The sound of paper furling and unfurling were the only ones heard. Then the slam of a fist on a wooden desk. Then a sigh.
"This is ridiculous," Rhaenyra hissed, reading over the missive stamped with the Velaryon sigil for the near hundredth time. "Absolutely ridiculous— borderline treasonous."
The letter spelled out, in so many words, that Vaemond Velaryon was contesting Lucerys' inheritance claim to Driftmark. Lord Corlys had apparently fallen ill in the Stepstones— damn that accursed place— which brought up the question of succession. There had been whispers over the years of Rhaenyra's first three sons' true parentage belied in the seed of a certain late Commander of the City's watch. Such accusations have been unfounded and swatted away like flies if the argument was ever brought up in the small council chamber or throne room.
Upon looking at them, the three Velaryon boys were only such in name– that much was obvious. Their brown eyes and curled brown hair struck a decided resemblance to someone that was not Ser Laenor Velaryon.
Even if the rumors, as they may be, were plain as day truths, such things couldn't be acted upon, much less said about the heir to the iron throne, could they?
"How can Alicent even entertain this... this mummer's farce?" she continued to seethe, resorting to pacing now, twisting the rings on her fingers. Her throat felt a bit dry at the situation. Her and Alicent had struck a comfortable balance since returning. This felt... it felt akin to a slap in the face.
"'Tis not just Alicent entertaining it," Daemon muttered, swirling wine in his cup. He was lazed in the chaise, one leg over the other. He seemed particularly laissez-faire about the situation at hand, as if it were nothing more than a mere annoyance to him, like a leg cramp or an annoying bug. "That snake of a father she has has his fangs in every pot. Whatever suits him— and this would seem to be one of those things." he glanced to his wife, wanting to say more about the queen, but thought better of it. Daemon Targaryen was, in all accounts, a man who spoke his mind– but he didn't wish to ruffle his pregnant wife's feathers by calling her 'girlhood friend' a cunt like her father.
"Otto Hightower is a conniving man, that much is true. What could he hope to gain by currying favor with Vaemond?"
"The Velaryon fleet. The Velaryon coin. The Velaryon connections. The well of opportunities for conniving cunts like Otto are endless." he punctuated each point with a wave of his glass.
Rhaenyra's mouth snapped shut. She was silent for a long while before finally speaking again. "Well, Lord Corlys is not dead yet. This will be fought and we will be heard."
—
The morning after the gala was... eventful, to say the least. She hardly remembered going back to her room, it all felt like a hazy, dizzy dream.
Aemond had escorted her back to her chambers in (comfortable) silence, giving her another goodnight kiss before leaving her for the night. She had been reeling from it all, the adrenaline of their interaction.
She could feel his lips on hers and a delightful buzz on her face and... another unfamiliar sensation deep in her body, nestled behind her navel. It felt like a pulling sensation, like a thread connecting her and Aemond. Just the slightest tug on the string had her feeling warm and fuzzy— she wanted him. The implication of wanting him could mean a myriad of things. She was fond of him, of course, she always had been. His possessive declaration, to any normal person, could be deduced into one thing. But in Shera's mind, there were many interpretations of such an action, it couldn't be assumed to mean one thing!
He said she belonged to him— that didn't necessarily mean he... loved her, he just wanted her near him. The kiss... she had started it, of course! It was merely... something of comfort between them, like a soft blanket or a favorite smell, right? Nothing so deep as... as one might assume.
But it was also... melding into one another with ease, like their lips coming together had been second nature, their feelings inevitable.
She kicked her legs in bed, spooking Moongeist slightly. Burying her face in her pillow, she gave an uncharacteristically loud squeal— to personify her current feelings. This was girlish and so very silly! Her face was red, she knew, feeling the heat radiating off of it.
No, no— 'twas not love. It... Aemond didn't love her, he couldn't, it was a passing fancy. Yes, he was possessive and had mentioned marrying her twice. But that didn't... mean...
