Tainted Crown | Aemond Targaryen

Prologue

Some say that Targaryen's are closer to Gods rather than men.

If only that were true.

The Targaryen 'madness' proves that saying otherwise. It is something you cannot run from— it is inevitable.

All it takes is one small thing; one argument, one betrayal, one murder. And that is all it can take for a Targaryen to snap.

For them to cause bloodshed.

It is an ever so pitiful thing.

All the daughters turn into blood-thirsty hounds— after years of licking their own wounds and biting their tongue until a metallic taste fills there mouth.

The wind of ruin howled through the skeletal remains of Dragonstone, a dirge for a shattered dream. Inside the crumbling keep, Princess Viserra Velaryon danced to its tune, a macabre ballet born of ash and betrayal. Gone was the silver-haired beauty, the dragon's shadow in miniature. In her place reigned a specter, eyes feverish with the Targaryen fire turned inward, consuming itself.

It had begun subtly, a whispered paranoia slithering into her ear like a serpent.

̴h̴̴e̴ ̴d̴̴i̴̴d̴ ̴t̴̴h̴̴i̴̴s̴

Her world, once vibrant with the promise of love and power, shrunk to a tomb of whispers and accusing shadows. Each face, each word, reeked of treachery. The Green vipers, their eyes gleeful with her misfortune, slithering in the wake of her uncle, Aegon's coronation.

In the dead of night, she would seek solace in the ancient Dragonpit, the dragon skulls mocking her descent with hollow grins. There, with only the echoes of whispers and the cold caress of her sorrow, she danced. A spectral princess, draped in tattered black silks, twirling to the dirge of the wind. Her silver hair, once a crown, became a cage, tangled with fear and grief. The jewels, once a testament to her lineage, lay scattered like fallen tears, each facet reflecting the splintered shards of her mind.

One by one, she discarded the vestiges of her old life, casting them like molted skins into the abyss. The sapphire necklace, choked her with memories. She shed the silks and velvets, the finery of a life now lost, until only the black fabric of mourning remained, a shroud for a living corpse.

̴A̴̴e̴̴m̴̴o̴̴n̴̴d̴ ̴A̴̴e̴̴m̴̴o̴̴n̴̴d̴ ̴A̴̴e̴̴m̴̴o̴̴n̴̴d̴

In the Dragonpit, amidst the whispers of forgotten ancestors, Viserra Velaryon, the dragon reborn, was reborn anew. Not in silver fire, but in the cold embers of betrayal and madness. And from the ashes of her shattered sanity, a chilling truth rose: the Dance of the Dragons had claimed its most tragic victim, not on the battlefield, but within the poisoned chalice of a broken heart.

̴I̴̴t̴ a̴̴l̴̴l̴ ̴b̴̴u̴̴r̴̴n̴̴e̴̴d̴

̴K̴̴i̴̴n̴̴g̴̴s̴ ̴l̴a̴̴n̴̴d̴̴i̴̴n̴̴g̴ ̴b̴̴u̴̴r̴̴n̴̴e̴̴d̴