Year: 129 AC

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"It isn't polite to stare."

Daenys raised an eyebrow and responded in High Valyrian, "I am simply admiring."

Aemond scoffed, "There is nothing to admire."

"On the contrary. I find that there is...quite a lot to admire actually."

It was the hour of the owl, and in the dead silence of the night, they lay there an arm's distance apart, observing each other. The only sound was that of Daenys's thundering pulse as she traced the contours of Aemond's face as though committing every exquisite detail to memory. She marvelled at the subtle intricacies of his beauty—the sharpness of his jawline, the graceful arch of his brows, and the way his lips curved into a questioning smile at her concentration. His hair was a spill of starlight across his pillow and without a second thought, she stretched her arm out to cover the distance between them, letting the fine strands slip past her fingers. 

The tips of her ears turned pink as she hesitantly allowed her gaze to stray from her husband's face, lower across the angular lines of his collarbones, and then lower still to the smooth pale expanse of his chest, only half obscured by the duvet that they shared. 

Her eyes turned apologetic when they wandered over the crescent-shaped marks adorning his bicep, and her cheeks flared crimson.

"Sorry about that."

Daenys leaned forward then, her breath a gentle whisper against the warmth of his skin, and pressed a soft, reverent kiss upon the marks she had left. 

Aemond gave her a wolfish grin, "You did not sound particularly apologetic when you made them. And besides, if this is something we apologize for, then it seems as though I have a great deal more apologies to make."

The silence was comfortable, at least until Daenys's eyes wandered to his eyepatch. The one-eyed prince, sensing her scrutiny, tensed imperceptibly, a flicker of vulnerability passing over his face. His hand instinctively reached up to touch the patch, a habitual gesture born of years spent concealing both his injury and the emotions it stirred within him. Yet, before a word could escape his lips, Daenys, her voice soft and sincere, interjected with a reassuring warmth that enveloped him completely.

"You needn't share anything you're not ready to. But if you've seen all of me, I wish to see all of you too. Only if you're willing." 

Aemond's breath caught at her earnest request. 

Mistaking his stillness for refusal, Daenys shifted her gaze, staring at some distant spot beyond his head, although she couldn't really make out anything in the darkness of the room. 

"You know, I saw the strangest thing, a few days ago-"

"You don't have to do that."

"What?"

"Don't pretend that your words are insignificant, Daenys, that what you said didn't matter. It did matter. You do matter."

"Oh."

With a soft exhale, Aemond shifted, a silent acknowledgment of her request. His fingers hovered over the edges of the eyepatch, a fleeting moment where he had the irrational urge to tell her to leave him be, to tell her to get as far away from him as she could so that he wouldn't have to face her inevitable judgement. Yet, meeting her gaze, he found a depth of understanding that emboldened him. 

If revulsion had a face this beautiful, he could bear it. He would bear it. 

Gently, with a grace born of years of concealment, he peeled back the fabric, revealing the scarred landscape where his eye once resided.

Daenys's breath hitched at the sight, not from disdain but from a poignant understanding of the vulnerability he entrusted to her. Her hand moved instinctively, pausing just before she made contact, fingers hovering just above the scar that stretched from his eyebrow to his cheek. The skin had healed unevenly over the years, giving it a pinched look. The brilliant blue of the nestled gem glinted in his empty socket, despite the darkness of the room, and as she observed the contrast, dark amethyst beside midnight sapphire, Daenys found her own eyes welling with tears. 

"A little disheartening for one's wife to cry once she sees your face," Aemond mumbled, his tone exaggeratedly light. 

"No! No, that's not...it's beautiful. You're beautiful, Aemond."

Her hurried words did little to alleviate his trepidation.

"Then why the tears, ñuha prūmia?"

His heart. He had called her his heart. 

He leaned forward, just a mere breath, allowing her fingers to press against the puckered skin just below. Her touch was featherlight, tracing the edges of the delicate skin of the scar with a reverence that rivalled that of the Faith. She was both the Mother and the Maiden, and Aemond imagined he'd spend the rest of his days at her altar if it meant she always looked at him in that adoring way, free of judgment or contempt.

"I'm sorry," she whispered again.

"I thought we agreed that there were to be no apologies between us."

"I know, I just..."

She did not know how to convey it. No amount of apologies would make it better. No amount of guilt in the world would fix it, and she was a pathetic fool for even trying to apologize. 

"It is not your apology to make. You did nothing wrong."

"But it must have-"

She sealed her lips before the rest of the words spilled out. Of course, it must have hurt. It must have been agony. 

"Say it Daenys. Say whatever it is that is on your mind."