She glanced over at the dozens of drawings and sketches they'd done over the past few weeks on her side table. Her eye immediately caught on the portrait she did of him in blue and purple pastels, fingers wrought over the etching as she thought back to when she presented it to him.
"I do not look like this, Shera," he scoffed as he rolled his eye at her depiction of him. "You made me look like a child getting their portrait done for the first time. I look like I am being held at swordpoint."
Her mouth opened, brows flying to her hairline. "What do you mean? This is what you look like to me," she snatched the paper from his hand and put it up next to his face to compare. "And you wouldn't sit still, you basically were a child. I thought you had more discipline than that– Ser Criston would be disappointed." she tutted.
Of course, it was a stylized portrait– mayhaps overly stylized. It was lines and angles and he did look quite pointy in it. But it felt like him, harsh around the edges but there was a glint in his eye that was soft, something few people could catch in Aemond Targaryen. He had been agitated when she made him stand still and it was surprising that she didn't capture that overbearing emotion– rather, she caught the softness reserved only for her that hung in the back light of his eye.
"You are blind." Aemond huffed, turning away.
"Yes, we have established that," she pushed his shoulder playfully.
Love. Love? Love!
She screamed herself hoarse again into her pillow until Moongeist tugged it away from her.
She loved him. She was in love with Aemond Targaryen and had been for a very, very long time.
She was still giddy about it, getting out of bed with a spring in her step, as if she were some sort of sprightly hare. She peppered Moongeist's face in kisses, to which he returned sleepy chuffs and whines, cooing soft noises to him in lieu of words— her throat hurt from her girlish squealing.
She had almost forgotten about the incident. The warging. She wasn't even sure it had been real, if not for the bruises where Aemond held her so tightly to stop her from falling to the floor, she thought it would've been a dream.
Shera knew of warging– every Stark did, every Northman did. It was a seemingly supernatural phenomenon told by stewardesses to children. It was a thing of wonder and utter horror. She remembers her own stewardess, the very fleeting memories she had before King's Landing of Winterfell, keeping her afraid with the threat that if a skinchanger died while inhabiting another being, they would be trapped in said being's skin forever.
"Some skinchangers are more beast than man, Shera," the older woman said, wagging a finger in the little girl's face, who was no more than four at the time. "If you keep up your antics, don't be surprised if you wake up as a beast, you little hellion."
Shera promptly bit the offending wagging finger.
Unfurling the paper left with her breakfast, a hearty plate of hot eggs and bangers (which looked ravenously appetizing), she skimmed it. The message was clear in its intent: the move back to Dragonstone was delayed. Biting into the sausage, she threw Moongeist some eggs.
One more thing to be delighted about– she felt like everything between her and... those who resided in King's Landing was on borrowed time.
'Twas a pity about the hearing for Lucerys' inheritance. She didn't care much for Lucerys– but she didn't really know him. She wonders if he even remembers taking Aemond's eye, and Shera subsequently shoving him into a wall where he hit his head.
She ponders it more over breakfast, even asking for a second helping of sausage before reporting to the throne hall. The maids that dressed her had brought a separate garment, one unfamiliar and most certainly not something she brought with her.
"Princess Rhaenyra wishes for you to wear this at the hearing," one of them murmured.
Shera eyed the dress– it was deep, blood red with black and gold trim. There were embellishments of dragons and wolves across the chest and a sash belt that looked like it had wolf claws embedded into it. It was... nice in its own way, except for the ghastly color. The maids were relentless in the cinching of her waist and she shifted uneasily from foot to foot as she regretted her second helping of breakfast. The women didn't say anything to her, really, but exchanged looks that said more than words.
As she slips into the throne room, she feels a whoosh of air beside her. "You look garish in that color," a familiar voice sneered. Aegon blocked her way, brows raised. "Some little birdie told me that you prefer blue."
"... mayhaps I do," she murmured. "And how exactly do you know that?"
