him, almost without conscious thought, toward the barracks near the armory, where the stone walls grew colder and the torchlight dimmer. The corridor was narrow here, the air thick with the scent of damp stone and old iron. His boots whispered against the flagstones, the sound swallowed by the vastness of the Keep. Ahead, the faint clink of metal and the low murmur of voices reached his ears, pulling him from his thoughts. Two white-cloaked figures leaned against an archway near the armory stairs, their silhouettes framed by the sputtering glow of a torch. Their voices were low, slurred with ale, but one word sliced through the haze like a blade: Aemond.

Lucerys froze, his body instinctively sinking into the shadows of an alcove. His heart quickened, a primal instinct prickling along his spine, urging him to turn back, to walk away. He should have. He knew he should have. But his feet remained rooted, his breath shallow, as the guards’ words drifted toward him, each one a spark igniting the dry tinder of his temper.

“…tight as the first time, they say,” the first guard, Ser Ronnel, muttered, his voice thick with drink and a cruel amusement. He was a broad man, his white cloak stained at the hem, his face ruddy beneath a scruff of beard. “Not like those other omegas who just lie there, weeping for it to be over. That one’s a fighter. Writhes like he wants it, claws like he doesn’t. Bet even Aegon can’t tell the difference half the time.”

Lucerys’s breath caught, a sharp, painful hitch in his chest. His hands clenched at his sides, nails biting into his palms, but he forced himself to remain still, a statue carved from salt and ice. Fury surged through him, hot and molten, but he held it in check, letting it coil tight within him.

The second guard, Ser Vyland, let out a coarse laugh, the sound grating like gravel underfoot. He was leaner than Ronnel, with a hawkish face and eyes that gleamed with malice. “You’d think an omega like that would be broken by now, wouldn’t you? After all, with his brother rutting him raw one day and parading him like a bride the next. They say he’s carrying Aegon’s brat. Or was it that knight, Ser Glendon? Maybe both. Who can keep track?”

“Wouldn’t surprise me,” Ronnel said, his grin audible in the darkness. “The prince must’ve been knotted more times than a Stormlander hound. And yet, he still walks around with that haughty look, like he’s better than the lot of us.”

Vyland snorted, leaning closer. “They’re married him off to that Velaryon boy, aren’t they? What’s he—fifteen? A green little alpha who thinks he’s a dragon. He’ll be eaten alive. Aemond doesn’t bend, you know. He breaks.”

A silence fell, heavy and thick, broken only by the wet sound of Vyland spitting onto the flagstones. “Dragon or not, he’s still an omega. And all omegas bleed the same—”

The words snapped something inside Lucerys. His control, so carefully maintained, shattered like glass. He stepped into the torchlight, his cloak snapping behind him like the crack of a whip. The guards stilled, their laughter dying in their throats as they turned, expecting a servant or some errant page. Their eyes widened when they saw him.

Lucerys Velaryon, eighteen years old, alpha heir to Driftmark, stood before them, his presence filling the narrow corridor like a storm rolling in from the sea. His dark curls were slightly disheveled, framing a face that was all sharp angles and cold fury. His brown eyes, usually warm, burned with a fire that seemed to draw the torchlight to them, making them glow like polished amber. His alpha scent, no longer muted, surged forward—sharp pine and crushed stone, laced with the salt of the sea, a warning as clear as a drawn blade.

“I heard everything,” he said, his voice low, steady, and deadly. Not a shout. A vow.

Ser Ronnel straightened, his hand twitching toward the hilt of his sword before thinking better of it. “Your Grace,” he began, his tone attempting deference but failing to mask his unease, “we didn’t see you there—”

“You didn’t look for me,” Lucerys cut in, his voice rising like a tide. “Too busy spewing filth about your prince. My husband.”

The word landed like a blow, heavy and final. My husband. It hung in the air, a claim and a challenge, and the guards exchanged a glance, their bravado faltering.

Lucerys took a step forward, his boots ringing against the stone with a deliberate, measured cadence. His scent sharpened, the pine and stone now edged with something colder, more dangerous—like the bite of frost on a blade. “I don’t care if you were drunk,” he said, his voice cutting through the silence. “I don’t care if you thought it was a jest. If I ever hear Aemond’s name on your tongues again, spoken with such venom, such disrespect, I will cut them out and nail them to the gates of this keep as a warning to every man who thinks he can speak of my husband without consequence.”

Ser Vyland’s jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing as he tried to reclaim some semblance of authority. “With all due respect, my lord—”

Lucerys was in front of him in an instant, moving with a predator’s grace. The dagger at his hip was drawn in a blur, the steel glinting wickedly in the torchlight as he pressed it just beneath Vyland’s jaw, the point dimpling the skin without breaking it. The guard froze, his breath shallow, his eyes wide with the sudden realization of his own mortality.

“There is no respect here,” Lucerys said, his voice soft and venomous, each word precise as a surgeon’s cut. “Only insult. Only consequence.”

Vyland’s throat bobbed, but he didn’t dare move. Ronnel stood rigid beside him, his earlier arrogance replaced by a wary stillness.

Lucerys tilted his head, the motion almost casual, but his eyes were unrelenting, burning with a fury that seemed to consume the air around him. “Do you think I’m bluffing?” he asked, his voice a low growl. “Do you think an adult alpha, heir to Driftmark, cannot make good on his threats? Do you think I won’t tear you apart for speaking of Aemond like he’s some tavern whore to be mocked?”

The silence that followed was absolute, broken only by the faint crackle of the torches. The guards didn’t speak. They didn’t dare.

“Speak,” Lucerys commanded, his voice a whipcrack. “Go on. Say another word about Prince Aemond. One syllable. One breath. And you’ll learn exactly what this ‘green little alpha’ is capable of.”

Neither man moved. Neither man breathed.

Lucerys held their gazes for a long moment, the dagger still pressed against Vyland’s throat, his expression unreadable but his eyes alive with a promise of violence. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he stepped back, the blade still gleaming in his hand. He didn’t lower it.

“If the Realm is watching,” he said, his voice cold as the sea, “let them see this: Aemond is not alone. He is not weak. He is not yours to mock, to degrade, to diminish. He is mine. My husband. My dragon. And I will gut the next man who forgets it.”

He sheathed the dagger in a single, fluid motion, the sound of steel sliding into leather echoing in the silence. Without another word, he turned on his heel, his cloak swirling behind him as he strode down the corridor. The silence behind him was thick, brittle, charged with the weight of his words. He didn’t hear the guards breathe again until he was nearly out of sight.

By the time Lucerys turned the corner at the end of the corridor, the Red Keep had begun to breathe again—but not quietly.

The echo of steel and fury still vibrated in the air, a living thing. The stone itself seemed to hum with tension.

Servants who had lingered near the armory stair scattered like doves flushed from a garden wall, wide-eyed and breathless. A handmaiden clutched her skirts and bolted, one hand pressed over her mouth to hold in a gasp or a scream—or maybe a secret. Two linen-boys dropped their bundles, white cloth blooming like wounded ghosts across the cold stone floor, and vanished down diverging halls without a word. Panic, like scent, traveled fast in the Keep.

Someone would run to the Queen.

Someone would whisper to Maester Gerardys.

By sunrise, every corner of court would know: Prince Lucerys Velaryon had drawn steel on the Queensguard.

Lucerys didn’t slow.

He walked with the grace of a sword unsheathed—fluid, sharp, relentless. His boots struck the flagstones in a rhythm that echoed like war drums. The volatile scent of pine and storm-churned salt rolled off him in waves, announcing not just an alpha’s presence, but a warning: do not follow me.

He didn’t care where the servants ran. He didn’t care what they whispered behind their hands or what names they gave him.

Let them speak.

Let them choke on his name.

He had blood in his mouth and fire in his lungs, and his hands—trembling slightly still—ached with the memory of what he'd almost done.

He hadn’t protected Aemond at Storm’s End.

Hadn’t stopped the maiming on Driftmark.

Hadn’t spoken when the whispers first began to curl like vines around the name Targaryen.

But tonight—tonight, he had.

And yet…

The fire inside him didn’t soothe. It burned. A slow, consuming ache under his skin.

Lucerys took the inner stairs two at a time, the narrow spiral spinning dizzyingly upward. Cold sweat clung to the nape of his neck. The stone walls, slick with damp, pressed too close. The torches here were dimmer, older. The Keep's breath shallowed.

Finally, he stopped in front of the familiar oaken door, carved with the Velaryon crest—sea horse. Jacaerys’s chambers.

His hand hovered over the iron latch.

Candlelight flickered from beneath the door, warm and living. For one heartbeat, Lucerys hesitated. He didn’t want to speak. He wanted to collapse. To be held. To be told he hadn’t gone too far.

He pushed the door open without knocking.

Inside, Jacaerys sat at his desk, ink staining the edge of his sleeve, wax cooling on a half-sealed letter. The fire crackled low in the hearth behind him. He looked up the instant the door moved.

“Luke?”

Lucerys stepped in and shut the door behind him in one motion. The lock clicked.

He didn’t speak at first. He stood just inside the threshold, shoulders taut, curls damp with sweat, chest rising too fast. He looked wild. Not like the gentle boy he’d always been. Like a storm dressed in princeling’s clothes.

Jacaerys rose slowly, his brow furrowing, eyes darkening with concern.

“What happened?” he asked carefully. “Is it Aemond?”

Lucerys shook his head—once, sharp. “It’s done,” he said hoarsely. “They won’t speak of him like that again.”

Jace moved around the desk, cautious now, sensing something fragile underneath the fury. “Who?”

Lucerys looked up, and his eyes shone, not with tears, but the glint of restrained violence. “Two white cloaks near the armory. Ronnel. Vyland. Everyone. They were talking about him. About what Aegon did. About his body. His scent. Mocking. Laughing. Like he was filth.”

The words spilled like poison.

Jace went still. His jaw clenched. “What did you do?”

Lucerys gave a breath of laughter—raw and bitter. “I put a dagger under Vyland’s chin. I told them I’d cut their tongues out and nail them to the gates.”

Jacaerys blinked. “Did you mean it?”

Lucerys met his gaze. “I still do.”

Silence stretched between them, thick and alive.

Then Jace nodded, slowly. “Good.”

Lucerys’s eyes widened.

“I don’t want you to lead with cruelty,” Jace continued. “But I do want you to lead. And I would rather fear you with honor than bury you with restraint. You defended your blood. You defended your husband.”

He stepped forward, placing a firm hand on Lucerys’s shoulder. “You did what Father would have done.”

That made something inside Lucerys break, just a little.

“I was shaking,” he whispered. “I still am.”

“That means you’re still human,” Jace said. “You didn’t go too far. You went far enough.”

Lucerys nodded once, eyes flicking toward the fire. “They’re going to tell her. Mother. The servants saw.”

“Let them,” Jace replied. “She won’t scold you. She’ll rage—but not at you. Not for this.”

A soft knock broke the silence. Three distinct raps.

Jace moved instinctively, but Lucerys lifted a hand. “No. I’ll get it.”

He crossed the room. Opened the door.

A young page stood on the threshold, breathless and pale. “Prince Lucerys,” the boy said quickly, voice shaking. “Her Grace… Queen Rhaenyra… she asks for you. In the royal solar. At once.”

Lucerys didn’t flinch.

He nodded once, jaw tight. “Tell her I’m on my way.”

---

The corridors leading to the royal wing of the Red Keep were colder now, as if the stones themselves had absorbed the chill of the night and held it close. The air was heavy, thick with the scent of old wax and iron, and the shadows seemed to coil around Lucerys Velaryon like a velvet noose, tightening with every step. The silence that enveloped the Keep was not the restful hush of sleep, but the taut, expectant quiet of a held breath before a storm. The Queen’s solar loomed ahead, its great carved doors—etched with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen—gleaming faintly in the torchlight. Golden light spilled from beneath them, a warm, deceptive promise of fire that did nothing to thaw the ice in Lucerys’s veins.

The two guards stationed outside the doors stood rigid, their white cloaks pristine but their faces carefully blank. They did not meet his eyes as he approached, their gazes fixed on some distant point in the corridor. One of them, a younger man with a scar above his brow, moved to open the door with a silent nod, his gauntleted hand steady but his posture tense. Lucerys stepped through, the heavy oak groaning shut behind him, sealing him into the chamber with the weight of inevitability.

The solar was a cavern of opulence and power, its walls draped with tapestries depicting the conquests of Aegon the Conqueror, the threads glinting in the firelight like veins of gold. A massive hearth roared at one end, its flames casting flickering shadows that danced across the polished stone floor. The air was warm, scented with myrrh and the faint tang of ink, but it carried an undercurrent of tension, sharp as a blade.

Rhaenyra Targaryen stood at the far end of the chamber, her back to the door, her silhouette framed against the tall, arched window that overlooked the Blackwater. She was not dressed in the silks and velvets of her courtly persona, but in a severe black robe, its edges embroidered with silver dragons that seemed to writhe in the firelight. Her long silver hair was braided tightly down her spine, not in the soft, intricate styles of peace, but in the stark, functional plait of a Targaryen preparing for war. Her hands were clasped behind her, and even from across the room, Lucerys could sense the storm brewing in her stillness.

At the sound of the door closing, she turned.

Her violet eyes, sharp as Valyrian steel, pinned him in place. The firelight caught the planes of her face, highlighting the regal severity of her features—the high cheekbones, the firm set of her jaw, the faint lines of strain that had begun to etch themselves around her mouth. She was every inch the Queen, but there was no warmth in her gaze, only a cold, calculating fury that made the air between them crackle.

Lucerys bowed deeply, his cloak sweeping the floor. “Mother.”

Rhaenyra did not speak at first. She studied him, her eyes raking over him as if searching for some hidden truth in the lines of his face, the set of his shoulders, the way his hands hung at his sides. The silence stretched, heavy and oppressive, until at last she spoke, her voice low and sharp, each word honed to cut.

“I had three different servants come to me in the span of five minutes,” she said, her tone as cold as the wind off the Narrow Sea. “All of them stammering, pale as ghosts, babbling tales of blood and steel and a prince with murder in his eyes. They spoke of a dagger drawn, of threats made against the Queensguard—my Queensguard. Tell me, Lucerys, what madness possessed you to do such a thing?”

Lucerys straightened, meeting her gaze without flinching. His dark curls were slightly damp from the night air, clinging to his forehead, and his brown eyes, usually warm, burned with a quiet defiance. His alpha scent—salt and cedar, sharp with pine—flared briefly, a pulse of emotion he couldn’t fully suppress. “I drew my dagger,” he said, his voice steady but thick with the weight of his anger. “I threatened them. And I meant every word.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes narrowed, her lips pressing into a thin line. “Do you understand what it means to threaten a Queensguard, Lucerys? To draw steel on men sworn to protect this family, this throne? Do you grasp the gravity of what you’ve done?”

“Yes,” he said simply, his voice unwavering.

“And yet you stand here unrepentant,” she snapped, her voice rising, the fury in it no longer contained. “Defiant, as if you’ve done nothing more than scold a servant for spilling wine. Why? Explain yourself, Lucerys, before I decide whether to have you confined to your chambers or worse.”

Lucerys’s jaw tightened, his hands clenching at his sides. He took a breath, forcing himself to hold her gaze, to meet the storm in her eyes with one of his own. “Because they spoke of Aemond like he was a thing,” he said, his voice low at first but growing thicker, rougher with each word. “A scent to be mocked. A body to be used. They laughed about Aegon—about what he’s done, about what they think he’s done. They spoke of Aemond’s body, of who might have… taken him, as if he’s some tavern wench to be bartered and broken. They called him ruined, Mother. They said he was broken. And I couldn’t let it stand. Not again. Not ever again.”

Rhaenyra’s expression did not soften. If anything, her eyes grew colder, her posture more rigid. She crossed the room with slow, deliberate steps, her robe trailing behind her like a shadow. When she stopped, she was close enough that Lucerys could see the faint tremor in her hands, the way her fingers curled as if restraining the urge to strike. Her scent—dragonfire and myrrh, sharp with authority—filled the space between them, overwhelming his own.

“You fool,” she said, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “Aemond’s honor is none of your business. Do you think you’re his savior? His knight? You’re an alpha, Lucerys, and he’s an omega bound to you by a marriage you’ve already tried to escape. You should have let him ruin himself. Let him lash out, let him break, let him bleed if that’s what it takes. You should have waited for him to pull out of this mess himself, not thrown yourself into the fire for him.”

Lucerys’s breath caught, a sharp pain lancing through his chest. “Mother—”

“No,” she cut him off, her voice like a whip. “You listen to me. I have done everything in my power to protect this family, to protect you. I’ve already spoken to the High Septon, Lucerys. I’ve pleaded, bargained, threatened to have this marriage annulled, to free you from this bond that chokes you both. Do you know what that cost me? My pride, my leverage, my standing in this viper’s nest of a court? And yet here you are, playing the gallant protector, drawing steel for a man who doesn’t want your protection, who doesn’t need it.”

Lucerys’s hands trembled, but he forced them to still. “You think I don’t know what this marriage is?” he said, his voice raw. “You think I don’t feel the weight of it every day? I didn’t choose this, Mother, but I chose to stand by him. I chose to defend him because no one else will. Not Aegon, not the court, not even you.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes flashed, and for a moment, it seemed she might strike him. But instead, she reached out, her hand cupping his cheek with a tenderness that was at odds with the fury in her voice. Her touch was warm, but it burned, and Lucerys flinched despite himself.

“You are your father’s son,” she whispered, her voice softening but not losing its edge. “Stubborn, reckless, with a heart too big for this world. And you are mine—my blood, my fire. But you are also a prince, Lucerys, and an alpha. The Realm watches you now, more closely than ever. They watch how you claim your omega, how you wield your power. And they will judge you—not just for your loyalty, but for your restraint. You’ve made a vow, my son. You chose this path when you stood before the court and called Aemond yours. That means protecting him not only from men like those guards, but from the power you hold over him. Even from yourself.”

Lucerys’s throat tightened, his eyes stinging with unshed tears. “I know,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

“No,” Rhaenyra said, her hand dropping from his cheek, her voice hardening once more. “You’re learning. And you’d better learn quickly, because the next time you draw a blade in this Keep, it won’t be just your honor at stake. It will be Aemond’s. It will be mine. It will be the Iron Throne itself.”

She stepped back, her gaze never leaving his. The firelight caught the silver in her hair, making it gleam like molten steel. “Go,” she said, her voice quiet but unyielding. “Think on what I’ve said. And pray that Aemond doesn’t hear of this before you’ve had a chance to make it right.”

Lucerys nodded, his chest tight, his heart pounding. He bowed again, a stiff, formal gesture, and turned to leave. The door seemed heavier now, the air thicker, as if the weight of his mother’s words had settled into the very stones of the Keep.

As he stepped back into the corridor, the shadows closed around him once more, colder and darker than before. But in the silence, he felt it—a faint, lingering trace of jasmine and ember, sharp and alive, as if Aemond himself had passed through these halls only moments before.

Lucerys’s steps faltered, his hand brushing the hilt of his dagger. He didn’t know if Aemond had heard, if he knew. But he felt the weight of that possibility, heavy as a crown, pressing down on him as he disappeared into the night.

Chapter Text

The great hall of the Red Keep shimmered under the gentle caress of dawn, its vast expanse bathed in a warm, amber glow as morning light filtered through towering, lancet windows, their stained-glass panes weaving transient tapestries of ruby, sapphire, and gold across the polished obsidian floor. The ancient stone walls, cloaked in faded hangings depicting Targaryen triumphs—Aegon’s fiery conquest, Jaehaerys’s wise decrees—stood sentinel, their worn threads whispering of a dynasty’s glory and the fragile truce now gripping the court below. The long table, crafted from dark oak and bearing the scars of centuries—knife marks from forgotten feasts, burns from spilled wax—sagged under a feast fit for royalty: golden-crusted barley loaves speckled with caraway, platters of smoked trout glazed with herb-infused oil, bowls of poached pears swimming in spiced claret, and silver pitchers brimming with mulled cider, its cinnamon-and-clove warmth rising in delicate tendrils. Yet the banquet’s richness jarred against a pervasive unease, a silent tempest that stifled the court’s usual banter into a taut, expectant hush, as if a single errant sound might fracture the delicate equilibrium of Rhaenyra’s nascent reign.

Aemond Targaryen sat near the table’s head, his form a study in coiled menace, like a dragon poised on the edge of flight. His emerald silk doublet, embroidered with silver serpents that slithered across his chest, clung to his lithe frame, its refinement a stark foil to the violence etched into his features. A fresh bruise bloomed across his right cheek, its deep indigo edges fanning out like storm clouds, the skin taut and tender against the sharp ridge of his cheekbone. His lower lip, split and raw, gleamed with each measured breath, a vivid testament to a recent, unspoken clash. His silver hair, tightly woven into a warrior’s braid that cascaded like a river of starlight, caught the morning’s glow, yet it did little to soften the severe contours of his face—the high brow, the angular jaw, the single violet eye that burned with a cold, relentless fire. The sapphire socket, where his left eye once resided, flashed with an icy brilliance, a frozen star that seemed to challenge the court to acknowledge his wounds. His omega scent—jasmine laced with the acrid bite of smoldering ash—surged in sharp pulses, a defiant aura that warded off prying eyes and bold tongues alike.

The court heeded the unspoken command, their gazes lowered, their movements restrained. Lords toyed with their trout, forks scraping faintly against porcelain, while ladies lifted goblets with deliberate care, their sips barely wetting their lips. Servants moved with ghostly precision, their footsteps muffled, their hands steady as they poured cider or whisked away untouched dishes. Ser Otto Hightower, his chain of office glinting dully, sat with a diplomat’s practiced calm, his eyes scanning a parchment, though a faint tremor in his fingers betrayed his unease. Ser Criston Cole, stationed near a marble pillar, his Kingsguard cloak stark against the hall’s dimness, surveyed the room with a hawk’s intensity, his gaze skimming past Aemond’s marked face. Aegon, sprawled several seats away, was a caricature of decadence—his burgundy doublet unfastened, his silver hair a disheveled crown, his violet eyes clouded by last night’s excesses as he poked at a pear, its juice staining his cuff. Dowager Queen Alicent, positioned at the table’s far end, sat with unyielding poise, her auburn hair bound in a severe coronet of braids, her green eyes shadowed with grief for Viserys, gone a mere seven days. Her hands, clasped tightly, bore faint marks where her nails had bitten into her palms, and her glance flicked to Aemond, only to recoil, as if his bruises were a silent accusation she could not face.

Queen Rhaenyra, enthroned at the table’s head, presided with a quiet majesty, her black-and-crimson gown a bold emblem of her sovereignty, the Targaryen dragon woven in gold thread across her chest. Her silver hair, adorned with a slender circlet, shimmered like spun moonlight, and her violet eyes swept the hall with a ruler’s weight, though a faint tension in her jaw betrayed the strain of her new crown. The court was hers, Viserys’s death a week ago cementing her rule, yet the absence of open war did little to soothe the undercurrent of discord that simmered beneath the surface, a silent question of fealty in a realm still raw from change.

Lucerys Velaryon, heir to Driftmark, sat to Aemond’s immediate right, his presence a steady beacon amid the court’s disquiet. His dark curls, slightly tousled as if he’d raked his hands through them in restless thought, framed a face carved with youthful resolve, his brown eyes holding a restrained intensity, shadowed by the memory of the previous night’s confrontation in the Red Keep’s torchlit corridors. His alpha scent—salt and cedar, sharpened by a crisp pine edge—flowed in measured waves, a calming force that seemed to anchor the turbulent air beside Aemond. He wore a deep navy tunic, the Velaryon seahorse stitched in silver at the collar, its understated elegance befitting his role as heir to the sea’s dominion. One hand rested loosely around a goblet of mulled cider, its steam curling against his fingers, while the other hovered just above Aemond’s shoulder, not touching the emerald silk but close enough to stir the air, a gesture heavy with unspoken intent, teetering on the edge of a silent vow.

The hall’s quiet was a living weight, broken only by the faint clatter of a spoon against a plate or the soft rustle of a servant’s skirts. Lucerys’s gaze lingered on Aemond, tracing the bruise that marred his cheek, its deep indigo a jarring contrast to his pale skin, and the split lip that shimmered with each careful breath. Aemond’s movements were precise, almost ritualistic—he lifted his goblet with a surgeon’s care, sipped sparingly, then set it down, his slender fingers shredding a barley loaf into meticulous shards, scattering them across his plate like the ruins of a shattered stronghold. His posture was unyielding, shoulders rigid, spine taut, a dragon’s fury simmering beneath a veneer of icy control. Lucerys’s heart beat a steady rhythm, but his breath faltered as he watched, the urge to reach out clashing with the knowledge that Aemond was a storm, volatile and sharp, likely to lash out at even the gentlest touch.

Lucerys shifted, the oak chair creaking softly beneath him, and his hand edged closer, fingertips brushing the air above Aemond’s doublet. The gesture was subtle, a quiet oath to stand as a shield, to offer presence without demand, echoing the words he’d whispered in the corridor’s shadows—my husband, my dragon. His alpha scent pulsed gently, a tide seeking to temper the blaze of Aemond’s omega scent without kindling it. He waited, his brown eyes locked on Aemond’s profile, searching for a sign of acknowledgment, a fissure in the omega’s ironclad defenses.

Aemond’s head turned sharply, an instinctive reflex, as if drawn by the warmth of Lucerys’s intent rather than the near-touch. His violet eye pinned Lucerys, sharp as a dagger’s edge, a dragon’s stare that seemed to strip away pretense to lay bare the soul beneath. The sapphire socket gleamed with a cold, unyielding light, its polished surface reflecting the hall’s flickering flames, amplifying the intensity of his scrutiny. The world shrank to the space between them—Rhaenyra’s watchful presence, Alicent’s quiet sorrow, the court’s furtive glances—dissolving into the charged stillness that enveloped them. Aemond’s gaze flicked to the hand hovering above his shoulder, noting the faint tremor of restraint, then returned to Lucerys’s face, probing for the hidden cost of this gesture. His jaw tightened, a muscle pulsing beneath the bruised skin, and his omega scent surged, a sharp flare of ash and jasmine, as if sniffing for betrayal.

Lucerys stilled, his brown eyes widening, caught in the ferocity of Aemond’s gaze. His hand remained suspended, neither advancing nor retreating, as their scents collided—jasmine and ash against salt and pine, a tempestuous dance of fire and sea that thrummed in the air. The court’s silence grew heavier, a few nobles pausing mid-bite, their eyes darting toward the pair before hastily retreating, sensing the gravity of their exchange. Aemond’s lips parted, a soft exhale escaping, and his voice, when it came, was a low, velvet drawl, laced with biting condescension, each word a honed blade aimed at Lucerys’s resolve.

“What game is this, nephew?” he murmured, the word dripping with scorn, barely audible over the faint crackle of a nearby torch. “This… delicate concern, this trembling hand. What prize do you seek?” His violet eye narrowed, glinting with a cruel amusement, though a shadow of wariness lingered beneath, a man forged in a crucible of deceit to believe kindness was a coin always spent for gain. “Speak true, heir of Driftmark. What do you want for this display?”

Lucerys’s throat tightened, but he met Aemond’s gaze, his brown eyes steady, unyielding. “Nothing,” he said softly, his voice a quiet harbor in the storm of Aemond’s suspicion. “I’m here for you, Aemond, that’s all.”

Aemond’s lips twisted into a sharp, mocking smile, a mask that failed to reach his eye. He leaned back slightly, his fingers grazing the stem of his goblet, the silver ring—twin to Lucerys’s—catching the light, a cold reminder of the vows that tethered them in this fractious court. “Here for me,” he echoed, his tone thick with derision, as if testing the words for treachery. “How gallant. How… Velaryon.” He leaned forward, his bruised cheek catching the dawn’s glow, his split lip shimmering as he spoke, his voice dropping to a venomous hiss. “Spare your chivalry for someone else, Lucerys. Don’t waste it on my pussy—I’ve no use for your noble gestures there.”

The words struck like a whip, sharp and calculated, meant to provoke, to push Lucerys away or force him to betray his true intent. The court’s silence grew razor-edged, a lord’s faint cough swallowed by the tension, while Aegon’s fingers stilled on his pear, a sly grin flickering across his face. Alicent’s hands clenched tighter, her nails digging deeper, and Rhaenyra’s violet eyes sharpened, her posture stiffening, a queen attuned to the ripples in her court.

Lucerys’s breath caught, a flush rising to his cheeks at Aemond’s crude taunt, the word searing his throat. He faltered, his lips parting, then closing briefly as he gathered himself, his voice low but resolute when he spoke, slicing through Aemond’s venom with quiet conviction. “Your… thing isn’t the point,” he said, the word tripping awkwardly, a flicker of embarrassment quickly buried under his resolve. “This isn’t about taking, Aemond. It’s about giving—without conditions, without demands.”

Aemond’s smile sharpened, a glint of cruel delight flashing in his violet eye as he pounced on Lucerys’s hesitation. “Thing?” he drawled, his voice a silken taunt, thick with mockery. “Gods, nephew, how prim you are. Too delicate to name it, are you? Afraid the word will sully your honor?” He tilted his head, his bruised cheek a stark accusation, his split lip gleaming as he leaned closer, his tone laced with biting curiosity. “What then, heir of Driftmark? Will you stutter and blush when duty calls you to my bed? Or is this all a charade, this pious concern of yours?”

Lucerys’s flush deepened, but his brown eyes held firm, the fire within them unquenched by Aemond’s barbs. “Laugh if you must,” he said, his voice steady, each word a deliberate bridge across the chasm between them. “But my intent doesn’t change. I’m not here for your body or any claim, Aemond. I stood by you last night because it was just, not because I expect your gratitude or submission. You’re not a trophy, and you’re not broken. You’re my husband—whether we willed it or not—and that means I stand with you, not above you.”

Aemond’s smile wavered, a flicker of surprise breaking through his mask, swiftly concealed by a tightening of his jaw. His violet eye bore into Lucerys’s, searching for the deceit he was certain must lurk beneath such words, his omega scent pulsing with a blend of ash and unease, as if his instincts battled his deep-seated cynicism. “Giving,” he said, his voice a low snarl, thick with disbelief. “No one gives freely in this pit of serpents, least of all to an omega like me.” He leaned back, his fingers tightening around the goblet, the metal groaning faintly under his grip, as if anchoring himself against the unsettling weight of Lucerys’s words. “What’s your true aim, Lucerys? My allegiance? My surrender? Or do you see yourself as my keeper, here to leash the scarred dragon to your righteous cause?”

Lucerys’s hand lowered slowly to the table, resting near Aemond’s arm, close enough to radiate warmth without breaching the boundary. His brown eyes softened, but the fire within them burned steady, a quiet resolve that met Aemond’s scrutiny without faltering. “I don’t want to leash you,” he said, his voice unwavering, a tide refusing to yield. “And I don’t seek your surrender. You’re not scarred, Aemond, not in the way that matters. I’m here because you’re my husband, and that holds meaning for me, even if it’s nothing to you. Not for your allegiance, not for your body—just for you.”

The words hung in the air, fragile yet resolute, a vow that rippled through the hall’s stifling silence. Aemond’s gaze lingered on Lucerys, his violet eye narrowing, as if trying to unravel the young alpha’s essence. His omega scent stirred, a faint easing of its ashen bite, a glimmer of curiosity warring with his entrenched distrust. He parted his lips to retort, but no words came—only a sharp exhale, a sound of frustration or yielding, swallowed by the quiet.

The moment stretched, taut as a drawn bow, until Rhaenyra’s voice cut through the silence, clear and commanding, yet softened by a mother’s tone. “Lucerys,” she said, her violet eyes fixing on her son before sweeping across the hall, taking in the assembled court with a monarch’s weight. “Breakfast is concluded.” She rose, her black-and-crimson gown rustling softly, the gold-stitched dragon catching the light as she stood, her circlet gleaming like a beacon of her authority. The court stirred, chairs scraping faintly as nobles and retainers prepared to follow her lead, their movements hesitant, as if reluctant to break the tension still crackling in the air.