"I'm sorry."

"What did I say about-"

"I would have given you mine!" she blurted in a rush. "I would have given you mine in a heartbeat, I would have done anything to make it right. I am...so irrevocably sorry."

It was important to her that he knew that.

Aemond resisted to roll his eyes, resisted the urge to call her a liar. It would spoil the mood, but as he looked into her teary eyes, and watched her chew her lips into a nervous bloody pulp, he couldn't bring himself to hate her. 

She would not do whatever it took to make it right. It was always him against her family and he found himself wondering who she'd choose if it really came down to it. He hoped he wouldn't have to find out. 

Ignorance was bliss after all. 

"An eye for an eye makes the world go blind, ābrazȳrys, and I would not wish to blind my beautiful lady wife."

Then he wrapped his arms around her waist and dragged her closer, kissing the blood from her lips with a fervour that made her forget her next words. 

Daenys, his Daenys, sighed, and he swallowed the sound, just as he swallowed the rest of her.

Later, when he tucked his head into her neck, the steady thrum of her heart a lullaby to which he found himself almost drifting off, he allowed himself to soften, to accept the comfort she offered so freely to one such as him. He allowed his eyepatch to remain discarded, the scarred half of his face tucked into her, obscured from view. A wave of gratitude washed over him for having found a soul who saw beyond the façade, and now she belonged to him, and he to her. 

"You seem anxious, wife."

She fiddled with his calloused fingertips with nervous energy and he interlaced their fingers to still her. 

Daenys shrugged. 

"Thinking about home, that's all."

"You have visited us before, without your family."

"Yes, I have, but I suppose back then, it was with the expectation that I'd return home... to Dragonstone."

"And now?"

"And now..." Daenys blinked down at him. "Now you're my home, valzȳrys."

Aemond took her hand and pressed it into his skin, just above his heart. 

"Good, because you reside right here."

⋇⋆✦⋆⋇

Unbeknownst to them, those very hours were King Viserys's very last, and under that same roof, he passed away surrounded only by darkness and treachery, whispering muddled last words that would alter the fate of the kingdom forever. 

In a flurry of activity, once they had confirmed that Viserys was indeed dead, The Queen and the Hand ordered his room sealed and placed under guard, while Ser Criston Cole returned to White Sword Tower and sent his brothers of the Kingsguard to summon the members of the king's small council who convened reluctantly in the queen's apartments within Maegor's Holdfast.

"What is it that could not have waited an hour?" Lord Tyland Lannister inquired with humour. "Was Dorne invaded?"

"The king is dead," Otto Hightower announced somberly, resulting in a deafening silence that enveloped the room.

Lord Tyland's smile slipped from his face. 

"We grieve for Viserys the Peaceful. Our sovereign. Our friend. But he has left us a gift. With his last breath, he impressed upon the Queen his final wish that his son, Aegon... should succeed him as Lord of the Seven Kingdoms," the Hand continued. 

The queen remained silent, her eyes rimmed with red, as her gaze wandered the room cautiously.  "Then we may proceed now with the full assurance of his blessing on our long-laid plans?" Lord Jason inquired. 

"Yes. There is much to be done, as we've previously discussed... Now, there are two among the captains of the City Watch that remain loyal to Daemon. Let us replace them."

The Hand nodded at Lord Lannister who began to speak next, laying out their plans. 

"The Treasury is well in hand. The gold will be divided for safekeeping."

"Let ravens be sent to our allies, Riverrun and Highgarden."

Their conversation startled the queen, her eyes growing wide with realization as she watched her father carefully as he spoke with all the confidence of a man who had gotten exactly what he wanted. 

"Am I to understand that members of the Small Council have been planning secretly to install my son without me?"

"My queen, there was no need to sully you with darkling schemes."

Lord Jasper Wylde was quick to reassure her with empty flattery and Alicent felt her composure fraying. When Lord Beesbury spoke next, it ignited an argument.

"I will not have this. To hear that you are plotting to replace the King's chosen heir with an imposter!"

"His firstborn son is hardly an imposter, Lord Beesbury," Lord Tyland insisted. 

"Hundreds of lords and landed knights swore fealty to the Princess. 

"That was some 20 years ago. Most of them now dead."

"You heard the Lord Hand. Plot or no, the King changed his mind," Lord Jasper snapped. 

"I am six-and-seventy years old," Lord Beesbury stood slowly. "I have known Viserys longer than any who sit at this table. And I will not believe that he said this on his deathbed, alone, with only the boy's mother as a witness. This is seizure!"

