Chapter Text
A heavy, low hum poured over King’s Landing, making the window glass in the towers rattle and the water in goblets ripple into fine waves. The city had not heard such a sound since the last breath of Balerion the Black Dread dissolved into history. This was not the whistle of the wind or the familiar, thin shriek of young dragons; it was the sound of space itself being sliced open, the roar of titanic wings pushing clouds aside like old rags.
When Vhagar appeared over the horizon, the sun seemed to extinguish. Her shadow, vast and thick like a living night, blanketed the city. People in the streets froze, dropping baskets and tools from their hands; many, seized by primal terror, fell to their knees directly into the riverside mud, whispering prayers to the Seven. Beside this ancient being, Grey Ghost seemed like nothing more than a bright silver spark.
As Laena made her first circle over the Red Keep, the downdraft from the beat of Vhagar’s wings was so powerful that several Hightower banners flying proudly atop Maegor’s Holdfast snapped and went flying down into the abyss of the Blackwater. The landing on Rhaenys’s Hill, near the entrance to the Dragonpit, resembled a localized earthquake. Even the most experienced guards and keepers, accustomed to the whims of Caraxes or Syrax, instantly recoiled into the depths of the arched passageways. The old she-dragon, whose scales were pitted with the battle scars of centuries, released a cloud of hot steam from her nostrils that smelled of sulfur, old leather, and antique magic.
The meeting in the courtyard was thick with a tension so heavy it could be cut with a knife. Viserys, leaning on his cane and breathing heavily, stood at the very center, ahead of the guards. In his wide eyes, the bronze scales of Vhagar were reflected, and tears glistened on his cheeks, a strange mixture of childhood wonder and elderly fear.
"Seven Hells..." the King whispered as Laena, tanned, with disheveled silver hair and an incredible light in her eyes, descended to the ground.
Rhaenyra, casting aside all protocols and the cold mask of the Heir, rushed toward her wife. Their embrace was almost desperate. The Alpha felt a completely different energy radiating from Laena now, the calm, crushing power of a woman who had finally found the lost piece of her soul.
"You did it," Rhaenyra breathed, burying her face in hair that still smelled of Dornish sand and clouds. "I knew you could."
"She was waiting for me, Rhaenyra," Laena replied softly, pulling her close. "She just wanted to come home."
Aemond, standing a bit apart, silently watched the family’s reaction. His gaze settled on Alicent. The Queen looked as if she had just been struck by lightning. Her face was pale as parchment, and her lips were pressed together so tightly they had turned into a thin white line. She convulsively clutched little Gaemon, as if trying to hide the child in her chest from the power the King's eldest son had brought. Beside her, Aegon, whose face was usually a mask of boredom and indifference, now stared at the dragon with undisguised awe. But deep in his eyes, a bitterness smoldered; he felt small and insignificant before this greatness.
"You promised," Aegon said quietly, stepping up to Aemond. His voice, usually arrogant, now trembled like a taut string. "You promised that my fire would wake too. Now that we have Vhagar... is there even any point? Will there be a place for my dragon beside this mountain?"
Aemond placed a hand on his brother’s shoulder. He could feel him shivering with a slight chill.
"There is room for every dragon, Aegon. But you must stop looking for it within the walls of the Pit. Stop waiting for permission from lords or maesters. Start looking for that fire within yourself, where you hide your fear. Your dragon will not come to a prince; he will come to a rider."
Helaena approached last. She was the only one who did not look at Vhagar. Her gaze was focused on Aemond, as if she saw threads in him invisible to others.
"She smells of sand and a thousand years," the girl whispered, gently touching the embroidered sleeve of his cloak. "Now the threads are not tangled, brother. Now they are becoming steel."
Aemond smiled at her; this girl always knew more than she could express.
He picked up little Jacaerys, who was squealing with delight. The babe was not at all afraid of Vhagar’s roar; on the contrary, the infant reached his chubby hands toward the sky, as if trying to grab the dragon's tail. In this chaos of triumph, Aemond felt the absence of two important figures who balanced his life.
Half a year had passed since Daemon and Velaena left the capital. After the painful, tragic loss of their first child, Velaena could not bear the cold stones of the Red Keep or the hypocritical, sympathetic glances of the Small Council. When she learned the gods had blessed her with pregnancy again, she begged Daemon to take her away. The Rogue Prince, who had become unusually protective and quiet after his talk with Aemond, took her to Dragonstone without hesitation. There, in the ancestral nest, the air smelled of salt, smoke, and true freedom, not the intrigues of the Red Keep.
