The waves crashed against the sandy shore, it's clear blue hue shimmering beneath the glowing moon. The sea having only just embraced Laena Velaryon, it seemed to cry with each wave.
Daemon and Rhaenyra lie tangled in each other's arms. Leaning against his broad chest, she traced idle circles on his scarred arm, the silence between them comfortable, a language woven from years of shared history.
"Viserra grows more like you every day," she mused, her voice soft. "The mischief in her eyes, the sharp wit."
Daemon chuckled, a low rumble that vibrated through her. "A dragon with fire in her belly, like her father."
A wry smile touched Rhaenyra's lips. "Indeed. Though I hope her flames are directed outwards, not inwards." She had always worried for her eldest daughter, for she knew being away from Aemond had been hard for Viserra.
"Jacaerys," She continued, pushing the thought aside, "He has my mother's grace. A Lord in the making."
"And the Velaryon blood of the sea runs strong in Lucerys and Joffrey," Daemon added, his voice gruff but not unkind. "Harwin Strong's strength and loyalty shines through the three boys as well."
Rhaenyra sighed, a touch of wistfulness in her voice. "I wish you could be more present in their lives, Daemon. Viserra needs guidance as do the younger ones."
He turned his head, meeting her gaze with his violet, unreadable eyes. "And what of you, Rhaenyra? Do you crave my guidance, or my presence?"
The question hung heavy in the salty air, laced with unspoken desires and the tangled knot of their unconventional relationship.
Tracing a finger along his jawline, a smile graced her lips. "Both, my dearest uncle. But most of all, I crave a moment of peace amidst the storm that brews on the horizon."
He pulled her closer, his lips finding hers in a kiss that was both tender and fierce, a taste of stolen moments and shared secrets. As they pulled apart, their breaths mingled, a silent promise hanging between them.
In the embrace of the sandy shore, they were not prince and heir, niece and uncle, but simply Daemon and Rhaenyra, soon to be bound by blood, desire and the complicated tapestry of their family.
But, even in the stolen moments of intimacy, the knowledge of the coming flames loomed large, flickering brightly on the horizon of their future. Each one of their fates intertwined with the dragon's song of fire and blood.
__
Viserra Velaryon sat upright in her bed, gasping for air. Sheets tangled around her, cold and clammy against her skin. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat in the oppressive darkness. The nightmare clung to her like smoke, vivid and terrifying.
Weak, weak, weak
She was back in King's Landing, atop Mavros, the city spread out beneath her like a tapestry woven with the fire. The screams of the dying reached her ears, sharp and accusatory. Her own voice, distorted and shrill, echoed in the wind as she urged Mavros forward, a rain of flames spewing from its maw.
But then, amidst the chaos, a single eye.
Sapphire, blue, cold and unwavering, it pierced through the smoke and searing heat.
Aemond's eye, mocking and unforgiving, watched her burn the world. It followed her as she fled King's Landing, a burning ember in the darkness, a constant reminder of her crimes, the betrayal.
Viserra had tried to scream, but her voice die in her throat. She clawed at it, desperate for air, but his hand held her captive. The eye grew larger, filling her vision, a bottomless well of hatred and rage.
Rage, rage, rage.
And then, just as it seemed the eye would consume her, she awoke with a jolt. Sweat soaked her nightgown, her breaths coming in ragged gasps. The room was dim, the pale light of dawn struggling through the heavy curtains. It was just a dream, she told herself, just a memory spun into terror.
(He will never leave her rotting mind.)
But the sapphire eye lingered, a phantom image burned into the backs of her eyelids. It was a reminder of the monster she had become, of the siblings she had lost, of the love Aemond had cast aside. A reminder that even when the flames died down, the scars of her madness would forever mark her soul.
Viserra rose from her bed, her movements stiff and mechanical. She walked to the window- numb to the feeling of the shattered, sapphire pendant pieces that still remained on the floor slicing the bottom of her bare feet- she walked to her balcony door and for the first time in days she pulled back the curtains. The sun had not yet fully risen and the cold morning air hit her like a slap.