The queen winced, closing her eyes to take a deep breath. 

"It is theft! It is treason! At the least, it is..." 

Grand Maester Orwyle shot the older man a warning glance, "Mind your tongue, Lyman."

However, the Lord of Honeyholt, Master of Coin, would not be silenced and he simply continued his tirade, not noticing Ser Criston move into position behind him. 

"The King was well last night... by all accounts. Which of you here can swear that he died of his own accord?"

The council took a collective sharp inhale. 

"Which of us are you accusing of regicide, Lord Beesbury?" Lord Jasper uttered through gritted teeth. 

"Whether it was one of you, or all of you, I care not. I will have no part-"

The elderly lord still didn't see the brunette knight move behind him, not until it was too late anyway. 

Ser Criston slammed Lord Beesbury into his chair with a loud exclamation, his head crashing into the table with a wet sound as blood began to pool where he lay. 

Alicent's hand flew to her mouth, horrified. 

"Ser Criston!"

Lord Jason continued their conversation then, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. 

"Storm's End is of concern. We may not assume the loyalty of Lord Borros. But he has four daughters, all of them unmarried. The right proposal, say of your second son..."

Alicent didn't know whether to laugh or cry. She massaged her temples, feeling a headache building as she fought to keep her voice steady. 

"My second son is married, Lord Lannister. In fact, you attended his wedding only yesterday."

The Lannister lord only shrugged, "Marriages can be annulled if need be. And the second prince would be free to remarry if say... something should happen to his new wife."

"You mean to kill her?"

"She will of course be given the opportunity to publicly swear obeisance to the new King," Otto said calmly. 

"And if she wishes to honour her marriage and her husband, she would be grateful for the opportunity, no doubt," Lord Jason added. 

"And what of Rhaenyra?" Alicent asked. 

"She will also be-"

The queen was at the end of her tether, interrupting her father before he could continue, "She will never bend the knee, nor will her daughter, and nor will Daemon. You all know this as well as I do."

"Yes, we all know Daemon's nature. Make no mistake, should Rhaenyra ever sit the IronThrone, it will be Lord Flea Bottom who rules us, a king consort as cruel and unforgiving as Maegor ever was. My own head will be the first cut off, I do not doubt, but your queen, my daughter, will soon follow."

"Nor will they spare your children, Your Grace," Lord Tyland nodded. "Aegon and his brothers are the king's trueborn sons, with a better claim to the throne than her brood of bastards. Daemon will find some pretext to put them all to death. Even Princess Helaena and her little ones. One of these Strongs put out the young prince's eye, never forget. He was a boy, aye, but the boy is the father to the man, and bastards are monstrous by nature."

Alicent looked around the room, aghast, the wheels in her mind turning as their true intentions surfaced. 

"You mean to kill them then? And all here accede to this?"

"The former heir cannot, of course, be allowed to remain free and draw support to her claim," the Hand explained carefully. "A living challenger invites battle and bloodshed. It is unsavoury, yes. But a sacrifice we must make to secure Aegon's succession. The King wouldn't wish for any unsavoury..."

"But the King did not wish for the murder of his daughter and grandchildren! He loved her. I will not have you deny this!"

Lord Jasper rolled his eyes at the queen's words, making her slam her hands on the table. 

"One more word and I will have you removed from this chamber and sent to the Wall!" 

Her sharp words echoed in the chamber as silence descended upon them once again. 

"Perhaps Rhaenyra can be persuaded to bend the knee to Aegon. Perhaps she can be leveraged. We have her daughter in custody," Otto spoke quietly. 

"My son's wife is not a hostage."

"With all due respect, Your Grace, the prince's wife is a dragon rider. If she chooses to abandon her duties to her husband and join her mother's cause, it will prove to be disastrous."

Lord Jasper nodded in approval, "Lord Lannister is correct. Even if we do not put her to the sword, she cannot be allowed to go free."

The queen sighed, feeling the first pangs of guilt rise within her. Not even an entire day had passed since Rhaenyra had placed her trust in her, and already here she was, plotting the murder of her and her children. 

"Let us hope it does not come to that," she declared. "We will send terms to Rhaenyra on Dragonstone. True terms, such that she may accept without shame."

The councilmen pondered over her words, the discussion lasting well into dawn, each of them no doubt trying to think of ways to benefit from the situation at hand, and all of them entirely ignoring Lord Beesbury's cooling body as it lay there. 

The first casualty of the war to come had already been witnessed. It would only get worse from here. 

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Aemond Targaryen had always been an early riser, and today was no different. He awoke to the sound of knocking before the first rays of morning had begun to paint the sky, but this day was unlike the others, for he wasn't alone.