Lucerys nodded slightly, a subtle acknowledgment of his mother’s command, and rose from his seat, the oak chair creaking under the shift. His navy tunic shifted with his movement, the silver seahorse glinting faintly, a reminder of his station as heir to Driftmark. As he turned to follow Rhaenyra, who strode toward the hall’s great doors with measured grace, he paused at the threshold. His brown eyes flicked back to Aemond, a final, fleeting glance, heavy with unspoken resolve—a promise that lingered despite the omega’s scorn. Aemond’s violet eye met his for a brief moment, sharp and unreadable, the sapphire socket glinting coldly, before Lucerys turned and followed his mother out, his footsteps echoing softly in the hall’s vast emptiness.

Aemond remained seated, his gaze dropping to the scattered fragments of bread on his plate, his fingers loosening their grip on the goblet. The sapphire socket gleamed faintly, a silent witness to the exchange, while his bruised cheek and split lip stood as raw reminders of the battles he fought, within and without. The court’s murmurs resumed, the clink of silver and the shuffle of feet filling the space, but the tension between Aemond and Lucerys lingered, a spark poised to ignite. Alicent’s hands remained clasped, her grief and guilt a silent weight, while the Red Keep’s ancient walls seemed to draw closer, their stones whispering of oaths and betrayals, holding their breath for the next crack in the fragile peace of Rhaenyra’s court.

The great hall’s heavy doors closed behind Rhaenyra Targaryen with a deep, resonant thud, sealing the morning’s strained breakfast within the Red Keep’s ancient walls. Her black-and-crimson gown, its golden Targaryen dragon glinting in the torchlight, swept against the polished marble floor as she moved through the corridor, her silver hair shimmering beneath a slender circlet that glowed like forged starlight. Her violet eyes, sharp with a queen’s resolve, carried a faint shadow of exhaustion, the weight of her new crown pressing even in the dawn’s quiet. Lucerys Velaryon trailed closely, his navy tunic emblazoned with Driftmark’s silver seahorse, his dark curls slightly disheveled, his brown eyes heavy with the echo of his tense exchange with Aemond. His alpha scent—salt and cedar, laced with a sharp pine tang—flowed steadily, steadying the air, though his steps held a subtle reluctance, as if tethered to the great hall’s charged silence.

The corridor stretched ahead, its arched ceiling lost in shadow, its walls adorned with tapestries of old Valyria—dragons dancing through fiery skies, sorcerers wielding blades of light. Sconces cast wavering pools of amber, their flames trembling as Rhaenyra and Lucerys passed, the air thick with beeswax and weathered stone. Guards and servants stood silent, their eyes lowered, blending into the alcoves where statues of ancient kings loomed. The Red Keep seemed to hold its breath, its passages a web of secrets and ambitions, murmuring of the fragile peace Rhaenyra’s reign sought to preserve. Her stride was purposeful, each step a quiet claim of authority, yet her fingers brushed the hilt of a ceremonial dagger at her waist, a fleeting gesture revealing the vigilance beneath her poise.

They approached the small council chamber, its double doors carved with House Targaryen’s three-headed dragon, the dark wood gleaming like polished obsidian. Two Kingsguard stood sentinel, their white cloaks pristine, their helms masking their faces. At Rhaenyra’s approach, they parted, opening the doors with a low groan that reverberated into the chamber. The scent of parchment, ink, and aged oak drifted out, mingling with a faint saline breeze from an open window. Rhaenyra paused at the threshold, her violet eyes sweeping the room, appraising the assembled council with a gaze both commanding and discerning.

The small council chamber, intimate compared to the great hall’s splendor, thrummed with the weight of its purpose. A long weirwood table dominated the space, its pale surface etched with a map of the Seven Kingdoms—rivers snaking through valleys, mountains rising in sharp relief. High-backed chairs encircled it, each occupied by a figure of power, their postures a complex weave of loyalty, ambition, and caution. A chandelier of dark iron hung above, its candles casting a warm, flickering glow across the stone walls, where a single tapestry portrayed Aegon the Conqueror astride Balerion, his sword raised against a blazing sky. A soft sea breeze slipped through the window, carrying the distant cries of gulls from Blackwater Bay, a quiet reminder of the world beyond the Keep.

Lucerys followed his mother inside, his brown eyes scanning the council, his expression composed yet tinged with the quiet intensity of youth thrust into a realm of seasoned intrigue. Rhaenyra’s gaze lingered on him briefly, a mother’s pride tempered by awareness of his burdens as heir to Driftmark and her son. Her eyes then shifted to the council, each member a pillar of her reign, yet each a potential crack in its fragile foundation.

Prince Daemon Targaryen, Protector of the Realm and King Consort, lounged with a predator’s ease, his silver hair tied back, his violet eyes glinting with sharp amusement. His black leather doublet, secured with a dragon clasp, clung to his lean frame, and his hand rested lightly on Dark Sister’s hilt, the Valyrian steel sword propped beside him. His scent—smoke and steel—charged the air, a bold challenge to any doubters. Lord Corlys Velaryon, Lord of the Tides and Master of Driftmark, sat with a seafarer’s gravitas, his weathered face carved with experience, his navy cloak bearing the silver seahorse. His dark eyes, steady as the tide, met Lucerys’s with a quiet nod, acknowledging his heir, before returning to the map.

Princess Rhaenys Targaryen, Hand of the Queen, sat with regal poise, her silver-streaked hair in a simple braid, her deep violet eyes sharp with wisdom. Her crimson gown, embroidered with subtle dragon motifs, spoke of her Targaryen blood, while her measured posture reflected her role as Rhaenyra’s confidante. Prince Jacaerys Velaryon, Rhaenyra’s eldest heir, sat with a warrior’s alertness, his dark hair neatly combed, his brown eyes burning with resolve. His black tunic, edged in red, bore the Targaryen sigil, his fingers tapping faintly on the table, betraying youthful impatience. Prince Joffrey Velaryon, younger and less seasoned, sat beside him, his features softer but his gaze keen, his navy doublet mirroring Lucerys’s, a mark of their shared lineage.

Lord Bartimos Celtigar, Lord of Claw Isle, sat with a merchant’s shrewdness, his bald head gleaming under the candlelight, his red-and-white robes shifting as he adjusted a stack of ledgers. Lord Staunton of Rook’s Rest, his face lined with age, sat with a soldier’s rigidity, his gray eyes fixed on Rhaenyra, his dark cloak pooling around him. Lord Gormon Massey, Lord of Stonedance, leaned forward, his sharp features and restless hands signaling ambition. Lord Bar Emmon of Sharp Point, young and uncertain, fidgeted with a quill, his pale face flushed under the council’s weight. Lord Gunthor Darklyn of Duskendale, his dark hair streaked with silver, sat with calm assurance, his green eyes scanning the room. Grand Maester Gerardys, in gray robes with a chain of many metals, sat at the table’s end, his lined face serene, his hands resting on a tome, his presence a bridge to tradition.

Rhaenyra’s gaze stilled the faint rustle of papers and creak of chairs, her presence commanding silence. She glided to the head of the table, her gown trailing like a shadow, and settled into the high-backed chair of the Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms. The chair’s dragon-scale arms and ruby-eyed dragon’s head framed her as she sat, her posture regal yet resolute, her hands resting lightly on the table, her circlet catching the candlelight. Lucerys took his seat to her right, standing briefly before sitting, his navy tunic echoing his father’s cloak across the table. His brown eyes met Rhaenyra’s for a moment, a silent bond passing between them, before he turned to the map, his fingers brushing its edge, grounding himself in the moment’s gravity.

The chamber’s air tightened, the sea breeze fading as the council’s focus turned to Rhaenyra. The map seemed to pulse with the realm’s weight—King’s Landing at its core, the Vale’s peaks, the Stormlands’ coasts, the Reach’s fields—all under her rule, yet teetering on the edge of discord. Rhaenyra’s voice, firm and authoritative, broke the silence. “Let us begin.”

“We gather to secure the realm’s future through the marriages of my sons,” she declared, her violet eyes sweeping the council. “Jacaerys’s union with Aegon and Lucerys’s bond with Aemond must serve our house and the Seven Kingdoms.”

Daemon leaned forward, his smile sharp and mocking. “Jacaerys, an omega, paired with Aegon, an alpha—slovenly, but pliable. It ties the greens to us.” Jacaerys stiffened, his fingers halting, his brown eyes narrowing with unease. Rhaenys’s gaze flicked to him, her voice calm but pointed. “The match could mend old rifts, but Aegon’s recklessness demands vigilance.” Corlys’s deep voice followed, his eyes on the Narrow Sea. “Aegon’s blood strengthens our line, but Jacaerys’s role as heir must remain unchallenged. After all, we have another omega—Joffrey—who is of marriageable age.” Joffrey shifted, his gaze darting between his brothers, his youth evident in his tense posture.

Lord Celtigar adjusted his ledgers, his tone pragmatic. “Jacaerys’s marriage could open trade routes, but we must safeguard his authority. Maybe trade routes...Joffrey should be considered for Dorne.” Lord Massey nodded eagerly. “Aegon’s name carries weight in the Stormlands.” The lesser lords—Staunton, Bar Emmon, Darklyn—murmured agreement, their voices cautious, weighing the political balance.

Rhaenyra’s gaze turned to Lucerys, her voice firm yet tinged with maternal concern. “Lucerys, your union with Aemond falters. He will not bear you an heir, weakening our line and alliances. Divorce may be the only path.” The words landed heavily, the chamber’s air thickening. Lucerys’s brown eyes widened, his alpha scent spiking with a sharp pine edge, his hand gripping the table. “No,” he said, his voice low but unyielding. “I will not cast Aemond aside. He is my husband, and I stand by him.”

Daemon’s laugh was a harsh, cutting sound, his violet eyes glinting with derision. “He won’t let you breed him anyway, Lucerys. Take Daeron to your bed—he’s docile.” The words dripped with cruelty, and Jacaerys’s jaw tightened, his unease deepening at the mention of Aegon’s younger brother. Lucerys’s flush spread, but his gaze held firm, his voice steady. “Aemond is my choice, not a means to an heir. I’ll not betray him for Daeron or anyone else.”

Corlys’s jaw clenched, his dark eyes conflicted. “Your honor is noble, son, but the realm needs heirs. Aemond’s refusal endangers Driftmark’s future.” Rhaenys spoke, her tone measured. “Without a mark or an heir, your bond invites instability. If you will not divorce, consider Daeron as a second wife to secure the line.” Jacaerys’s eyes flicked to Lucerys, a quiet support, while Joffrey’s gaze held admiration, his hands still.

Lord Staunton’s voice was gruff. “Daeron’s youth and omega status make him a better prospect for heirs.” Lord Bar Emmon, his quill trembling, added hesitantly, “A second wife could… stabilize alliances.” Lord Darklyn countered, his green eyes sharp. “Forcing a second marriage risks fracturing Driftmark’s loyalty.” Grand Maester Gerardys, his quill scratching, spoke evenly. “A second wife is less divisive than divorce, but both carry risks to the realm’s unity.”

The council’s voices rose, a tangle of arguments—lineage, stability, honor—each lord pressing their view, the chamber crackling with tension. Lucerys’s voice cut through, firm and resolute. “I will not take Daeron, nor will I abandon Aemond. My bond is not a transaction for heirs.” His alpha scent surged, a tide of salt and pine, defying the council’s pressure.

Rhaenyra raised a hand, silencing the debate, her violet eyes locked on Lucerys, a mother’s empathy warring with a queen’s duty. Daemon’s fingers stilled on Dark Sister’s hilt, Corlys’s gaze steadied, Rhaenys’s expression remained unreadable. Lucerys met his mother’s gaze, his brown eyes unwavering. Rhaenyra sighed, a sound heavy with resignation, her voice firm yet tinged with sorrow. “Lucerys, your loyalty is true, but the realm demands heirs. Your must mark Aemond within a fortnight. If you cannot, you must divorce, or take Daeron as a second wife to secure our line.”

Lucerys’s breath hitched, his hand tightening on the table, but he nodded once, a reluctant acceptance, his eyes shadowed with resolve. The chamber’s silence deepened, the sea breeze carrying a chill, the map a silent witness to the realm’s fragile balance. Rhaenyra’s gaze lingered on her son, a flicker of pain in her eyes, before she turned to the council. “We proceed with Jacaerys’s betrothal. Let us settle its terms.”

The council stirred, the rustle of parchment and the creak of chairs filling the chamber as gazes shifted to Prince Jacaerys Velaryon, Rhaenyra’s eldest heir, seated with a warrior’s poise. His black tunic, edged with red and bearing the Targaryen sigil, hugged his broad shoulders, his dark hair neatly combed, but his brown eyes burned with a quiet unease, his fingers now still, pressed flat against the weirwood. The mention of Aegon, his proposed alpha match, had tightened his jaw, a flicker of resistance beneath his composed exterior. Across the table, Prince Joffrey Velaryon, younger and less seasoned, sat with a tense alertness, his navy doublet mirroring Lucerys’s, his softer features betraying a mix of curiosity and apprehension at the council’s focus now turning toward his own future.

Her gaze sweeping the council, lingering briefly on Jacaerys, whose posture stiffened at the mention of his name. “This union must bind our house to the greens, securing their loyalty and strengthening our claim.”

Prince Daemon Targaryen, Protector of the Realm and King Consort, lounging with a rogue’s casual menace, smirked, his violet eyes glinting with sharp calculation. His black leather doublet, fastened with a dragon clasp, seemed to absorb the candlelight, and his fingers toyed idly with Dark Sister’s hilt. “Aegon’s a drunkard with a dragon’s name,” he said, his tone laced with biting amusement. “But as an alpha, he’s a leash we can pull. Jacaerys, omega or not, can keep him in check.” His smoke-and-steel scent flared, a challenge to the room’s decorum.

Jacaerys’s brown eyes flashed, his black tunic with its red-trimmed Targaryen sigil taut across his shoulders as he leaned forward. “I am no keeper for a wayward prince,” he said, his voice low but firm, betraying a mix of pride and unease. “If this betrothal is to hold, Aegon must prove his worth beyond his blood.” His fingers, no longer tapping, curled tightly, a sign of his reluctance to be a mere pawn in this alliance. "You don't even know where or who he's sticking his dick in." he muttered under his breath. Daemon chuckled at this.

Princess Rhaenys Targaryen, Hand of the Queen, tilted her head, her silver-streaked braid shifting against her crimson gown. Her deep violet eyes, sharp with insight, softened slightly as she regarded Jacaerys. “Your strength is not in question, Jacaerys,” she said, her voice steady and measured. “But Aegon’s volatility could fracture this union before it takes root. We must ensure terms that protect your authority as heir. And yes, it will happen, even if we don't know where or who Aegon sticks his dick in.” Her words carried the weight of experience, a reminder of her role as Rhaenyra’s steadiest counsel.

Lord Corlys Velaryon, his navy cloak pooling around him, nodded gravely, his weathered face etched with the wisdom of the sea. “The greens’ loyalty is a prize, but Jacaerys’s claim to the throne must remain ironclad,” he said, his deep voice resonating. His dark eyes flicked to the map’s Stormlands, where Aegon’s influence held sway. “Aegon’s name could rally their lords, but his excesses risk undermining the bond.”

Lord Bartimos Celtigar, his bald head catching the candlelight, adjusted his ledgers with a merchant’s precision. “The marriage could unlock trade with the Stormlands and beyond,” he said, his tone calculated. “But we must stipulate conditions—public oaths, perhaps—to curb Aegon’s… indiscretions.” Lord Gormon Massey, his sharp features alight with ambition, leaned forward eagerly. “Aegon’s bloodline could sway Baratheon bannermen, but Jacaerys must hold the reins.” Lord Bar Emmon, young and nervous, clutched his quill, his voice faltering. “A… a formal betrothal pact could bind him. They don't have to marry, at least not until we can find a better match for Jacaerys, which is two years. After that, having children might be difficult. And two years later, he will wed Aegon, unless there is a better match.”

Lord Gunthor Darklyn, his silver-streaked hair framing a confident gaze, spoke with measured calm. “Aegon’s loyalty must be proven, not assumed. A weak bond risks rebellion in the Crownlands.” Lord Staunton, his aged face stern, added gruffly, “The boy needs discipline, not just a ring.” Grand Maester Gerardys, his quill poised over his tome, spoke softly, his voice a thread of reason. “A betrothal contract with clear terms—allegiance, sobriety, deference to Jacaerys—could stabilize the union without compromising the prince’s standing.”

Jacaerys’s jaw tightened, his brown eyes flickering with a mix of resolve and discomfort. “I will do my duty,” he said, his voice steady but laced with restraint. “But I will not be a nursemaid to Aegon’s whims. The terms must be ironclad, or this marriage is a liability.” Rhaenyra’s gaze softened on her eldest son, a flicker of pride in her violet eyes, but her voice remained firm. “The terms will be set, Jacaerys. Your strength will anchor this alliance, and we will ensure Aegon’s compliance.”

The council’s murmurs rose, a blend of agreement and calculation, until Rhaenyra’s raised hand stilled them. “Now, we consider Prince Joffrey’s prospects,” she said, her eyes shifting to her youngest son, whose navy doublet mirrored Lucerys’s, his softer features tense but his gaze sharp with youthful curiosity. “A betrothal to Dorne could secure our southern borders and forge new alliances.”

Daemon’s smirk widened, his fingers drumming lightly on Dark Sister’s hilt. “Dorne’s a prickly lot, but a Targaryen omega like Joffrey could charm their spears into submission,” he said, his tone half-mocking, half-strategic. “House Martell would leap at the chance to tie their blood to ours.” His smoke-and-steel scent pulsed, a goad to the council’s ambitions.

Joffrey’s eyes widened, his posture stiffening, a flush creeping up his neck. “Dorne?” he said, his voice a mix of surprise and caution. “I… I would serve the realm, but their ways are foreign. Would they accept a northern prince?” His youth shone through, a blend of eagerness and uncertainty.

Rhaenys’s gaze softened, her voice calm but firm. “Dorne values strength and cunning, Joffrey. As an omega, your presence could bridge their pride with our cause, but the match must be carefully negotiated to preserve your dignity.” Her crimson gown shifted as she leaned forward, her wisdom anchoring the discussion.

Corlys’s dark eyes turned to the map’s southern reaches, where Dorne’s deserts lay. “A Martell alliance would secure our flank against unrest,” he said, his tone steady. “But Joffrey’s youth requires a match that honors his status, not one that casts him as a bargaining chip.” His glance at Joffrey held paternal warmth, tempered by strategic concern.

Lord Celtigar’s fingers paused on his ledgers, his voice pragmatic. “Dorne’s trade routes—spices, silks—could bolster our coffers. A betrothal to a Martell heir, perhaps Qoren’s daughter or son, would tie their wealth to us.” Lord Massey’s eyes gleamed with ambition. “Dorne’s spears could deter rebellion in the Reach.” Lord Bar Emmon, his quill still, spoke hesitantly. “A… a Dornish match could… strengthen our south.” Lord Staunton’s gruff voice cut in. “But Dorne’s loyalty is fickle. The terms must bind them tightly.”

Lord Darklyn’s green eyes narrowed, his tone cautious. “A Dornish betrothal risks alienating Stormlands lords who distrust Martell ambitions. We must balance the gains.” Grand Maester Gerardys, his quill scratching softly, added, “A betrothal to Dorne requires cultural concessions—Dornish customs differ. Joffrey’s role must be clearly defined to avoid subjugation.”

Joffrey’s gaze darted to Rhaenyra, his voice tentative but resolute. “If Dorne strengthens the realm, I’ll consider it,” he said, his youth tempered by a growing sense of duty. “But I want terms that respect my place as your son, not just a pawn for their spears.” Rhaenyra’s violet eyes softened, a mother’s pride evident, but her voice held a queen’s authority. “Your place will be honored, Joffrey. Any betrothal will ensure your strength and our house’s unity.”

Lucerys, silent through the debate, shifted slightly, his brown eyes flicking to Joffrey, a quiet support for his younger brother. His own burden—the ultimatum over Aemond—lingered in his tense posture, his alpha scent a steady anchor in the chamber’s charged air. The council’s voices rose again, a tangle of strategies and cautions, the map before them a canvas of alliances and risks. Rhaenyra’s gaze swept the room, her hands resting firmly on the table, her circlet catching the candlelight as she spoke, her voice a beacon of resolve. “We will draft terms for both betrothals—Jacaerys to Aegon, Joffrey to Dorne. They must fortify our house without weakening my sons. And Lucerys, you know what you have to do, don't make me repeat myself.” Her words hung in the air, a command and a promise, as Jacaerys’s jaw tightened with renewed purpose, Lucerys’s fingers unclenched slightly, and Joffrey’s eyes widened slightly, a flush rising to his cheeks, but he inclined his head, his voice quiet but steady. “We understand, Mother. We’ll serve as you command.”

She turned to Princess Rhaenys, her Hand, whose crimson gown and steady gaze anchored the room. “Rhaenys, my Hand, let us go to my chambers,” Rhaenyra said, her tone shifting to one of quiet urgency. “We have private matters to discuss.” Rhaenys inclined her head, her silver-streaked braid catching the light, her deep violet eyes meeting Rhaenyra’s with unspoken understanding. She rose gracefully, her presence a steady complement to Rhaenyra’s command.

The council stood in respectful silence as Rhaenyra moved toward the chamber’s doors, Rhaenys at her side, their steps a measured echo against the stone floor. The Kingsguard parted, the double doors groaning open once more, admitting a faint gust of sea air that stirred the tapestry of Aegon and Balerion. Jacaerys, Lucerys, and Joffrey remained standing, their gazes lingering on their mother’s retreating figure, the weight of her words settling into their bones. Daemon’s smirk lingered, his fingers brushing Dark Sister’s hilt, while Corlys’s dark eyes followed his grandsons, a flicker of pride beneath his stoic mask. The lesser lords exchanged glances, their ambitions tempered by the queen’s resolve, as Grand Maester Gerardys closed his tome with a soft thud, the final note of the council’s deliberations.

The Red Keep’s walls seemed to draw closer, their stones whispering of vows tested, alliances forged, and a realm poised on the edge of fracture. As Rhaenyra and Rhaenys disappeared into the corridor, the chamber’s candlelight flickered, casting long shadows across the weirwood map, a silent promise of the trials yet to come in the crucible of Rhaenyra’s reign.

Chapter Text

The Red Keep’s courtyard stretched wide and desolate under a sky bruised with storm clouds, its ancient cobbles slick with the faint sheen of morning dew, reflecting the dim light like scattered shards of glass. The air hung heavy, sharp with the tang of iron from the nearby armory, the earthy musk of hay bales stacked against the stable walls, and the distant, briny breath of Blackwater Bay carried on a restless wind. Archery targets stood sentinel in a neat row, their straw hearts riddled with arrows—some driven deep with lethal precision, others protruding at awkward angles, the work of squires with unsteady hands. Lucerys Velaryon stood alone at the range’s edge, his navy tunic emblazoned with Driftmark’s silver seahorse, its silken threads catching the muted light like a quiet defiance. His dark curls clung to his sweat-dampened forehead, curling tighter in the humid air, as he drew his bow, the yew creaking under his grip. His brown eyes narrowed to slits, sharp with focus, the bowstring a taut pulse against his calloused fingers, mirroring the tension coiling in his chest.

Rhaenyra’s command weighed like iron: mark Aemond, bind him fully, or face the council’s whispers of divorce—or worse, a second marriage to Daeron, summoned from Oldtown to bear the heirs Aemond refused to provide. Aemond’s defiance, his venomous scorn in the great hall, had ignited a fire in Lucerys—not merely loyalty to his omega husband, but a fierce need to prove himself, to carve his place as an alpha amidst the court’s scheming and the realm’s teetering balance. Before his marriage to Aemond, Lucerys had shared a different bond with Daeron—days spent sparring in Driftmark’s courtyards, nights trading stories under starlit skies, Daeron’s violet eyes lingering on him with an openness that betrayed his affection, his unguarded smiles a quiet confession of desire. Rhaenyra had seen it, noted the flush in Daeron’s cheeks when Lucerys laughed, and deemed him a fitting match should Aemond’s resistance persist. But Lucerys would not be a pawn, not to his mother’s will, nor the council’s, nor the ghosts of his past with Daeron. He loosed the arrow, its flight a hushed breath slicing through the air, striking the target’s heart with a splintering crack, joining a cluster of prior shots that spoke of his unyielding precision.

His alpha scent surged—salt and cedar, spiked with the crisp bite of pine—a bold declaration that rolled across the courtyard like a tide claiming the shore. Lucerys was young, barely past his twentieth name day, but he was no soft prince, no boy to be dismissed as playing at honor. Driftmark’s legacy rested on his shoulders, and his marriage to Aemond, forged in the crucible of politics and dragonfire, demanded he stand firm. The council’s ultimatum echoed in his mind: Mark Aemond, or divorce, or wed Daeron for heirs. He would not yield Aemond, whose fire matched his own, but neither would he beg for trust, nor let the council’s schemes—or the memory of Daeron’s longing glances—steer his course. He nocked another arrow, his jaw a hard line, fingers steady as stone. The bowstring sang as he drew, the tension a mirror to the storm brewing within him.

The courtyard was a hushed world, broken only by the rhythmic clink of squires polishing armor near the stables, their hammers ringing softly against steel, and the hurried steps of a servant crossing with a water pail, her eyes averted from Lucerys’s piercing gaze. He released the arrow, its path true, burying itself beside its kin with a splinter of wood. Before he could reach for another, a deep, resonant roar shattered the morning’s stillness, vibrating through the cobbles and into his bones. Tessarion, the Blue Queen, tore across the sky, her sapphire scales a vivid wound against the gray clouds, her wings beating with the force of war drums. Her cry was a summons, raw and commanding, pulling Lucerys’s eyes upward, his pulse hammering in his throat. Daeron’s dragon meant the Dragonpit was alive with purpose, and where Tessarion soared, Aemond might be found—perhaps to greet his younger brother, whose return from Oldtown carried the weight of the council’s whispered plans.

Lucerys set the bow down with a sharp clack, the decision crystallizing in his chest. He crossed the courtyard with purpose, his cloak snapping like a sail in the rising wind, the navy fabric billowing behind him. The squires glanced up, their hands stilling on their work, then quickly looked away, sensing the alpha’s intent in the unyielding set of his shoulders. At the stables, a stablehand hurried forward, leading a black destrier, its coat gleaming like polished jet, its eyes wild with the scent of the coming storm. Lucerys took the reins, his movements fluid as he vaulted into the saddle, the leather creaking under his weight. He spurred the horse forward, hooves striking sparks against the cobbles as they passed through the Red Keep’s towering gates, the iron portcullis looming like a dragon’s maw. Tessarion’s distant form banked toward the Dragonpit, her scales a fleeting beacon against the leaden sky. Lucerys’s scent pulsed stronger, a tide of salt and pine, carrying his resolve through the chaos of King’s Landing.

The city unfolded in a cacophony of life—fishmongers bellowing their wares, their voices raw with the morning’s catch; carts rattling over uneven stones, their wheels groaning; urchins darting through the throng, their laughter sharp and fleeting. Lucerys rode through it, his eyes fixed on the path ahead, the city’s pulse fading against the fire in his veins. The Dragonpit loomed before him, its cracked dome a weathered monument to Targaryen might, its vast arches scarred by centuries of dragon claws. Guards in black-and-red livery stood at the gates, their spears glinting dully as they stepped aside, recognizing the silver seahorse on his chest. He dismounted, tossing the reins to a keeper with a curt nod, and strode inside, his boots ringing on the stone ramp. The air within was thick, heavy with the musky heat of dragonflesh and the faint char of long-dead embers, the torchlight casting jagged shadows across walls etched with the marks of ancient beasts.

Tessarion rested in one of the pit’s cavernous alcoves, her sapphire scales glinting like fractured jewels, her massive chest rising and falling with breaths that stirred the air like a bellows. Her golden eyes, slitted and watchful, tracked the flicker of torches, her presence a living pulse in the stone. Aemond stood nearby, his lean frame clad in black leather that hugged his form like a second skin, his silver hair unbound, spilling over his shoulders like molten moonlight. His sapphire socket gleamed coldly in the half-light, a star of ice where an eye once was, while his violet eye remained fixed on Tessarion, unyielding as steel. His omega scent—jasmine laced with scorched ash—rolled through the pit, a sharp barrier against intrusion, a challenge as potent as any blade. He was not here for Vhagar, whose ancient bulk could no longer be contained within the Dragonpit’s walls, her lair a distant crag beyond the city’s reach. Instead, Aemond had come to greet Daeron, whose return with Tessarion carried the weight of the council’s schemes.

Lucerys approached, his steps measured, his own scent a steady counterpoint—salt and pine cutting through Aemond’s fire like a sea breeze through smoke. He stopped a few paces away, his posture firm, the boy of the great hall replaced by an alpha whose resolve burned as fiercely as dragonfire. His navy tunic strained slightly across his chest, the silver seahorse catching the torchlight, a quiet emblem of his house’s enduring strength.

Aemond’s head tilted, sensing him, but his eye remained on Tessarion, as if the dragon’s presence anchored his defiance. “Here to play the dutiful husband again, Velaryon?” he said, his voice a low, biting edge, sharp with disdain, each word honed to wound. “Or has your mother sent you to chain me to her will?”

Lucerys’s eyes narrowed, his alpha scent flaring, a bold challenge that filled the space between them. “I’m no one’s errand boy,” he said, his voice steady, cutting through the pit’s heavy air like a blade through silk. “I saw Tessarion’s flight. I knew you’d be here, greeting your brother. But I’m not here to coddle you, Aemond.”

Aemond turned then, his violet eye locking onto Lucerys, sharp as Valyrian steel, the sapphire socket flashing in the torchlight like a cold star. His bruised cheek was a dark stain against his pale skin, his split lip a raw line that twitched as he spoke. “Greeting Daeron?” he said, his tone a venomous hiss, the word dripping with mockery. “You think you know my purpose, boy? You think your alpha scent and noble vows give you the right to stand here and judge me?”

Lucerys stepped closer, undeterred, his brown eyes burning with a fire that matched Aemond’s own, a flame fed by defiance and resolve. “I’m not judging you,” he said, his voice low, unyielding, each syllable weighted with purpose. “But I’m not your fool either. You’re my husband, Aemond, and I’ve stood by you—against the court, against my mother’s council, against every whisper that says I should cast you aside. But I won’t chase you like some lovesick pup. You want to fight this bond, fine. But don’t mistake my loyalty for weakness. I’m an alpha, not a boy to be dismissed.”

Aemond’s lips curled into a sharp, mocking smile, but his violet eye flickered with something new—surprise, perhaps, or the grudging spark of respect. His omega scent pulsed, the scorched ash softening faintly, as if testing the strength of Lucerys’s resolve. Tessarion rumbled behind him, her massive tail shifting, the scrape of scales against stone echoing through the pit like a distant thunderclap. “Bold words,” Aemond said, his voice a silken taunt, quieter now, less certain, the edge blunted by curiosity. “And what happens when your mother’s deadline comes? Will you mark me like a good alpha, or let them tear us apart for their precious heirs?”

Lucerys’s jaw tightened, his hand twitching at his side, fingers brushing the hilt of the dagger at his belt, but he held Aemond’s gaze, unflinching. “I don’t need to mark you to prove you’re mine,” he said, his voice a steady tide against Aemond’s storm, each word resolute. “But I won’t let you push me away either. You’re not a prize to be claimed, Aemond, but you’re not alone in this. Fight me if you must, but I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere.”

Aemond’s eye narrowed, searching for cracks in Lucerys’s resolve, his fingers flexing at his side, no dragon’s scales to ground him in this moment. The silence stretched, heavy with the weight of their clashing scents, the air thick with the unspoken—Rhaenyra’s ultimatum, the council’s schemes, the fire that bound them and threatened to consume them. Tessarion’s claws scraped faintly in her alcove, a reminder of the power that simmered beneath their words. “You think you can stand with a dragon and not burn?” Aemond said at last, his voice low, almost a challenge, but the edge had dulled, replaced by a wary curiosity that lingered in his violet gaze.