She moved to stand at the edge of her balcony, wind whipping through the loose strands of the matted braid in her hair; the vast expanse of Dragonstone spread out before her. An eerie glow from the rising sun seemed to have been casted upon the castle, causing the long shadows to dance ominously around her.
The princess's heart still pounded in her chest, her breath coming in short, shallow gasps. Her mind was a whirlwind of conflicting emotions: fear, despair, and a strange sense of calm resignation.
Aemond, her husband, her supposed ally, had fuelled the flames of her descent. Now, even after everything, his presence lingered in an ever so tortuous way. He had sent that pendant to spite her, to remind her that he would never just let her slip away from him.
The pendant, a symbol of his twisted affection was a cruel joke.
Paranoia clawed at her, twisting every shadow into Aemond's form. Was he watching? Planning to kill her as well? The whispers intensified, fuelled by fear and fuelled by the sapphire eye's cold gaze.
(sapphire eye, sapphire eye)
Viserra had always known that her madness ran deep, a dark thread woven into the tapestry of her being. But lately, it had consumed her, no longer was she Viserra Velaryon, all she now knows is 'The mad Princess'.
The voices in her head had grown louder, more insistent, whispering dark prophecies and urging her to do more terrible things. She could feel the weight of their presence pressing down on her, threatening to crush her entirely.
Her violet eyes flickered down to the jagged rocks below, the waves crashing against them with a relentless fury. A part of her craved the release, the escape from the torment that was her own mind.
(The rising sun painted Viserra's chambers golden as Ser Erryk found Viserra stood on the balcony, a silhouette framed by the iridescent rays of the sun. He had grown accustomed to these early wanderings, his unwavering loyalty drawing him to her side like a moth to a flickering flame.
As he approached, the wind whipped the loose strands of her Targaryen blonde hair around her face, casting fleeting shadows upon her troubled features. The madness that danced in her eyes was a constant source of pain for him, a stark contrast to the vibrant princess he once knew. Yet, even in the throes of her affliction, he saw a flicker of defiance beneath the ashes.
"Princess," he murmured softly, his voice a familiar anchor in the stormy sea of her mind. "The night air is still present. Shall we return inside?"
Viserra turned, her expression guarded, the sunlight revealing the haunted depths of her gaze. Her gaze lingered on him a moment too long, a spark of warmth flickered in her eyes, a flicker Erryk dared to hope was recognition.
Hesitantly, she nodded, allowing him to guide her back inside.)
The touch of his hand, calloused yet firm, sent a comforting warmth through Viserra. The whispers in her head, usually a cacophony of accusations and paranoia quieted to a dull hum in his presence. (She still did not feel the urge recoil beneath his touch and his touch alone)
"They whisper again," she confessed, her voice hollow, echoing the emptiness within her.
Erryk wished more than anything to know the right words to say. Instead, He settled her on a plush chair, silently wishing that he could dispel the shadows within her mind, but all he could offer was his presence, a silent shield against the encroaching darkness. As he lit the fireplace, the flickering flames danced in her eyes, casting fleeting moments of clarity before retreating back into the shadows.
Instead, he spoke softly, weaving stories of distant lands and valiant deeds, his voice a soothing anchor in the sea of her turmoil.
Viserra listened, captivated by not just his words, but by the aura of calm he exuded. It was a safe harbour in the storm raging inside her, a beacon that drew her back from the precipice. In his presence, the whispers quieted, the darkness receded, and a slither of peace embraced her.
Erryk, too, felt a pull towards her, a connection that transcended duty and loyalty. He saw the pain etched in her eyes, the remnants of the fire she once held, now embers struggling to reignite.
He knew his feelings were a dangerous dance, a tightrope walk between duty and affection. Yet, he couldn't help but offer her solace, a sliver of hope in the abyss that threatened to consume her. As he tucked a stray strand of silver hair behind her ear, their fingers brushed, a spark of unspoken words passing between them.
For now, the comfort he offered was a fragile shield, a temporary respite in the war within her mind.