There was a warm and welcome weight against him, Daenys's slender form nestled comfortably into the crook of his arm, her chest rising and falling rhythmically with each breath. Strands of her hair spilled over the pillows, half of it obscuring her face. The one-eyed prince could not help the amused chuckle that left his lips at that, as he brushed the silken strands away. 

Absently, he traced the sapphire necklace still around her throat, the deep blue gem glinting faintly in the dim light of the chamber, a stark contrast to the pale porcelain of its wearer's skin. He was surprised to find that she never took it off, not even in slumber. 

As he gazed upon her sleeping form, a soft smile tugged at the corners of his lips, his reverie interrupted by a second harsher knock. Reluctantly, he disentangled himself from his wife's embrace, his knuckles trailing over her cheekbones and down her jawline. The disgruntled sound that escaped her lips as he tried to ease away made him smile affectionately, and when she instinctively clung tighter to his tunic, his heart swelled with adoration.

Kissing her forehead tenderly, he murmured a soothing promise of his prompt return and with great care not to disturb her further, he slipped away, his nightclothes replaced hastily by the attire more suited for the day.

As the door swung open, revealing Ser Criston Cole, Aemond's expression shifted in surprise. 

"What brings you here at this early hour?"

"Apologies for the disturbance, my Prince," the knight responded, his tone deferential. "There's urgent news from the small council. The Queen requests your immediate presence in her chambers."

Aemond's brows furrowed slightly at the unexpected summons, but he nodded in acknowledgment, "I'll make my way there at once."

Unbeknownst to him, another figure slipped past with a practiced stealth that escaped the prince's notice, until the distinct click of a lock echoed softly from his chambers. Aemond's attention, however, remained firmly fixed on Ser Criston's grave countenance, his mind preoccupied with whatever his mother required of him.

As they reached the Queen's chambers, the heavy oaken door swung open at Ser Criston's commanding gesture. 

"Your Grace," Ser Criston's voice rang out, his tone respectful yet tinged with concern. "Prince Aegon is nowhere to be found within the castle walls."

Aemond's frown grew deeper. Why would they be looking for his brother at such an hour? The drunk fool was probably passed out somewhere in the bowels of Flea Bottom. He eyed his mother carefully, a question evident in his eye. 

Alicent, seated at her ornate desk looked up with a mix of worry and dismay etched upon her face, and almost immediately, Aemond knew what had happened. 

"He's dead, isn't he?"

If the dowager queen looked at him in mild horror at his lack of propriety, Ser Criston only nodded, a gleam of what could only be pride in his eyes as he glanced at the young prince. 

"His...His Grace, your father, passed on in the early hours of this morning."

Good riddance. 

A part of Aemond wanted to snap at her, to tell her not to call him his father, but he couldn't. Not when she looked so fragile. Then, he admired briefly, his mother's fortitude. Her patience that allowed her to speak so respectfully of a man who had done nothing but make her so palpably miserable, even if he was now dead. 

"Your father has sent Ser Erryk into the city to find the prince, my Queen," Ser Criston interrupted. 

"Ser Erryk knows Aegon, he has the advantage."

"I shall do my best to find him."

"Yes. I trust again to you, Ser Criston, and to your loyalty. Aegon must be found and he must be brought to me. The very fate of the Seven Kingdoms depends on it."

"I will not fail you, my Queen."

Aemond's heart constricted at the sight of his mother's distress. Without a moment's hesitation, he stepped forward, his instinctive need to comfort her overpowering any conflicting thoughts of his own on the matter. 

"I'll go with him."

Alicent turned to her son immediately, placing her hands on his shoulders, equal parts to placate him and to anchor herself. 

"That would not be my desire Aemond. If anything has happened..."

"Cole needs me, Mother. Ser Erryk isn't the only one who knows Aegon's doings."

The one-eyed prince did wonder though. That they were trying to locate his drunkard of a brother when usually no one cared enough to know his whereabouts meant only one thing. They were going to crown him. The king was dead and they meant for Aegon to take his place. He couldn't help but feel a rush of indignation at the thought. He harboured no favourable feelings toward his cunt of a half-sister who in all the years he had known her had never been favourable toward him, but if they were going to replace her, Aegon was the least worthy candidate in the whole of the Seven Kingdoms. Yet they were choosing to bestow such a privilege on him of all people. It was outrageous. 

"Aegon is to be king, then?"

"King Viserys commanded it with his dying words," Ser Criston announced. "And if it the king's will, then it must be obeyed."