“I’ll take the risk,” Lucerys replied, his tone firm, a vow forged in the pit’s fire. He stepped back, his boots scuffing the stone, but his eyes held Aemond’s, unyielding, a promise and a challenge entwined. “I’ll be at the Keep when you’re ready to face me, not just your dragons.”

The Dragonpit’s cavernous expanse pulsed with the low, resonant rhythm of Tessarion’s breaths, her sapphire scales casting fractured glints across the stone walls, like starlight scattered across a midnight sea. The air was a living thing, thick with the primal musk of dragonflesh, the faint char of long-spent fires, and the flickering heartbeat of torchlight that danced across the pitted stone. Lucerys stood a few paces from Aemond, his navy tunic taut across his broad shoulders, his alpha scent—salt and cedar, spiked with pine—still sharp in the air, a steady challenge to Aemond’s jasmine and scorched ash. Their words hung between them, a fragile truce forged in the crucible of their exchange, but the pit’s silence was shattered by the sound of boots on the stone ramp, deliberate and unhurried, each step a quiet herald of arrival.

Daeron Targaryen emerged from the shadowed entrance, his lean frame clad in riding leathers dyed a deep indigo, the hue of twilight over Blackwater Bay, the fabric worn but meticulously cared for, marked with the faint dust of his journey from Oldtown. His silver hair was tied back in a loose knot, a few strands escaping to frame a face younger than Aemond’s but carved with the same sharp Targaryen beauty—high cheekbones, a straight nose, and violet eyes that gleamed with a quiet, guarded intensity. Tessarion stirred in her alcove, her massive head lifting, her golden eyes slitting as a low croon rumbled from her throat, sensing her rider’s presence. Daeron’s omega scent—crisp apple and warm cinnamon, soft as a hearth’s glow but edged with a tart unease—drifted into the pit, a subtle undercurrent that wove through the heavier notes of Aemond’s ash and Lucerys’s pine. He knew why he had been summoned: the council’s plan to wed him to Lucerys as a second omega, a vessel for Driftmark’s heirs, a role Rhaenyra deemed fitting because of the closeness they once shared—days of laughter and sparring, nights when Daeron’s violet eyes had lingered on Lucerys’s handsome features, his dark curls and steady gaze, his heart betraying a love he could not conceal. Yet now, that love was a quiet ache, overshadowed by fear of Aemond’s wrath, his brother’s fierce protectiveness a shadow that loomed larger than the council’s schemes.

Aemond’s posture shifted, his violet eye flicking toward his brother, the sapphire socket catching the torchlight in a cold, unyielding flash. “Daeron,” he said, his voice low, carrying a warmth reserved for family, though the edge of his earlier scorn lingered, now tempered by a fierce protectiveness that tightened his jaw. He stepped forward, away from Tessarion, his black leather creaking softly, his omega scent pulsing with a faint note of relief, a tether to the brother he had not seen in months. The brothers clasped forearms, a brief but firm gesture, Aemond’s taller frame looming slightly over Daeron’s slighter build, their silver hair a mirror of shared blood. “You took your time,” Aemond added, a faint smirk tugging at his split lip, though his gaze remained sharp, watchful, sensing the weight Daeron carried—the burden of the council’s plans and the shadow of their shared past with Lucerys.

Daeron’s lips curved in a small, guarded smile, his violet eyes scanning Aemond’s bruised cheek with a flicker of concern, a silent question he did not voice. “Tessarion needed the skies after Oldtown,” he said, his voice smooth but reserved, each word measured, as if guarding a wound. “The winds were kind enough.” His gaze shifted past Aemond, landing on Lucerys, and his expression hardened, the smile fading as he registered the alpha’s presence. His cinnamon scent sharpened, the apple note turning tart, a defensive retreat fueled by fear of Aemond’s reaction and the council’s designs, yet beneath it, the omega in him stirred, quietly grateful for the attention of the alpha he loved, the memory of Lucerys’s warm smile and steady hands a pull he could not fully suppress. The air grew heavier, charged with the interplay of their scents—Lucerys’s bold tide, Aemond’s smoldering ash, and Daeron’s restrained cinnamon, each a thread in a tapestry of unspoken tension.

Lucerys stepped forward, his boots deliberate on the stone, each step a measured claim, his brown eyes locking onto Daeron with an intensity that carried the weight of his alpha resolve. His scent flared, salt and pine surging, not aggressive but open, commanding, the posture of a man staking a claim in a courtly dance, fully aware of Daeron’s past affection, the council’s whispers, and the shadow of Aemond’s gaze. He inclined his head slightly, the silver seahorse at his collar glinting in the torchlight, his navy cloak settling around him like a banner unfurled. “Daeron,” he said, his voice steady, warm with a calculated charm that echoed their old familiarity—days of shared laughter, Daeron’s violet eyes bright with unspoken longing—but carried a deeper intent, a nod to the present stakes. “Welcome back to King’s Landing. The court’s been quieter without the rider of the Blue Queen, without the fire you bring.”

Daeron’s eyes narrowed, his posture stiffening, one hand resting lightly on the hilt of the dagger at his belt, the leather-wrapped grip a small anchor against the storm of emotions within. His omega scent sharpened further, cinnamon curling inward, a defensive retreat fueled by fear of Aemond’s reaction—his brother’s possessive fire, the glint of his violet eye that could cut as surely as a blade. Yet, beneath the coldness, the omega in Daeron stirred, a quiet gratitude pulsing in his chest at Lucerys’s attention, the alpha’s presence rekindling the ache of their past closeness, the memory of Lucerys’s handsome features and steady voice a warmth he could not fully banish. “Lucerys,” he replied, his tone cold, clipped, offering no invitation, though a fleeting flicker in his violet eyes betrayed the conflict within, the love he still harbored warring with his resolve to keep his distance. “I didn’t expect Driftmark’s heir in the Dragonpit. Nor such a… pointed welcome.” His words carried a faint bite, his gaze flicking to Aemond, a silent plea for protection, before returning to Lucerys, guarded and unyielding.

Aemond’s violet eye snapped to Lucerys, his lips pressing into a thin line, the bruise on his cheek darkening in the torchlight like a storm cloud’s shadow. His omega scent flared, ash spiking with a possessive edge, a smoldering fire that crackled with jealousy and protectiveness as he registered Lucerys’s approach to his brother and the unspoken weight of their shared past. He stepped closer to Daeron, a subtle shift that placed him between them, his silver hair catching the light like a drawn blade, his presence a wall of fire and steel. “Careful, Velaryon,” Aemond said, his voice a low drawl, laced with a warning that cut through the pit’s heavy air. “Your alpha posturing might have swayed Daeron once, but it holds no sway here. He’s not yours to court—not now, not ever.” His words were sharp, honed by the knowledge of Daeron’s summons and the history that bound them all, his eye glinting with a mix of fury and unease, as if Lucerys’s boldness threatened to unravel the fragile balance he clung to.

Lucerys held his ground, his brown eyes flicking between the brothers, unflinching, his scent a steady tide that refused to retreat, even under Aemond’s glare. “I’m not here to posture,” he said, his voice firm, directed at Daeron but loud enough for Aemond to hear, each word a deliberate step on treacherous ground. “I came for you, I’d be remiss not to greet Tessarion’s rider, a man I once called friend—a man whose fire I still respect.” His gaze softened briefly on Daeron, a flicker of their old connection passing through his eyes, but it hardened again, underpinned by the same unyielding resolve he’d shown Aemond, a defiance of the council’s plans to force his hand. “The court speaks highly of you, Daeron, and I’d know the man behind her fire—whatever the council’s whispers.”

Daeron’s jaw tightened, his violet eyes cold, assessing Lucerys with the wariness of a dragon guarding its hoard, his past love a quiet ache beneath the weight of his fear and his summons. “The court’s words are wind,” he said, his voice low, almost a whisper, but carrying a steel that matched his brother’s, tempered by the fear of Aemond’s reaction and the council’s schemes. “And I’ve no need for Driftmark’s interest, nor the council’s schemes, nor old promises.” He stepped back, closer to Tessarion, whose tail twitched, sending a faint tremor through the stone, her golden eyes watchful. His cinnamon scent curled tighter, a clear signal of withdrawal, though beneath it, the omega in him pulsed with a quiet gratitude, a warmth at Lucerys’s attention that he could not fully suppress, even as he fought to maintain his distance.

Aemond’s gaze darted between them, his fingers flexing at his side, no dragon to anchor him now, his omega scent surging—jasmine and ash a storm of barely restrained fire, fueled by the sting of Lucerys’s boldness and the threat to his brother. “Enough,” he said, his voice cutting through the pit like a blade, his eye fixed on Lucerys with a glare that could sear stone. “You’ve made your point, alpha. Leave Daeron be. He’s not here for your mother’s games—or yours.” The words were sharp, but beneath them lay a current of unease, as if Lucerys’s boldness, their shared past, and the council’s plans had cracked the iron control Aemond wore like armor.

Lucerys’s lips pressed into a thin line, but he nodded, stepping back, his boots scuffing the stone with a soft rasp. His brown eyes lingered on Daeron, a flicker of their old connection passing through them, a silent acknowledgment of the love Daeron once offered, now buried beneath fear and duty. His gaze returned to Aemond, steady and unapologetic, a tide against a storm. “I play no games,” he said, his voice low, resolute, each word a vow. “I stand by what’s mine, Aemond, and I greet those who matter to me. But I’ll not be the council’s pawn, nor yours, Daeron.” He turned, his cloak sweeping behind him like a wave breaking on the shore, and strode up the ramp, the torchlight casting his shadow long and unwavering across the stone, a silhouette of unyielding resolve.

Daeron watched him go, his violet eyes narrowed, his hand still on his dagger, his cinnamon scent a faint, guarded whisper, heavy with the weight of his summons, his fear of Aemond, and the quiet gratitude of his omega heart, stirred by the alpha he still loved. Aemond stood silent, his gaze fixed on Lucerys’s retreating form, his bruised cheek a stark contrast to the pale fire of his hair, his violet eye burning with a storm of emotions—jealousy, protectiveness, and something deeper, unspoken. Tessarion rumbled, her sapphire scales glinting as she settled, her golden eyes tracking the scene, a silent witness to the fire that bound these three—alpha, omega, and the unspoken tensions of a realm teetering on the edge.

Outside, the sky was a bruise, the air thick with the promise of rain, the wind carrying the faint salt of the sea. Lucerys mounted his black destrier, his hands firm on the reins, the leather creaking as he settled into the saddle. He spurred the horse forward, hooves clattering on the cobbles as he rode back to the Red Keep, his alpha scent trailing like a challenge, a banner unfurled against the gathering storm. Rhaenyra’s ultimatum and the council’s schemes loomed, twin shadows that sought to bind him, but he would face them as he faced the brothers—unyielding, a tide that would not break, even against the dragonfire that threatened to consume them all.

The great hall of the Red Keep shimmered under the golden glow of a hundred candles, their flames swaying in intricate iron chandeliers that hung like celestial orbs above the long oak table, polished to a dark sheen that reflected the flickering light. The stone walls were draped with ancient Targaryen tapestries, their crimson and gold threads weaving scenes of dragonfire and conquest—Visenya’s sword raised, Balerion’s wings unfurled—each stitch a testament to a legacy forged in blood and flame. The air was thick with the heady aromas of roasted venison glazed with honey and thyme, mulled wine spiced with cloves, and crusty loaves of bread still warm from the ovens, their scent mingling with the faint, ever-present tang of smoke curling from the massive hearth at the hall’s far end. Its flames crackled, casting long shadows that danced across the flagstones, a restless counterpoint to the low hum of the court’s murmurs. Lords and ladies sat in clusters along trestle tables, their silks and velvets rustling, their silver goblets clinking softly as they leaned into whispered intrigues, their eyes darting toward the high table where the true drama of the evening unfolded.

At the high table, Rhaenyra Targaryen presided like a queen carved from obsidian and moonlight, her black gown shimmering with beads that caught the candlelight like stars against a midnight sky. Her silver hair was woven into an intricate crown of braids, each strand gleaming with the luster of dragon scales, a silent declaration of her claim to the Iron Throne. Her violet eyes swept the hall with a regal authority, sharp and unyielding, her presence a quiet storm that stilled the air without a single word. To her right sat Lucerys Velaryon, heir to Driftmark, his navy tunic pristine despite the day’s exertions, its tailored fit accentuating the broad lines of his shoulders. The silver seahorse embroidered at his collar gleamed subtly, a quiet emblem of his house’s maritime pride. His dark curls, tamed but rebellious, framed his face with a roguish charm, a few strands curling against his temples, damp with the lingering heat of the day. His brown eyes sparkled with a potent blend of mischief and joy, like sunlight glinting off a turbulent sea, as if he relished the chaos he was poised to ignite. His alpha scent—salt and cedar, spiked with the crisp bite of pine—rolled off him in bold, unapologetic waves, filling the space around him with a challenge that drew furtive glances from the courtiers below, their whispers hushing as his presence commanded attention.

Across from him sat Aemond Targaryen, his black leather doublet stark against the pallor of his skin, its severe lines accentuating the sharp planes of his face—cheekbones like Valyrian steel, a jawline honed to a blade’s edge. His silver hair was pulled back tightly, a sleek cascade that bared the cold gleam of his sapphire socket, a star of ice that caught the candlelight with an unyielding chill. His violet eye was fixed on the untouched venison before him, the tension in his jaw a silent testament to the storm brewing within, a carryover from the charged encounter in the Dragonpit. His omega scent—jasmine laced with scorched ash—simmered like a banked fire, its heat prickling the air, a barely contained blaze that spoke of anger, defiance, and a quieter, deeper hurt that lingered from Lucerys’s bold words earlier that day.

Beside Aemond sat Daeron Targaryen, his indigo riding leathers exchanged for a deep green tunic, its rich hue evoking ancient forests, its fine embroidery of silver vines catching the candlelight with understated elegance. His silver hair, still tied back from his journey, was looser now, a few strands falling free to frame his sharp Targaryen features—high cheekbones, a straight nose, and violet eyes that gleamed with a guarded intensity. His fingers, long and graceful, tightened around the silver stem of his goblet, the metal cool against his skin, as if it were an anchor against the storm he sensed brewing. His omega scent—crisp apple and warm cinnamon, initially sweet as a sunlit orchard—hung in the air, a soft warmth that belied the tension coiling in his frame. He knew the council’s plan, knew Rhaenyra’s approval stemmed from the affection he had once shown Lucerys—those stolen days of laughter in Driftmark’s courtyards, when Lucerys’s handsome features, his steady brown eyes, and roguish smile had stirred Daeron’s heart, his lingering gazes a silent confession of love. But now, seated under Aemond’s watchful eye, that past love was a weight, a quiet ache tangled with the stress of his summons and a growing fear of his brother’s wrath, a shadow that loomed larger than the council’s schemes.

Rhaenyra raised her goblet, the hall falling silent as if her very presence drew the air from the room, the clink of cutlery and murmur of voices fading like a tide retreating from the shore. Her black gown shimmered, the obsidian beads glinting like dragon’s eyes, and her voice, when she spoke, was clear and resonant, carrying the weight of the Iron Throne she claimed. “My lords and ladies,” she began, her tone measured, each word a stone laid in a foundation of authority. “Tonight, we welcome Daeron Targaryen, rider of Tessarion, back to King’s Landing after his time in Oldtown. His return strengthens House Targaryen, as does the bond of family and duty that binds us all.” Her violet eyes flicked to Lucerys, a knowing glint sparking in their depths, a silent acknowledgment of the gambit he had set in motion. Her gaze then settled on Daeron, who stiffened under its weight, his fingers tightening further around his goblet, the silver creaking faintly. “And tonight,” Rhaenyra continued, her voice rising slightly, commanding every ear in the hall, “I announce a decision made by Lucerys Velaryon, heir to Driftmark and husband to Aemond. He has granted Daeron two weeks to court him, to prove his worth as a potential second omega, to secure the heirs our house demands.”

A ripple of whispers erupted across the hall, like wind stirring dry leaves, heads turning, eyes darting between the high table’s occupants with barely concealed curiosity. The courtiers leaned closer to their neighbors, their silks rustling, their murmurs a low tide of speculation. Daeron’s grip on his goblet tightened until his knuckles gleamed white, his violet eyes snapping up to Rhaenyra, then to Lucerys, a storm of tension and stress swirling in their depths like clouds before a tempest. His omega scent, once sweet with the warmth of cinnamon and the crispness of apple, turned abruptly sour, the apple note twisting into something sharp and acrid, a raw edge that betrayed the fear now gripping his heart—fear of Aemond’s wrath, of the brother whose violet eye could burn hotter than dragonfire, and of the role thrust upon him as a pawn in the council’s game. His past love for Lucerys, those days when his heart had raced at the alpha’s smile, now warred with the dread that coiled in his chest, his cinnamon scent curling inward like a shield, heavy with the weight of his summons.

Lucerys noticed the shift, his brown eyes sharpening as the sour note in Daeron’s scent reached him, cutting through the hall’s rich aromas like a blade through silk. His alpha instincts stirred, attuned to the omega’s distress, but the mischief in his gaze held, tempered by a quiet joy that curved his lips into a faint, defiant smile. His scent pulsed stronger, salt and pine a bold tide that refused to retreat, even under the weight of Daeron’s fear and the storm brewing across the table. He leaned forward slightly, his navy tunic catching the candlelight, the silver seahorse glinting like a beacon of his resolve.

Aemond’s head snapped up, his violet eye blazing like a struck flint, the sapphire socket a cold star against the fury that tightened his features, carving his face into a mask of controlled rage. His omega scent surged, jasmine and scorched ash erupting into a storm that crackled through the air, a fire barely contained, its heat prickling the skin of those nearest him. His fingers clenched around his knife, the blade’s edge glinting as it caught the candlelight, its point digging faintly into the oak table, leaving a shallow scar. His voice, when he spoke, was low but venomous, each word a shard of ice wrapped in flame. “Is this your game, Velaryon?” he said, his gaze locked on Lucerys, sharp enough to draw blood. “To parade your alpha whims before the court, to dangle my brother as a prize while you play at loyalty?” The hurt beneath his anger was subtle, a raw wound flickering in his violet eye, a betrayal of the fragile bond forged in the Dragonpit, now strained by this public declaration. His scent flared again, the ash note biting, a storm of fury and pain that spoke of a man who refused to be cast aside, yet feared he already was.

Lucerys met Aemond’s gaze without flinching, his brown eyes steady, the mischief in them tempered by a quiet joy that burned like a beacon, unyielding against the storm across the table. His alpha scent pulsed, salt and cedar a bold tide that filled the hall, a challenge and a promise entwined. “No game, Aemond,” he said, his voice calm but firm, carrying across the high table with a confidence that silenced the courtiers’ whispers below. “I stand by you, as I swore in the Dragonpit. But the council’s demands and my mother’s will don’t vanish because we wish it. I’ve given Daeron a chance—not because I seek to replace you, but because I choose my own path, not theirs.” His eyes flicked to Daeron, the mischief sparking brighter, a nod to their shared past—those days of laughter and lingering glances, when Daeron’s affection had been a warmth Lucerys cherished, a flame that still flickered in the omega’s guarded gaze. “Two weeks, Daeron,” he said, his tone lighter now, almost teasing, though underpinned with the same unyielding resolve. “Show me the fire I know you carry, the fire I saw in Driftmark’s courtyards.”

Daeron’s violet eyes widened briefly, a flicker of that old affection stirring beneath the tension that gripped him, but it was quickly smothered by the stress that tightened his shoulders, his posture rigid as if braced against a coming blow. His cinnamon scent, now sour with the acrid bite of fear, curled tighter, the apple note sharp as a green fruit plucked too soon. His voice, when he spoke, was low and strained, each word measured against the weight of Aemond’s presence beside him, the brother whose wrath he feared more than the council’s schemes. “You think this a jest, Lucerys?” he said, his tone cold, though a faint tremor betrayed the turmoil within. “I came to King’s Landing for duty, not to be courted like some prize in a tourney. I’ve no desire to play this role, nor to stir what lies between you and my brother.” His gaze flicked to Aemond, the fear of his wrath a shadow in his violet eyes, before returning to Lucerys, the omega in him quietly stirred by the alpha’s attention, the memory of their past closeness a warmth he fought to suppress, even as his sour scent betrayed his conflict.

Aemond’s knife clattered against his plate, the sound sharp and jarring in the hall’s sudden hush, like a stone striking glass. “Enough of this farce,” he said, his voice a low growl, his violet eye burning with a fury that masked the hurt beneath, a raw wound that bled into his words. “You think to toy with us both, Velaryon? To string Daeron along while you hold me as your shield?” He leaned forward, his scent a storm of ash and jasmine, its heat a palpable force that pressed against the air, his words laced with a bitterness that cut deeper than his usual scorn. “I am no man’s second choice, and neither is my brother.” His fingers flexed, the knife trembling slightly in his grip, as if he longed to wield it, not against flesh but against the chaos that threatened to unravel him.

Rhaenyra’s gaze sharpened, her goblet lowering with a deliberate slowness, the silver rim catching the candlelight as she fixed Aemond with a look that could silence dragons. “Mind your tone, Aemond,” she said, her voice cold, regal, cutting through the tension like a blade through mist. “Lucerys’s decision is his own, as is his right as an alpha and heir. The realm demands heirs, and you have made your stance clear, refusing to bend to duty. Daeron’s presence is no slight to you, but a necessity for our house.” Her violet eyes softened briefly as they turned to Daeron, a flicker of sympathy for the weight he carried—the stress of his summons, the fear of Aemond’s wrath, the ache of his past love for Lucerys—before hardening again, her will unyielding as dragonbone. “Two weeks is a fair chance, Daeron. Use it wisely, or the council will choose for you.”

Daeron’s jaw tightened, his violet eyes dropping to his goblet, his fingers trembling slightly as he set it down with a soft clink, the silver ringing faintly against the oak. His cinnamon scent, now sour with fear, was a faint, guarded whisper, heavy with the stress of his role and the terror of Aemond’s anger, though the omega in him pulsed with a quiet gratitude, stirred by Lucerys’s bold charm and the memory of their past, when his heart had raced at the alpha’s every glance. He said nothing, his silence a shield, his posture rigid as he fought to maintain his composure under the court’s watchful eyes, their whispers a low tide that threatened to drown him.

Lucerys leaned back in his chair, his brown eyes glinting with mischief, though the joy in them was tempered by a flicker of calculation, a nod to the delicate balance he walked between defiance and diplomacy. His alpha scent pulsed stronger, salt and pine a steady tide that filled the hall, a challenge and a promise entwined, undaunted by Aemond’s fury or Daeron’s sour fear. He rose from his seat, his movements fluid, the navy tunic shifting against his frame as he stepped around the table, his boots soft on the flagstones. The courtiers’ murmurs hushed, their eyes following him, sensing the weight of the moment. He stopped before Daeron, his presence commanding, yet softened by a courtly grace that echoed their shared past. “Daeron,” he said, his voice low, warm with a sincerity that cut through the hall’s tension. He extended his hand, palm up, a polite gesture that carried the weight of their old bond, his brown eyes locking onto Daeron’s with a quiet intensity. “May I?”

Daeron hesitated, his violet eyes flicking to Aemond, the sour note in his scent sharpening further, a raw edge of fear that made his breath catch. Aemond’s violet eye burned, his jaw tightening, but he remained silent, his scent a storm of ash and jasmine that pressed against the air. Daeron’s fingers twitched, his heart warring with his fear, the memory of Lucerys’s warmth a pull he could not fully resist. Slowly, he placed his hand in Lucerys’s, his skin cool and trembling slightly, the gesture a fragile bridge between past and present. Lucerys’s hand closed gently around his, warm and steady, and he bowed his head, bringing Daeron’s hand to his lips. The kiss was soft, a fleeting brush of warmth, respectful yet laced with a quiet promise, a nod to the fire Daeron once offered him. Daeron’s scent flickered, the sour note softening briefly, a hint of cinnamon’s warmth returning, though the fear of Aemond’s wrath held it in check.

Lucerys straightened, releasing Daeron’s hand with a gentle squeeze, his brown eyes lingering on the omega’s face, a spark of mischief dancing in their depths. He turned to Aemond, his posture firm but respectful, the silver seahorse at his collar glinting as he inclined his head. “Aemond,” he said, his voice steady, carrying across the high table with a quiet strength. “I want you to know that I take no pleasure in saying that I will not be staying in our marital chambers during this period. You can reach me anytime; I'm two aisles down at the end of the right-hand hallway. ” His gaze held Aemond’s for a moment, unflinching, a tide against a storm, before he turned, his cloak sweeping behind him like a wave breaking on the shore. He strode from the hall, his boots echoing softly on the flagstones, the torchlight casting his shadow long and unwavering, a silhouette of resolve that lingered in the air like his scent—salt, cedar, and pine, a challenge that refused to fade.

Daeron’s hand fell to his lap, his fingers curling tightly, his violet eyes fixed on the table, his cinnamon scent still sour, heavy with the fear of Aemond’s wrath and the stress of his summons, though the omega in him pulsed with a quiet gratitude, stirred by Lucerys’s touch, the alpha he had once loved still a flame he could not fully extinguish. Aemond remained silent, his violet eye burning as it followed Lucerys’s retreating form, his bruised cheek a stark contrast to the pale fire of his hair, his scent a storm of ash and jasmine, his anger a blaze that masked the hurt beneath—a wound deepened by the kiss, by the public declaration, by the threat to the bond he and Lucerys had forged. The hall resumed its murmur, the courtiers’ whispers a low tide, but the high table was a battlefield, the scents of alpha and omegas clashing like waves against dragonfire.

Rhaenyra watched, her violet eyes sharp, her goblet raised once more as she signaled for the meal to continue, her will unyielding as the stone beneath her feet. The weight of the realm rested on the choices of these three—Lucerys, bold and defiant; Daeron, torn between fear and longing; Aemond, a storm of anger and hurt, bound by a fire that threatened to consume them all.

Chapter Text

The war chamber of the Red Keep was a cavern of shadows, its towering, slit-like windows allowing only thin blades of moonlight to pierce the gloom, their pale light slashing across walls of ancient, weathered stone. A massive weirwood table dominated the chamber, its surface intricately carved with the sigils of Westeros’s noble houses—stag, lion, dragon, and more—each etched line a testament to centuries of power and betrayal. The air hung heavy, thick with the musty scent of aged parchment, the metallic tang of iron, and the lingering, acrid bite of torches snuffed out hours before, their blackened sconces jutting from the walls like the bones of forgotten guardians. At the table’s heart, a lone candelabrum burned, its three tapers casting a wavering glow that sent jagged shadows writhing across a sprawl of maps—King’s Landing’s labyrinthine streets, Driftmark’s jagged coasts, the Stormlands’ rugged hills—each pierced with pins of crimson and obsidian, marking the fragile balance of loyalty and ambition. The chamber was a crucible, its oppressive silence charged with the weight of decisions that could unravel a dynasty or forge it anew.

Aemond Targaryen stood at the table’s edge, a solitary figure cloaked in darkness, his black leather doublet absorbing the candlelight like a void, its severe tailoring accentuating the lean, predatory sharpness of his form. His silver hair, unbound, spilled over his shoulders like molten moonlight, framing the stark contrast of his face: the cold, unyielding gleam of the sapphire in his left socket, a glittering mockery of the eye he’d lost, and the burning violet of his remaining eye, alive with a fury that seemed to pulse in time with his heartbeat. His omega scent—jasmine threaded with the scorched bitterness of ash—rolled through the chamber like a gathering storm, sharp and unyielding, a challenge to the stillness that dared anyone to cross him. A bruise, dark and livid from Alicent’s slap, marred his cheek, its purple hue stark against his alabaster skin, while a fresh cut on his lip glistened faintly, twitching with the barely restrained rage that coiled within him. Lucerys’s brazen act in the great hall—kissing Daeron’s hand, granting him two weeks to court—had struck Aemond like a dagger, slicing through his pride and exposing a raw, festering wound of jealousy and betrayal he could neither name nor bury. His hands gripped the table’s edge, fingers digging into the ancient wood until it groaned, his knuckles white as bone, every muscle taut as he fought to contain the wildfire raging in his blood.

The heavy oak doors creaked open, their iron hinges grinding like a dragon’s growl, and Rhaenyra Targaryen swept into the chamber, her presence a force as commanding as the storm beyond the walls. Her black gown shimmered with obsidian beads that caught the candlelight like the eyes of a waking dragon, its flowing silk a cascade of shadow and starlight that seemed to drink in the chamber’s meager glow. Her silver braids, intricately woven, sat atop her head like a crown forged of moonlight, and her violet eyes gleamed with the unyielding resolve of a queen, though a faint shadow of maternal exhaustion softened their edges. Behind her strode Lucerys Velaryon, his navy tunic stretched tight across the broad planes of his shoulders, the silver seahorse embroidered at his collar a quiet but proud symbol of Driftmark’s legacy. His dark curls were wild, as if whipped by a sea gale, and his brown eyes smoldered with a defiance that mirrored Aemond’s, though tempered by a flicker of uncertainty, a crack in his otherwise steadfast demeanor. His alpha scent—brine and cedar, sharpened by a spike of pine—surged into the chamber, a tidal wave that collided with Aemond’s smoldering ash, the air between them sparking with a tension so palpable it seemed the maps might catch fire.

Rhaenyra moved with deliberate grace, her boots whispering against the cold stone as she approached the table, her gaze sweeping across the maps—each pin a silent calculation of power—before locking onto Aemond with the weight of a monarch’s judgment. “You summoned us, Aemond,” she said, her voice a clear, resonant command, each word laid with the precision of a mason building a fortress. “The hour grows late, and the realm’s burdens do not bend to personal strife. Speak your grievance, and let it be plain.”

Aemond’s single eye flashed to her, a violet inferno of rage and wounded pride that seemed to sear the very air. “Personal strife?” he growled, his voice a low, venomous hiss, each word sharpened to wound. “You dare call it that when your bastard son struts through the great hall, kissing my brother’s hand like some gallant fool, leaving me to choke on the court’s whispers?” His scent flared, the ash note growing acrid, a wildfire pressing against the chamber’s stone walls. “You allowed this, Rhaenyra. You let this boy—still clinging to his mother’s skirts—parade Daeron as a second omega, a blade held to my throat, and expect me to kneel like some meek, broken thing? I’ll not be shamed by a child who thinks himself a lord.”

Lucerys advanced, his boots striking the stone with a sharp, defiant rhythm, his alpha scent swelling to meet Aemond’s challenge, a sea-storm crashing against a pyre. “I’m no child, Aemond,” he said, his voice steady but threaded with exasperation, his brown eyes locking onto Aemond’s with an intensity that refused to waver. “I offered Daeron a chance because the council demands heirs, and you’ve vowed to defy that obligation until your dying breath. I’m fighting to preserve our house, our bond, not to fracture it.” A fleeting warmth, a memory of their moments in the Dragonpit, softened his gaze for an instant, but it hardened again, resolute as iron. “You’re my husband, not my prisoner, but I won’t beg for your trust while you cast venom at every step I take.”

Aemond’s lips curled into a sneer, his fingers tightening on the table until the weirwood creaked, a thin splinter snapping under his grip. “Preserve our house?” he spat, his voice a razor drawn across flint, sparking with contempt. “You’re a bastard, Lucerys, playing at nobility while you toy with my brother to flaunt your power. Do you think I’m blind to it? That spark in your eyes when you looked at Daeron, the same one you used to charm him in Driftmark’s courtyards years ago? This marriage is no bond of love—it’s a shackle, and your display in the hall was a reminder that you hold the key.” His sapphire socket gleamed like a frozen star, its cold light a stark contrast to the fire in his voice, his pain seeping through the cracks in his fury. “If Daeron bears your child, I’ll disown it. My brother will not be your broodmare, nor will I let you drag him into this farce.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes narrowed to slits, her hand settling on the table, fingers grazing a crimson pin marking Dragonstone, her posture as unyielding as the Valyrian steel at her hip. “Hold your tongue, Aemond,” she commanded, her voice a whip’s lash, cutting through the warring scents with ruthless precision. “You speak of shame, yet you forget your duty. Lucerys acts for the realm, for the strength of our house, which you weaken with your insolence. You refuse to bear heirs, to uphold the vows you swore before gods and men. Do you believe your pride outweighs the Iron Throne’s demands?” Her violet eyes bored into him, a queen’s authority tempered by a fleeting glimmer of compassion for the anguish she saw in his gaze, though her resolve remained unbreakable.