__
In the sterile halls of the Red Keep, the scent of leeches and incense hung heavy, a bitter counterpoint to the weight of grief that pressed upon Rhaenyra. She sat before the maesters, her once vibrant amethyst eyes dulled by grief and ramrod straight as she watched them flick through various books and concoct various herbal remedies.
Desperation gnawed at the Queen's resolve. The maesters muttered about humours gone awry, imbalance of elements and moon madness, their pronouncements offering little solace. She had even gone as far to consult a septon, their rituals and prayers proving as futile as moonstones against the rising tide. Sleep offered no escape, plagued by visions of her daughter consumed by flames that danced in her troubled dreams.
Yet, she still refused to give up.
Nonetheless, the burden of responsibility pressed down on Rhaenyra. She had a duty to her realm, to take her throne back, but her hear ached for the third child of hers that had almost slipped away. (A mother's love rots her from within) Each failed attempt was a hammer blow, chipping away at the façade of strength she wore for her people.
But, could not bear to lose Viserra as well.
(She already had.)
"Your grace," uttered the chief maester, a man with a beard as white as winter snow, began his voice barelya whisper, "There has been complication we mayhaps overlooked."
Rhaenyra swallowed thickly, her nails tearing into the flesh of her cracked palms. "A... complication?"
Each and every maester exchanged glances, their faces, normally stoic masks of wisdom, contorted with a mixture of pity and apprehension. "Princess Viserra has not..." The chief maester faltered, clearing his throat, "exhibited the monthly flux for over two moons now."
Her heart stuttered in her chest. Lack of a period, in this context, held a darker meaning than mere missed inconvenience. "And? What does this signify?" she asked, her voice laced with a steely edge.
The maester cast a wary glance at his colleagues before continuing. "Your Grace," he ventured, "there are numerous possibilities, of course. However, given Princess Viserra's... current state of mind, the likelihood of..." He hesitated again, the word stuck in his throat.
"Speak plainly, Maester," Rhaenyra commanded, her voice cold enough to freeze dragonfire.
"Two moons, Your Grace," the lead maester intoned, his voice laced with clinical detachment. "No sign of the moon's blood has graced Princess Viserra. Such an extended cessation... it portends ill."
Oh.
The maester swallowed hard. "Sterility, Your Grace. The trauma, the madness... it could have irrevocably damaged her reproductive system."
The room fell silent, the weight of the pronouncement settling like a shroud. Rhaenyra felt a cold emptiness spread through her veins, a new grief layering itself upon the already smouldering pyreof her heart. She felt a cold dread slither down her spine.Infertility, a curse whispered in hushed tones, a thief of motherhood.
(An unbidden image of Queen Alicent and her brood of healthy heirs flashed through her mind, a cruel twist of the knife. The Greens, no doubt, would revel in this misfortune, using it as another weapon in their arsenal of lies and whispers.)
She could almost hear Viserra's laughter, bright and untamed, once echoing through the Keep. Could see her dancing with Lucerys, their steps light and carefree, a promise of future mothers and fathers, of dragons yet to hatch. Now, that promise lay choked in the ashes of King's Landing, another casualty in the Dance's cruel song.
But to burden Viserra, already teetering on the precipice of madness, with this new blow? It was unthinkable.
Almost as unthinkable as disinheriting your own daughter? A small voice in the back of her mind echoed hauntingly.
Rhaenyra felt as though she needed to be sick.
"Let it remain unspoken," She commanded, her voice firm despite the tremor in her heart. "Vaguely worded remedies, gentle distractions – that is all this knowledge can bear for now."
The maesters nodded, their faces unreadable masks. They understood the queen's burden, the delicate dance between hope and despair that defined Viserra's existence. Silently, they agreed to cloak the truth, a heavy secret shared in the sterile hush of the chambers.
And with that, the Queen took her leave; the weight of the unspoken truth bearing down on her. The pain of infertility, she would bear it alone, a silent shield against the storm that threatened to engulf her daughter.