Aemond wanted to scoff. He doubted the old fool even knew Aegon's name, let alone thought of him as his heir, but his mother's steely nod confirmed Ser Criston's words, and despite his overwhelming urge to protest, he didn't. Before he was anything else, he was a dutiful son. He was his mother's son. 

Then the prince had an alarming thought, which Alicent read in his eyes just as surely as if he had spoken it out loud. 

"Your wife will be fine," she soothed. "She will be told of her grandsire's last wish, and given the opportunity to bend the knee, and she will be safe, right here with you."

Yes, his wife. He was also a married man now. 

Aemond's response was almost a choked whisper, "Daenys wouldn't...she would never..."

"Of course she would."

"You don't know that, Mother."

"I do. She will do it to remain at your side. She will do it because she cares for you, just as you will do it because you care for all of us."

"Me? And what will I have to do?"

"Everything. You will do it just as I have done everything. All because we care."

Alicent's words were both a prophecy and a promise, and the young prince longed so desperately to believe her. He thought of his wife, his sweet Daenys, and wondered if she could do it. 

If it came down to it, would she choose him over her family, forsake her mother for him? Was one such as him even worthy of such a sacrifice? 

⋇⋆✦⋆⋇

"Aegon brought me to the Street of Silk on my thirteenth name day," Aemond mumbled as he accompanied Ser Criston. 

In the daylight, Flea Bottom stood in stark contrast to its nighttime counterpart. What was once a murky labyrinth cloaked in shadows and mystery now lay bare, exposed under the unforgiving sunlight and illuminating the grime that coated every surface. Stale odours of refuse and decay linger in the air, mingling with the scent of freshly baked bread and the distant echoes of vendors hawking their wares. 

Prince Aemond and Criston Cole navigated the gritty landscape with practiced subtlety, their presence an incongruous sight amidst the destitution. They made attempts to blend in by adopting hunched postures, their features half-hidden under tattered hoods, but no one cared enough to look anyway. 

As they traversed the alleyways and sidestreets, their movements calculated and cautious, the ordinary bustle of Flea Bottom continued around them. Children played barefoot in the gutters, their laughter a stark contrast to the grim reality of their surroundings. 

When they finally arrived at the brothel where Aegon was presumed to frequent, Aemond continued his story from earlier, as they waited. Criston Cole hummed noncommittally, encouraging him and the young prince found himself trusting him enough to divulge the rest of it. 

"It was his duty as my brother, he said, to ensure I was as educated as he was. At least that's what I understood him to mean."

The brunette knight beside him frowned, "I don't follow."

Aemond grimaced, the memory revolting as it resurfaced. 

"He said, time to get it wet."

Criston flashed him a reprimanding look of disgust and turned back toward the brothel door, "Every woman is an image of the Mother, to be spoken of with reverence."

"And what do you boys need?"

A sultry voice interrupted them and Aemond turned to find a stocky woman with her hands on her hips, eying them carefully from the brothel's entrance. 

Ser Criston immediately jumped to explain, "Sometime last night, we misplaced our drinking companion. Knowing that he has been, in the past, a patron of your fine establishment, we thought to inquire here about his whereabouts."

"Describe him."

"That is a delicate matter," the knight leaned in closer conspiratorially. "You see, the man we seek is the young Prince Aegon. I may trust, I hope, in the discretion of your trade."

If the gentlemen in front of her did not bear such grim expressions, the woman might have laughed in their faces. Discreet was the last thing their prince was. Young perhaps, but with a voracious appetite. 

"The prince is not here."

Ser Criston was relentless, "Has he been here? Earlier perhaps?"

"Quite a bit earlier. Years ago, in fact."

"But more recently?"

"He does not frequent the Streets of Silk. His tastes are known to be less discriminating."

"Meaning what?"

The woman sighed, chancing a glance at Aemond, and the prince felt himself stiffen. The woman smirked. 

"I wish you luck, good Ser. And my best to your friend."

Only when Criston turned to leave did she focus her complete attention on Aemond once again, and as she raked her eyes down his figure shamelessly, he found himself shrinking into his cloak almost unconsciously. There was a gleam in her eyes, as if she knew just how uncomfortable she made him. 

"How you've grown."

Just the sound of her voice made his skin crawl and memories of that uncomfortable night returned with full force, making him remember how he had scrubbed himself raw to be clean of it for weeks after. 

"I hear you are married now. Do give my best to your lady wife, may your union prove to be fruitful indeed."