Aemond’s laugh was a jagged, bitter thing, reverberating off the stone walls like the crack of breaking bones, his silver hair shifting as he leaned forward, his scent a maelstrom of ash that seemed to choke the very air. “The Iron Throne,” he sneered, his voice quaking with barely restrained fury. “It’s always the throne with you, always the realm’s needs, while you barter me to your bastard son and now offer my brother as a spare. Baela is Driftmark’s true heir, not this boy you prop up like a puppet. He could name one of her children his heir and end your schemes here and now.” His gaze snapped to Lucerys, sharp as a blade. “Take your pleasure with any whore in King’s Landing, Velaryon, but it won’t be Daeron. I’d see him in the grave before I let you claim him.”

Lucerys’s jaw tightened, his brown eyes blazing with a mix of anger and guilt, his scent surging, the pine note cutting through Aemond’s ash like a blade through smoke. “I’m not claiming Daeron,” he said, his voice low and resolute, each word heavy with conviction. “I kissed his hand to honor our shared past, to give him a chance to stand as his own man, not a pawn in the council’s games. Do you think I relish this? Balancing your hatred, my mother’s decrees, and a court that waits for us to stumble?” He stepped closer, his boots scraping the stone, his alpha presence a relentless tide that refused to break. “I chose you, Aemond, despite this loveless bond, despite your scorn. I’ll breed no heirs— unlike you, not with Daeron, not with anyone. But I can’t slay your demons for you. Stop seeing betrayal where there’s only the weight of duty.”

Aemond’s fist crashed onto the table, the force jarring the candelabrum, sending wax dripping in molten rivulets across the map of the Crownlands. “Duty?” he roared, his violet eye a blaze of fury, his scent a wildfire that scorched the air. “You call it duty when you court my brother in front of the entire court, when you let their whispers paint me as replaceable? I see you, Lucerys—your easy charm, your scent claiming every corner of this keep like you’re its master. You think you’re saving our house, but you’re shattering me, and I’ll not stand by while you dangle Daeron as my rival.” His voice broke, raw with unguarded pain, his fingers trembling against the table, betraying the tempest of hurt beneath his rage. “Baela’s line could secure Driftmark without this mockery. You have no need of my brother.”

Rhaenyra’s stance grew rigid, her black gown rustling as she advanced, her violet eyes alight with a fury that rivaled Aemond’s, her queenly composure now laced with wrath. “You destroy yourself, Aemond,” she said, her voice a low, lethal growl, each word striking like a smith’s hammer. “Your refusal to bend, your obsession with defying a world that demands sacrifice—it’s your own hand that wields the blade against you. Lucerys offers you loyalty, a bond stronger than you deserve, yet you see only insults. Daeron’s role is a necessity, not a rival, and your pride blinds you to the realm’s survival.” Her gaze darkened, the faint spark of empathy consumed by her rising anger. “You dare call my son a bastard, threaten your brother’s life, and scorn the unity of this house? Baela may be Driftmark’s heir in your mind, but the council demands a direct line, and you offer nothing but rebellion.”

Aemond’s breath caught, his violet eye flashing with defiance and a deeper, raw vulnerability—the pain of being seen yet not spared. “You know nothing of my torment,” he whispered, his voice a deadly, venom-laced drawl, each word dripping with bitter resolve. “You sit atop your throne, spinning webs of intrigue, while I’m chained to a bastard boy who plays at honor and flirts with my brother to prove his worth. You call it loyalty? It’s a cage, Rhaenyra, and I’ll tear it apart before it strangles me.” His gaze locked onto Lucerys, unyielding as dragonfire. “Make your choice, alpha. Me, or your games with Daeron. I’ll not share my place, and I’ll not let my brother become your pawn.”

Lucerys’s brown eyes met Aemond’s, unwavering, his alpha scent a steady tide that refused to yield to Aemond’s inferno. “I chose you,” he said, his voice resolute, each word a vow etched in granite. “I chose you when I defied the council’s whispers, when I stood by you in the Dragonpit’s shadows, when I faced the court’s judgment. Daeron is no rival—he’s a burden I carry to keep our house from crumbling. I’ll sire no heirs, not with him, not with anyone, no matter what you believe.” His hand settled on the table, fingers grazing a pin marking Driftmark, a silent anchor amidst their storm. “You want me to choose? I have. Now choose me back, or we’re just two storms tearing each other apart.”

Rhaenyra’s patience shattered, her violet eyes blazing as she slammed her fist onto the table, the sound a deafening crack that silenced the chamber, the candelabrum shuddering, wax splattering across the maps like blood. “Enough!” she thundered, her voice a dragon’s roar that seemed to shake the very stones of the Red Keep. “You will not unravel this house with your poison and your threats, Aemond! You call my son a bastard, vow to murder your own brother, and defy the crown itself? You are confined to your chambers for this two weeks, Aemond Targaryen. You will not step foot outside, and no soul will cross your threshold. Guards will see to it. Use the time to ponder your duty, your place, and the ruin your pride invites.” Her black gown seemed to swallow the light, her presence a tempest of authority that permitted no defiance, her scent—dragonfire and molten iron—overwhelming the chamber like a forge’s blaze.

Aemond’s chest rose and fell, his violet eye burning with unbowed defiance, but Rhaenyra’s decree hung over him like a guillotine’s blade. His omega scent flared, the ash note sharp and unrelenting, but he held his tongue, his lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line, the sapphire in his socket glinting like a frozen star against the fire in his gaze. He straightened, his silver hair catching the moonlight in a cascade of pale fire, and turned, his cloak billowing behind him like a thundercloud. His boots struck the stone with a relentless, unyielding rhythm as he strode toward the doors, slamming them shut with a force that echoed like a war drum, the sound reverberating through the chamber.

The maps lay still, their pins gleaming in the flickering candlelight, a silent testament to a realm teetering on the edge of collapse. Lucerys’s hand tightened on the table, his brown eyes fixed on the closed doors, his alpha scent a steady, unyielding tide, carrying both a promise and a challenge. Rhaenyra’s gaze lingered on her son, a spark of pride flickering in her violet eyes, but the weight of her crown pressed heavier, Aemond’s fury a wildfire that threatened to consume them all, her command a desperate attempt to chain it before it burned the realm to ash.

The thunderous echo of the war room’s doors lingered in Aemond Targaryen’s ears, a relentless drumbeat that pulsed in time with the fury coursing through his veins as he stormed through the Red Keep’s labyrinthine corridors. The torchlit passages, their ancient stone walls scarred by centuries of intrigue, seemed to constrict around him, the flickering flames casting his silhouette as a jagged, spectral figure that loomed and twisted against the cold granite. His silver hair, unbound and flowing like a river of molten moonlight, shimmered in the dim glow, a stark contrast to the darkness of his black leather doublet, which drank in the light like a void, its severe cut accentuating the lean, predatory angles of his frame. His omega scent—jasmine now drowned in the searing, acrid char of scorched ash—billowed in his wake, a tempest that sent servants scurrying into shadowed alcoves, their eyes wide with dread, their whispers stifled by the sheer force of his presence. The bruise on his cheek, a livid purple mark from Alicent’s slap, throbbed with each heartbeat, a raw pulse of pain that mirrored the sting of the fresh cut on his lip, which burned with every snarl, fueling the inferno that blazed within him. Rhaenyra’s decree—two weeks of confinement, a prisoner in his own chambers—was a molten brand seared into his mind, but it was Lucerys’s public display in the great hall, the brazen act of kissing Daeron’s hand and granting him two weeks to court, that cut deeper, a betrayal that gnawed at the raw, bleeding edges of his pride like a blade twisting in a wound.

He reached the royal apartments, their heavy oaken doors rising before him like silent sentinels, their intricate dragon carvings—scales and claws etched with Valyrian precision—seeming to judge him with unblinking eyes. A low growl rumbled in his throat, a sound born of rage and defiance, as he gripped the iron handles and shoved the doors open with a force that sent them crashing against the stone walls, the resounding boom reverberating through the antechamber like a warhorn’s call. The room beyond was a stark departure from the war room’s cold austerity: rich tapestries of Valyrian conquests hung from the walls, their threads of gold and crimson glinting in the soft, wavering light of a single brazier, its glowing coals pulsing like the eyes of a slumbering dragon. A massive four-poster bed dominated one corner, its dark velvet curtains drawn back to reveal a sea of black silk bedding, rippling faintly in the draft from the open door. The hearth lay cold, its ashes a silent testament to the frost that had settled over the marriage this chamber was meant to symbolize. Aemond’s violet eye, sharp and burning, swept the space, narrowing as it fell on a silver goblet resting on a carved rosewood table, its contents untouched, a glint of moonlight catching the rim—a remnant of Lucerys’s presence earlier that evening. The sight was a spark to kindling, reigniting the wildfire of his anger, and his fists clenched, nails biting into his palms until he felt the warm trickle of blood.

His strides unbroken, he crossed the antechamber with the relentless purpose of a dragon on the hunt, his boots striking the polished stone floor with a cadence that echoed his fury. He reached the smaller door to his private chamber, a sanctuary of solitude within the shared apartments, its unadorned oak and single iron latch a reflection of his own austere, unyielding nature. Seizing the handle, he flung the door open with such force that it slammed against the inner wall, the wood splintering with a sharp crack that shattered the chamber’s stillness. Stepping inside, he spun on his heel, his cloak swirling like a stormcloud, and slammed the door shut behind him, the impact a thunderclap that seemed to shake the very foundations of the Red Keep. His fingers, trembling with rage, found the heavy iron key in the lock and turned it with a vicious twist, the metallic screech of the bolt sliding home a defiant snarl against the world beyond. He stood there, chest heaving, his breath a ragged, hissing torrent in the quiet, the sapphire in his socket catching the faint glow of a single tallow candle on his desk, its flame flickering as if cowed by the intensity of his presence, casting a trembling light across the planes of his face.

The chamber was a warrior’s retreat, stark and unyielding as Aemond himself. A narrow bed stood against one wall, its plain woolen coverlet stretched taut, unmarred by ornamentation. A rack of polished swords gleamed in the corner, their Valyrian steel blades etched with faint runes that shimmered in the moonlight streaming through a small, high window, its leaded panes admitting only a sliver of silver that painted the stone floor in ghostly hues. A single bookshelf, heavy with tomes of Valyrian history, military strategy, and dragonlore, lined the opposite wall, their leather spines worn from years of Aemond’s relentless study, each page a testament to his hunger for power and knowledge. A lone chair, its wood scarred from countless nights of restless pacing, sat beside a simple oak desk, where the candle burned, its wax pooling in uneven rivulets. His omega scent saturated the air, the jasmine note all but smothered by a torrent of ash, as if the chamber itself were an extension of his rage, its walls absorbing the heat of his fury. He tore off his cloak, hurling it onto the bed where it landed in a tangled heap of black leather, the motion a release of the storm within him, and began to pace, his boots scuffing the stone with a relentless rhythm, each step a measured attempt to leash the wildfire threatening to consume him.

Rhaenyra’s words clawed at his mind, each one a lash that drew blood: You are confined to your chambers for two weeks… Reflect on your duty, your place, and the ruin your pride invites. The decree was a cage, its bars forged in the iron of her queenly authority, a prison meant to break him, to force him to bend. His fists clenched tighter, the pain of his nails in his palms grounding him, though he fought the urge to seize the silver goblet on the desk and hurl it against the wall, to shatter something as irrevocably as he felt shattered. Lucerys’s voice followed, a quieter but no less piercing wound: I chose you… Daeron is no rival—he’s a burden I carry to keep our house from crumbling. The words rang hollow to Aemond, his pride a shield that deflected the alpha’s vow. The memory of Lucerys’s lips brushing Daeron’s hand, the court’s stifled gasps, the glint of something—affection, perhaps?—in those brown eyes, was a dagger twisting in his gut, a reminder of a marriage forged not in love but in duty, now threatened by the specter of replacement. He could still see the great hall, the sea of faces watching, judging, whispering of Aemond Targaryen, the omega prince, reduced to a stepping stone for his younger brother.

He halted his pacing, his gaze drawn to the sword rack in the corner, his favored blade, gleamed with a cold, lethal promise. Its Valyrian steel shimmered, the runes along its edge whispering of battles won and enemies felled. For a fleeting moment, he imagined drawing it, striding back through the keep’s corridors, past the guards Rhaenyra had surely posted, and confronting Lucerys in the war room, the steel’s edge demanding he retract his offer to Daeron. The fantasy was vivid, intoxicating—Lucerys’s brown eyes widening, the court’s gasps silenced by the threat of his blade—but it dissolved as quickly as it came, snuffed out by the reality of Rhaenyra’s command and the clink of armored guards beyond his door. He was trapped, a dragon chained, and the thought only fueled his rage, his fingers twitching as if yearning for the hilt.

Instead, he crossed to the desk, his hand brushing the worn leather cover of The Histories of Aegon the Conqueror, its weight a familiar anchor in the storm of his thoughts. He sank into the chair, the wood groaning under his weight, and stared into the candle’s flame, its flickering dance a mirror to the chaos roiling within him. The sapphire in his socket felt heavier now, a cold, unyielding weight against his skin, a constant reminder of the price he’d paid for his defiance years ago. His omega scent shifted, the ash note softening, giving way to a faint thread of jasmine, delicate as a truce but no less defiant, a sign of the battle he still fought within himself. He leaned forward, elbows on the desk, and pressed his fingers to his temples, the bruise on his cheek pulsing with a dull ache, the cut on his lip stinging as he gritted his teeth.

“Baela,” he murmured, the name a quiet oath, a spark of resolve in the darkness. “Her children could bear Driftmark’s name, not some bastard spawn of Lucerys’s whims.” The thought of his cousin, fierce and unbowed, her dragonrider’s blood as pure as his own, steadied him like a lodestone. In his eyes, Baela was Driftmark’s rightful heir, her claim untainted by the whispers of illegitimacy that clung to Lucerys like a shadow. If the council craved heirs, let them come from her line, from the fire of House Velaryon’s true daughter, not from Daeron, not from the brother Aemond would sooner see cast into the sea than bound to Lucerys in this mockery of a courtship. The idea was a lifeline, a way to thwart the council’s machinations without surrendering to their will, but it did little to ease the sting of Lucerys’s actions, the public humiliation that burned brighter than the candle before him, its flame a pale echo of his rage.

He leaned back, the chair creaking in protest, and closed his eye, the sapphire socket a cold, unyielding presence against his skin. The chamber’s silence pressed in, broken only by the faint crackle of the candle and the distant, mournful howl of wind beyond the high window, carrying the salt of Blackwater Bay. Two weeks, Rhaenyra had declared—two weeks to languish in this stone cage, to let his anger fester or burn itself to ash. But Aemond Targaryen was no meek creature to be tamed by confinement. He had endured worse—loss, betrayal, the weight of a body he despised—and he would endure this, emerging not as a broken penitent but as a dragon, its fire banked but unquenched. His lips curled into a grim, defiant smile, the cut on his lip splitting anew, a bead of blood welling as it stretched. “Let Daeron play his part,” he whispered to the empty chamber, his voice a low, venomous vow, sharp as Valyrian steel. “But I’ll see this court in flames before I let him usurp my place.”

Outside, the wind wailed louder, a mournful chorus that seemed to answer his defiance, and the candle flickered, casting long, sinuous shadows across the stone—shadows that danced like dragons, their wings poised to unfurl.

Chapter Text

The midday sun hung high over King's Landing, its golden rays piercing the intricate latticework of the Red Keep's private garden like arrows of light, filtering through the verdant canopy to dapple the stone terrace below in a mosaic of shifting shadows and luminous flecks. The garden itself was a rare sanctuary amid the fortress's grim austerity—a secluded enclave tucked away from the bustling courtyards and echoing halls, where ancient weirwood trees whispered secrets to the wind, and manicured beds of crimson dragonflowers bloomed defiantly against the salt-laden breeze from Blackwater Bay. Overhead, the blooming wisteria formed a living roof, its purple vines cascading in lazy tendrils, their fragrant petals drifting downward like silent confessions, settling onto the white linen cloth that draped the small, intimate table. Rhaenyra had orchestrated this luncheon with her characteristic precision, the spread a testament to her unyielding grasp on diplomacy: delicate slices of poached salmon, their pink flesh glistening under a glaze of fresh lemon and herbs, flanked by vibrant greens tossed in golden olive oil and dotted with ruby pomegranate seeds; warm rolls, their crusts flecked with rosemary and thyme, steaming faintly as they released their earthy aroma; and a crystal pitcher of chilled pear cider, its surface beading with condensation that trickled down like tears. The air was alive with the garden's symphony—the sweet, heady floral notes of wisteria mingling with the distant, rhythmic roar of the bay's waves crashing against the jagged rocks below, a constant reminder that even in this pocket of tranquility, the world beyond was one of relentless turmoil and unforgiving tides. At the garden's perimeter, two guards from the Kingsguard stood sentinel, their polished armor catching glints of sunlight, their postures rigid yet unobtrusive, ensuring the privacy of this forced encounter while the heirs of warring bloodlines navigated their fragile truce.

Lucerys Velaryon was the first to arrive, his boots crunching softly on the gravel path that wound through the blooming foliage, each step deliberate, as if measuring the weight of the obligation that had drawn him here. His navy doublet, crafted from fine Velaryon wool and tailored to hug the broad contours of his shoulders and chest, bore the subtle embroidery of crashing waves along the cuffs, a nod to his seafaring heritage, while the silver seahorse pin at his throat gleamed like a beacon of his house's enduring pride. His dark curls, perpetually tousled by some invisible sea breeze, danced lightly in the warm air, framing a face that blended youthful vigor with the hardened resolve of one who had stared down dragons and destinies alike. His brown eyes, deep and expressive, held a steady determination today, though shadows lingered in their depths—the remnants of the great hall's tense announcement, the council's ceaseless demands for heirs, and the invisible chains of his marriage to Aemond, which pulled tighter with every passing day. As an alpha, his scent wafted gently on the breeze: the sharp brine of ocean spray intertwined with the grounding freshness of cedar wood, a calm current that masked the inner turmoil churning beneath his composed exterior. He had not slept well, haunted by visions of Aemond's confined fury and the precarious balance he walked between duty and desire. Rhaenyra's insistence on this meeting had been framed as a bridge toward unity, a subtle maneuver to soothe the court's whispers, but Lucerys recognized it for the strategic thread it was in the vast web of alliances she wove. He pulled out a chair with a quiet scrape against the stone, settling into it as he poured cider into two ornate goblets, the liquid's soft gurgle echoing in the hush, its tart bubbles rising like unspoken questions.

Daeron Targaryen emerged from the opposite path moments later, his approach more subdued, almost hesitant, as if each step carried the burden of secrets too heavy to bear lightly. His deep green tunic, woven from soft Hightower silk and embroidered with subtle silver threads that evoked the starry towers of Oldtown—constellations glinting like distant hopes—clung to his lithe frame with an elegance that belied his inner unrest. His silver hair, tied back loosely in a simple knot, allowed a few errant strands to escape, framing the sharp, aristocratic features inherited from his Targaryen blood: high cheekbones, a straight nose, and violet eyes that gleamed with a guarded intensity, reflecting the storm of emotions he had wrestled with since his summons back to the capital. As an omega, his scent clung to him like a protective aura—crisp apple, tart and invigorating, blended with the warm, comforting spice of cinnamon—but today it was laced with a subtle undercurrent of unease, the fruit ripening under invisible strain, as if the life stirring within him amplified every flicker of doubt. He paused at the table's edge, his posture straight and tense, fingers flexing briefly at his sides before he slid into the chair opposite Lucerys. The guards shifted ever so slightly, their eyes scanning the perimeter—a silent affirmation that this fragile peace was under watchful eyes, though the true threats lay not in assassins but in the words yet unspoken.

For a long, suspended moment, neither man spoke, the only sounds the hum of bees weaving through the flowers and the occasional petal fluttering to the cloth like a fallen leaf in autumn. Lucerys lifted his goblet first, the cool glass pressing against his palm as he took a measured sip, the pear's tartness blooming on his tongue, grounding him amid the rising tension. He studied Daeron over the rim, noting the way the younger man's gaze remained fixed on his plate, his fork idly pushing through the salmon's flaky layers without committing to a bite. The wisteria petals continued their gentle descent, one landing softly beside Daeron's hand, its fragile form a poignant mirror to the vulnerability hanging in the air, ready to shatter with the wrong word.

"You don't have to pretend enjoyment," Lucerys said at last, his voice even and low, carrying the steady timbre of one accustomed to command yet tempered by empathy. He set down his goblet with a faint clink against the stone, the sound sharp in the quiet. "This isn't a courtship by choice for either of us. Rhaenyra's hand is heavy in this, but we both know it's more obligation than affection."

Daeron's violet eyes flicked upward, a brief flash of relief cutting through the wariness that clouded them, like sunlight piercing storm clouds. He set his fork aside with deliberate care, leaning back slightly in his chair, his fingers tracing the etched stem of his goblet as if seeking solace in its cool surface. "Then why persist?" he replied, his tone carrying a quiet edge, the cinnamon in his scent sharpening briefly—a defensive flare against the vulnerability he so carefully guarded. "The council's demands are one thing, shadows we can't escape, but this arrangement... it feels like grasping at illusions, fragile as these petals." He gestured faintly to the drifting flora, his voice softening with the weight of unspoken burdens.

Lucerys exhaled slowly, his gaze drifting toward the garden's blooming edges, where bees hummed busily among the dragonflowers, their oblivious industry a stark contrast to the tangled human knots unraveling at the table. He could feel the pull of his alpha instincts, urging protection and resolution, but they warred with the reality of his own reluctant heart. "Because illusions can become shields in a place like this," he said, his words measured, laced with the practicality born of years navigating courtly tempests. "You're with child, Daeron—news that will spread soon enough, like wildfire through dry grass. You don't tell me who the father is, and whoever he is, marrying me would give the child a name, a legitimate place in this house without the stain of scandal clinging like smoke. It legitimizes you, protects your future here amid the vipers who would see you fall."

Daeron's hand stilled on the goblet, his expression tightening, the apple note in his scent turning faintly tart—a subtle signal of the inner storm he suppressed, churning like the distant waves. His free hand unconsciously drifted to his abdomen, a protective gesture hidden beneath the table's edge, before he drew it back. "And what of my desires? Or yours?" he countered, his voice steady but threaded with raw honesty, the words escaping like a confession long held. "I never sought your hand, Lucerys—not truly. Those days in Driftmark were echoes of youth, fleeting affections that faded with time and distance." He paused, drawing a steady breath, his violet eyes locking onto Lucerys's with an intensity that bespoke years of hidden longing and quiet resolve. "The child... it's not from some fleeting encounter, a mistake in the shadows. It's Lyonel's—my cousin, Lyonel Hightower. We've been in love for years, hidden away in Oldtown's quiet corners, away from the eyes that would tear us apart. He's the one who holds my heart, truly and completely, and this life growing in me is proof of that bond, not a piece in the throne's endless, cruel games."

Lucerys's brown eyes widened slightly, the revelation crashing over him like an unexpected wave, his cedar scent deepening with genuine surprise as he processed the depth of it. He set his goblet down carefully, the motion deliberate to mask the swirl of thoughts—old rivalries between Velaryon and Hightower, the political quagmire this could unleash. Leaning forward, he searched Daeron's face, his voice dropping to a hushed tone of concern. "Lyonel Hightower? I didn't know... Gods, Daeron, that's a tangle deeper than I imagined, woven with blood ties and house loyalties that could unravel everything. Love like that—it's rare in our world, a flame that burns bright but dangerously close to the powder keg of politics. But if that's the truth, why hide it from the start? The council would seize on this like hounds on a scent, twist it into leverage against both our houses, pitting Targaryen against Hightower once more."

Daeron's lips pressed into a thin line, his gaze drifting to the distant bay, where the waves crashed relentlessly against the unyielding rocks below, their ceaseless rhythm a counterpoint to the pulsing tension at the table. He could almost hear Lyonel's voice in his mind, soft promises exchanged under Oldtown's starry skies, the warmth of his embrace that had felt like the only truth in a world of facades. "Hide it?" he echoed, a trace of bitterness creeping into his words. "Because love doesn't bend to decrees or alliances, Lucerys. It doesn't bow to councils or crowns. Lyonel and I built something real, pure, away from the court's venom and the endless scheming that poisons everything it touches. We stole moments in hidden alcoves, under the guise of family visits, nurturing a bond that felt like defiance against the fates that bind us all. Now, this child—raised under a lie if we wed—deserves better than a fabricated legacy, a name that isn't its father's. I'd rather face exile, the scorn of the realm, than chain myself to convenience while my heart belongs elsewhere, beating in rhythm with his."

He finally lifted a piece of salmon to his mouth, chewing mechanically, the flavors registering dimly against the backdrop of his churning emotions—the act more a habit to steady his nerves than genuine hunger.

The breeze stirred the wisteria once more, sending a cascade of petals swirling between them, a fleeting barrier of purple and white that danced in the air before settling like forgotten dreams.

Lucerys watched them fall, his expression growing thoughtful, the brine in his scent softening slightly as empathy tempered his resolve. He tore a roll in half, the crust crackling under his fingers, steam rising like a sigh. "This changes things," he admitted, his voice laced with a newfound gravity. "Lyonel's involvement... it could ignite old feuds, pull the Hightowers deeper into our mess, stirring embers that Otto and his ilk would fan into flames. But you're right—love isn't a bargaining chip, not something to be traded like spices in a market. Still, refusing outright invites chaos: whispers turning to accusations in the halls, the council pressing harder with their quills and decrees, perhaps stripping your claim to Tessarion or isolating you further in some distant tower. Rhaenyra sees value in this union—strengthening ties, quieting doubts that gnaw at our alliances. It's not about us, truly; it's about survival in a court that devours the unguarded, the ones who dare to love without shields."

Daeron shook his head slowly, a faint, weary smile touching his lips, though it held no mirth—only the exhaustion of one who had fought silent battles for too long. "Survival at what cost?" he murmured, his eyes meeting Lucerys's again, pleading for understanding. "Aemond already seethes in his confinement, viewing this as betrayal, his fury a dragon caged and ready to burn. If we proceed, it fractures more than it mends—splintering our family further, turning brother against brother. Lyonel deserves to know his child, to hold it, to share in this miracle without shadows looming over every cradle song. Raised under your name while carrying his blood—that's a cruelty I won't inflict, a lie that would poison every moment."

He poured more cider into his goblet, the liquid's splash a brief, distracting melody, before raising it in a mock toast, his hand steady despite the tremor in his heart. "To choices we never wanted—and the paths we forge despite them, even if they lead through fire."

Lucerys mirrored the gesture without hesitation, their goblets touching with a soft, resonant chime that lingered in the garden's hush, like a fragile pact sealed in crystal. Neither drank deeply, savoring the moment's bittersweet reprieve instead. The meal stretched on in a companionable silence, broken only by the occasional clink of silverware or the wind's sigh through the vines. The guards remained vigilant at their posts, the bees continued their tireless dance among the blooms, and the bay's waves whispered relentlessly below, murmuring of tempests yet to come—of loves tested, secrets unveiled, and a realm teetering on the edge of unraveling.

The silence that followed their toast lingered like a fragile veil, draped over the table amid the drifting petals and the garden's gentle hum, a momentary truce in the ceaseless war of words and wills. The midday sun had climbed higher, its warmth intensifying the floral symphony around them—the wisteria's heady perfume now mingling with the faint, earthy undertone of the dragonflowers' crimson blooms, while the bees' persistent drone wove through the air like threads in an invisible tapestry. Lucerys set his goblet down with a deliberate softness, the crystal catching a stray beam of sunlight and refracting it into a brief, rainbow shimmer across the linen, a fleeting spark of beauty amid the tension. He watched Daeron for a moment, the omega's weary smile fading into a contemplative frown, his fingers absently tracing the rim of his own goblet as if seeking solace in its cool, etched surface, the silver threads on his tunic catching glints of light that made the starry embroidery seem almost alive, like distant constellations charting uncertain fates. The distant roar of Blackwater Bay grew more insistent, a rhythmic crash that echoed the pounding of Lucerys's own heart—the alpha's mind racing through the labyrinth of implications, from the council's unyielding demands for heirs to the fragile bonds of family that Rhaenyra, his mother and Daeron's elder sister, had fought so fiercely to preserve. As Rhaenyra's firstborn, Lucerys had grown up under her shadow, learning the art of diplomacy from her ironclad resolve, yet today that legacy felt like a double-edged sword, cutting into the raw edges of his reluctance.

Lucerys leaned forward slightly, his broad frame shifting in the chair with a faint creak of wood against stone, the navy fabric of his doublet stretching taut across his shoulders as he rested his elbows on the table's edge. His brown eyes, deep pools of resolve shadowed by the weight of obligation, held Daeron's gaze steadily, reflecting the alpha's innate drive to resolve, to protect, even when the terrain was as treacherous as the Narrow Sea's hidden reefs. "Daeron," he began, his voice low and measured, carrying the salt-kissed cadence of Driftmark's shores, a timbre honed by years of commanding ships and men alike, "if marriage to Lyonel is what your heart truly seeks—why not pursue it openly? The Hightowers hold ancient sway there, with towers that pierce the stars and alliances as deep as the Citadel's vaults. Surely a union with him could shield you both, give the child a name rooted in that love you speak of so fiercely, without the need for these courtly illusions." He paused, picking at a roll's crust with deliberate slowness, crumbling it between his fingers as the warm, herbed flakes scattered across the linen like fallen stars, his mind already turning over potential maneuvers—petitions to Rhaenyra, perhaps, leveraging his position as her son to broker some fragile peace, or quiet envoys to Oldtown to test the waters without igniting outright conflict.

Daeron's violet eyes darkened, a shadow passing over them like storm clouds eclipsing the sun, his cinnamon scent flaring with a sharper edge, the apple note turning almost bitter, as if the mere suggestion stirred a wound still raw and bleeding beneath his composed facade. He set his goblet down with more force than intended, the base clinking sharply against the stone table, sending a ripple through the cider's surface that distorted the reflections of the wisteria above. A faint tremor ran through his hand, betraying the depth of his turmoil—the memories of Lyonel's touch, warm and reassuring in the quiet alcoves of Oldtown, now clashing against the cold reality of their separation. "It's not so simple, Lucerys," he replied, his tone laced with quiet frustration, the words escaping like a sigh from deep within his chest, heavy with the exhaustion of secrets long guarded. "Lyonel is already engaged—betrothed to some minor lady from the Reach, a match arranged by his father to secure alliances and coffers, weaving House Hightower tighter into the web of southern politics. It's a cage of vows and expectations, much like the ones that bind us all here, and breaking it would mean war within his own house—disinheritance, exile, or worse. We've dreamed of it, whispered desperate plans in the dead of night under those starry towers, our hands clasped as if we could hold back the dawn, but reality crashes down like those waves below—unforgiving, relentless, drowning every hope before it can take flight. I can't drag him into ruin, not when our love was born in secrecy precisely to avoid just that— the scorn of families, the judgment of the realm."

He glanced away, toward the distant horizon where the Blackwater Bay met the sky in a hazy, shimmering blur, the roar of the waves a distant thunder that mirrored the turmoil in his chest, each crash a reminder of the barriers that separated him from Lyonel now. The life within him stirred faintly, a subtle flutter like a dragon's wing against eggshell, grounding him amid the emotional tempest, reminding him of the stakes beyond his own desires—the innocent soul caught in the crossfire of crowns, kin, and unspoken longings. As Rhaenyra's younger brother, Daeron had always navigated the periphery of her ambitions, a pawn in the greater game of thrones, but this child represented something untethered from that—a pure thread of love woven from Hightower and Targaryen blood, fragile yet defiant.