"Again, my little birdie. But also, I was at the gala and saw you and my brother eye-fucking each other. You two are seriously shameless, debaucherous almost."
"That is truly rich coming from you, Aegon," Shera cracked a small smile.
Continuing her walk, Jacaerys sweeps her up into his arm and leads them over to... their side. Rhaenyra, Daemon, Lucerys and Rhaena are waiting. Across the opposite side of the room are Aemond, Aegon, Helaena, Alicent and Otto. In the center, stands Vaemond, swaying ever so slightly to the Queen's side. The room is so clearly divided that it's almost sickening. Just the previous night, they had been making merry without all of this division. She sees Aemond, who gives her dress a onceover– his expression is reserved and she can't tell what he is thinking. He looks at her for half a second, nostrils flared, before looking away from her.
While the proceedings are happening, she swims within her own mind. She stands near Jace, who has his arm looped in hers in a protective manner. Scattered words of Vaemond come through her muddled thoughts, 'Velaryon', 'Blood', 'Survival', 'House'. Her eyes were glazed over as she counted the cracks in the stones of the floor.
One, two, three... four...
She doesn't really pay attention to what's going on until the heavy doors of the throne room open with almost silencing impunity, quiet chatter and shocked whispers pulling her from her reverie.
"King Viserys of House Targaryen, the First of His Name, King of the Andals, and the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm!" the Kingsguard announced as His Grace, who still looked all the part of a royal corpse, hobbled into the room. He declined any assistance to walk and take his seat.
She gets a sinking feeling in her gut– something telling her that everything is about to explode.
"I must... admit... my confusion," he wheezes, winded by the small walk. Shera feels a small twinge of sympathy at that, understanding the feeling. "I do not understand why petitions are being heard over a settled succession."
"You are of sound mind in that, father," Rhaenyra bowed her head, unfurling another paper, walking to the King to present it. "This is a whit and declaration of betrothal between my son, Lucerys Velaryon, and Lord Corlys' granddaughter, Rhaena Targaryen. It is signed and stamped by Lady Rhaenys, who upholds her husband's declaration that Laenor's son shall inherit Driftmark. This betrothal shall only strengthen his claim."
Viserys gave a small smile. "Thank you, my daughter," he skimmed the paper, obviously with some struggle. "The matter... is settled, Ser Vaemond. It has been and it will... stay affirmed... that Prince Lucerys of House Velaryon is heir to Driftmark... the Driftwood Throne... and the next Lord of the Tides... and the children... of him and Lady Rhaena... will inherit it after him."
She feels the intensity in the air, it's almost palpable. She feels sick as the voices raise, the blood in the room rises.
Vaemond looks like he is about to burst, his body shaking in clear anger. "You break law... and centuries of tradition to install your daughter as heir. Yet you dare tell me... who deserves to inherit the name Velaryon," he pauses for a moment as if to consider his next words, "No.I will not allow it."
"'Allow it'? Do not forget yourself, Vaemond," Viserys struggled to sit up, returning Vaemond's vitriol with his own– as labored and unthreatening as it was.
"That," Vaemond pointed to Lucerys, with a look that could raze an army. "is no true Velaryon, and certainly no nephew of mine."
"Lucerys is my true-born grandson. And you... are no more than the second son of Driftmark."
"You... may run your house as you see fit... but you will not decide the future of mine. My house survived the Doom and a thousand tribulations besides. And gods be damned... I will not see it ended on the account of this..." Vaemond looked back to Lucerys and Jacaerys. The rage in his eyes were palpable as a humid day, the anger emanating from him sticking in the room like cloying smoke.
"Say it." Daemon whispered, eyes trained on the second son of Driftmark. The rogue prince was disarmingly calm, his voice like Caraxes' hiss.
"Her children... are bastards!" Vaemond boomed, stomping his foot and pointing again at Rhaenyra's sons.
Shera's breath left her lungs. She remembered what happened the last time someone called them bastards. She glanced to Aemond, who was looking right back at her.