"Daemon writes that Velaena is feeling better. Her eyes are shining again," Viserys said, approaching his son and placing a hand on his shoulder. "She insisted the child be born among dragons, not among lords. And I understand her."
The evening at the castle was unusually quiet. The great celebration continued in the lower halls, but Aemond sat in Rhaenyra’s chambers, where wine and fruit stood on the table. Laena leaned back against the cushions, speaking of Dorne.
"Dorne remembers us, Rhaenyra," she said, looking pensively at the fire in the hearth. "But now they see in us not just the shadows of conquerors who came with the sword. They see a power with which it is more profitable to drink wine at the same table than to feud."
"And what do you say, valonqar?" Rhaenyra turned to Aemond, embracing her omega. Since he and Laena returned, the alpha had not let the girl stray a single step.
Aemond went to the window, which offered a view of the lights of the harbor and the majestic silhouette of Vhagar asleep on the rocks.
"I say we won the first round without a single drop of blood. But do not delude yourselves. The Hightowers will not forgive us for Vhagar. She is an ace he cannot cover with his cards. He will look for a way to strike where we least expect. Treachery is the weapon of those who have no dragons."
Rhaenyra tensed, her gaze becoming sharp.
"What do you suggest?"
"We need to strengthen our positions. And we need to temper our allies. That is why I plan to send Aegon to Dragonstone, to Daemon."
"Why?" Rhaenyra raised an eyebrow in surprise. "You know uncle cannot stand Alicent’s children."
"Exactly why. Aegon needs a teacher who will not care for his title of Prince and will teach him to be a true dragon, not a puppet in his mother’s hands. He needs someone who will show that strength is responsibility, not just an excuse for giving orders."
Aemond paused long, looking at his hands, which still seemed to feel the heat from the flame he had been training with again.
"And also because the next dragon to receive a rider is there now. And he belongs to Aegon. If he does not claim him now, they will make an enemy out of Aegon that we won't be able to save."
Morning in King’s Landing began not with church bells, but with a low, vibrating rumble that made the walls shake. Aemond stood on an open balcony, hands clasped behind his back, squinting against the bright sun. Over Blackwater Bay, a spectacle unfolded that made the heart race: Vhagar, like a majestic flying fortress, glided slowly through the clouds, while Syrax circled beside her like golden lightning.
It was a dance of two elements. Laena sat in Vhagar’s high saddle, clutching little Jacaerys tightly. The babe, wrapped in wool blankets and leather protection, was not crying; he was laughing, reaching tiny hands toward Syrax’s golden scales whenever Rhaenyra flew close.
Aemond felt this triumph as his own. They were no longer vulnerable. The two most powerful women in the kingdom possessed the sky together, and this union was stronger than any paper treaties. Yet, inside the castle, the air was entirely different.
Alicent Hightower was acting like a young chess player trying to subtly change the positions of the pieces. Aemond noticed how every time he entered the solar to see Helaena or play with little Gaemon, septas, maids, or maesters with urgent lessons would "accidentally" be there.
"Prince Aemond," the Queen would stop him in the corridor, her voice soft but with a note of steel, blocking the way to the children's quarters. "Helaena needs rest now; she is whispering about spiders and threads again... it exhausts her so. And Gaemon has just been taken for his bath. Perhaps you should go to the library instead? You ought to spend more time on history rather than playing with children."
She was afraid of him. Aemond saw it in the way her fingers twitched as she adjusted her green dress. She felt she was losing influence over her children, that Aemond was becoming an authority for them higher than herself. She tried to break these bonds, to isolate Haimon from his "strange" brother, but Aemond only smiled patiently. He knew the seeds had already been sown.
One evening, Viserys called Aemond to his chambers. The King looked tired; the model of Old Valyria he had so carefully assembled was now covered in a layer of dust. He was silent for a long time, studying his dear son, who at seventeen carried himself like a seasoned lord.
"You are very much like my brother Daemon, son," Viserys said hoarsely, sipping milk of the poppy. "The same eyes, the same unshakable faith in your own rightness. Do you truly believe that sending Aegon to Dragonstone is a wise decision? Alicent is beside herself with grief; she believes I am handing her firstborn into the wolf’s den."
Aemond walked to the table and moved one of the dragon figurines on the model of the city.
"Kepa, Dragonstone is not a wolf's den. It is the cradle of our house. Aegon is suffocating here. Here, he sees only expectations he cannot meet. Uncle Daemon will not pity him; he will force him to be a man."
Viserys sighed, his gaze softening.
"You have a way of persuading, my boy. Sometimes it seems to me that through you, my dear Aemma is leading me onto the right path. Very well. Let him go. But promise me that you will look after him."