Lucerys nodded slowly, absorbing the revelation with a furrowed brow, his cedar scent deepening as he processed the added layer of complication, the brine note carrying a hint of empathy that softened his alpha resolve, mingling with the garden's floral haze like sea mist over blooming fields. He ran a hand through his dark curls, the gesture betraying a rare crack in his composure—the alpha's frustration bubbling beneath the surface, not directed at Daeron, but at the merciless machinery of their world, where hearts were collateral in the pursuit of power. As Rhaenyra's son, he had inherited her unyielding pragmatism, yet moments like this tested it, pulling at the threads of his own strained marriage to Aemond, where duty eclipsed desire in equal measure. "Then we find another way," he said finally, his voice firm yet compassionate, leaning into the role of mediator, of the heir who bore the weight of mending what others broke, his fingers drumming lightly on the table's edge as ideas coalesced. "The child needs protection, a path forward that doesn't leave you exposed to the court's knives or the council's endless decrees. If marriage to me isn't the answer—and I won't force it, not when our hearts lie elsewhere, tangled in bonds we can't easily sever—perhaps we petition Rhaenyra quietly, frame it as a matter of house unity without the bonds of wedlock. Or bring Lyonel here under some pretext, a diplomatic visit masked as family reconciliation, and let him claim the child openly if we can sway the council with tales of renewed alliances. There must be a solution that honors your bond without shattering it entirely, a bridge across this chasm that doesn't demand we sacrifice everything on its altar."

Daeron's gaze returned to Lucerys, a flicker of gratitude warming his violet depths for a fleeting instant, though it was tempered by the exhaustion etched into his features—the lines around his eyes deeper than his years should allow, the subtle pallor of one carrying secrets and life in equal measure, his silver hair catching the breeze like silken banners of surrender. He shook his head again, the motion weary and resolute, his hand unconsciously drifting to his abdomen once more, a protective cradle hidden beneath the table's edge, as if shielding the unborn from the very words they exchanged. "Petitions and pretexts... they've been my life in Oldtown, Lucerys," he murmured, his voice soft but threaded with a quiet steel, the cinnamon in his scent steadying into a warmer spice, resilient despite the strain. "Lyonel and I have tried every shadow path, every whispered scheme under the guise of cousinly visits and shared hunts, but the engagement is ironclad—sealed with oaths, dowries, and the unyielding will of his father, who sees only ledgers and loyalties, not the beating hearts beneath. Even if we could break it, the scandal would consume us all—Hightower against Targaryen once more, whispers of incest and betrayal fanning the flames of old grudges that Rhaenyra has fought so hard to bury. No, this child deserves a world without that poison, a cradle free from the court's venom, but I won't surrender it to lies or convenience, no matter how kindly offered."

Lucerys exhaled deeply, the sound a gust through the petals, scattering a few more across the table like confetti from a forsaken celebration. He leaned back in his chair, the wood groaning faintly under his weight, his alpha presence a steady anchor in the shifting currents of emotion—the brine of his scent now laced with a subtle undercurrent of resolve, like ocean waves tempered by determination. He glanced toward the guards, their armored forms immobile as statues, before returning his focus to Daeron, his expression a blend of pragmatism and reluctant candor. "If we were to marry, Daeron," he said, his voice dropping to a confidential timbre, each word weighed like a coin in a precarious balance, "it would be in name only—a shield of parchment and vows, nothing more. We would never share a bed, never cross that threshold into intimacy; our chambers would remain separate, our lives intertwined only by the court's gaze and the necessity of appearances. And as for the child... I would not name your son as heir to Driftmark. One bastard is enough for those ancient halls—I've borne that shadow my whole life, the whispers of my birthright tainted by doubt, and I won't inflict it on another, not when legitimacy hangs by such fragile threads. If you don't want to have the baby this way—bound by secrets and impossible dreams—then consider ending it. An abortion, discreetly arranged; maesters in the Keep could handle it without a whisper escaping these walls. It's none of my business, truly—your body, your choice, and I'd not judge you for seeking peace over pain. I'm just trying to help, Daeron, to offer a shield in this storm. But if you refuse it, if this path forward isn't one you'll walk, then I'll tell the court without hesitation that I don't want to marry you. Let the chips fall—announce it publicly, free us both from this farce, and face whatever tempests follow together, as kin if not as husbands."

The words hung in the air like a drawn blade, sharp and unyielding, the garden's serenity suddenly feeling brittle, as if the bees' hum and the waves' roar held their breath in anticipation of the fallout. Daeron's hand instinctively tightened on his goblet, protective and instinctive, his scent spiking with a tart defensiveness that filled the space between them, the apple note turning sharp as unripe fruit. His violet eyes widened briefly, shock mingling with a profound sorrow that deepened the shadows under them, before narrowing in resolve, his posture straightening as if bracing against an invisible gale. "An abortion?" he echoed, his voice a whisper laced with quiet horror, the cinnamon note turning almost acrid in the air, a defensive flare against the suggestion's sting. "This child is all I have of him—of us, Lucerys. To end it... no, that's a bridge I'd burn my soul crossing, a void I couldn't bear. But your candor... it's a mercy in its own way, blunt as a maester's knife. Perhaps freeing ourselves from this proposed union is the only honest path left, a severance that spares us both further chains."

Lucerys reached across the table, his hand hovering briefly in the space between them—a gesture of solidarity rather than imposition—before withdrawing, respecting the invisible boundaries that duty and desire had erected. "Then let's end the pretense," he said softly, his alpha scent steadying into a calming tide, the cedar grounding the brine like roots in stormy soil. "I'll speak to Rhaenyra tonight, lay it bare before her as sister and mother. Whatever comes—scandal, exile, or uneasy peace—we'll weather it not as spouses, but as allies in this mad game, bound by blood if not by vows."

The wisteria petals continued to fall, blanketing the table in soft purple veils, as the two men sat in the lengthening shadows of the afternoon, the garden's tranquility a fleeting respite before the inevitable storms of court and consequence crashed upon them once more. The guards stood unmoved, their vigilance a silent witness; the bees danced on, oblivious to the human tempests; and the bay whispered eternal warnings below, murmuring of loves tested, secrets unveiled, and a realm teetering on the edge of unraveling, where even the strongest bonds could fray under the weight of crowns and kin.

Chapter Text

The midday sun lingered over King's Landing, its warmth fading into a hazy afternoon glow that filtered through the Red Keep's narrow windows, casting elongated shadows along the stone corridors, like fingers reaching for secrets. Lucerys Velaryon moved with purposeful strides, his navy doublet carrying faint traces of the garden's floral essence, though he paid it no mind. His thoughts churned with the luncheon’s revelations—Daeron’s hidden love, the unborn child, the tangled web of Hightower loyalties—but a deeper impulse drew him away from solitude. Instead of retreating to his private study, he veered toward the royal apartments, the shared marriage chambers he and Aemond occupied in name, if not in harmony. Rhaenyra’s decree echoed in his memory: no visitors, no contact, a fortnight of isolation to temper the omega’s fiery anger. Guards flanked the approaches, their armored forms rigid sentinels enforcing the queen’s will. Lucerys ignored them entirely. Aemond was his husband, bound by vows sealed in dragonfire and courtly necessity. No edict, no steel-clad enforcer, could bar him from that threshold. His alpha scent—brine mingled with cedar—pulsed stronger as he approached, a declaration of authority that made the guards hesitate, their eyes flickering with uncertainty before averting. He pushed through the heavy oaken doors without a word, the hinges creaking in reluctant submission.

Inside, chaos reigned. The antechamber resembled a battlefield scarred by a dragon’s wrath: shattered goblets lay in glittering shards across the marble floor, crunching under Lucerys’s boots; tapestries hung askew, one torn from its hooks and crumpled in a heap of faded crimson threads; a silver candelabrum tilted precariously on a side table, its arms bent from some violent impact, wax hardened in uneven pools like frozen blood. The air thickened with Aemond’s omega scent—jasmine scorched by unrelenting ash, a storm of fury that clung to every surface, overpowering the room’s usual faint aroma of polished wood and distant sea salt. Lucerys’s nostrils flared involuntarily, but he pressed onward, his expression set in deliberate provocation. He hadn’t come to soothe or clarify; the luncheon had steeled his resolve to push boundaries, to remind Aemond of the precarious ledge their union balanced upon. The inner door to Aemond’s private chamber stood ajar, a sliver of dim light spilling through like an invitation to confrontation.

Aemond Targaryen huddled in the corner, his lean frame coiled against the cold stone wall, silver hair disheveled and falling across his face in unkempt strands, half-obscuring the sapphire socket. His black tunic bore fresh rips at the sleeves, evidence of his rampage, and his violet eye burned with a volatile mix of exhaustion and simmering rage. The room mirrored the antechamber’s destruction: books lay scattered from overturned shelves, their pages splayed like wounded birds; a wooden chair lay splintered against the far wall, its legs jagged remnants; the narrow bed’s woolen coverlet was twisted into knots, as if clawed in frustration. He looked up sharply at the intrusion, his posture shifting from brooding stillness to predatory tension, nostrils twitching as he caught the intruding scent. Daeron’s essence—crisp apple laced with cinnamon—clung to Lucerys like an unwelcome shadow, potent and unmistakable, woven into his clothing from their garden encounter. Aemond’s face contorted, the realization igniting fresh fury in his gaze.

“You reek of him,” Aemond snarled, rising to his feet with fluid menace, his voice a low hiss that cut through the debris-littered silence. His hands clenched at his sides, knuckles whitening, as the ash in his scent surged, choking the air with bitter intensity. No tender jealousy fueled this outburst, only a primal terror of erosion. As the second son and an omega, he had inherited nothing—no lands, no titles, no grand purpose beyond the shadows of elder sister. Wedding Lucerys had granted him Driftmark’s promise, an anchor in the storm of irrelevance, a realm to claim and command. Now, Daeron’s proximity threatened to strip it away, reducing him once more to a forgotten spare, adrift without legacy. “Did you roll in the gardens with my brother? Parade your conquest while I’m caged here like some errant pup?”

Lucerys stood unmoved, his brown eyes meeting Aemond’s glare with calculated indifference, arms crossed over his chest as he leaned against the doorframe. He made no effort to dispel the misunderstanding, offering no apology for the lingering aroma that betrayed his recent company. Instead, he tilted his head, a faint smirk playing at his lips. “The court demands heirs, Aemond. Daeron offers possibilities you refuse. Why shouldn’t I explore them? Your isolation leaves me free to wander.” His words dripped with intent, each one a deliberate prod at the omega’s vulnerabilities, escalating the tension without remorse. The brine in his scent sharpened, a tidal push against Aemond’s fiery resistance.

Aemond lunged forward, sweeping an arm across the desk to send a lone inkwell crashing to the floor, black liquid splattering like accusations. “Free? You think this marriage is a leash you can slip at whim? Driftmark was mine through you—my stake, my future—and now you dangle it before Daeron like scraps to a beggar.” His voice rose, cracking the facade of control he wore like armor, his steps erratic as he paced the room, crunching over broken pottery. Fear twisted beneath the anger: visions of disinheritance, of fading into obscurity while Daeron ascended, claiming what should have been his salvation. He whirled back, finger jabbing toward Lucerys. “Wipe that smugness off your face. You’re nothing without this bond—a bastard clinging to borrowed power.”

Lucerys shrugged, unfazed, stepping deeper into the wreckage. “Borrowed or not, it’s mine to wield. Daeron understands duty. He doesn’t rage against inevitability.” The provocation landed true, fanning Aemond’s inferno without offering retreat.

The omega’s fury peaked, his breaths coming in harsh gasps as he grabbed a splintered chair leg, hurling it against the wall where it shattered further. “Duty? This is theft—my purpose, stolen by your whims and his weakness.” He advanced, stopping inches from Lucerys, their conflicting scents clashing like storm fronts. But as the rage crested, it hollowed him, leaving only emptiness. His shoulders slumped, the improvised weapon slipping from his grasp. Backing away, he slid down the wall, knees drawn up as tremors overtook him. Tears welled unbidden, tracing silent paths down his scarred cheek—a vulnerability he despised, buried under layers of steel and scorn. Aemond never wept; he was the unyielding blade, the dragon rider who faced loss with defiance. Yet here, stripped bare, the facade crumbled. “I want Aegon,” he muttered, voice fracturing into whispers, “my brother, my…” The sentence trailed, unfinished, a plea for the one anchor that had never demanded his submission.

Lucerys froze, the sight piercing his resolve. Aemond’s tears shattered the image of unbreakable strength, revealing fractures long concealed. Instinct surged—the alpha urge to close the distance, envelop him in an embrace, murmur assurances until the storm passed. But he held back, respecting the invisible barrier of Aemond’s pride. Instead, he released a wave of calming pheromones, the cedar in his scent softening to a gentle forest hush, the brine receding into soothing mist. He waited, silent and still, as the room’s tension eased, the broken shards reflecting faint light like stars in a fractured sky.

The air hung thick, a battlefield of scents where Aemond’s acrid ash clashed with Lucerys’s calming cedar mist. The room’s wreckage—splintered wood, scattered pages, glinting shards of glass—lay strewn across the stone floor, catching the faint candlelight like fragments of a broken star. Aemond remained slumped against the wall, his silver hair a tangled veil over his face, the sapphire socket glinting coldly as tears carved silent paths down his cheek, an unthinkable crack in the armor of a man forged into a blade. His whispered plea for Aegon lingered, a raw confession that sliced through the silence, exposing a wound deeper than Lucerys had anticipated. The alpha stood rooted, his broad frame outlined against the doorframe, brown eyes wide with the shock of witnessing Aemond’s unraveling—a vulnerability as alien as a dragon weeping. Yet Lucerys’s resolve hardened, the provocation he’d wielded now tinged with a bitter edge as Aemond’s accusations echoed: theft, stolen purpose, words that burned like wildfire. He knew of Aemond’s trysts with Aegon, the jagged intimacy they shared in defiance of their world’s chains, and it fueled a retort that had simmered too long.

“You call me a thief?” Lucerys said, his voice low and deliberate, cutting through the haze with a sharpness that matched Aemond’s earlier venom. He stepped forward, boots crunching over broken pottery, his alpha scent flaring—brine sharpened with a spike of pine, a challenge to the omega’s ash. “You speak of stolen futures, Aemond, yet you’ve welcomed Aegon into your bed for years, turning your back on me—your husband.” The word carried a bitter weight, laced with resentment Lucerys had buried beneath duty’s demands. He stopped a pace away, arms crossed, his gaze locking onto Aemond’s tear-streaked face. “You rail against being my omega, despise the role with every fiber of your being, yet you lose yourself in your brother’s arms, giving him what you deny me. Why does this bond chafe you so deeply when you offer yourself so freely elsewhere?”

Aemond’s head snapped up, his violet eye blazing through the veil of tears, the sapphire socket a frozen star pulsing with his rising fury. His lips curled into a sneer, teeth bared as he pushed himself upright, the movement unsteady but fueled by renewed defiance. “Don’t you dare,” he hissed, voice trembling with rage and shame, his scent surging with bitter ash that choked the air. “Aegon doesn’t chain me to a title or parade me as a trophy to secure some crumbling dynasty. He takes nothing I don’t offer, demands nothing I haven’t chosen.” His hands clenched, nails digging into his palms, fresh blood welling in thin crimson lines. “You? You’re the council’s puppet, Lucerys, dangling Driftmark before me like a bone to a dog, only to flirt with Daeron and threaten to snatch it away. You call me a whore for Aegon, but at least he sees me, not some omega to breed or barter.”

Lucerys’s jaw tightened, the accusation striking like a blade, yet he held his ground, his alpha instincts roaring to dominate, to unleash a wave of pheromones that could force Aemond’s submission. The power thrummed in his veins, a primal force that could silence this storm with a single surge of scent. But he refused, clamping down on the urge with iron resolve, his cedar softening into a gentle, grounding note, a silent vow not to break Aemond’s spirit. “I could make you kneel,” he said, his voice steady but laced with restrained intensity, “flood this room with my scent until you bow, quiet and pliant. But I won’t. I’ve never wanted a puppet for a husband, Aemond, no matter how much you think this marriage is a cage.” He took a cautious step closer, careful not to breach the invisible line of Aemond’s pride. “You’re not the only one trapped. I carry the weight of Driftmark, of Rhaenyra’s decrees, of a court that watches us both, waiting for us to falter. I went to Daeron not to steal your place, but to navigate a path through this mess—one that might spare us both the council’s claws.”

Aemond laughed, a jagged, humorless sound that echoed off the stone walls, his tears drying into faint tracks as his fury reignited. “Spare us? You reek of him, Lucerys—his apple and cinnamon clinging to you like a lover’s mark. Don’t lie to me and call it duty.” He staggered to his feet, swaying slightly, his torn tunic slipping to reveal fresh bruises blooming across his collarbone, remnants of his earlier rampage. “Driftmark was my chance to be more than a second son, more than a body to be used. Without it, I’m nothing—just a name in a lineage that forgets me the moment I’m gone.” His voice cracked, the raw edge of fear bleeding through, and he turned away, pressing his forehead against the cold stone, shoulders trembling. “Aegon… he’s the only one who doesn’t ask me to be something I’m not.”

Lucerys’s heart twisted, the sight of Aemond’s vulnerability a knife to his resolve, yet his own anger simmered, fueled by years of rejection, of a marriage that existed in name but not in truth. “Aegon gives you escape, you think so, don't you? No, Aegon just loves your fire, your personality, which isn't like other omegas. I'm sorry, but that's why he's screwing you.” he said, his tone softer but unyielding. “but he can’t give you what you crave—purpose, a place that’s yours by right. I’m not your enemy, Aemond, though you paint me as one. Let me share some news: we’re marrying Aegon to Jacaerys. If you seek him out again, you’ll both face consequences. Jacaerys, in particular, never forgives betrayal.”

Aemond’s breath caught, a sharp, ragged sound that cut through the heavy silence. His forehead pressed harder against the cold stone, as if he could anchor himself to its unyielding surface, but the tremor in his shoulders betrayed the storm Lucerys’s words had unleashed. The revelation about Aegon’s betrothal to Jacaerys landed like a dragon’s claw, tearing through the fragile remnants of his defiance. His violet eye widened, the sapphire socket glinting in the dim light like a frozen accusation, and his scent—jasmine laced with ash—flared with a bitter edge, sharp and suffocating. He turned slowly, his movements deliberate, predatory, the earlier vulnerability hardening into something colder, more dangerous. “Jacaerys?” he spat, the name dripping with venom, his voice low and trembling with barely restrained fury. “You’d chain Aegon to him? To that sanctimonious bastard who’d sooner burn us all than forgive a single misstep?”

Lucerys stood his ground, his broad frame a steady silhouette against the flickering candlelight, his brown eyes unwavering despite the storm brewing in Aemond’s gaze. The cedar in his alpha scent remained calm, a deliberate counterpoint to the omega’s rising tempest, though the brine sharpened faintly, a subtle warning of his own limits. “It’s not my doing,” he said, his voice measured but firm, each word chosen with care to navigate the knife’s edge of Aemond’s emotions. “The council decided it, Rhaenyra approved it. Aegon’s freedom was always an illusion, just as ours is. Jacaerys is heir to the Iron Throne—his match with Aegon strengthens the realm, or so they claim. But you know Jacaerys as well as I do. He’ll demand Aegon’s loyalty, or he’ll take his head.” Lucerys’s jaw tightened, the weight of his own words settling like stones in his chest. “If you go to Aegon again, you’re not just risking yourself. You’re dragging him into a fire neither of you can escape.”

Aemond’s laugh was a jagged, broken thing, echoing off the shattered remnants of the room—splintered wood, scattered pages, and glinting shards of glass that reflected the chaos like a fractured sky. “Loyalty?” he sneered, stepping forward, his torn tunic slipping further to reveal the bruising along his collarbone, stark against his pale skin. “Jacaerys knows nothing of loyalty, only possession. He’ll cage Aegon like you try to cage me, and you stand there preaching about duty while wielding it like a whip.” His hands clenched, nails biting deeper into his palms, fresh blood seeping in thin crimson lines. The ash in his scent surged, choking the air with its acrid bite, a storm of rage and despair that threatened to drown Lucerys’s calming pheromones. “You knew about Aegon and me, didn’t you? All this time, you’ve known, and now you use it to threaten me, to keep me leashed to this farce of a marriage.”

Lucerys’s gaze softened, but only slightly, his alpha instincts screaming to close the distance, to subdue Aemond’s fire with a flood of pheromones that could force compliance. The power pulsed in his veins, a primal tide he could unleash to bend Aemond to his will—quiet, pliant, the obedient omega the court expected. But he clamped down on it, his cedar scent deepening into a steady, grounding forest hush, a silent vow to honor Aemond’s autonomy. “I’ve known,” he admitted, his voice low, raw with a truth he’d held back too long. “I’ve known since before our vows, Aemond. I’ve smelled Aegon on you, seen the way you look at him when you think no one’s watching. And I’ve said nothing, because I didn’t want to break you. I still don’t.” He took a cautious step closer, boots crunching over broken pottery, stopping just short of the invisible barrier of Aemond’s pride. “But this isn’t about threats. It’s about survival. If you run to Aegon now, you’ll light a fuse that burns us all—Driftmark, your legacy, everything you’ve fought for.”

The air crackled with tension, a volatile mix of scents—Aemond’s omega ash, sharp and scorched, warring with Lucerys’s steady cedar and brine, a tide struggling to calm a wildfire. The room’s wreckage—shattered goblets, splintered wood, and splayed books—lay scattered like the remnants of a battlefield, reflecting the dim candlelight in fractured glints. Aemond stood trembling, his violet eye blazing with a bitter smile that cut sharper than any blade, his silver hair falling in disheveled strands over the sapphire socket. His torn tunic hung loosely, revealing bruises blooming across his collarbone, a testament to his earlier rampage. Lucerys’s words about Aegon’s betrothal to Jacaerys hung heavy, a fresh wound that fueled Aemond’s defiance. “Survival,” Aemond mocked, his voice a low hiss, dripping with disdain as he took a step closer, his scent flaring with acrid intensity. “You speak of survival, Lucerys, as if I haven’t clawed my way through a life that offers me nothing but scraps. And now you stand there, smug, preaching about my legacy while you tighten the noose.”

Lucerys held his ground, his broad frame a steady anchor against the storm of Aemond’s rage. His brown eyes met the omega’s glare without flinching, though a flicker of weariness crossed his features, the weight of their fractured bond pressing harder with each barbed word. His alpha scent remained calm, cedar deepening into a forest hush, the brine softened to a gentle mist, a deliberate choice to soothe rather than dominate. “There’s more,” he said, his voice steady but carrying a quiet gravity, as if bracing for the next blow. “In a few weeks, we’re leaving King’s Landing. The council has agreed, and Rhaenyra has decreed it. We’re moving to Driftmark. Permanently.” He paused, letting the words settle, knowing they would strike like a spark in dry tinder. “It’s your seat, Aemond—your legacy, as my husband. A chance to rule, to build something beyond these cursed halls.”

Aemond’s bitter smile twisted into a sneer, his violet eye glinting with a mix of incredulity and scorn. He laughed, a jagged, mirthless sound that echoed off the stone walls, sharp enough to cut through the lingering haze of their scents. “Driftmark?” he spat, his voice laced with venom as he stepped closer, his torn sleeves swaying with the movement. “You think dragging me to that windswept rock will save me? Bind me to eternal servitude, you mean—a dutiful omega chained to your side, far from anyone who might see me as more than your trophy.” His hands clenched, nails digging into his palms, fresh blood seeping in thin crimson lines. “Your precious duty, suffocating me until I’m nothing but a shadow of your name.”

Lucerys’s jaw tightened, the barb striking deep, but he refused to rise to the bait. His alpha instincts roared, urging him to unleash a flood of pheromones that could force Aemond’s submission, bend his fire to quiet obedience. The power pulsed in his veins, a primal tide that could drown the omega’s defiance in a single surge. But he held it back, his cedar scent steady and grounding, a silent vow to honor Aemond’s spirit rather than break it. “You think Driftmark’s a cage?” he said, his voice low but firm, each word measured to cut through the haze of Aemond’s anger. “It’s freedom, Aemond—more than you’ll ever find here, under the council’s eyes and Rhaenyra’s decrees. There’ll be no one else in Driftmark, Aemond—no Aegon, no court, no escape. Just me. Or you can stay here, clawing at shadows, raging against a court that’s already decided your place.”

Aemond’s sneer faltered, his violet eye flickering with something raw—fear, perhaps, or the ghost of longing—before hardening again. He turned away, pressing his shoulder against the cold stone wall, as if its unyielding surface could anchor him against the tide of Lucerys’s words. His scent surged, ash choking the air with bitter intensity, but beneath it lay a faint tremor of jasmine, fragile and unguarded. “Freedom,” he muttered, the word dripping with sarcasm, yet his voice cracked, betraying the weight of his exhaustion. “You dangle Driftmark like it’s salvation, but it’s just another leash—your leash, dressed up in promises. And what of Aegon? You’ll leave him to Jacaerys’s mercy, knowing he’ll break under that bastard’s iron grip?” His fingers brushed the sapphire socket, a nervous habit, the gem glinting like a frozen tear. “You ask me to build a legacy, but you’ve already taken the one thing that made me whole.”

Lucerys took a measured step forward, boots crunching over broken pottery, stopping just short of the invisible barrier of Aemond’s pride. His lips curved into a faint, teasing smile, his tone softening with a deliberate lilt, though the words carried a deeper edge. “Don’t worry, I won’t leave you alone. You won’t get bored there.” The underlying meaning hung unspoken but heavy—Lucerys’s promise of a future where Aemond’s role as his omega husband would be fulfilled, again and again, with heirs to bind them to Driftmark’s legacy. The alpha’s scent pulsed, cedar deepening with a possessive warmth, the brine a subtle tide that hinted at unrelenting intent.

Aemond’s breath hitched, his violet eye narrowing as he caught the veiled promise, the implication slicing through his defenses like a blade. His fingers tightened against the stone wall, nails scraping faintly as his scent flared—ash surging with a sharp, bitter edge, the jasmine buried beneath a storm of rage and dread. “Bored?” he spat, his voice a low growl, trembling with a mix of fury and fear. “You mean swollen with your heirs, chained to a birthing bed while you parade your triumph over me.” He pushed off the wall, his movements fluid but unsteady, closing the distance until their scents clashed like storm fronts—ash against cedar, fire against tide. His torn tunic slipped further, exposing more of the bruises that marked his collarbone, a silent testament to his earlier rampage. “You think you can trap me with promises of legacy, Lucerys? Fill me with children to keep me docile, while you play the dutiful lord and I’m reduced to nothing but your broodmare?”

Lucerys held his ground, his brown eyes steady, though a flicker of regret crossed his features. His alpha instincts roared, urging him to unleash a flood of pheromones that could quell Aemond’s fire, force his submission with a single surge of scent. The power thrummed in his veins, a primal tide that could bend the omega to his will, quiet and pliant. But he clamped down on it, his cedar scent deepening into a steady, grounding forest hush, the brine softening to a gentle mist, a silent vow to honor Aemond’s spirit. “You twist my words,” he said, his voice calm but firm, laced with quiet intensity. “I don’t want you docile, Aemond. I want you as my partner, my equal in Driftmark’s halls. Yes, the court demands heirs—it always will—but that’s not all you are to me. You’re a dragon, not a broodmare, and I’d rather see you rule beside me than waste away in this cursed keep, chasing shadows of Aegon’s affection.”

Aemond’s sneer returned, sharp and cutting, though his violet eye betrayed a flicker of uncertainty, the sapphire socket glinting coldly in the candlelight. “Equal?” he mocked, his voice dripping with scorn as he stepped closer, their faces inches apart, the air thick with their warring scents. “You speak of equality, yet you taunt me with a future where I’m bound to your bed, my body no longer my own. You’re no different from the council, Lucerys—dressing your chains in pretty words.” His hands clenched, fresh blood seeping from where his nails bit into his palms, and his scent surged again, ash choking the air with its acrid bite. But beneath it, the jasmine trembled, a fragile note that spoke of fear—not of Lucerys, but of losing himself entirely. “Aegon never asked me to be his vessel. He never looked at me and saw a legacy to be forged through my pain.”

Lucerys’s jaw tightened, the barb striking deep, but he refused to flinch. His heart twisted at the sight of Aemond’s vulnerability, the raw fear beneath the omega’s rage, but his own resolve held firm, fueled by years of navigating their fractured bond. “Aegon gave you escape,” he said, his tone softer but unyielding, “but escape is fleeting, Aemond. It’s a moment, not a life. Driftmark is real—tangible, yours by right as my husband. And yes, I want you there, with me, building something that lasts. Heirs will come, because the realm demands it, but I won’t force you. I could—” He paused, his cedar scent pulsing with restrained intensity, acknowledging the power he held back. “I could make you yield, but I won’t. I want you to choose me, Aemond, not because you’re bound, but because you see what we could be.”

Aemond’s breath came in harsh, uneven gasps, his violet eye searching Lucerys’s face for deceit, for the trap he’d been conditioned to expect. The sapphire socket glinted, a cold counterpoint to the fire in his gaze, and his scent wavered, the ash softening slightly, the jasmine rising like a hesitant bloom. He turned away, his shoulders slumping as he pressed his forehead against the stone wall, the cold grounding him against the tide of Lucerys’s words. “Choose you?” he whispered, the words barely audible, laced with a bitter edge but tinged with something softer—uncertainty, perhaps, or the ghost of longing. “You ask for a choice when every path feels like a cage. Driftmark, Aegon, Jacaerys’s wrath—all of it binds me tighter than your pheromones ever could.” His fingers brushed the sapphire socket, a nervous habit, the gem a silent witness to his turmoil. “I don’t know how to be what you want, Lucerys. I don’t know how to stop fighting.”

Lucerys exhaled, the weight of their bond pressing heavy on his chest, but he stepped back, giving Aemond the space he needed. His cedar scent lingered, a steady anchor in the chaos, the brine a gentle tide that offered peace without force. “Then don’t stop fighting.” he said, his voice a quiet vow, steady as the sea. “But fight for something, Aemond—for Driftmark, for us, for yourself. Not against me.” He moved toward the door, pausing at the threshold, his silhouette framed by the flickering light from the antechamber. “I’ll be waiting on Driftmark. Not to chain you, but to build with you. Think on it.” and then Lucerys broke into a broad smile as if something funny had just occurred to him. “And don't say I didn't tell you, but Aegon will get bored of you soon.” The door closed softly behind him, the hinges’ faint creak a final note in the chamber’s stillness, leaving Aemond alone with the wreckage of his rage and the faint, lingering thread of cedar weaving through the ash.

Chapter Text

The Red Keep’s corridors coiled like the veins of an ancient beast, their stone walls etched with centuries of ambition and betrayal, the air heavy with the scent of wax and iron from flickering torches. Jacaerys Velaryon moved through them with a quiet intensity, his burgundy cloak whispering against the polished floors, the golden seahorse clasp at his throat catching the firelight in sharp, defiant glints. His dark curls, still tangled from his morning ride on Vermax, framed a face carved with purpose, his brown eyes burning with a resolve that belied the omega softness of his scent—lavender woven with sea mist, a delicate yet unyielding presence. As Rhaenyra’s heir, he carried the Iron Throne’s weight in every measured step, but tonight, it was not the crown that drove him. It was Aegon—his betrothed, his storm, an alpha whose reckless charm and volatile temper threatened to unravel the fragile tapestry of alliances Rhaenyra had spent years weaving. Jacaerys had caught the whispers of Aegon’s trysts with Aemond, the faint traces of their mingled scents lingering like a taunt in the Keep’s shadowed halls, and the knowledge burned in his chest—not with jealousy, but with a need to understand the man he was bound to, to measure the chaos against the duty that chained them both.