"And she..." Ser Vaemond turned his damning finger to Rhaenyra, "is... a... whore."
The swing of a sword was all she heard.
It is silent, save for the hushed and shocked breathing of everyone watching. One would think that people would scream, would gasp. But no, it was quiet as a mouse, quiet as Vaemond's head was removed from his body and the gentle seep of blood staining the stone floor.
Shera had never seen anyone die before– not like this. She can see into the passages of his skull, his eyes still open. Shocked, she looks at Daemon, who is wiping his blade against his doublet. Her eyes were glued to the ground, to the cracks she was counting before. They were soaked in his blood, the divots and fissures of the stone opening way for the blood to fall into, branching out into jagged rivers.
One, two, three... f-four...
This is what is he capable of, isn't it? No one came to truly seize him, to arrest him for killing a man in broad daylight, in front of the King, in front of the Hand, in front of courtiers, in front of the Kingsguard.
Alicent's mouth was opened, her eyes wide. Even Otto was shocked, his fist clenched. It was as much emotion as Shera had ever seen the Hand express.
Her saliva feels cloying in her mouth as she glances across the room. Helaena has her ears covered and Shera wishes she had done the same. Aegon was staring off into space, pupils dilated. The scuffle of blades and minds beginning to come to a sense of what just really happened.
Aemond's face finally held some emotion: enamorment. For the power that Daemon held, the prowess, the act of brutality itself– Shera couldn't parse which. All she knew is that it scared her. That darkness lying just beneath the surface that she'd tried so hard to ignore–
Her extremities feel numb, the sharp sting of icy needles crawling up her arms and legs. She began to sway, unknowingly clasping onto Jacaerys. The room was spinning and shaking, the intense smell of copper— Vaemond's blood— tainting her senses.
A high pitched ringing overwhelmed her hearing as she slipped from consciousness into darkness.
—
Alicent held Rhaenyra's arm, hand over the length of the scar she gave her so many years ago. It seemed like a fever dream; that night. Her thumb traced the raised skin as the two women shared a moment in silence.
"I— I will return, Alicent," the princess murmured, her hand over her belly. "I will take the children home and return for Shera. We... we have overstayed our welcome." her throat bobbed as they spoke softly in the corner of the maester's room.
The queen's eyes roved over Shera's sleeping form. Her chest rose and fell softly and she seemed... troubled in her unconsciousness, soft whines emitting from her every so often. Her wolf stayed at the foot of the bed, standing at attention. Amber eyes vigilant, guarding.
"How... how shall you transport her? She hasn't woken up yet, Nyra," Alicent asked, tilting her head. "The maesters say she is fragile."
"Syrax is a smooth flier— a makeshift cot is being constructed on her saddle as we speak. The flight wouldn't be long and it would be much less taxing than a wheelhouse or horse."
Alicent nibbled on her lip anxiously. She had never been fond of dragons, despite most of those closest to her connected to one in some way.
Targaryens and their queer customs.
"Is... is that wise?" she pressed, brow knitting. "They do not even know if she will wake."
"I made an oath to her brother that I would keep her under my care, Alicent— we must go back to Dragonstone, our affairs cannot be put off any longer. I do not wish to birth my babe here, nor do I wish for Jacaerys to marry here."
But I wish for you to stay. I wish for you to leave that ingrate of a husband. She punctuated her unheard thought with a meaningful squeeze to Rhaenyra's arm. A silent plea— it was the first time in years that something had felt right.
But it wasn't her place to say anything about it, the words were better left unsaid. "If you think that is wise, Rhaenyra," the queen responded, her hand dropping from her skin as if it burned her. Mayhaps it did. "At least let our maesters monitor her for a few days— then you may take her."
Rhaenyra's jaw clenched as she recused both hands to her belly as if to defend herself. "Very well, my queen."
They were so close, yet so far.
—
It was hazy. Hazy and dreary— silent but all too loud. Her steps were calm and measured as her heart thumped in her chest. Shera felt light in her steps without any inhibition or reproach. Feeling no pain or vertigo, she flew down the staircase, skipping two or three at a time, giggling. This had to be a dream, didn't it?