Preparations for the departure began immediately and took place in an atmosphere of somber bustle. Aemond personally checked Aegon’s trunks, tossing out unnecessary luxuries and adding sturdy leather flight armor. Aegon himself wandered the castle like a ghost; he was terrified of the prospect of meeting the "dreaded uncle," yet at the same time, a spark of hope appeared in his eyes for the first time.
"Do you really think he will accept me?" Aegon asked in a whisper as they stood on the dock on the day of departure. The sun had only just begun to rise, painting the water the color of molten lead.
Aemond placed a hand on his brother’s shoulder, squeezing it firmly.
"He will accept you if you come to him not as a spoiled prince, but as a Targaryen seeking wisdom from an elder dragon."
The departure for Dragonstone took place under the cover of a grey dawn. King’s Landing was still asleep when Grey Ghost spread his wings, leaving behind the castle that smelled of Alicent's intrigue and fear. Standing on the ship’s deck, Aemond felt the tension that had gripped his chest for months begin to ease.
Dragonstone met them with an inhospitable leaden sky and a salty mist that bit through clothing to the bone. When the boat docked at the spray-wet pier, Daemon was already waiting for them, standing motionless on a stone outcrop overhanging the sea. The Rogue Prince, whose name once made Westeros shudder in anticipation of chaos, looked older. The silver of his hair seemed duller under the grey clouds, and his eyes no longer held that unpredictable, wild fury. Instead, there was a focused, almost animal silence of a man standing guard over his last bastion.
He spoke not a single word of greeting. Only a short, searching look at Aegon, who shriveled from the wind, and a longer, heavy look at Aemond.
"You’ve brought me a burden, nephew," Daemon rasped, nodding toward Aegon. "But perhaps this rock will carve something resembling a man out of him."
Their relationship on the island quickly turned into a strange, almost mystical tandem. Daemon became a stern mentor who brooked no weakness; he would wake Aegon at dawn and force him to train with swords until he had bloody blisters on his hands, ignoring his status. Aemond, meanwhile, became his strategic advisor. They spent hours in the Chamber of the Painted Table, where torchlight cast long, twisted shadows across the map of Westeros.
Meanwhile, Velaena was fading. Her pregnancy was a heavy burden. The Princess's face had become almost transparent, blue veins showing through the thin skin at her temples, and her violet eyes seemed vast and filled with unutterable anxiety. She often called Aemond to her chambers, which always smelled of lavender and warmed stone.
"Sit with me," she would ask, reaching out a thin, hot hand. "You smell of peace... not the peace of the grave, but the kind that comes before dawn. The maesters give me bitter brews, but only beside you do I stop seeing shadows in the corners."
Aemond silently squeezed her fingers. He could feel the life inside her pulsing with a wild, irregular rhythm, and it filled his heart with a premonition of the inevitable.
It was during these anxious days that the reason for their arrival occurred. Aegon, who had initially wandered the castle like a ghost, began to disappear into the smoky caverns of the Dragonmont. Daemon only chuckled, saying the mountain would either accept him or consume him. And the mountain accepted.
When Sunfyre, golden as a molten treasure of Old Valyria, first spread his wings over the island, it seemed as if the sun itself had descended from the heavens. The dragon took flight, eclipsing the daylight with the radiance of his scales. Aemond, standing on a tower, saw the figure of his brother in the saddle; Aegon was no longer hunched and terrified. He stood straight, his cry of joy drowned out by the roar of the golden beast. In that moment, Aemond felt one of the most important threads of fate knot firmly into place. It was the awakening of a prince who finally felt worthy of his name and blood.
But the shadow of death blanketed the castle. Velaena’s labor began suddenly in the middle of the night. A storm raged over the sea, and claps of thunder mingled with the woman’s screams. All of Dragonstone trembled. The walls of black obsidian seemed to absorb the pain, becoming slick with moisture. Daemon paced the corridor like a wounded beast, pushing away anyone who tried to approach him. Caraxes roared in the Pit so loudly the rocks shook. Aegon huddled trembling against Aemond, seeking support from the omega.
Hours passed that felt like eternity. Finally, as the sky began to turn grey, the doors opened. The midwife carried out two bundles. Twins. Baela, who immediately announced herself with a loud, demanding cry, and Rhaena, quiet, small, only faintly snuffling as if afraid to break the silence of this somber place.
Aemond approached the children. Looking at those tiny faces, he felt a surge of such tenderness that a lump formed in his throat, but this tenderness was poisoned by horror. He knew the price of this life. Daemon, seeing his daughters, changed for a brief moment; his face smoothed, he reached out trembling hands, and in that moment, he looked like the happiest man in the world.