The woman chuckled at that as if laughing at a private joke, as if she knew something he didn't, and Aemond felt himself go rigid. He recognized her for a second time. This was the very same woman who accompanied his wife at the tavern the night he had confessed to her. He felt himself scowl then, tempted to tell her to keep his wife's name out of her filthy name. It was beneath him though, to dignify her with a response, so he simply straightened his shoulders and turned to follow Ser Criston. 

"Here I am, trawling the city, ever the good soldier in search of a wastrel who's never taken an interest in his birthright," the prince complained to his companion when he caught up with him. "It is I, the younger brother, who studies history and philosophy, it is I who trains with the sword, who rides the largest dragon in the world. It is I who should be..."

Aemond felt the resentment bubble out of his throat. He thought he had made his peace with never being able to rule when his wife, who also took no interest in her birthright, abdicated to her brother. He would never say it of course, never let himself dwell on it, but a part of him resented her for that luxury of a choice, and now he felt it more than ever. He thought he had put to rest his ambitions and his desires, but they came thundering back with sudden clarity, now that impossible things were becoming reality. 

Ser Criston scanned their surroundings carefully, "I know what it is to toil for what others are freely given."

"And if we can't find him Cole? We are decent men with no taste for depravity. His secrets are his own, and he's welcome to them. I am next in line to the throne. Should they come looking for me, I intend to be found."

The fates did not look kindly upon his wretched coveting it seemed, because there was a commotion on the stairs of the Grand Sept and both Criston Cole and Aemond's gaze was drawn to the cause of it. 

There stood Aegon Targaryen, second of his name, future King of the Seven Kingdoms in all his glory, with all the dignity of a street urchin. His clothes were dishevelled, and stained with filth and neglect. His tousled silver hair, peaked out from under his equally tattered hood, framing a face flushed with the effects of excessive drink. He swayed unsteadily on his feet, his eyes glazed as he mumbled out for his mother like a child. Ser Erryk stood beside him, attempting to maintain a semblance of order in the midst of the prince's debauchery. His expression was a mix of frustration and resignation, his grip firm on Aegon's arm as he tried to haul him away. 

Ser Criston Cole quickly stepped forward and prevented him from doing so, drawing his sword with an apologetic shrug as he pointed it at the duo. 

"I do regret this friend."

The chaotic scene escalated with alarming speed as Ser Erryk, momentarily released his grip to draw his own sword. Aegon, seizing the opportunity presented by the brief distraction, acted swiftly despite his intoxicated state. With a sudden surge of unexpected agility, he elbowed the knight in the ribs, causing Ser Erryk to stagger backward, momentarily winded. The prince then bolted away with an unsteady gait, his determination to evade his captors lending him an unusual swiftness.

A clash of swords erupted as Ser Criston, intercepted Ser Erryk's aggressive advance, while the wayward prince careened down the steps of the Grand Sept, his younger brother following close behind to intercept him. 

In a flurry of limbs and dust, Aemond collided with Aegon, sending both princes sprawling onto the dusty ground in a cloud of grit. 

As the brothers grappled on the ground, Aegon, fueled by intoxication and reckless abandon, attempted to wriggle free from Aemond's grasp. His movements were wild and erratic, limbs flailing as he kicked and clawed at the air, a cacophony of frenzied desperation. Drunken giggles burst forth from his lips, an unsettling contrast to the gravity of the situation.

Aemond, determined to restrain his brother and bring an end to the chaos, fought with a resolute strength. His grip tightened around Aegon's frantic leg, fingers digging into the meat of his calf as he dragged him backward, the nearby Septons looking on with mild horror. 

"I was hoping you disappeared," the one-eyed prince hissed. 

"Is our father truly dead then?"

"Yes...and they're going to make you king."

There was a momentary lull in the chaos as Aegon, his face contorted with a mixture of anguish and defiance, spat at his brother. Struggling to regain his footing, he screamed in protest, his voice rising in a desperate plea amidst the chaos. 

"Let me go! Brother, please, let me go! I have no wish to rule! No taste for duty! I am not suited."

Aemond maintained his tight grip, wrangling him in a fierce headlock. His jaw clenched with resolve, as he refused to yield to Aegon's pathetic pleas.

"You'll get no argument from me."

"Our sister is the heir ... what sort of brother steals his sister's birthright?"

"Since when did you give a shit about that old whore?"

"Since when did you not give a shit? Was it before or after you fucked her daughter?"

In a desperate bid for freedom, Aegon bit his hand, spinning to face him. His hands came up to cup his face. Aegon's touch, seemingly tender in its gesture, belied the ironclad grip he maintained on his brother, their foreheads pressed together in a paradoxical display of closeness and restraint.