Rhaenyra's steps faltered in the echoing hallway, the shadow of doubt lengthening behind her. Her gaze drifted towards the imposing oak door of Viserra's chambers, (a small crease formed between her brows as she noticed Ser Erryk's absence) the silence emanating from within as suffocating as the inferno of her daughter's infertility.
Disinheriting Viserra, her own blood, had been an agonizing choice, but necessary to uphold the law and appease the simmering anger of her council. Yet, the silence gnawed at her. Was it truly justice, this enforced solitude?
The image of Viserra, eyes vacant and lips muttering forgotten secrets, flashed in her mind. Fear, grief, and an aching, unanswered question clawed at Rhaenyra's heart. Why? Why had the Gods cursed her sweet daughter?
Why did they have to continue to take and take her children away from her?
The doorknob, cold beneath her touch, seemed to judge her hesitation. Had she condemned her child not just to punishment, but to oblivion? Did a mother have the right to abandon her own, even in the face of such devastation? The weight of responsibility threatened to buckle her, the Queen's duty warring with the primal love that pulsed within.
(A crown instead of a daughter.)
But fear held her captive. What awaited her beyond the door? Accusation? Denial? Or the chilling emptiness of a mind consumed by its own demons? Could she bear to witness the wreckage of her daughter's spirit, a stark reminder of her own failure to protect?
With a trembling breath, Rhaenyra pulled her hand away, the echo of the unspoken 'what if?' echoing in the silence. Rhaenyra, cloaked in duty and regret, walked on, leaving the shadows of Viserra's chamber to lengthen and deepen, the unanswered questions hanging heavy in the air, burden shared by both mother and daughter, now separated by a gulf wider than any ocean.
This choice, made in the crucible of duty and pain, would leave its mark, a scar etched not just on the Kingdom, but on the Queen's own soul.
__
Smoke still smoulders in King's Landing, embers still flickering within the wind from The mad Princess's inferno. Within the Red Keep's dimly lit, silent halls, Queen Helaena sits with her almost completed embroider centipede in her hands. Maelor is curled up in her lap, sound asleep and across the room sits Jahaera and Jahaerys, both playing with their miniature dragon figures.
Her dreams had been strange recently, each one of them had consisted of silver scales stained crimson and falling stars that set fire to the ground as they crashed into it; the flames would burn her mind.
A sudden, ominous creak pierces the stillness. Helaena's head snaps up, her heart hammering against her ribs. From the shadows emerge two figures, cloaked and hooded, their faces hidden in the darkness. "Who goes there?" she whispers, fear coiling in her throat.
"Friends, Your Grace," replies a raspy voice, thick with malice. The hoods fall back, revealing two men, their faces twisted in grotesque parodies of grins. One, a hulking brute with a butcher's hands, bears the telltale scar of a knife fight across his cheek. The other, gaunt and rat-like, his eyes gleaming with a predator's hunger, clutches a stiletto knife in his bony fingers.
"Blood," the butcher growls, his voice guttural. "And Cheese."
They advance, each step echoing in the silence. Maelor whimpers in his mother's arms, sensing the danger closing in.
"What do you want?" Helaena cries, her voice cracking with fear.
Cheese smiles, a cruel twist of his lips. "Justice, Your Grace," he rasps. "For Prince Lucerys."
He brandishes the knife, its glint catching the faint torchlight. In its reflection, the Queen sees her own terror, her children's faces contorted in silent screams.
Silver scales stained crimson
No
Silver scales stained crimson
No
Silver scales stained crimson
No.
"Choose," Blood booms, his voice shaking the stone walls. "Which one dies? The little prince, or the babe?"
A mother's instinct kicks in, sharp and fierce. She cannot choose one son over the other. They are both hers, both pieces of her broken heart.
"No," she cries, her voice ringing out in defiance. "Neither! You cannot do this!"
"It's gotta be one of them, princess. A son for a son." cackled Cheese.
Helaena swallowed thickly.