"My girls..." the alpha whispered.
But his joy at the birth of his children shattered completely when the maester stepped out of the chambers. He looked at no one, his head bowed, his blood-stained hands hidden in his wide sleeves.
"My Prince..." he began, but Daemon already understood from the silence.
Velaena was gone. She had given all her warmth, all her life force to these two tiny creatures, leaving behind only a cold body and a gentle smile frozen forever. Daemon let out a sound that was not human, it was the roar of a broken dragon, a sound that made even seasoned guards lower their eyes.
The first days after Velaena’s death turned Dragonstone into a glass cage where every sound echoed off the obsidian walls with painful clarity. Daemon disappeared. He did not fly away on Caraxes, which would have been predictable for the Rogue Prince; no, he locked himself in a highest tower where the wind howled in the embrasures and let no one in, not even servants with food. From there, only a low, vibrating hum of Valyrian chants could be heard, with which he said goodbye to his wife, and this sound was more terrifying than any scream.
Aemond had to take charge of the castle, as the next oldest Targaryen on the island. His thin shoulders seemed to broaden under the weight of this responsibility. He walked the corridors, which smelled of wet sulfur and cold ash, and his voice, quiet but unwavering, became the only law for the frightened household staff.
The hardest part was with the infants. Baela cried almost without stopping, her little face turning crimson and her fists flailing the air as if she were already demanding justice from the gods. Rhaena, conversely, was too quiet. She barely moved, only staring with vast, sad eyes into the void, and Aemond feared she would follow her mother if she did not find something to cling to in this world.
"Give her to me," Aemond said, approaching the exhausted wet nurse who was fruitlessly trying to soothe Baela.
"My Prince, you shouldn't..." the woman began, but Aemond simply reached out and took the babe for himself.
Without taking his eyes off the child, Aemond ordered the nurse to leave them. He sat in a heavy chair by the hearth, where logs crackled. Placing Baela on his left elbow and cradling Rhaena to his chest with his right arm, he closed his eyes. His inner flame began to surface through his skin, radiating a soft, barely perceptible pulsing light. He began to hum an old Valyrian lullaby he had heard in one of his lives. The omega repeated everything he used to do with his younger siblings. Baela quieted first, enchanted by the warmth coming from the boy, and Rhaena, for the first time, gripped his doublet firmly with her tiny fingers.
This was how Daemon found them three days later. He entered the nursery without warning, pale, with sunken eyes and stubble on his face. He smelled of old wine and dragon smoke. He stopped in the doorway, watching as Aemond held his daughters with the confidence of a natural-born parent.
"You smell of...", Daemon rasped, coming closer. His voice cracked. "She loved it when you sat nearby. Said you were the only one whose scent calmed her."
Aemond, without raising his head, spoke to the Alpha: "Velaena did not give her life so that you could rot in one of the towers. Look at them. Baela already has your temperament, and Rhaena... Rhaena has her heart."
Daemon sank to his knees by the chair. His large hand, accustomed to the hilt of Dark Sister, gently touched Baela’s soft hair. In this moment, he was not a warrior. He was only a man trying to pick up the pieces of his shattered life.
"Sometimes I forget you are my nephew and not my father, returned from the other side to lecture me again."
In response, Aemond only gave a soft huff toward his uncle, careful not to disturb the children.
Preparations for the funeral at Driftmark took place in a stifling silence. Aegon, who did not leave his Sunfyre or his brother’s side, helped load the belongings. He had become more serious; the gold of his dragon seemed reflected in his character, burning away the remnants of childhood levity.
The journey to Driftmark was short but unbearable. When the fleet with black sails approached High Tide, Aemond felt the sea breathing cold. Vaemond Velaryon awaited them on the shore. Velaena’s father looked as if he himself had died with his daughter. His gaze, fixed on Daemon, was filled with such fury that the air around seemed to freeze.
"You bring me ash, Prince," Vaemond spat when Daemon stepped onto the pier. "You promised to keep her safe, yet you bring her in a coffin."
Daemon did not answer. He only pressed Baela, whom he held in his arms, closer to himself.
Throughout the day, the sky over Driftmark was covered with low, ashen clouds that seemed about to give birth to heavy rain. The air was so thick with salt and moisture that every breath came with effort. Guests and relatives gathered at High Tide, turning the castle into a silent hive where, instead of buzzing, whispers and the rustle of mourning silks reigned.