Aegon’s chambers loomed at the corridor’s end, the heavy oak doors carved with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen, its weathered surface scarred with gouges and stains, as if the wood itself bore the weight of its occupant’s ruin. Jacaerys didn’t knock—such courtesies felt futile in the face of what he sought. He pushed the doors open, the hinges groaning in protest, and stepped into a haze of decadence and neglect. The air was thick, sour with the dregs of spilled Arbor red, undercut by the musky tang of unwashed linen and the faint, acrid bite of embers smoldering in a blackened hearth. The room was a portrait of chaos, a reflection of its master’s unbridled nature: a dusty desk stood against one wall, its surface marred with wine stains that bled into the grain like old wounds, scattered with crumpled parchments, their ink faded and curling at the edges. A quill lay abandoned, its feather bent, dipped in a pool of dried ink that had dripped onto the floor in dark, irregular splatters. A long reading chair by the window sagged under a thin, threadbare sheet of faded green, its fabric frayed and dusted with neglect, the cushion beneath it flattened from rare use. The window itself was half-shuttered, slivers of late afternoon light slicing through the gloom, casting jagged shadows across the room’s disarray.

The bed dominated the space, its heavy oaken frame carved with dragons whose eyes seemed to glint in the dim candlelight, the wood creaking under a tangle of furs and linens. The bedding was a battlefield of indulgence—rumpled, stained with sweat and wine, strewn with strange objects that caught Jacaerys’s eye: a curved rod of polished jade, its surface smooth and cool; a set of silken cords, their ends knotted and frayed; a small vial of amber liquid, its cork loose, leaking a faint, musky scent. These were tools of pleasure, alien yet unmistakable, their purpose whispering of nights spent chasing ecstasy rather than duty. Jacaerys’s fingers hovered over the jade, the cool stone grounding him against the pulse of curiosity and disdain that warred in his chest. He leaned closer, inhaling, and caught a fading scent—jasmine scorched with ash, Aemond’s omega mark, woven beneath the heavier, more dominant spice of Aegon’s alpha presence, all clove and smoldering cedar. Aemond’s trace lingered like a ghost, faint but sharp, a silent accusation that tightened Jacaerys’s jaw. His lips pressed into a thin line, his lavender scent flaring with a hint of salt, a quiet flare of his own restrained temper.

The door slammed open with a deafening crash, the sound splintering the stillness like a thunderclap. Jacaerys spun, his hand dropping instinctively to the dagger at his belt, its hilt cool against his palm, but he froze as Aegon Targaryen filled the threshold. The alpha stood like a storm made flesh, his silver hair a wild halo catching the torchlight, falling in tangled strands over his shoulders. His black tunic hung open, laces undone, revealing a pale chest marked with faint bruises—some fresh, others fading into yellowed shadows—testaments to nights of reckless abandon. The hem of his tunic was stained with wine and ash, the fabric clinging to his frame as if reluctant to let go. His violet eyes, sharp and unsteady, glinted with a volatile mix of amusement and menace, and a half-empty flagon dangled from one hand, the other resting lazily at his side, though the tension in his fingers betrayed his ill temper. His alpha scent flooded the room—spiced clove and smoldering cedar, thick with irritation, drowning out the faint jasmine of Aemond’s lingering trace.

“Well, fuck me,” Aegon drawled, his voice a rough, slurred caress, dripping with sarcasm and a playful edge that barely masked the storm beneath. “The pious prince himself, rummaging through my chambers like some septon sniffing out sin. Should I be flattered, Jace, or just bored to death?” He stepped forward, the flagon swinging carelessly, wine sloshing over the rim to splatter on the stone floor in dark, glistening drops. His smirk was a blade, sharp and crooked, but his eyes betrayed a flicker of insecurity, a crack in the arrogance that defined him. He leaned against the desk, the wood creaking under his weight, and tilted his head, his gaze raking over Jacaerys with a mix of mockery and hunger. “What’s this? Come to lecture me on duty? Or are you just jealous, sniffing out what your uncle’s been tasting behind your back?”

Jacaerys straightened, his hand falling from his dagger, his posture rigid but composed, the lavender of his omega scent rising gently, a delicate counterpoint to Aegon’s overwhelming spice. His brown eyes met Aegon’s with quiet defiance, unflinching despite the alpha’s taunting presence. “I came to see the man I’m to marry,” he said, his voice calm but laced with a deliberate edge, each word a measured step on a knife’s edge. “And I find a pigsty—wine-soaked, reeking of Aemond’s scent.” He gestured to the bed, the strange objects glinting in the candlelight—jade, silk, bone—like relics of a hedonist’s temple. “You don’t even try to hide it, do you? Your betrayals are as bold as your arrogance.”

Aegon’s smirk widened, but his eyes darkened, a flicker of insecurity beneath the bravado, his grip on the flagon tightening until his knuckles whitened. “Hide?” he scoffed, pushing off the desk and stepping closer, his boots crunching over a shard of broken glass that glittered like a fallen star. “Why should I, nephew? This is my world—my bed, my pleasures, my fucking freedom.” His voice dripped with venom, but the playful lilt remained, a mask for the instability that simmered beneath. “You think a betrothal chains me? You, with your sanctimonious airs and your mother’s leash around your neck?” He tilted his head, his silver hair falling across one eye, his gaze raking over Jacaerys with a mix of contempt and something dangerously close to desire. “Or maybe you’re just jealous, Jace. Aemond’s scent clings to me because he wants it there. Can you say the same?”

The barb struck deep, and Jacaerys’s jaw clenched, his lavender scent sharpening with a spike of sea salt, a quiet flare of his own restrained fire. He stepped forward, closing the distance until their scents clashed—soft mist against smoldering spice, a tide meeting a wildfire. “Jealous?” he said, his voice low and steady, but carrying a bite. “Of what? A man who drowns in wine and chases fleeting thrills while the realm watches him stumble? You’re to be my husband, Aegon, bound before the Seven Kingdoms. Yet you parade Aemond’s scent like a trophy, mocking the vows we haven’t even sworn.” His eyes flicked to the bed, the silken cords and jade rod gleaming like accusations, and his lips curled in disdain. “This is what you offer? A life of debauchery, while I carry the Iron Throne’s weight?”

Aegon laughed, a sharp, jagged sound that echoed off the stone walls, raising the flagon in a mocking toast, wine sloshing over the rim to pool on the floor. “Oh, spare me your piety, Jace,” he sneered, his voice thick with venom, though a tremor of insecurity flickered beneath the arrogance. “You’re so fucking boring, you know that? Always playing the dutiful heir, Rhaenyra’s perfect little omega, clutching your honor like it’s a shield.” He flung the flagon aside, the metal clattering against the desk, wine splashing in a dark arc across the stained wood, mingling with the older stains in a chaotic tapestry of ruin. His hands curled into fists, his posture shifting—feral, unsteady, as if his arrogance warred with the fragility gnawing at his core. “Aemond comes to me because I don’t bore him to death. I don’t lecture him about duty or chain him to a throne he’ll never sit. Maybe you should take notes, nephew, instead of sniffing around my bed like a scorned septa.”

Jacaerys’s eyes narrowed, the accusation slicing through him, but he held his ground, his omega instincts urging calm even as his heart pounded with a mix of anger and something else—something that stirred at Aegon’s taunting words, at the raw energy of the alpha before him. His lavender scent softened, a deliberate choice to soothe rather than escalate, though the sea mist carried a subtle warning, like a tide poised to surge. “You think you’re his freedom?” he said, his tone calm but cutting, laced with quiet intensity. “You’re his ruin, Aegon. You feed his pain, call it liberty, and drag him deeper into your chaos. This?” He gestured to the bed, the strange objects gleaming in the candlelight, their curves and textures a silent testament to Aegon’s hedonism. “This is what you offer—a life drowned in wine and fleeting pleasure, while the realm waits for you to fall apart.”

Aegon’s grin faltered, his violet eyes flashing with a mix of fury and something rawer—fear, perhaps, or the weight of his own vulnerability. He stepped closer, their faces inches apart, his alpha scent surging with spiced heat, a challenge that thickened the air like smoke. “And what do you offer, Jace?” he hissed, his voice a dangerous whisper, playful but edged with menace. “A throne? A cage? You think you can tame me, make me your dutiful consort, parading me before your mother’s court like a polished trophy?” His breath was hot, laced with wine, his lips curling into a sneer that didn’t quite hide the tremor of insecurity beneath. “I’d rather fuck my way through every brothel in Flea Bottom than be your pious little shadow.”

Jacaerys’s hand twitched, the urge to lash out flickering, but he held back, his brown eyes blazing with restrained fire. “You’re not just marrying me,” he said, his voice a low growl, each word precise. “You’re marrying the Iron Throne, Aegon. Every choice, every scent you carry, reflects on me, on Rhaenyra, on the realm. Keep Aemond in your bed, and I’ll ensure you choke on the fallout.” His lavender scent pulsed, a steady anchor against Aegon’s storm, the sea mist a quiet promise of resolve.

Aegon’s laugh was brittle, his posture swaying as if Jacaerys’s words pressed against him. He turned away, snatching a fresh flagon from the desk, fingers trembling as he poured wine into a chipped goblet. “Fallout,” he muttered, sarcasm lacing his tone, but unease bled through. “Always threatening with you lot. Tell me, Jace, do you ever tire of playing the noble heir?” He downed the wine, red liquid spilling over his chin, staining his tunic like blood. His violet eyes flicked back, sharp and unstable. “Aemond’s scent won’t linger forever. Maybe I’ll tire of him. Maybe I’ll find new distractions.” His grin returned, crooked and charming, but hollow. “Or maybe I’ll keep him, just to see how far I can push you.”

Jacaerys stepped back, his expression hardening, his lavender scent deepening into a resolute calm. “Push me, and you’ll learn what I’m capable of,” he said, his voice quiet but unyielding, a vow etched in stone. He turned toward the door, his cloak sweeping behind him, the seahorse clasp glinting like a challenge. “Clean your bed, Aegon. Or I’ll do it for you.” The door’s heavy oak loomed before Jacaerys, its carved dragons glaring down as if mocking his retreat.

His hand hovered over the iron handle, the cool metal a stark contrast to the heat of his resolve, when Aegon’s voice cut through the thick air like a whip. “Stop, omega,” he called, his tone sharp with command but laced with a playful edge that carried the weight of his alpha authority. “You can’t just storm into my chambers and storm out like some scorned septa. Have some fucking manners.”

Jacaerys froze, his fingers tightening around the handle, his lavender scent flaring with a fresh spike of sea salt, a quiet rebellion against the pull of Aegon’s words. He turned slowly, his burgundy cloak settling around him like a tide receding from the shore, his brown eyes meeting Aegon’s with a mixture of defiance and wariness. The alpha stood by the desk, the chipped goblet still in his hand, wine dripping from his fingers like blood, his silver hair catching the candlelight in a wild, untamed halo. His violet eyes gleamed with a volatile mix of amusement and challenge, but beneath the bravado, there was a flicker of something else—curiosity, perhaps, or a need to reclaim control of the moment. His alpha scent—spiced clove and smoldering cedar—surged, filling the room with a possessive heat that pressed against Jacaerys’s senses, demanding submission even as it invited intrigue.

“Manners?” Jacaerys said, his voice low and measured, but carrying a bite that matched the salt in his scent. He stepped away from the door, his boots scuffing against the stone floor, the sound deliberate in the tense silence. “You speak of manners while your chambers reek of wine and Aemond’s betrayal? You’re bold, uncle, I’ll give you that.” His lips curved into a faint, sardonic smile, but his eyes remained sharp, unyielding, the lavender of his omega scent holding steady against Aegon’s storm. “I came to see the man I’m to marry, not to play your games. But if you want me to stay, give me a reason.”

Aegon’s grin widened, a dangerous, crooked thing that didn’t reach his eyes. He set the goblet down with a deliberate clink, the wine sloshing over the rim to pool on the desk, mingling with the older stains in a chaotic tapestry of neglect. He stepped forward, his movements fluid yet unsteady, like a predator circling prey it wasn’t entirely sure it wanted to devour. “A reason?” he drawled, his voice a rough caress, thick with sarcasm and a hint of genuine intrigue. “You barge in here, sniffing around my bed, throwing accusations about Aemond, and now you want me to entertain you?” He tilted his head, his silver hair falling across one eye, his gaze raking over Jacaerys with a mix of mockery and hunger. “You’re a bold little omega, Jace, but you’re still boring as fuck. All that talk of duty and thrones—gods, it’s like listening to a septon drone on about the Seven. Why don’t you try living for once?”

Jacaerys’s jaw clenched, the barb cutting deeper than he cared to admit, but he held his ground, his posture rigid yet composed, the lavender in his scent softening to a gentle mist, a deliberate choice to de-escalate the tension. “Living?” he said, his tone calm but laced with a quiet challenge. “Is that what you call this?” He gestured to the room—the wine-stained desk, the sagging chair, the bed strewn with its strange, gleaming relics of pleasure. “Drowning in wine, chasing fleeting thrills, dragging Aemond into your chaos? That’s not living, Aegon. It’s running—from duty, from consequence, from yourself.” His voice dropped, softer now, almost a whisper, but it carried the weight of his conviction. “I’m not here to run. I’m here to face you, to see if there’s anything worth salvaging in the man I’m bound to.”

Aegon’s laugh was a sharp, jagged thing, echoing off the stone walls like breaking glass. He stepped closer, closing the distance until their scents clashed—clove and cedar against lavender and sea mist, a storm meeting a tide in a fragile, electric balance. “Salvage me?” he sneered, his violet eyes flashing with a mix of fury and amusement, though the tremor in his voice betrayed the insecurity beneath. “You think you can fix me, nephew? Make me your perfect consort, all polished and proper for Rhaenyra’s court?” His breath was hot, laced with the sharp tang of wine, his lips curling into a sneer that didn’t quite hide the raw vulnerability flickering in his gaze. “I’d rather burn this keep to the ground than be your prize.”

Jacaerys’s eyes narrowed, the accusation stinging, but he held his ground, his omega instincts urging calm even as his heart pounded with a mix of anger and something else—something that stirred at Aegon’s raw, unfiltered energy, at the challenge in his violet eyes. He took a breath, steadying himself, and then a spark of memory flickered in his mind, the true purpose of his visit rising through the haze of their confrontation. He hadn’t come just to accuse or to measure Aegon’s chaos—he’d come to bridge the chasm between them, to find a way to meet the alpha on his own terms. His expression softened, the hard line of his jaw easing as he stepped closer, his lavender scent deepening with a quiet confidence, the sea mist a gentle tide that invited rather than repelled.

“Ah, you reminded me well, uncle,” Jacaerys said, his voice low and deliberate, each word a careful step into uncharted waters. He closed the distance further, until their chests nearly touched, his brown eyes locking onto Aegon’s with a mixture of resolve and curiosity. “There was something I wanted you to teach me.” The allure in Jacaerys's voice surprised Aegon greatly, his stomach clenched, or should he say, felt tense. “ Something everyone tells you you're the best at...Pleasure.”

The words hung in the air like a drawn blade, sharp and unexpected, slicing through the tension with a precision that left the room silent save for the faint crackle of the dying embers in the hearth. Aegon froze, his violet eyes widening, the smirk slipping from his lips as a flicker of surprise—then intrigue—flashed across his face. His alpha scent pulsed, the clove deepening with a sudden, primal heat, the cedar smoldering with renewed intensity. He tilted his head, studying Jacaerys with a mix of suspicion and fascination, as if seeing the omega for the first time. “Pleasure?” he echoed, his voice a rough purr, the playful edge returning but laced with something darker, more curious. “You, the pious prince, Rhaenyra’s perfect little omega, want to learn pleasure from me?” He laughed, a low, incredulous sound, stepping back to lean against the bedpost, his fingers trailing over the silken cords with a deliberate, teasing slowness. “What’s this, Jace? Tired of your septon’s sermons? Or do you think you can dip your toes in my world and still keep your precious honor intact?”

Jacaerys held his gaze, unflinching, his lavender scent steady, a quiet anchor against the storm of Aegon’s presence. “I’m not here to play games,” he said, his tone firm but laced with a vulnerability he rarely allowed himself to show. “ I want you to teach me how to pleasure an alpha. You live for pleasure, or so you claim. Show me what that means. Not to trap you, not to tame you.” His eyes flicked to the bed, the strange objects—jade, silk, bone—glinting like forbidden secrets in the candlelight, and he swallowed, the sea mist in his scent softening further, a silent plea for a truce. “I’m not your enemy, uncle. I’m not here to chain you. If you teach me this, we will both be free in this marriage.”

Aegon’s laugh softened, less jagged now, though his eyes remained sharp, searching Jacaerys’s face for any hint of deceit. He set the goblet down on the desk with a deliberate clink, the wine sloshing gently, and stepped closer, his movements fluid, predatory, yet tinged with a cautious curiosity. “You want to learn pleasure from me?” he murmured, his voice a dangerous caress, his alpha scent wrapping around Jacaerys like a warm, spiced haze, heavy with promise and peril. “Careful, nephew. My lessons don’t come with your mother’s rules or your septon’s blessings. You might find yourself liking it too much.” His fingers brushed the edge of Jacaerys’s cloak, a teasing, possessive gesture, and his grin returned, crooked and charming, though a shadow of doubt lingered in his violet eyes. “Or maybe you’ll run back to Rhaenyra, crying about how the bad alpha corrupted her perfect heir.”

Jacaerys’s breath hitched, the touch sending a shiver through him, but he didn’t pull away. His lavender scent pulsed, a mix of resolve and curiosity, the sea mist a gentle tide that held its ground against Aegon’s heat. “I’m not running,” he said, his voice quiet but unyielding, a vow etched in the air between them. “Show me, Aegon. Teach me. But know this—whatever happens, I’m still Rhaenyra’s heir. Push me too far, and you’ll find out what an omega can do when the tide turns.” His eyes locked onto Aegon’s, a challenge and an invitation, the lavender softening into a warm, inviting note, the sea mist a promise of depths yet unexplored.

Aegon’s grin widened, his violet eyes gleaming with a mix of amusement and something deeper—respect, perhaps, or the thrill of a challenge met. He stepped back, gesturing to the bed with a flourish, the silken cords and jade rod catching the candlelight like forbidden treasures. “Then step into my world, Jace,” he said, his voice a low, playful growl, laced with the arrogance and hunger that defined him. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He turned, snatching a fresh goblet from the desk and pouring wine with a reckless flourish, the red liquid glinting like blood in the dim light. The air thickened with their scents—clove and cedar against lavender and sea mist, a fragile truce woven through the chaos of the room, as the candles flickered and the shadows danced, whispering of a bond yet to be forged or broken.

Jacaerys took a step toward the bed, his heart pounding but his resolve unbroken, the weight of their betrothal and the realm’s expectations pressing against him. The door remained ajar behind him, a sliver of torchlight spilling into the chamber, but he didn’t look back. Whatever lay ahead—pleasure, chaos, or something entirely new—he would face it, not just as Rhaenyra’s heir, but as an omega meeting an alpha on his own terms, in a room where wine stains and strange objects bore witness to a world he was only beginning to understand.

Chapter Text

Aemond's hands gripped Lucerys's collar tightly, their lips kissing each other as if they were an antidote. And Lucerys groaned, the sound vibrating against Aemond’s lips, and he gave in fully, his alpha dominance surging to meet the omega’s challenge. His hands slid beneath Aemond’s cloak, finding the laces of his tunic, tugging them loose with a roughness that spoke of urgency. He pushed Aemond back toward the narrow bed, the linens rumpling under their weight as they fell together, Lucerys’s gown slipping further to reveal the lean strength of his frame. The fire crackled in the hearth, its light dancing over their entwined forms, casting shadows that writhed like dragons across the stone walls.

Aemond’s hands roamed Lucerys’s back, nails digging into the damp skin, his body arching into the alpha’s touch as if seeking to drown in it. “More,” Aemond murmured, his voice a breathless plea, echoing the words he had heard from Jacaerys, now twisted into his own desperate need. Lucerys obliged, his hands and lips moving with a purpose that was both gentle and relentless, determined to give Aemond what he sought—a destruction so complete it would cloud his mind, leaving only sensation in its wake. 

Lucerys slowed and pulled back slightly. “Aemond—” And Aemond looked at her, “Are you just learning how to have sex?” 

Oh, enough of this humiliation. Lucerys’s fingers, deft and sure, moved to the buttons of Aemond’s trousers, undoing them with a practiced ease that belied the tension in his frame. The fabric parted under his touch, the sound of each button slipping free a soft counterpoint to the crackling hearth. His hand slid inside, warm and calloused, caressing Aemond with a deliberate tenderness that sent a shudder through the omega’s body. The kiss deepened, Lucerys’s lips firm and demanding against Aemond’s, their tongues tangling in a dance of hunger and surrender. The alpha’s cedar scent surged, wrapping around Aemond like a possessive claim, the brine sharp and invigorating, pulling him deeper into the haze of sensation.

Aemond’s breath hitched, a low moan escaping him as Lucerys’s fingers moved with slow, deliberate strokes, igniting a fire that spread through his core. His head fell back, breaking the kiss, his silver hair spilling across the linens as he pressed himself into the alpha’s touch, his body arching instinctively. The sapphire socket glinted coldly in the firelight, a stark contrast to the heat in his violet eye, half-lidded with need. Lucerys didn’t hesitate, his lips trailing from Aemond’s mouth to the sharp line of his jaw, leaving a series of soft, searing kisses that burned against the omega’s skin. Each kiss was a spark, a deliberate claim, as Lucerys moved lower, his lips brushing the sensitive hollow of Aemond’s throat, then the pulse point just above his collarbone, where his jasmine scent pulsed thick and heady, laced with the faint ash of his lingering grief.

“Gods, you know that.” Aemond gasped, his voice a breathless tremor, his hands clutching at Lucerys’s shoulders, nails digging into the damp fabric of the alpha’s gown. The caress of Lucerys’s hand was relentless, each stroke a deliberate pull toward oblivion, clouding Aemond’s mind with a haze of pleasure that drowned out the echoes of Jacaerys’s whimpers, the sting of Aegon’s betrayal. He pressed his head back further, his throat exposed, a silent invitation for more as his body trembled under the alpha’s touch. Lucerys’s lips found the curve of his neck, kissing softly at first, then with a hint of teeth, a possessive nip that drew another moan from Aemond, his omega heat rising unbidden, jasmine blooming into a desperate, inviting note.

Lucerys pulled back slightly, his brown eyes dark with desire, searching Aemond’s face for any sign of hesitation. Finding none, he leaned in again, his lips brushing the shell of Aemond’s ear, a soft kiss that sent a shiver down the omega’s spine. “You’re sure?” he murmured, his voice a low growl, thick with the cedar of his alpha presence, the brine sharp with hunger. His hand continued its slow, torturous caress, coaxing Aemond further into the abyss of sensation, each touch a step closer to the destruction he craved.

“Don’t stop,” Aemond whispered, his voice raw and pleading, his violet eye locking onto Lucerys’s with a feverish intensity. His hands slid down the alpha’s back, fingers digging into the lean muscle, pulling him closer as if to merge their bodies entirely. The firelight danced across their entwined forms, casting shadows that writhed like dragons across the stone walls, mirroring the chaos and need within. Lucerys’s lips returned to Aemond’s, the kiss slower now, deeper, a claiming that was both tender and fierce. His hand moved with a rhythm that matched the pulse of their scents—brine and cedar against jasmine and ash, a volatile dance of dominance and surrender.

Aemond’s head fell back again, breaking the kiss as another wave of pleasure surged through him, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps. Lucerys followed, his lips trailing down the omega’s chest, kissing the exposed skin where Aemond’s tunic had been tugged open, each touch a spark that burned away the remnants of his pain. The alpha’s hand never faltered, its caress a steady anchor in the storm of sensation, pulling Aemond closer to the edge of oblivion he sought. “Hard,” Aemond murmured again, his voice barely audible, a plea lost in the haze of his clouded mind, his body yielding completely to the alpha’s touch.

Lucerys’s fingers paused for a moment, hovering over Aemond’s skin, his alpha gaze dark and intense as he drank in the sight of the omega beneath him—vulnerable, desperate, his silver hair splayed across the linens like a halo of moonlight, his violet eye gleaming with a feverish need that mirrored the storm raging within Lucerys’s own chest. The omega’s plea—“Hard”—echoed in his ears, a command wrapped in surrender, igniting a primal fire that surged through his veins. The brine in his scent sharpened, laced with a possessive hunger, the cedar deepening into a heady, grounding force that enveloped Aemond completely. He wanted this—wanted to claim the omega utterly, to fuck him until the pain etched across Aemond’s features dissolved into mindless bliss, until his body yielded completely. But more than that, a deeper instinct clawed at him, raw and unrelenting: he wanted to breed him, to fill him with his seed, to mark him with cubs that would bind them irrevocably, turning this moment of destruction into something eternal, a legacy carved from their shared ruin.

With a low growl that rumbled from his throat, Lucerys’s hands moved with deliberate roughness, his fingers gripping the edges of Aemond’s tunic and yanking it open, the laces snapping under the force. The fabric tore slightly at the seams, a sharp rip that echoed in the chamber, exposing the pale, scarred expanse of Aemond’s chest—marks from battles long past, reminders of the fire that had forged him. Lucerys’s gaze raked over him, his breath quickening, the alpha’s desire flaring hot and unyielding. He tugged the tunic off Aemond’s shoulders, pulling it free with impatient jerks, discarding it to the floor in a crumpled heap beside the cloak. Aemond gasped at the sudden exposure, his skin prickling in the warm air, the firelight casting golden hues across his lean frame, highlighting the taut muscles that quivered under Lucerys’s touch.

Not pausing, Lucerys’s hands descended lower, his fingers hooking into the waistband of Aemond’s trousers, already loosened from his earlier caress. With a swift, forceful pull, he dragged them down, the fabric sliding over Aemond’s hips and thighs, baring him completely to the alpha’s hungry gaze. Aemond’s breath hitched, a soft whimper escaping his lips as the cool air kissed his heated skin, his omega heat rising in waves, jasmine blooming thick and inviting, the ash a faint whisper beneath the overwhelming need. Lucerys tossed the trousers aside, his eyes darkening further as he took in the sight of Aemond laid bare before him—pale skin flushed with desire, his body arching instinctively toward the alpha, seeking the dominance he craved.

Lucerys’s own gown slipped further, the tie loosening under the strain of their movements, revealing the hard lines of his chest and the trail of dark hair leading downward. He positioned himself above Aemond, his knees pressing into the mattress on either side of the omega’s hips, caging him in with the weight of his presence. His hands gripped Aemond’s thighs, fingers digging into the firm muscle with a roughness that bordered on bruising, spreading his legs wide in a single, decisive motion. Aemond’s breath caught, a sharp gasp escaping him as his body yielded to the alpha’s strength, his legs parting under the insistent pressure, exposing him fully. The firelight danced across their forms, shadows playing over Aemond’s spread thighs, the vulnerable curve of his hips, the way his body trembled in anticipation.

Lucerys settled between Aemond’s legs, his body aligning with the omega’s, the heat of his arousal pressing against Aemond’s entrance, a teasing promise of what was to come. His alpha scent surged, brine and cedar enveloping Aemond like a tidal wave, possessive and unrelenting, stirring the omega’s heat to a fever pitch. Lucerys’s mind raced with dark, primal thoughts—he wanted to thrust into him, to fuck him with a rhythm that would shatter the omega’s composure, to breed him until his belly swelled with cubs, binding them in a way that no betrayal could sever. “You’re mine now,” Lucerys murmured, his voice a low growl against Aemond’s ear, his hands sliding up the omega’s thighs to grip his hips, holding him steady. “I’ll give you what you need—until you’re filled, until you’re bred.”

Aemond’s violet eye fluttered, a moan escaping him at the words, his body arching upward, seeking the alpha’s claim. The jasmine in his scent pulsed, thick with need, the ash dissolving into the haze of his clouded mind. Lucerys didn’t hesitate, his hips shifting forward, pressing into Aemond with a slow, deliberate thrust that drew a gasp from the omega’s lips. The chamber filled with the sounds of their union—breathless moans, the creak of the bed, the crackle of the fire—as Lucerys moved, his rhythm building, each motion a step toward the destruction Aemond craved, toward the breeding that would mark him forever.

The chamber was a cocoon of heat and shadow, the firelight flickering across the stone walls, casting their entwined forms in a dance of gold and darkness. Lucerys’s alpha scent—brine and cedar—saturated the air, a tidal wave of dominance that enveloped Aemond, pulling him deeper into the haze of his omega heat. The narrow bed creaked beneath them, its linens twisting under their weight as Lucerys pressed himself closer, his knees bracketing Aemond’s hips, his hands gripping the omega’s thighs with a bruising intensity. Aemond’s body trembled, bare and vulnerable, his pale skin flushed with a feverish glow, the sapphire socket in his ruined eye glinting coldly in contrast to the fire in his violet eye. His jasmine scent, laced with the fading ash of his grief, bloomed thick and heady, a desperate invitation that answered Lucerys’s possessive claim.

Lucerys’s hips surged forward, his thrust hard and unrelenting, driving deep into Aemond with a force that stole the omega’s breath. Aemond’s back arched off the bed, a sharp gasp escaping his lips before he clamped his hand over his mouth, muffling the sound with a desperate press of his palm. His fingers dug into his own face, nails biting into the skin as he fought to silence the noises threatening to spill free—moans and whimpers that echoed too closely the ones he’d heard from Jacaerys, now twisted into his own surrender. The sensation of Lucerys inside him was overwhelming, each thrust a searing jolt that reached places Aemond had never known, touching depths that sent sparks of pleasure-pain coursing through his core. The alpha’s rhythm was merciless, a relentless cadence that shattered Aemond’s composure, driving him toward the oblivion he had begged for, his mind clouding with each forceful movement.

Lucerys’s hands tightened on Aemond’s hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh, anchoring him as he thrust harder, deeper, the bed groaning under the strain. His brown eyes, dark with desire, locked onto Aemond’s face, drinking in the omega’s flushed cheeks, the way his silver hair splayed across the linens like a halo of moonlight, the muffled sounds escaping through his trembling fingers. The alpha’s scent surged, brine sharp and invigorating, cedar grounding and possessive, wrapping around Aemond like a claim that branded his very soul. “Don’t hide from me,” Lucerys growled, his voice low and rough, thick with the hunger that drove him. His hand reached up, seizing Aemond’s wrist and pulling it away from his mouth, pinning it to the bed beside his head. “Let me hear you.”

Aemond’s violet eye widened, a choked moan spilling free as Lucerys’s next thrust hit a spot that sent a white-hot wave of pleasure crashing through him. His body shuddered, legs trembling where they were spread wide, held open by the alpha’s unyielding grip. The sensation was too much, too deep, each movement of Lucerys’s hips igniting a fire that burned away the remnants of his pain, replacing it with a haze of raw, unfiltered need. “Lucerys,” he gasped, the name a broken plea, his voice raw and trembling as it filled the chamber, no longer restrained by his hand. His fingers clutched the linens, nails tearing at the fabric as he arched into each thrust, his body yielding completely to the alpha’s dominance.

Lucerys leaned down, his lips brushing Aemond’s ear, his breath hot and ragged as he murmured, “You wanted this. You begged for it.” His voice was a low growl, laced with a possessive edge that sent a shiver down Aemond’s spine. He thrust harder, the rhythm unrelenting, each movement a deliberate claim, as if he meant to carve his presence into Aemond’s very being. The alpha’s hands slid from Aemond’s hips to his thighs, lifting them higher, spreading them wider, allowing him to drive deeper still. The bed creaked louder, the sound a counterpoint to Aemond’s muffled gasps and moans, his attempts to silence himself crumbling under the onslaught of sensation.

Aemond’s head fell back, his throat exposed, a soft whimper escaping as Lucerys’s lips found the sensitive curve of his neck, kissing and nipping with a roughness that bordered on feral. The alpha’s teeth grazed the pulse point just above Aemond’s collarbone, drawing a sharp cry that Aemond couldn’t stifle, his hand twitching as if to cover his mouth again but falling limp instead, pinned by Lucerys’s grip. The omega’s jasmine scent pulsed, thick with need, the ash all but gone now, drowned in the overwhelming heat of his surrender. Each thrust reached deeper, touching places that unraveled him, sending his mind spiraling into a fog where thoughts of Aegon’s betrayal, Jacaerys’s noises, and the pain of his shattered heart dissolved into nothing but the feel of Lucerys inside him.