"Prince Daemon was very clear with his instructions, you see," added Cheese. "I wouldn't want to disappoint him. Besides, you should be grateful it isn't a daughter for a daughter, it almost was.." he sang gleefully.
"So, which one?"
Her lilac eyes flickered between her two sons. A sob escapes her lips as she looks at Maelor, his innocent eyes wide with confusion. Then, her gaze darts to her older son, Jaehaerys, his eyes wide with fear- he knew what was happening.
Maelor was too young to understand what was happening.
"Tick, tock, princess!" yelled Cheese with a devilish grin.
"Maelor!" cried Helaena, her eyes squeezed shut as tears streamed down her cheeks.
(Her son would die because of her.)
Without warning, Blood struck of Jahaerys's head with a single blow. The young boy's head rolled until it hit Helaena's now crimson stained red skirts, empty eyes staring up at her hauntingly.
__
Aemond's one eye was clouded with a fury that rivalled the inferno that had consumed King's Landing. Bloodand Cheese, those vipers, had slithered into the Red Keep, leaving a trail ofcrimson and whispers of vengeance fuelled by Rhaenyra's venomous rage.
Hisfist clenched around the hilt of his sword, thesteel biting into his palm. Jahaerys, his nephew, a innocent child, killed. And Helaena, his sister, scarred not just by the blade, but by the chilling spectre of madness brought to her door by his deeds. His sister's screams still echoed into the cold corridors of his memory.
Aemond had tasted revenge, its metallic tang clinging to his throat, a bitter aftertaste for the loss of Lucerys. But this, this was pure venom, a twisted echo of his own act, mocking him with its cruelty. He, the One-Eyed, had taken a life in the fire's fury, a desperate, reckless act born of grief and rage. But Blood and Cheese, those shadows cast by Rhaenyra's vengeful hand, operated in cold, calculated darkness, twisting the Dance of the Dragons into a monstrous waltz of terror.
Thewind howled, a mournful dirge for Jahaerys, carrying whispers of anger and desperation. Aemond felt the dragon stir within him, Vhagar echoing his fury, her molten breath coiling around him like a promise of fire. Rhaenyra, she would pay. Daemon, that serpent lurking in the shadows, he would pay. All who had a hand in this blood-soaked tapestry of vengeance, they would face the flames of his wrath.
And Viserra....
Oh Viserra.
He couldn't escape her. Viserra's spectral form, her eyes burning with an ethereal violet fire, materialized before him. The sight of her, his wife, a reminder of his sins, sent a tremor through him.
"Haunted by your reflection, husband?" her voice echoed, laced with the icy bite of scorn. "Do the screams of children and the stench of burning flesh cling to you even in your dreams?"
Aemond slammed the goblet down, the wine staining his hand crimson. "This was not my doing!"
But Viserra's laughter, brittle and cold, filled the air. "Oh, Aemond," she mocked, her form shimmering closer, "Don't play innocent. Every action has its consequence, and yours have painted the Red Keep red."
He lunged at her, fuelled by rage and despair, but his hand passed through her wispy form. "You took everything from me! Even my own damn eye!"
Viserra's smile turned sharper, a cruel twist of her lips. "You took more than that, Aemond," she whispered, her voice now a chilling sigh. "You took my brother, my sanity, you even helped take my mother's crown. All disguised within your cloak of righteousness."
The accusation struck a raw nerve. Aemond stumbled back, the truth of her words were bitter to swallow. He had played his game, manipulated and schemed, and in the end, all he had gained were ashes and ghosts.
Viserra faded, leaving him alone with the deafening silence and the gnawing guilt. He raised the goblet to his lips again, the wine offering no solace, only a temporary numbing of the pain.
As he drank, Aemond saw not just the Red Keep in ruins, but his own reflection: a broken prince, consumed by the darkness he had sown. Viserra's ghostly taunt echoed in his mid, a constant reminder of the consequences of his actions, a chilling premonition of the emptiness that awaited him.
__
Princess Viserra Velaryon sank deeper and deeper into madness whilst prince Aemond Targaryen raged and drank and raged.