Their eyes met in a charged exchange, Aegon's pleading gaze a stark contrast to the defiance that had previously marked their encounter. His voice, tinged with desperation, carried a hint of resignation as he beseeched his brother.

"You let me go, and I'll disappear. I will find a ship, sail far away... never to be found. You are next in line, you can be king. You should be king, Aemond. You're better suited for it anyway."

A muscle ticked in the one-eyed prince's jaw, but he said nothing. 

"I may be a drunken fool, but I still have both my eyes. I am not blind to the truth of any of it. Perhaps your wife may find you easier to forgive if you make her queen?"

Aemond struggled to keep his composure but he could not help the flurry of possibilities that ran rampant in his mind. 

"This isn't-"

"She will never forgive you."

"Mother said-"

"Mother is an expert at telling lies. You should have learned that by now," Aegon's smirk held a bitter edge. "She will never forgive you if you put me on the throne. Do what is best for all of us, and let me go."

The brothers remained locked in their volatile embrace, the weight of their words and emotions hanging heavily in the air. Aegon's attempt at bargaining, at needling Aemond where he knew would hurt him the most, was a last-ditch effort for freedom, one that might have been answered judging by the look of contemplation on the one-eyed prince's face. 

The fates had other plans it seemed, and Ser Criston Cole chose that moment to interrupt them, his eyes steely as he hauled Aegon away. 

"The Queen awaits, my prince."

With a final pleading look toward his brother, Ageon allowed himself to be led away, with significantly less resistance, although protests still flowed from his lips like drain water. 

"She will execute you!" Ser Criston finally scoffed derisively. "She will execute you and your children and your entire family besides, should she don the crown. Whilst any trueborn Targaryen yet lives, no Strongcan ever hope to sit the Iron Throne. Rhaenyra has nochoice but to take your heads if she wishes her bastards to rule afterher."

Meanwhile, Aemond followed behind them, feeling as though he'd been slapped, torn between the words of his brother and mother. But Aegon was wrong, he had to be wrong. He had never once loved anyone in his entire life, so he could not possibly know the lengths one went to just for those they cared about. He knew not about duty and sacrifice, about putting your personal ambitions to rest for the sake of those you loved. 

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Meanwhile, Daenys Velaryon was having quite possibly one of the worst days of her life. She had heard the stories, of women whose husbands only sought them when the hour was late, and disappeared in the mornings after they had taken their pleasure, but she had never imagined she would count herself as one of them. 

Still, she woke all the same to the bleak reality of an empty chamber. It was still quite early, and the soft tendrils of dawn filtered through the windows, casting a gentle hue across the room that felt hauntingly desolate. The warmth that had once enveloped her in the embrace of marital bliss had dissipated, leaving behind a chilling void.

She tried to remain optimistic. Perhaps Aemond was an even earlier riser than she had assumed. Perhaps she'd find him in the training yard or in the library, she thought as she hurriedly dressed herself, but all her hopes were dashed when her fingers closed around the doorknob and found that it refused to budge. 

Someone had locked her in. 

She rattled the cold brass orb some more in a futile attempt to break free from her confinement, and with each unsuccessful turn, her frustration mounted, the metallic clinking of the knob against the lock a haunting echo in the silent chamber.

"Let me out!" Her voice, initially tinged with urgency, soon grew desperate as she banged against the door with the heels of her palms, the echoes reverberating through the chamber. "What is the meaning of this?"

The lack of response only amplified her anxiety, her mind racing with ominous possibilities. She pounded on the door until her knuckles grew sore, the rhythmic thuds a symphony of frustration and fear. The air felt heavy with uncertainty, every passing moment a torturous reminder of her entrapment. Her breaths came in short, uneven gasps, her chest tightening with a suffocating sense of helplessness.

She staggered backward, her breaths shallow and rapid, her chest heaving with a mixture of panic and frustration. The chamber seemed to constrict around her, the walls closing in as if to further emphasize her confinement. The not knowing, the absence of any response, drove her to the brink of madness within the confined space, a sense of powerlessness gnawing at her resolve.

She stepped away then, her movements mechanical as she paced the length of her husband's chambers. Her anger simmered, a fierce blaze stoked by the feeling of betrayal that seared through her veins. The chamber, once a haven of possibilities, now felt like a cage of manipulation and deceit. 

She felt the prick of tears but she swallowed them down, a wildfire of indignation igniting in her chest. How dare he use her and then discard her like she was nothing. How dare he lock her in here like a fucking sow in a pigpen. They were plotting something, they had to be, and she was ensnared in their web of schemes. 