Descending, down... down...
She was in the Red Keep, she knew. But it felt different, somehow. Younger in its stones, in the bones of its foundation, there was still some give.
And yet, despite the airiness of the walls, there was a shadow looming
Two somewhat familiar figures were conversing near the skull of Balerion. She recognized them from portraits– young Rhaenyra and a much healthier, much more alive version of Viserys.
She had always been fascinated by him, Balerion. Despite her heritage being very non-dragonesque, she always felt a childlike wonder whenever someone would speak of Balerion. It was hardly fathomable to her to imagine a dragon that would blot out the sun– one that even rivaled Vhagar's gargantuan size.
Viserys spoke softly but firmly to Rhaenyra, who was so young. She had just lost her mother and brother— the claim to the Iron Throne and named heir were up in the air.
"Aegon saw absolute darkness riding on those winds. And whatever dwells within will destroy the world of the living. When this Great Winter comes, Rhaenyra... all of Westeros must stand against it," Viserys urged softly as the candlelight flickered against his features, fingers skimming atop the flames
"And if the world of men is to survive, a Targaryen must be seated on the Iron Throne. A king," he paused, looking at Rhaenyra once more, "or queen, strong enough to unite the realm against the cold and the dark. Aegon called his dream 'The Song of Ice and Fire.' This secret... it's been passed from king to heir since Aegon's time. Now you must promise to carry it... and protect it. Promise me this, Rhaenyra," the king looked directly to where Shera was standing, looking right into her eyes, as if he could see her, see into her. "Promise me."
The metal of the Catspaw blade heated up atop the coals to a bright and almost fluorescent orange. Goosebumps prickled on Shera's skin in tandem with the rising heat of the room. It was so warm, no, it was hot, scorching. The air vacated her lungs, replaced by flames licking at her insides, burning, consuming.
Young Rhaenyra had left the room, leaving Viserys to look at the skull of Balerion. He picked up a single candle, peering into the flame like it held the secrets of the world.
He spoke again, but his voice wasn't that of the era of King that Shera was looking upon. It was old, weezing– just like in the throne room from earlier in the day. The form of Viserys slumped, hair falling out and skin graying as he held the candle like a lifeline. He fell to his knees and the sound of his bones shattering could be heard, breaking and splintering into nothing but dust.
But the candle was still lit. His hand, now nothing but bone and sinew, was fused to the wax.
"No... more," he coughed and sputtered, blood leaking from his lips onto the stone. Wax dripped, mingling with the blood. Finally, he focused on the flame of the candle. "My... love."
He blew out the candle with his last breath. With that, all of the candles in the room blew out.
Shera was left alone in the darkness and swirling smoke.
It was cold.
–
She awoke with a start, drenched in sweat. But she was still cold, shivering. The smell of smoke was still lingering.
Her chest was heaving as she sat up and tried to walk, wanting that same flighty weightlessness she felt before. Her body failed her and she crumbled to the floor, a broken doll once again. Arms wrapped around her and helped her up. The familiarity of sandalwood lulled her frantic nerves as she wholeheartedly buried her face into Aemond's chest. She knew it was him. His arms laced behind her as he lifted her up easily as if not to taint her with having to stand on the ground. His nose buried into her hair, holding onto her as if he was afraid she would slip away.
There was the sound of a throat clearing near the corner of the room. The two of them were not alone– but she didn't care. She clung to Aemond like her life depended on it, peering behind him slowly.
Aegon was sitting behind them, knee bobbing nervously. He looked... disheveled, more than usual. Even more so, he was wearing... the crown of the conqueror. He was wearing the crown of his namesake. "You've missed a lot, Shera," he muttered, eyes dark.
"Aegon?" she croaked, voice sounding hoarse and broken from disuse.
"'Tis 'your grace' now." Aegon said bitterly.