“This is too much,” Aemond whispered, the word a breathless echo of his earlier plea, his voice barely audible over the creak of the bed and the crackle of the hearth. His body moved with Lucerys’s rhythm, hips rising to meet each thrust, seeking the destruction he had craved, the annihilation that would leave him empty of everything but sensation. Lucerys obliged, his movements growing fiercer, his hips snapping forward with a force that shook the bed, the linens twisting further under their weight. His hands gripped Aemond’s thighs tighter, bruising the pale skin, holding him open as he drove into him with a relentless intensity that pushed Aemond closer to the edge of oblivion.

The firelight danced across their forms, casting shadows that writhed like dragons across the stone walls, mirroring the chaos and need within. Aemond’s moans grew louder, unrestrained now, spilling from his lips in a litany of broken sounds—gasps, whimpers, pleas—that filled the chamber, mingling with Lucerys’s low growls. The alpha’s scent enveloped him, brine and cedar a possessive claim that drowned out the last echoes of Aemond’s pain. Lucerys’s lips returned to Aemond’s, capturing his moans in a fierce, claiming kiss, their tongues tangling as the alpha’s thrusts grew erratic, driven by a primal need to mark, to breed, to make Aemond his in a way that transcended the fleeting chaos of their union.

Aemond’s body trembled, his mind a clouded haze, every thrust pushing him further into the abyss he had sought. The sensation of Lucerys inside him, deep and unrelenting, touched places that shattered his defenses, unraveling the last threads of his pride and pain. His violet eye fluttered shut, tears still clinging to his lashes, glinting in the firelight as he surrendered completely, letting the alpha fuck him into a state of utter destruction.

Aemond’s body trembled, his mind a clouded haze, every thrust pushing him further into the abyss he had sought. The sensation of Lucerys inside him, deep and unrelenting, touched places that shattered his defenses, unraveling the last threads of his pride and pain. His fingers clutched at Lucerys’s back, nails raking across the alpha’s damp skin, leaving red trails that mirrored the firelight’s glow. Each movement sent waves of heat crashing through him, building a pressure that coiled tighter in his core, his omega heat responding to the alpha’s dominance with a desperate, instinctive surrender. The jasmine in his scent pulsed wildly, thick and intoxicating, the ash all but vanished now, drowned in the overwhelming rush of need that clouded his thoughts, leaving only the feel of Lucerys—his weight, his rhythm, his possessive growl.

Lucerys’s thrusts grew more urgent, his hips snapping forward with a feral intensity, the bed creaking in protest beneath them. His alpha scent surged, brine sharp and invigorating, cedar wrapping around Aemond like a vise, claiming every inch of him. The alpha’s breath came in ragged gasps against Aemond’s neck, his lips brushing the sensitive skin there, teeth grazing lightly as if testing the boundary between restraint and instinct. “You’re mine,” Lucerys growled again, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through Aemond’s chest, each word punctuated by a deep thrust that drew a choked moan from the omega’s lips. His hands gripped Aemond’s hips harder, fingers digging into the pale flesh, holding him steady as he drove deeper, the slick sounds of their union filling the chamber, obscene and hypnotic.

Aemond’s head fell back further, his throat bared in unwitting submission, a soft, broken cry escaping him as Lucerys hit that spot again, sending sparks of white-hot pleasure exploding through his veins. His body arched, hips rising to meet each thrust, seeking more, needing the alpha to fill him completely, to breed him until the pain of Aegon’s betrayal was nothing but a distant echo. The pressure built relentlessly, a tidal wave cresting within him, his mind fogging further with each movement, thoughts dissolving into a haze of sensation—Lucerys’s heat, his scent, his unyielding claim. “Yes,” Aemond gasped, his voice raw and pleading, fingers tangling in the alpha’s damp curls, pulling him closer. “Don’t stop—gods, don’t stop.”

Lucerys’s rhythm faltered for a moment, his own release building, the knot at the base of his cock swelling with the instinctive drive to lock them together, to breed the omega beneath him. His teeth grazed Aemond’s neck again, harder this time, a primal urge rising unbidden, the alpha’s control fraying at the edges. He thrust deeper, harder, the firelight casting their shadows in a frenzied dance across the walls, the chamber echoing with Aemond’s unrestrained moans and Lucerys’s guttural growls. The pressure peaked, a shared crescendo that built until it shattered them both.

They came simultaneously, Aemond’s body convulsing beneath Lucerys as waves of ecstasy crashed through him, his release spilling hot between them, his omega heat clenching around the alpha in desperate, rhythmic pulses. Lucerys followed with a deep, guttural groan, his hips grinding forward as he emptied himself into Aemond, the knot swelling fully, locking them together in a bond of overwhelming intimacy. In that moment of blinding release, Lucerys’s instincts overrode all restraint—his teeth sank into the soft flesh of Aemond’s neck, pricking open the skin with a sharp, claiming bite. The metallic tang of blood bloomed on his tongue, the mark searing into Aemond’s skin like a brand, a permanent claim that bound them in ways neither had anticipated. Aemond cried out, a mix of pain and pleasure ripping from his throat, his body arching violently as the bite sent a final, shattering wave through him, his mind clouding completely in the haze of the bond forming between them.

The chamber fell into a heavy silence, broken only by their ragged breaths and the soft crackle of the hearth. Lucerys collapsed against Aemond, his body still locked with the omega’s, the knot pulsing with the aftershocks of their release. His lips lingered on the bite mark, a soft, instinctive lick soothing the wound, his alpha scent now mingled irrevocably with Aemond’s jasmine, the brine and cedar a possessive veil over the omega’s ash. Aemond lay still, his chest heaving, his violet eye half-lidded in the fog of exhaustion and bliss, the pain of his heartbreak dulled to a distant ache, replaced by the throbbing warmth of the mark on his neck—a bond he hadn’t sought but could no longer deny.

Lucerys lifted his head slightly, his brown eyes searching Aemond’s face, a flicker of regret mingling with the satisfaction in his gaze. “Aemond,” he whispered, his voice hoarse, the cedar in his scent softening into a protective note. “I didn’t mean to—” But the words trailed off, the bond pulsing between them, a silent testament to the line they had crossed, the destruction Aemond had begged for now etched into his skin, his body, his soul.

Aemond didn’t respond, his body limp and sated, his mind still clouded in the haze of release, the tears drying on his cheeks as he drifted into a fragile peace, marked and claimed in the quiet aftermath of their storm. The firelight flickered on, casting long shadows across the room, whispering of bonds forged in pain and desire, as the two lay entwined, the weight of their choices settling over them like a shroud.

Chapter Text

The dawn’s light slithered through the narrow window of Lucerys’s chamber, a pale, frigid blade slicing across the stone floor, casting jagged shadows that clawed at the walls. The air was a heavy shroud, thick with the fading heat of the night, but the once-intertwined scents of Aemond’s jasmine and ash now waged war with Lucerys’s brine and cedar, their mingled fragrances a roiling tempest of discord. The narrow bed, its linens twisted into chaotic knots, stood as a silent witness to the storm that had raged hours before, its disarray a mirror to the fractured bond unraveling within. Aemond stood at the chamber’s heart, his black cloak discarded in a crumpled heap, pooling like congealed blood in the corner. His silver hair, once meticulously bound, spilled in wild, tangled strands over his shoulders, a tattered banner of a warrior unmoored. His single violet eye burned with a fury that could incinerate the stones beneath his feet, while the sapphire in his empty socket gleamed with a cold, unyielding malice. The bite mark on his neck—a raw, crimson crescent—pulsed with every heartbeat, a searing violation etched into his flesh and soul, its tether flooding his mind with Lucerys’s emotions: a churning sea of guilt, desire, and ruthless resolve that clawed at Aemond’s sanity, alien and invasive, threatening to drown his own will.

Across the room, Lucerys stood, his green dressing gown hastily knotted, the damp fabric clinging to his frame, outlining the taut lines of his body like a second skin. His dark curls, usually tamed, formed a chaotic halo, glistening with sweat, and his brown eyes flickered with a volatile mix of remorse, defiance, and a darker, predatory edge. His alpha scent—cedar laced with restless brine—surged with tension, pulling the air taut like a bowstring drawn to its limit. Through the bond, Lucerys felt the jagged edges of Aemond’s emotions: a torrential fury laced with a raw, aching sense of being lost, a storm of betrayal that mirrored his own guilt but sharpened his resolve. The chamber felt suffocatingly small, its stone walls closing in like a vise, the silence brittle, broken only by the faint sputter of the dying hearth and the harsh, uneven cadence of Aemond’s breathing, each exhale a testament to his barely contained wrath, resonating in Lucerys’s chest like a second heartbeat.

“You dared to mark me,” Aemond hissed, his voice a low, venomous blade, each syllable dripping with rage that trembled through his clenched fists. He advanced, boots grinding against the stone with a sound like snapping bones, his violet eye pinning Lucerys like a predator stalking its quarry. The bond surged, flooding him with Lucerys’s guilt—a bitter, gnawing ache that clashed with Aemond’s own fury, making his skin crawl with the violation of another’s thoughts. “You sank your vile teeth into me without my leave, without my will. Do you grasp the cursed weight of your sin, you wretched, hell-spawned beast? I feel you in my mind, your filthy desires clawing at me!”

Lucerys’s shoulders stiffened, a fleeting wince crossing his face as he felt Aemond’s rage and disorientation pulse through the bond, a jagged wound that mirrored his own regret. His jaw tightened, brown eyes meeting Aemond’s glare with stubborn resolve. “It was not my intent,” he said, his voice low and strained, the cedar in his scent softening momentarily with remorse, though Aemond’s lost, furious thoughts battered against him. “Instinct overtook me, Aemond. The heat of the moment overwhelmed me—your pleas drove me to it. I feel you—it’s tearing at me too.”

“Pleas?” Aemond’s laugh was a jagged shard, cutting through the air like a lash. He surged forward, seizing a wooden chair, its carved back creaking under his grip. With a snarl, he hurled it against the wall, the wood splintering with a thunderous crack, shards scattering like shrapnel. “I sought oblivion, not your damned claim! You think to chain me with your teeth, you baseborn cur, fit only for the devil’s kennel? Your guilt, your want—I feel it slithering in my skull, you vile intruder!” His hand darted out, snatching a pewter goblet etched with faint sigils, and flung it with lethal precision. Lucerys ducked, the goblet striking the floor with a resonant clang, rolling amidst the debris.

“Aemond, enough!” Lucerys’s voice rose, sharp with urgency and exasperation, hands lifting to shield himself from the omega’s fury as Aemond’s sense of betrayal flooded through the bond, a suffocating wave of loss. “I regret it, alright? I meant not to tether you thus. It was a mistake, born of passion.” His words faltered as Aemond’s glare intensified, the air crackling with unyielding rage, their shared emotions a tangled knot of fury and guilt.

“Regret?” Aemond’s voice thundered, raw and unhinged, his violet eye blazing, consuming the dim light. He swept his arm across the table, sending a leather-bound book, a candle, and an inkpot crashing to the floor, ink spilling in black rivulets across the stone. “You think your feeble remorse can undo this, you plague-ridden knave? You’ve branded me like chattel, you loathsome spawn of the abyss! Your thoughts—your cursed pity—invade me, twisting my mind!” His fingers grazed the bite mark, trembling as they brushed the inflamed skin, pain flaring like a fresh wound, amplified by Lucerys’s guilt pulsing through the bond.

Lucerys stepped forward, hands raised, his brine-and-cedar scent surging with a desperate urge to quell the storm, though Aemond’s disoriented anguish battered his senses. “I know I overstepped,” he said, voice steady but thick with emotion, brown eyes searching Aemond’s face for a fracture in his fury. “But you came to me, Aemond. You whispered my name, begged me to unravel you, to burn away your pain. I gave you what you craved—I meant not to bind you. Your anger, your lostness—I feel it, like a blade in my chest.”

Aemond’s lips twisted into a sneer, breath coming in sharp bursts as he seized a lacquered wooden box, its surface gleaming faintly. He hurled it with savage force, the box shattering against the wall, spilling quills, a wax seal, and tarnished coins as Lucerys sidestepped, eyes widening with alarm. “You gave me what you craved, you grasping fiend!” Aemond spat, voice quivering with fury and betrayal, silver hair whipping across his face as he advanced. “You saw a chance to chain me, to trap me in this cursed bond, and seized it like a demon from the pit! Even Jacaerys is not as vile as you! I feel your hunger, your triumph—it sickens me, you hell-bound cur!”

Lucerys’s face paled at the accusation, but his eyes hardened, cedar flaring with a defensive edge as Aemond’s raw sense of betrayal surged through the bond. “Leave Jace out of this,” he growled, voice low and menacing, stepping closer, bare feet crunching over debris. “This is our fight, Aemond. I planned not to mark you, nor to bind you. But you cannot deny the fire between us, the pull we both felt. You begged me to consume you, to erase your pain. I did that. The bite was an error, but it changes not what we shared—I feel your turmoil, your rage, as if it’s my own.”

“Everything!” Aemond roared, voice fracturing with anguish, seizing an iron candelabra, its weight grounding him as he swung it in a reckless arc. Candles tumbled, wax splattering in viscous pools, the candelabra crashing against the wall, denting stone and sending sparks from extinguished wicks. Lucerys dove aside, gown slipping to reveal taut shoulders, breath sharp and uneven. “You’ve shackled me to this mockery of a union, a life I never chose, you vile, accursed knave! You’ve stolen my last shred of freedom, damned be your soul to eternal torment! Your chokes me, your poison me!”

Lucerys rose, chest heaving, brine scent sharp with frustration, brown eyes flashing with guilt and defiance as Aemond’s lostness pulsed through him. “I took nothing you didn’t offer,” he said, voice rising, cutting through the chaos. “You sought me out, Aemond. You pressed your lips to mine, pleaded for me to take you. I answered your call—don’t paint me as the sole villain.” He gestured to the wreckage—splintered chair, scattered quills, ink pooling like blood. “You’ve ravaged this room, but you cannot erase what happened. The bond is real, whether you despise me or not—I feel your pain, your chaos, tearing at me.”

Aemond’s chest heaved, violet eye a blazing inferno, fingers closing around a jagged chair shard, its edge biting into his palm. He pointed it at Lucerys, voice a lethal whisper, dripping venom. “You think this bond makes me yours? You’re nothing but a baseborn wretch, Lucerys Velaryon—a bastard who dared mark a dragon. May the gods curse you to wander the void! I feel your smug resolve, your cursed claim—it’s a violation I’ll never forgive!” His hand trembled, wood creaking, jasmine scent surging with ash, bitter and suffocating, as he stepped closer, a storm of defiance.

Lucerys’s eyes widened, cedar flickering with fear as Aemond’s fury and disorientation surged through the bond, but he held his ground, posture rigid, fists clenched. “Would you mutilate yourself to defy me?” he asked, voice low and urgent, searching Aemond’s face for hesitation. “You’re more than a dragon, Aemond—you’re my mate, whether you accept it or not. This mark doesn’t own you. It’s a burden I’ll carry, but don’t let it destroy you. I feel your lostness, your rage—it’s breaking me too.”

Aemond’s laugh was raw and hollow, grip tightening on the shard until blood welled, staining the wood crimson. “Destroy me?” he whispered, voice a fractured vow, jasmine fading beneath ash’s crushing weight, Lucerys’s guilt and resolve a sickening intrusion in his mind. “You and your accursed kin have already shattered me, you wretched blight upon the earth.” He flung the shard to the floor, wood clattering against stone, and turned sharply, cloak snapping as he strode toward the door, each step a rebellion against the pulsing bond and the alien emotions flooding him.

“Where are you going?” Lucerys called, voice cracking with desperation, bare feet crunching over debris as he followed, Aemond’s anguish echoing in his chest. “Aemond, we cannot leave this unresolved—you cannot walk away—”

Aemond whirled, violet eye a blazing ember, sapphire socket a cold witness to his wrath. “Resolve this?” he spat, voice a venomous hiss, silver hair falling like a veil over his scarred face. “I’d sooner see you cast into the flames of perdition! Your guilt, your desire—I feel it all, clawing at my soul!” The chamber was a battlefield, wreckage testifying to his unraveling control, air thick with clashing scents—jasmine and ash against brine and cedar. He reached for the door’s handle, body trembling with the need to flee the suffocating weight of Lucerys’s presence and the bond’s invasive pull.

Lucerys’s demeanor shifted, remorse in his brown eyes snuffed out, replaced by cold resolve as Aemond’s fury pulsed through him, sharpening his alpha instincts. His shoulders squared, posture radiating ruthless authority, cedar sharpening to a blade’s edge, brine surging like a storm-tossed sea. The contrite alpha vanished, replaced by a figure of iron will, gaze narrowing as he watched Aemond’s retreat. “Stop,” he commanded, voice a steely blade, slicing through the air with absolute authority, resonating with primal alpha power, amplified by the bond’s tether, Aemond’s own rage feeding his resolve.

Aemond froze, body locking as if bound by invisible chains, hand hovering over the door’s handle. The command struck like a physical blow, tugging at his omega instincts, forcing compliance despite the rebellion raging within, Lucerys’s resolve a suffocating presence in his mind. His breath hitched, violet eye darting to meet Lucerys’s, wide with shock and a flicker of fear. The air thickened, scents clashing—jasmine and ash warring against brine and cedar, a battlefield of dominance and defiance, their shared emotions a tangled storm.

Lucerys advanced, bare feet silent on the debris-strewn floor, green gown slipping to reveal a taut frame, presence looming like a gathering storm. His brown eyes glinted with predatory intensity, lips curling into a cruel smile devoid of gentleness, Aemond’s lostness fueling his dominance. “I willed this,” he said, voice a deliberate growl, heavy with possessive intent. “I craved you as mine, Aemond—eternally bound. I marked you because I chose it, because I hungered for it.” He stepped closer, scent overwhelming, a tidal wave of brine and cedar pressing against Aemond’s senses, demanding submission, his resolve a burning echo in Aemond’s mind. “Stand there, Aemond. Cross that threshold, and I’ll unleash a torment so dire it will haunt you until your dying breath.”

Aemond’s breath caught, body trembling with rage and an unwilling primal response to Lucerys’s dominance, his anger and hunger a sickening intrusion through the bond. His hand dropped from the door, fingers twitching as if to claw back defiance, but his feet remained rooted, violet eye blazing with fury wrestling with fear. The bite mark pulsed, a searing reminder of the inescapable bond, Lucerys’s words and emotions echoing like a lash against his fractured resolve. “You would not dare, you vile serpent, cursed to crawl in the dust,” he whispered, voice a trembling snarl, the quiver betraying uncertainty, jasmine faltering beneath ash’s weight.

Lucerys’s smile widened, cold and unrelenting, eyes locked on Aemond’s with a predator’s focus, Aemond’s rage fueling his own. “Would I not?” he murmured, voice a dangerous purr, laced with cruelty that chilled the chamber. “You think your wrath can rival mine, Aemond? Your dragon’s fire burn brighter than my will?” He gestured to the wreckage—splintered chair, scattered quills, ink pooling like blood. “You’ve torn this room asunder, but I can dismantle you, strip every shred of your proud dragon until nothing remains. I feel your defiance, your pain—it only makes me want you more.”

Aemond’s chest heaved, fists clenching, nails biting into palms until blood welled, pain anchoring him against Lucerys’s dominance and the bond’s invasive pull. “You’re a monster,” he hissed, voice raw with defiance, yet body still, ensnared by the alpha’s command, instincts warring with pride. “A baseborn fiend who believes a bite grants dominion. I’ll never be yours, Lucerys, though the heavens curse you to rot in shadow! Your thoughts in my head—they’re a plague I’ll burn out!”

Lucerys’s laugh was a guttural rumble, reverberating like distant thunder, sharp and mocking, Aemond’s anguish sharpening his cruelty. “Never?” he said, voice dripping with scorn, closing the distance, standing inches from Aemond, scent a suffocating wave threatening to drown defiance. “You’re already mine, Aemond. That mark is no mere wound—a tether forged in your surrender. I feel your rage, your lostness—it binds us tighter.” His hand seized Aemond’s chin, grip iron and punishing, forcing their gazes to lock. “You sought me, pressed yourself to me, begged consumption. Now you spit defiance, when it was you who opened the gate.”

Aemond’s violet eye blazed, lips trembling with rage and shame, sapphire socket glinting as he strained against the grip, Lucerys’s possessive resolve flooding his mind. “I sought escape, not chains, you foul betrayer, damned to the abyss’s depths,” he snarled, voice fracturing. “You preyed on my despair, and now you threaten me? You think fear will bend me? Your hunger in my soul—it’s a violation I’ll never forgive!”

Lucerys’s grip tightened, fingers digging into Aemond’s jaw, brown eyes glinting with ruthless resolve, fueled by Aemond’s own fury. “I need no fear,” he said, voice low and cold, each word a calculated strike. “You’re bound to me, Aemond. Step through that door, and I’ll drag you back—broken, bleeding, screaming for mercy. Every soul in this keep will know the cost of crossing me.” His thumb brushed the bite mark, a possessive touch sending pain and heat through Aemond, his jasmine scent flaring unwillingly, Lucerys’s desire a searing echo in his mind.

Aemond’s breath hitched, body trembling under Lucerys’s dominance, instincts screaming submission as pride roared defiance, the bond’s pull a relentless tide of alien emotions. The chamber was a prison, wreckage a testament to futile rebellion, air thick with clashing scents—jasmine and ash against brine and cedar. “You’ll pay for this, you cursed blight upon the earth,” he whispered, voice a raw vow, violet eye burning unyieldingly. “You’ve marked me, but you’ll never possess me.”

Lucerys released his chin, stepping back with a cold, calculating smile, scent heavy, unyielding, a storm unbreaking, Aemond’s rage fueling his resolve. “We’ll see,” he said, voice a low growl, cedar sharpening with retribution’s promise. “Flee if you dare, Aemond. You’ll never escape our bond.” He tilted his head toward the open door, eyes never leaving Aemond’s, challenge glinting. “Go. Try me.”

Aemond's breath rasped in his throat, ragged and uneven, each inhalation a battle against the invisible chains that bound him—not just the alpha's command, but the insidious pulse of the bond itself, throbbing in his skull like a second heartbeat. Lucerys's unyielding resolve crashed through his mind in relentless waves, a tidal force of alien will that mingled with his own fury, twisting it into something white-hot, uncontrollable, and utterly profane. It was as if the bite had woven their souls into a tangled web, where every surge of his rage echoed back amplified by the alpha's predatory hunger—a venomous whisper that slithered through his thoughts, mocking his isolation, eroding the barriers he had so meticulously built around his fractured heart.

His hand hovered over the door's iron handle, fingers curling into a fist so tight that fresh blood welled from the crescent wounds his nails had already etched into his palm, warm and sticky, a tangible reminder of his unraveling. The chamber's wreckage encircled him like the aftermath of a savage rout: splintered wood from the shattered chair lay in jagged fragments, ink spread in dark, accusatory pools that resembled congealed blood, and the faint, acrid tang of spilled wax mingled with the metallic bite of scattered coins and quills. Their scents clashed in a sensory maelstrom—his jasmine, once sharp and defiant, now laced with the choking bitterness of ash, warring against Lucerys's brine, salty and restless like a storm-tossed sea, underpinned by the grounding, unyielding cedar that pressed upon him like a physical weight. It made his head spin, this invasion, Lucerys's smug satisfaction seeping into his consciousness like poison, a sickening undercurrent that only fueled the inferno raging in his chest.

With a guttural snarl that tore from his depths like the roar of Vhagar awakening from slumber, Aemond whirled back into the room, his black cloak snapping through the air like the crack of a whip, stirring eddies of dust and debris in its wake. His silver hair, unbound and wild, whipped across his scarred face, partially veiling the cold, unblinking gleam of the sapphire socket—a gemstone eye that seemed to judge him as much as the alpha before him. But his single violet eye burned with unbridled rage, a violet flame that could consume kingdoms, fixed unerringly on Lucerys as he advanced in three swift, predatory strides. His boots crunched over the scattered remnants of his earlier destruction—wood shards grinding underfoot, a quill snapping like a brittle bone—his body a coiled spring of defiance, every muscle taut and trembling with the need to reclaim some shred of autonomy. "You think you can command me like a dog?" he spat, his voice a venomous thunder that reverberated off the stone walls, the bond flooding him anew with Lucerys's smug satisfaction, a loathsome echo that twisted his guts and stoked his fury to blinding heights. He reached out, his hands slamming into Lucerys's chest with brutal, unyielding force, the impact reverberating through his palms like the declaration of an unending war, shoving the alpha back a staggering step, the green gown shifting with the motion to reveal glimpses of sweat-glistened skin beneath.

Lucerys staggered slightly, his bare feet scraping against the debris-strewn floor, the green dressing gown slipping further along his shoulders, exposing the taut, corded muscles of his chest and the faint sheen of perspiration that caught the dawn's weak light. But there was no fear in his brown eyes—only a predatory gleam, sharpened to a razor's edge by the bond's feedback, where Aemond's raw, aching sense of loss and betrayal surged through him like a live wire, feeding his dominance as if it were kindling to a blaze. The bite had transformed him, unlocking a deeper reservoir of alpha instinct; suppressing the omega now felt not just possible, but effortless, natural—as if the mark had stripped away the last vestiges of hesitation, molding him into the archetype of control he had always been destined to embody. In a blur of fluid, predatory motion, Lucerys's hands shot upward, his fingers—strong and unyielding as forged steel—clamping around Aemond's wrists with vise-like precision, halting the omega's momentum mid-strike. The grip was bruising, unmerciful, pinning Aemond's arms in mid-air, their faces mere inches apart, close enough for Aemond to feel the heat radiating from the alpha's body, to inhale the overwhelming surge of brine-and-cedar scent that enveloped him like a possessive shroud, demanding submission with every breath.

"Don't touch me," Lucerys growled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that vibrated through Aemond's captured wrists like a seismic tremor, sending an involuntary shiver racing down the omega's spine despite the inferno of his rage. His brown eyes bored into Aemond's with dark, unyielding intensity, the bond pulsing with his ruthless intent—a mirror to Aemond's turmoil that he now wielded like a finely honed weapon, turning the omega's own emotions against him. "Never attack me again, or you’ll regret it." The words dripped with a cold, unshakeable promise, his grip tightening just enough to elicit a sharp, involuntary intake of breath from Aemond, the alpha's newfound aggression serving as an impenetrable shield against the omega's storm. The bite had irrevocably altered him—made dominance not just a choice, but an instinct as natural as breathing, the urge to claim and control flowing through his veins like molten fire, Aemond's fierce resistance merely a spark that ignited it further, transforming their clash into a symphony of power where submission was inevitable.

Aemond's chest heaved with labored breaths, his violet eye blazing with undimmed fury, a storm of violet fire that clashed against the alpha's unshakeable gaze. Yet the bond betrayed him mercilessly, flooding his mind with Lucerys's unassailable dominance—a heavy, oppressive weight that pressed relentlessly upon his omega instincts, urging a submission that his pride screamed against with every fiber of his being. "Release me, you foul tyrant," he hissed through gritted teeth, straining against the iron hold with all his might, his muscles corded and trembling under the strain, veins standing out like rivers of defiance on his forearms. Jasmine flared wildly in his scent, mingled with the choking bitterness of ash, a desperate bid to reclaim some semblance of autonomy amid the sensory assault. Yet the alpha's grip held firm, unyielding as Valyrian steel, a stark reminder of the shifted balance of power between them—the bite's insidious legacy turning their confrontation into an inescapable dance of control and resistance, where every twitch of rebellion only tightened the invisible chains that bound them.

Abruptly, Lucerys’s fingers loosened, releasing Aemond’s wrists with deliberate slowness, as if freeing a coiled beast he knew could strike again. He stepped back, posture still radiating authority, but the predatory gleam in his brown eyes softened, tempered by a flicker of pragmatism cutting through the bond’s fevered pulse. Aemond’s rage echoed in his chest, a raw wound, but Lucerys’s cedar scent steadied, the brine receding like a tide retreating from the shore. “Enough,” he said, voice low and measured, carrying command without earlier cruelty. “Go and ready yourself. We’re expected at breakfast. The court has matters to attend, and they’ll be watching us.” His gaze held Aemond’s, unyielding but no longer a blade, the bond conveying a flicker of steely, practical resolve tinged with weary acknowledgment of their shared turmoil.

Aemond’s wrists throbbed where Lucerys’s grip had bruised them, his violet eye narrowing, the sapphire socket glinting like a cold star as he fought the urge to lunge again, the bond flooding him with the alpha’s steady determination, a bitter contrast to his own churning fury. His jasmine scent flared, sharp and defiant, but the weight of Lucerys’s words—and the bond’s inescapable pull—held him fast, a tether he could neither break nor ignore. “You think to order me like a servant, you wretched cur?” he hissed, voice low and venomous, trembling with barely suppressed rage. “May the gods cast you into the void for your arrogance, you baseborn fiend.”

Lucerys’s smile remained, though his eyes darkened, cedar sharpening to a piercing edge. He took a step forward, bare feet silent on the debris-strewn floor, his presence looming like a storm cloud ready to break. “You mistake my intent, Aemond,” he said, voice a low growl, cold and unyielding. “This is no request—it’s a command. You’re mine now, whether you spit curses or not. Dress, or I’ll drag you to the hall as you are, and every soul there will see the mark I’ve given you.” His gaze flicked to the bite mark, a deliberate glance sending a jolt of pain and heat through Aemond, his jasmine scent flaring unwillingly.

Aemond’s chest heaved, fists clenching until nails bit into his palms, fresh blood welling to mingle with dried stains. The urge to defy this alpha burned like dragonfire, but Lucerys’s command held him, the bond’s primal pull warring with his pride. “You’ll rue for this day,” he whispered, voice a raw, trembling vow, violet eye blazing with unextinguished fire. “You may chain me with your mark, you hell-bound serpent, but my soul will never bend to you.”

Lucerys’s laugh was low and guttural, sharp and mocking, echoing through the chamber like distant thunder. “Your soul can fight all it likes,” he said, voice dripping with scorn, leaning closer, his brine-and-cedar scent a tidal wave threatening to drown Aemond’s defiance. “But your body knows the truth, Aemond. That mark binds you to me, and no curses will break it.” He straightened, gesturing toward the door, eyes never leaving Aemond’s. “Go. Dress. Or I’ll make good on my promise, and you’ll learn the cost of testing me.”

Aemond’s jaw tightened, violet eye burning with a fury that seemed to consume the air, but his body remained still, caught in the alpha’s command. The chamber’s wreckage—splintered chair, scattered coins, wax pooling in molten smears—stood as a testament to his earlier rage, now a hollow echo against Lucerys’s dominance. His fingers brushed the bite mark, the raw skin throbbing, a reminder of the bond he couldn’t escape. “Damn you to the abyss’s depths,” he muttered, voice a fractured snarl, heavy with defiance. Yet his feet moved, not toward freedom, but to the corner where his cloak lay, movements stiff and reluctant, each step a battle against Lucerys’s command.

Lucerys watched, his cold smile unwavering, posture relaxed but his presence a storm held in check. “Good,” he said, voice soft but laced with menace, cedar steady and unyielding. “You’ll learn, Aemond, one way or another.” His gaze followed as Aemond retrieved his cloak, the fabric heavy in his hands, mirroring the bond’s weight. The open door beckoned, but Lucerys’s threat lingered, a shadow holding Aemond fast, his heart pounding with the tension of defiance bound by dread.

Aemond paused, cloak in hand, violet eye flickering back to Lucerys, sapphire socket glinting coldly in the dawn’s light. “This isn’t over,” he said, voice low and deadly, a vow etched in his gaze’s fire. “You may hold me now, you cursed blight, but I’ll see you broken before I yield.” He turned, striding toward the door, not to flee but to obey, each step a silent rebellion against the alpha who sought to claim him, the bite mark pulsing with every heartbeat, a chain he vowed to shatter, no matter the cost.