Storming toward the grand window, her gaze fixated on the distant horizon that offered no solace. The vast expanse of the courtyard below was a cruel illusion of freedom, taunting her with its unattainable promise. She peered down, her heart sinking at the sheer drop that separated her from the ground below. The walls, smooth and unyielding, offered no foothold for escape, thwarting any hope of fleeing through this avenue.

Daenys spent the rest of her day like that, equal parts nervous traversing and angry rummaging through Aemond's chambers. The memories of the previous night taunted her— his hands in her hair, and everywhere else besides, the shared whispers, and the promises exchanged in the soft glow of flickering candles, all of it now replaced by aching emptiness. 

As the night descended, it cloaked the chamber in an eerie shroud of darkness, the candles having been long burned out. Daenys's senses sharpened with anticipation. The haunting silence that had oppressed her for hours finally fractured as distant voices sliced through the stillness. Among the tumult outside, she discerned the resonant timbre of her husband's commanding voice, a bittersweet relief amidst the disconcerting unknown.

Hope surged within her, and she leaped up, her heart pounding with a fervour that matched the intensity of her desperation. She rushed toward the door, almost certain that any moment now, she would be released. She did not make a single sound, intent on trying to glean information on the happenings of the Red Keep from the conversation outside. 

On the other side, Aemond Targaryen, his demeanour ablaze with indignation, stood before the entrance to his chambers. The flickering torchlight cast stark shadows across his features, accentuating the furrowed lines of frustration etched upon his brow. Three knights, resolute in their duty, barred his passage, with relentless resolve.

"Stand aside. I demand to see my wife."

"By the Hand's command, no one is to pass through these doors, my prince."

"To hell with the Hand's orders. You cannot stop me from entering my own chambers!"

"My sincere apologies, but the Hand-"

"And you would defy me then? I am your prince, and that is my wife in there. Let me through!"

The knights remained stoic, their allegiance to their orders unwavering, despite the mounting tension that crackled in the air. Aemond's single eye narrowed in disbelief, his hand tightening around the hilt of his sword, muscles tensed with the readiness to take drastic measures. 

Just as the edge of steel seemed poised to clash against the blockade before him, a familiar touch on his arm halted his impending action. The prince turned to find his mother, standing beside him, her expression a mix of concern and a placating calm.

"Mother, I need to see her. I can't just stand here while she's locked away in there."

Alicent's gentle touch and soothing voice sought to quell the tempest brewing within her son. 

"The hour is late, Aemond. Perhaps it's best to let Daenys rest for now."

"This is madness! Why am I being kept from my own chambers?" 

"You are not being kept from your chambers. I've had the maids set up the adjacent room, for the time being, you may retire there."

"I must see her. I cannot simply wait while she's trapped in there, unaware of what's happening. You said she'd understand, so let me speak to her."

His mother's voice lowered to a hushed tone, a whisper laced with conspiracy, and her gaze imploring him to heed her words.

"Now is not the best time. She would only be upset and angry. It's best to approach her after Aegon's coronation when emotions are not so raw."

"But-"

"You would bring news of grief as well. Her grandsire is dead. Won't you spare her the pain of knowing, even if it is for just a little longer?"

Aemond paused at this, considering her words with great deliberation. It was true that he did not want to cause her pain, and perhaps this was the best way to go about it. 

"The coronation," he repeated, his voice heavy with resignation. "Fine, but no harm is to come to her, under no circumstance."

The dowager Queen gave him a pitying smile, "Of course not. She will be perfectly safe."

She left the rest of the words unsaid. 

So long as she complies. 

"Come now Aemond, you must get yourself to bed too. The time for explanations will come later."

Reluctantly, the one-eyed prince eased his grip on his sword, the tension in his muscles slowly releasing. The conflict within him simmered beneath the surface, subdued but not extinguished, as he yielded to his mother's counsel for the time being. He allowed her to lead him away, the craven inside of him grateful not having to face his wife or her inevitable scorn for the time being. 

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The sky was falling. 

Daenys Velaryon was a caged animal and the sky was falling down on her. 

Her grandsire was dead, her scoundrel uncle was usurping her mother's throne, and her husband was an accomplice. 

She did not know whether to laugh or cry. She did not know how to react, and she simply sat there in the heavy darkness, forehead resting against the wooden door as the world around her went quiet again. 

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A/N: Only one more chapter left till completion yall!! Hope you've enjoyed this one, it was a little harder to get back into the swing of writing cuz exams gave me the biggest writer's block but I think it turned out alright. 

As usual, would love to hear your thoughts and comments really motivate me so lemme know what you think, plz and thank u
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