Chapter Text

The small council chamber of the Red Keep was a crucible forged from the embers of ancient grievances, its air thick with the cloying musk of polished oak, the acrid sting of burning tallow, and the faint, metallic tang of iron—a ghost of battles long etched into the stones. The chamber’s towering walls, hewn from gray granite and scarred by a century of intrigues, stood as silent sentinels, their crevices whispering tales of broken oaths and betrayals that lingered like specters in the shadows. A long table, its dark wood surface pockmarked with the gouges of countless debates, dominated the center of the room, its edges worn smooth by the hands of kings and counselors. Above, a wrought-iron chandelier hung heavy, its candles weeping slow, molten tears of wax that dripped onto the stone floor, pooling in pale, congealed islands. The flickering flames cast jagged shadows that danced across the walls, their restless movements evoking the eternal strife of Targaryen wars—dragons frozen in faded tapestries, their fire dulled by time yet still smoldering in the threadbare weave above the arched windows. The air was a living entity, thick with the weight of unspoken grudges, pressing against the skin like a velvet shroud, amplifying the storm that brewed within the chamber’s confines, a tempest poised to erupt.

At the head of the table stood Rhaenyra Targaryen, her presence a maelstrom barely contained, a dragon in human form radiating a fury that seemed to warp the very air around her. Her silver-gold hair, woven into a tight, severe braid, gleamed like spun moonlight, each strand catching the candlelight in sharp, crystalline glints that lent her an almost otherworldly aura. Her black gown, embroidered with crimson dragons whose scales shimmered with latent fire, clung to her lithe frame, its stark, unyielding lines accentuating the rigid set of her shoulders and the fierce determination etched into her face. Her violet eyes blazed with a dragon’s wrath, their depths a swirling vortex of betrayal, maternal anguish, and unbridled rage, capable of incinerating any who dared meet her gaze. Her hands gripped the table’s edge, fingers digging into the wood until her knuckles blanched white, the faint creak of the oak underscoring her barely restrained urge to lash out. Each breath she drew was a measured effort, her chest rising and falling with the cadence of a war drum, the air around her crackling with the raw, electric force of her indignation.

Beside her, Daemon Targaryen leaned against the table’s edge with a deceptive nonchalance, his posture languid yet predatory, like a dragon coiled in the moments before it strikes. His silver hair, loose and slightly disheveled, framed his angular face in a cascade of pale fire, the strands catching the candlelight in a shimmering dance. One hand rested lightly on the hilt of Dark Sister, the Valyrian steel glinting with a cold, unyielding menace that mirrored the cruel amusement curling his lips into a smirk that was both mocking and dangerous. His violet eyes, sharp and glinting with a delight that bordered on malice, surveyed the scene as if it were a private jest only he could fully savor. His black leather doublet, scuffed and worn from years of battle, clung to his lean frame, the faint creak of leather punctuating his subtle movements—a predator at rest, yet ever ready to pounce. He tilted his head, a slow, deliberate gesture, his gaze weighing the unfolding drama with the precision of a swordsman measuring an opponent’s weakness.

Across from them stood Lucerys Velaryon, a solitary figure in the eye of the storm, his green tunic rumpled and stained with the faint sheen of sweat, its fabric clinging to his broad shoulders and lean torso, betraying the sleepless nights and relentless weight of the bond that thrummed in his chest. His dark curls, usually tamed into careful order, spilled in a chaotic halo around his face, damp tendrils curling against his neck and temples, a testament to the turmoil that had kept him awake. His brown eyes, once warm with youthful earnestness, now flashed with a volatile mix of defiance, frustration, and an unyielding resolve, their depths reflecting the candlelight like polished obsidian, sharp and unyielding. The bond with Aemond pulsed within him, a jagged, relentless echo of the omega’s fury and betrayal, each wave crashing through his veins like a storm-tossed tide, amplifying his own agitation and rooting him to the spot with an unshakable determination. His cedar-and-brine scent surged, sharp and restless, a tempest of sea and forest warring with the heavy air, its grounding notes clashing with the chaos of his emotions, a defiant beacon in the stifling chamber.

“You bit him,” Rhaenyra hissed, her voice a low, venomous blade that sliced through the chamber’s oppressive silence, each word dripping with a fury that threatened to ignite the very air. Her hands tightened on the table, the wood groaning under her grip, as if it, too, bore the weight of her wrath. “Aemond Targaryen, that cursed green whore, and you dared to mark him as yours?” Her violet eyes bored into Lucerys, unblinking, their fire searing through the haze of tallow smoke, each glance a lash that sought to unravel him. “We stood on the precipice of annulling this wretched marriage, of freeing you from that viper’s coils, and you bound yourself to him with a bond that cannot be broken! How could you be so reckless, Lucerys? How could you chain yourself to a creature who’d sooner see us all burn than yield an inch of his pride?”

Lucerys’s jaw clenched, his teeth grinding audibly as he fought to hold his ground against the onslaught of his mother’s rage. His cedar-and-brine scent flared, sharp and defiant, as the bond flooded him with Aemond’s distant, seething fury—a mirror to his own turmoil that steeled his resolve like Valyrian steel. “I love him,” he declared, his voice steady but edged with a raw defiance that echoed in the chamber’s vaulted heights, each syllable a challenge flung into the teeth of the storm. He met Rhaenyra’s glare without flinching, his brown eyes blazing with unyielding conviction, their depths unbowed by her wrath. “Aemond is my omega, my husband, and I will not abandon him. You left me no choice, Mother. You and Father forced this marriage, pushed us together to mend your fractured realm, and now you scorn me for claiming what’s mine? I’ll bear his hatred, his fury—every ounce of it—to keep him by my side.”

Daemon’s laugh cut through the tension like a shard of glass, a sharp, guttural bark that reverberated off the stone walls, its echo a mocking counterpoint to the gravity of the moment. He tilted his head further, his silver hair shifting to catch the candlelight in a glinting cascade, his violet eyes alight with a malicious delight that seemed to revel in the chaos. “You marked him, did you? Well done, little one!” he drawled, his voice thick with sardonic glee, each word dripping with a cruel amusement that curled his lips into a predatory smirk. He clapped his hands in slow, deliberate applause, the sound sharp and jarring, like the crack of a whip in the stillness. “About time someone put a leash on that whore. Aemond’s been strutting about with his dragon and his pride, begging for a taming. Good on you for sinking your teeth in, pup.” He leaned closer, one finger tapping the hilt of Dark Sister with a rhythmic, mocking cadence, his eyes glinting with a challenge that dared Lucerys to rise to the bait.

Lucerys’s face darkened, his fists clenching at his sides until his nails bit into his palms, drawing faint beads of blood that stained his fingers crimson. The bond pulsed with Aemond’s anguish, a raw, jagged wound that fueled his own rising anger, his cedar scent sharpening to a piercing edge that cut through the chamber’s heavy air like a blade. “He’s not a whore,” he snapped, his voice a low, rumbling growl that carried the full weight of his alpha authority, its resonance filling the chamber with a primal force. “Aemond is my omega, my mate, and I won’t stand here and let you mock him—or us. You gave me no other path, none of you. You forced this union, bound us together for your own ends, and now you rage when I make it permanent? I won’t forsake Aemond, no matter how fiercely he despises me for it.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes narrowed to slits, her breath hissing through her teeth like steam escaping a boiling cauldron, each exhale a barely contained explosion of fury. She leaned forward, the table creaking under her grip, its scars seeming to deepen under the pressure of her rage, as if the wood itself recoiled from her. “That damned green bitch will never bear you children,” she spat, her voice quivering with a rage that bordered on anguish, each word a venom-tipped arrow aimed at Lucerys’s heart. “He’s a furious blade, Lucerys, a spiteful creature who’d rather burn this realm to cinders than yield an inch of his cursed pride. You’ve shackled yourself to a curse that will yield nothing but ash and ruin!” Her hands trembled, the crimson dragons on her gown seeming to writhe in the candlelight, their scales glinting as if alive with her wrath.

Lucerys’s shoulders squared, his brown eyes blazing with a resolve that burned brighter than the chandelier’s flickering flames, the bond thrumming with Aemond’s distant, fiery defiance, strengthening his own like a tide lifting a ship. “I don’t expect children from him,” he said, his voice calm but unyielding, cutting through the chamber’s heat like a blade forged in ice, its edge honed by conviction. “Not unless he chooses it. This isn’t about heirs or legacies—it’s about him. Aemond is mine, and I’ll fight for him, even if it means facing his wrath or yours.” His words hung in the air, heavy with an unshakable certainty, his cedar-and-brine scent grounding them with a steadfastness that refused to bend, a beacon in the storm.

Daemon snorted, pushing off the table with a lazy, fluid grace, his smirk never faltering, though his violet eyes darkened with a flicker of grudging respect, a shadow of acknowledgment beneath his mockery. “Oh, listen to the pup growl,” he mocked, his tone laced with sardonic glee, his hand slicing through the air in a dismissive gesture that belied the weight of his words. “You’ve got fire in you, I’ll give you that. But chaining yourself to that one-eyed serpent? Bold move, boy. Let’s see how long you last before he claws your heart out and feeds it to Vhagar.” He paced a slow step, the faint clink of his sword’s hilt against his belt punctuating his words, a rhythmic taunt that echoed in the silence, his eyes glinting with a cruel amusement that promised no reprieve.

Lucerys’s scent flared, brine surging like a storm-tossed sea, his patience fraying as Aemond’s pain echoed through the bond, a raw, jagged wound that sharpened his resolve to a razor’s edge. “Enough, Kepa,” he said, his voice rising, a command that resonated with the full weight of his alpha authority, its echo reverberating through the chamber like a dragon’s roar, shaking the very air. “Please. You can mock me, scorn me, but I won’t forsake him. Aemond is my mate, and I’ll stand by him—through his rage, through your disdain, through every storm this cursed bond brings.” His eyes flicked between his mother and stepfather, unyielding, the cedar in his scent anchoring his words with an unshakable conviction that pulsed in time with his heartbeat, a vow carved into the very stone of the Red Keep.

Rhaenyra’s face twisted, her fury a living flame that seemed to consume the air around her, its heat palpable as she stepped closer, her shadow falling across Lucerys like a dark tide. Her black gown rustled with the sound of a dragon’s wings stirring the air, the crimson dragons embroidered upon it glinting as if poised to take flight. “You’ve doomed yourself,” she whispered, her voice low and trembling with a mother’s anguish, each word heavy with the weight of her fear and love, a plea masked as a curse. “That creature will drag you into his darkness, Lucerys, and you’ll drown in it. You’ve betrayed us all for a monster who’d sooner see us burn than bend.” Her violet eyes shimmered with unshed tears, the candlelight catching them in a fleeting, crystalline glint, her hands trembling at her sides as if torn between striking out in rage and reaching out in desperation.

Lucerys held her gaze, his chest heaving, the bond pulsing with Aemond’s distant, unyielding fury—a mirror to his own defiance that rooted him to the spot like an ancient weirwood. “Then let me drown,” he said, his voice a quiet vow, each word etched with a resolve that seemed to carve itself into the very stone of the chamber, unyielding and eternal. “I chose him, Mother. And I’ll face whatever comes to keep him—his hatred, your wrath, the realm’s scorn. Aemond is mine, and I’ll not let him go.”

The chamber fell into a heavy silence, the air thick with the weight of their clashing wills, the candlelight flickering as if recoiling from the storm that brewed within. Rhaenyra’s hands trembled, her violet eyes blazing with a volatile mix of fury and sorrow, her braid glinting like a crown of fire in the dim light, a queen undone by her son’s defiance. Daemon’s smirk lingered, a cruel amusement that seemed to mock the gravity of the moment, his fingers still tapping lightly on Dark Sister’s hilt, a rhythmic taunt that promised no quarter. Lucerys stood firm, his cedar-and-brine scent a defiant beacon, his brown eyes unyielding as he bore the cost of his bond, ready to face the inferno of Aemond’s hatred and his family’s disdain with a resolve that burned brighter than dragonfire.

Without another word, Lucerys turned on his heel, his boots striking the stone floor with a sharp, resolute echo that cut through the chamber’s oppressive silence like a blade. The heavy oaken door loomed before him, its iron hinges gleaming dully in the torchlight that spilled from the corridor beyond, a portal to a world beyond this crucible of rage. He pushed it open, the groan of the hinges a low, mournful dirge that seemed to carry the weight of the confrontation he left behind, its sound reverberating in his bones. As he stepped into the shadowed hallway, the air shifted, cooler and tinged with the faint salt of the nearby Blackwater, a stark contrast to the stifling heat of the council chamber. His cedar-and-brine scent lingered in his wake, a defiant trail that seemed to challenge the very walls of the Red Keep, a testament to his unyielding resolve.

Outside, in the torchlit corridor, three figures awaited him, their silhouettes sharp and steadfast against the flickering light. His personal guard, a small but fiercely loyal cadre of Velaryon men, stood at attention, their sea-blue cloaks emblazoned with the silver seahorse of Driftmark, the fabric catching the torchlight in soft ripples like waves on a moonlit sea. Ser Maric, the tallest, bore a weathered face marked by a scar that ran from brow to jaw, a jagged line that spoke of battles fought and survived, his hand resting lightly on the pommel of his sword with a quiet readiness. Beside him, Ser Corwyn, younger and leaner, stood with a coiled intensity, his sharp eyes scanning the corridor for any threat, his posture that of a man ever-prepared for the storm. The third, Ser Elyas, broad-shouldered and grizzled, held a torch that cast a warm, golden glow across their weathered armor, its light glinting off the steel like stars on a calm sea. Their presence was a quiet anchor, their loyalty to Lucerys unspoken but resolute, forged in the salt and storms of Driftmark, a bond as enduring as the tides.

Lucerys’s brown eyes met theirs, his jaw still tight from the confrontation, the bond with Aemond pulsing with a distant, smoldering fury that fueled his urgency like a fire in his veins. “Prepare the men,” he commanded, his voice low but carrying the weight of his alpha authority, each word clipped and precise, cutting through the corridor’s stillness like a ship’s prow through waves. “Hasten the preparations. Go to the docks and ensure the Pearl is ready to sail. We return to Driftmark the moment she’s prepared.” He paused, his gaze flicking toward the shadowed corridor that led to the royal apartments, his cedar scent sharpening with a resolve that seemed to anchor the very air around him. “Send word to Prince Daeron. Tell him he’s coming with us—as my second mate.” His voice held a quiet intensity, the words heavy with the weight of his decision, a vow as unyielding as the one he had made to Aemond.

The guards exchanged brief, knowing glances, their expressions unreadable but their movements swift and disciplined as they nodded in unison. Ser Maric inclined his head, his scar catching the torchlight in a stark, silver line. “At once, my lord,” he said, his voice a low rumble, steady as the cliffs of Driftmark. He turned to Ser Corwyn and Ser Elyas, his gesture sharp and commanding, sending them striding toward the docks, their cloaks billowing like waves in their wake, the clink of their armor a faint echo in the stone corridor. Lucerys’s gaze lingered on their retreating forms, his chest tight with the weight of the bond and the path he had chosen, Aemond’s distant rage a constant drumbeat in his veins, a reminder of the storm he had vowed to weather.

“And one more thing,” Lucerys added, his voice steady but laced with a quiet urgency, his brown eyes flicking back to Ser Maric. “Send word to the High Septon. I wish to meet with him before nightfall. I’ll go to the Great Sept myself.” His words were a command, but beneath them lay a thread of purpose, a determination to seek counsel or blessing—or perhaps to challenge the gods themselves for the path he had chosen. Ser Maric nodded once more, his weathered face betraying no surprise, only the steadfast loyalty of a man who had sworn his sword to House Velaryon.

With a final gesture, Lucerys dismissed his guard, watching as Ser Maric turned to carry out his orders, his heavy steps fading into the corridor’s shadows. Lucerys turned, his boots echoing on the stone as he moved toward the royal apartments, the torchlight casting long, wavering shadows that trailed him like specters of his choices. The corridor stretched before him, its walls lined with faded tapestries depicting dragonriders soaring above Blackwater Bay, their colors muted by time but their fire undimmed, a silent testament to the legacy he both bore and defied. Each step was a declaration, a refusal to bend beneath the weight of his mother’s wrath, Daemon’s mockery, or the realm’s judgment. The bond thrummed, Aemond’s fury a wildfire that burned alongside his own resolve, and now, with Daeron to be brought into their fold and a meeting with the High Septon looming, Lucerys felt the weight of his choices settle like a mantle across his shoulders. He would face the storms ahead—on Driftmark, with Aemond, with Daeron, and before the gods themselves—his heart steeled by the unyielding vow he had made in the crucible of the council chamber.

Chapter Text

The Great Sept of Baelor loomed against the twilight, its seven crystal towers piercing the sky, their faceted surfaces fracturing the fading light into prisms of crimson, gold, and violet that spilled across the marble steps. The air was thick with sanctity, heavy with the cloying sweetness of beeswax and the sharp, resinous tang of myrrh, a suffocating veil that pressed against the lungs, woven with the silent prayers of the devout and the desperate. Within the sept’s vast chamber, a low hum reverberated—the murmur of chanted litanies, the rustle of robes brushing stone, and the distant, crystalline chime of a silver bell tolling the hour. Countless candles burned in vigil, their flames trembling in cool drafts, casting a warm, wavering glow across the polished marble floor. Shadows danced like specters of forgotten sins, weaving through intricate mosaics of the Seven, their stern visages gazing down with unyielding judgment.

Lucerys Velaryon paused at the threshold, his silhouette framed by the towering archway, the damp hem of his green cloak trailing like a storm-tossed wave. The fabric clung to his broad shoulders, its silver seahorse clasp catching the candlelight in a fleeting glint. His dark curls, usually tamed, hung in disheveled coils, damp with sea-salt and sweat, framing a face taut with purpose. His brown eyes, sharp as obsidian, swept the sept’s interior, cutting through the sacred haze with resolute clarity. The bond with Aemond pulsed in his chest, a relentless drumbeat of distant fury that clawed at his heart, each surge of the omega’s rage a jagged wound threatening to unravel his focus. Yet he forced it down, burying Aemond’s venom beneath the weight of his mission. His cedar-and-brine scent surged, a bold intrusion against the sanctimonious air, its notes of weathered wood and restless sea anchoring him as he stepped forward, his boots striking the marble with a steady cadence that echoed like a challenge in the hallowed silence.

Before the altar of the Mother, Prince Daeron knelt, a fragile figure dwarfed by a sea of flickering candles. His silver hair, unbound and shimmering like molten moonlight, spilled over his shoulders in silken strands, catching the light in a cascade that pulsed with quiet grief. His hands were clasped so tightly his knuckles gleamed white, tendons stark against pale skin, his head bowed so low his forehead grazed the cold stone, as if seeking absolution in its unyielding chill. His omega scent—lavender laced with a bitter thread of sorrow—drifted faintly, nearly drowned by the overpowering musk of wax and incense, a whisper of despair in the sacred stillness. His pale robes, simple and unadorned, pooled around him like spilled milk, their edges frayed from hours of unrelenting prayer, worn thin where his knees pressed against the marble. His slight frame trembled, not from cold but from exhaustion, each shallow breath a testament to the weight of his silent pleas.

Lucerys’s gaze lingered on him, a flicker of softness breaking through the hard lines of his face before his jaw tightened, resolve snapping back like a drawn bowstring. The bond with Aemond thrummed, a distant fire stoking his urgency, but his concern for Daeron burned just as fiercely, a quieter flame that refused to be extinguished. He turned to a septa nearby, her gray robes blending into the shadowed alcove, her face etched with the stern piety of her order. Her sharp eyes flicked toward Daeron before settling on Lucerys, her lips pursing in disapproval tempered by deference.

“How long has he been here?” Lucerys asked, his voice low, carrying the weight of alpha authority but softened by genuine concern, mindful of the sept’s sanctity.

The septa’s gaze darted to Daeron, her hands folding neatly, fingers twitching as if resisting the urge to clutch her prayer beads. “Since last night, my lord,” she replied, her tone clipped but respectful, barely rising above the candles’ soft hiss. “He has not stirred, nor taken food or water. He kneels and prays without cease, as if the Seven might descend to answer him.”

Lucerys’s jaw clenched, his brown eyes darkening as Aemond’s distant rage echoed through the bond, a sharp counterpoint to the worry coiling in his gut. The image of Daeron, fragile and unyielding, stirred a pang he couldn’t name—pity, perhaps, or guilt, or something deeper, forged in their shared blood and burdens. He strode toward the omega, his steps deliberate, the faint clink of his sword’s hilt against his belt a grounding rhythm in the oppressive stillness. Kneeling beside Daeron, he kept his voice low, urgent but gentle, shaped to pierce the omega’s despair without shattering the sept’s fragile peace. “Daeron, you’ll ruin your knees on this stone. Haven’t you exhausted yourself enough? If you’re to bear a child, you must think of them now. Stand, please, before you harm yourself further.”

Daeron’s head shook, a slow, stubborn motion, his silver hair swaying like a curtain caught in a faint breeze. His voice was a raw whisper, trembling, barely rising above the candles’ hiss, yet heavy with despair. “I don’t want this, Lucerys. It would take a miracle to endure it—a miracle to make me whole again.”

Lucerys’s eyes narrowed, his cedar scent sharpening, a steady anchor against Daeron’s sorrow. The bond’s pulse of Aemond’s fury lent steel to his words, but he kept his tone firm yet kind, a lifeline extended across the omega’s fear. “Miracles are a myth, Daeron,” he said, his voice low and resolute, each word measured to cut through despair without wounding further. “And if they existed, they wouldn’t find us. You need to stand. I’m here to secure the High Septon’s blessing for our marriage, to forge a path forward—for you, for me, for Driftmark.”

Daeron’s head snapped up, his violet eyes wide with horror, the candlelight catching the sheen of unshed tears clinging to his lashes. He surged to his feet, robes tangling around his legs, his voice a fractured gasp laced with raw fear. “You can’t do this! We spoke of this—you swore you wouldn’t force me, Lucerys! You marked Aemond—your teeth are in him, not me! You don’t need me, not for this, not for anything!” His hands clutched his robes, fingers twisting the frayed fabric, his lavender scent souring with panic, a sharp, bitter note clashing with the sept’s sacred air.

Lucerys rose fluidly, his posture unyielding, brown eyes locking onto Daeron’s with a resolve that burned brighter than the candles. His cedar-and-brine scent surged, a tidal wave of authority pressing against the omega’s fragile defiance, its grounding notes a stark contrast to Daeron’s fear. “But you need me,” he said, his voice low and deliberate, each word a stone in an unshakable foundation. “Forget marrying another—there’s no such path now, Daeron. Driftmark needs an heir, a true heir, not a whispered bastard whose name will never be spoken in court. I’m trying to spare your child that shame, to give them a place, even if it’s never proclaimed as heir in truth. Their existence will be enough—for now. Help me, don’t fight me.”

Daeron’s breath hitched, his hands trembling as they clutched his robes tighter, the fabric straining under his grip. His lavender scent soured further, a bitter tang cutting through the beeswax and myrrh, a silent scream of defiance and dread. “I don’t want this,” he pleaded, his voice cracking, a raw edge echoing in the sept’s vaulted heights. “Let them kill me, then. Let them drag me before the court and charge me with defiling royal blood—my own maidenhead, the honor of a prince! It’s my fault, isn’t it? I’m the one who’s ruined, I damaged royal property, not you, not Aemond. If this is the cost, let it fall on me, not this cursed union you’re forging!”

Lucerys’s chest tightened, Aemond’s distant fury pulsing through the bond, mirroring the storm in Daeron’s eyes, but his focus remained on the omega—fragile, defiant, a prince teetering on despair. His cedar scent steadied, a grounding force against the chaos, and he stepped closer, his presence looming but not threatening, his brown eyes softening with empathy beneath their unyielding resolve. “No one’s killing you, Daeron,” he said, his voice low and firm, a vow carved in the air. “And you’re not ruined. Your honor, your blood—it’s not a crime, it’s a burden we’ve all carried, shaped by this wretched game of thrones. I won’t let you bear it alone. This marriage, this bond—it’s not to chain you, but to shield you, to give your child a name that won’t be whispered in shame. You’re a prince, yes, but you’re also mine to protect, whether you hate me for it or not.”

Daeron’s violet eyes shimmered, tears spilling down his pale cheeks, catching the candlelight in a crystalline dance. His hands dropped from his robes, fingers flexing as if searching for an anchor against Lucerys’s words. His lavender scent wavered, the bitter note of sorrow softening into faint resignation, though defiance lingered in the set of his jaw. “You don’t understand,” he whispered, his voice a fractured thread, barely audible over the candles’ hiss. “I can’t be what you need. I can’t be Aemond, with his fire and fury. I’m not strong enough for this, Lucerys. I’ll break under it—me, my child, everything.”

Lucerys’s gaze softened further, but his posture remained unyielding, his cedar-and-brine scent a steady beacon in Daeron’s storm. He reached out, his hand hovering near Daeron’s shoulder, not touching but close enough to offer warmth, a silent promise of protection. “You won’t break,” he said, his voice quiet but resolute, each word weighted with conviction. “You’re a Targaryen, Daeron, blood of the dragon, even if you don’t feel it now. You’re stronger than you know, and I’ll be there to hold you up, to carry what you can’t. This child, this marriage—it’s not a cage, it’s a shield. Let me wield it for you.”

The candles flickered, their flames trembling as a draft swept through the sept, casting shadows in a frenzied dance across the marble. Daeron stood frozen, his violet eyes locked on Lucerys’s, searching for a crack in the alpha’s resolve. But before either could speak, a new presence intruded, the soft shuffle of sandals on marble heralding the High Septon’s approach. His pristine white robes, embroidered with golden threads of the Seven, rustled faintly, the heavy chain of his office clinking with each step. His weathered face bore the weight of authority, though his sharp eyes flickered between Lucerys and Daeron, lingering briefly on the omega’s tear-streaked face and the subtle curve of his waist, hidden beneath his robes.

“I thought I might find you both here,” the High Septon said, his voice a resonant hum, carrying judgment tempered by curiosity. His gaze settled on Lucerys, one eyebrow arching as he clasped his hands, the rings on his fingers glinting in the candlelight. “Lord Velaryon, I can guess what brings you to the sept at this hour. Speak, then—what do you seek?” His eyes drifted to Daeron, a faint murmur escaping his lips, almost too soft to hear. “Though I wager I already know.”

Lucerys inclined his head, a gesture of respect that did little to soften the steel in his posture. His cedar-and-brine scent remained steady, a counterpoint to the High Septon’s faint aura of frankincense and authority. “Your Eminence,” he began, his voice calm but firm, each word chosen with precision. “I’m not here to ask you to perform a marriage in this sept. We intend to hold a Valyrian ceremony, true to our blood. My only request is that the Faith recognize our union, that it be sanctified in the eyes of the Seven.”

The High Septon’s lips pressed into a thin line, his eyes narrowing as he let out a grumbling sigh, heavy with exasperation. “Valyrian rites, is it?” he muttered, his voice thick with disapproval, though measured, mindful of the princes before him. “The privileges granted to House Targaryen grow ever more excessive. First, your kin wed brother to sister, defying the natural order. Now, you seek to bind your blood in fire and shadow, yet demand the Faith’s blessing to cloak it in sanctity. The Seven are patient, Lord Velaryon, but their patience is not without limit. You ask much, and offer little but the weight of your name.”

Lucerys’s jaw tightened, but he held the High Septon’s gaze, his brown eyes unyielding, the bond with Aemond a distant pulse fueling his resolve. “I ask for Daeron,” he said, his voice steady, a quiet challenge woven into the words. “For the future of our house. The Faith has always upheld the sanctity of life, has it not? Grant us this, and you honor that tenet.”

The High Septon’s brows furrowed, his gaze flicking to Daeron, then back to Lucerys, a shadow of disapproval crossing his weathered face. “And have you taken him to your bed, Lord Velaryon?” he asked, his voice sharp and probing, cutting through the sacred air. His eyes darted to Daeron, lingering on the omega’s trembling form, the unspoken accusation hanging heavy.

Daeron swallowed hard, a flinch rippling through him, his violet eyes widening with panic as his hands twitched, fingers curling into his robes. His lavender scent spiked, sharp with fear, clashing with the sept’s heavy air.

Lucerys, unfazed, tilted his head, a brazen smile curling his lips. He nodded, his brown eyes glinting with defiance. “I have,” he said, his voice steady, each word delivered with deliberate calm. “More than once.”

The High Septon’s lips pursed, his disapproval deepening into a scowl, but he pressed further, his voice dropping to a pointed tone. “And do you love him, Lord Velaryon? This prince, this son of the Faith—do you hold him in your heart?”

Lucerys’s smile faded, his expression shifting to measured sincerity, though his eyes remained sharp. “As much as one loves a kinsman,” he replied, his voice low but firm, honest yet evasive, sidestepping the High Septon’s probe. “He is my blood, my responsibility. That is enough.”

The High Septon muttered, “Seven preserve us,” under his breath, shaking his head as the golden threads of his robes shimmered in the candlelight. His gaze softened slightly as it returned to Daeron, taking in the omega’s tear-streaked face and trembling frame. He sighed, a heavy, reluctant sound. “For Daeron, then,” he said at last, his voice grudging but resolute. “A son of the Faith, born under the Seven’s light, despite the fire in his blood. For his sake, and his alone, I will grant this recognition. But know this, Lord Velaryon—the Faith watches, and the gods judge. Tread carefully.”

Daeron’s breath caught, his violet eyes darting between Lucerys and the High Septon, a flicker of resignation settling into their depths. His lavender scent wavered, the bitter note of sorrow softening, as if the High Septon’s words had anchored him, however reluctantly, to Lucerys’s path. The candles flickered on, their flames a silent witness to the fragile accord struck in the shadow of the Mother’s altar, the air thick with cedar, lavender, and frankincense—a tenuous truce between duty, defiance, and divinity.

Lucerys’s hand shot out, his fingers closing firmly around Daeron’s arm, unyielding but not cruel. “Enough,” he said, his voice low, a quiet command. Without waiting for a response, he pulled Daeron forward, half-dragging the omega through the sept’s vast chamber, his boots echoing sharply against the marble as Daeron stumbled to keep pace, his robes tangling. The sept’s sacred air clung to them, the weight of candlelight and incense trailing in their wake as they passed beneath the stern gazes of the Seven, their shadows flickering across the mosaics. Daeron’s lavender scent spiked with fresh panic, but Lucerys’s cedar-and-brine aura overwhelmed it, a relentless force pressing forward, unyielding as the tide.

Outside, the evening mist had thickened, cloaking the city in a silver haze. A horse-drawn carriage waited at the base of the sept’s steps, its black lacquered wood gleaming under torchlight, the Velaryon seahorse emblazoned on its side. Lucerys guided Daeron down the steps, his grip firm but careful, and opened the carriage door, ushering the omega inside with a gentle but insistent push. Daeron sank onto the cushioned seat, his pale robes pooling around him, his violet eyes wide and searching as he stared at Lucerys, his breath uneven.

The carriage door clicked shut, and Lucerys settled across from him, the dim light filtering through the small window casting sharp shadows across his face. He raised a hand, his expression firm but not unkind, silencing Daeron before he could speak. “Listen to me first,” he said, his voice low and steady, carrying the weight of a man who had charted the course ahead. Daeron fell silent, his lips parting slightly, his violet eyes fixed on Lucerys’s face, fear and resignation flickering in their depths.

“There will be no marriage,” Lucerys continued, his tone deliberate, each word a carefully placed stone. “False witnesses, a false ceremony—we won’t be wed, but the world will believe we are. Your child will bear your name, Daeron, not mine. You’ll come with us to Driftmark. You’ll live in the castle there, while Aemond and I reside at High Tide. You won’t see us unless it’s necessary. You’ll raise your child as you see fit, under your own terms. I’ll even allow the father to visit, should he choose to. Now, if you have something to say, say it.”

Daeron’s breath hitched, his hands clutching his robes, fingers trembling as they twisted the frayed fabric. His lavender scent wavered, the sharp edge of panic softening into something quieter, more uncertain, as if Lucerys’s words had carved a fragile space for hope amidst his fear. His violet eyes searched Lucerys’s face, looking for deception, but found only the alpha’s steady resolve, his cedar-and-brine scent a grounding force in the cramped carriage. The silence stretched, heavy with unspoken thoughts. “I thought so too,” he muttered, as the carriage began to move, its wheels rumbling softly against the cobblestones, carrying them into the mist-shrouded night.