The first to appear on the horizon were two winged shadows. Rhaenyra on golden Syrax and Laena on majestic Vhagar sliced through the mist, landing on the coastal rocks with such a roar that foam from the waves flew higher than the parapets. Rhaenyra stepped ashore first, holding little Jacaerys tightly in her arms. The boy, usually boisterous, was quiet now, as if sensing the weight of the moment. Behind them flew Meleys, carrying her own rider, who had been visiting her daughter in King’s Landing at the time.
Daemon met them on the lower terrace. He looked like a shadow of himself: his eyes were sunken, and the skin over his cheekbones was taut like old parchment. Rhaenyra approached him and, ignoring all rules of propriety, simply placed a hand on his forearm.
"Uncle," she said softly. "My heart breaks along with yours. She was a light we will all miss."
Daemon only gave a short nod, his gaze fixed somewhere past her. Laena was next, her eyes red from crying. When they finally went to the chambers to meet the newborns, Baela and Rhaena, Rhaenys was the first to break the silence.
"They are beautiful, cousin," she whispered, touching the tiny hand of Baela, who even in sleep gripped the edge of the blanket tightly. "This one is a true warrior. And Rhaena... she looks so much like Velaena did as a child."
Soon, a lavish royal barge docked, painted in red and gold, looking too bright against the general mourning. Viserys stepped ashore heavily, leaning on a cane and a guard’s arm. Beside him walked Alicent, whose face was a frozen mask of pious sympathy. Her green dress was buttoned up tight, and she clutched a prayer book in her hands.
As soon as all the traditional condolences were voiced, and Viserys, embracing his brother, began to speak quietly to him about the will of the gods, Alicent immediately stepped aside. Her eyes, sharp and anxious, instantly found Aegon in the crowd. She approached her eldest son almost at a run, her hands trembling as she touched his face.
"Aegon, my boy," she whispered, feeling his shoulders and arms as if searching for hidden wounds or bruises from Daemon’s training. "You are pale. Did he not hurt you? Tell the truth, that castle... it is cursed; it reeks of death."
"Mother, stop," Aegon pulled away irritably, though his voice held its usual uncertainty. "I’m fine. I’m flying Sunfyre. I... I’ve become stronger."
Alicent pursed her lips, casting a suspicion-filled glance toward Daemon and Aemond, who stood nearby. To her, this change in her son was not a sign of strength, but a sign that he was escaping her control.
Last to arrive were Corlys and Laenor. Their ship, battered by storms, dropped anchor in the bay only an hour before the ceremony began. The Sea Snake had to cut short an important trading expedition, and Laenor had to leave his affairs in the islands to say goodbye to their niece and cousin. Corlys walked with a heavy step, his face grim; the death of a young representative of his house was a blow not just to his heart, but to the greatness of House Velaryon.
The funeral took place at sunset, when the sky turned crimson-black, like clotted blood. The family gathered on the edge of a high cliff, where waves crashed thunderously against sharp rocks. Velaena’s body lay in a massive wooden coffin, adorned with carved seahorses and dragons.
Daemon stood at the front, motionless as a statue. When the Valyrian horns let out their first, long and mournful sound that tore the evening silence, four stout sailors began to tilt the slab. The coffin, with a silent, relentless slide, went into the dark waters of the bay. The splash was short, and the sea instantly swallowed its child.
Aemond watched this without blinking. He stood between Daemon and Rhaenyra, feeling the cold wind bite to the bone, but inside he was hot. He saw Vaemond Velaryon turn away, covering his face with his hands; he saw Daemon, the great warrior and prince, hunch as if from a physical blow. In this minute, Aemond felt the last drop of childhood naivety evaporate from his soul.
"Love is a poison," he thought, clenching his fists tighter under his cloak. "It makes us weak. It makes us cry on the shore while the sea takes everything we have."
He looked at the dark water and knew: he would never let himself break like that. He would not cry for what was lost; he would fight for what must remain.
When the ceremony ended and people began to slowly disperse, Aemond walked to the edge of the cliff where Daemon stood staring into the darkness of the water.
"I will return to Dragonstone with you," he said. It was not a request; it was a statement. "The girls need someone who will not look at them through tears. Rhaenyra and Laena will escort the royal family to the King's Landing, after which they will visit along with Rhaenys."
The first weeks after returning to Dragonstone were for Aemond a time of strange, almost sickly rebirth. The castle, carved from black obsidian, no longer seemed somber to him, it seemed alive. The omega spent long hours between the two cradles of his cousins, Baela and Rhaena, whose breathing in the silence of the nursery was the only rhythm that calmed his own turbulent heart. When the girls fell asleep, he went to the Chamber of the Painted Table, where Daemon, immersed in the silent fury of his grief, often moved dragon figurines across the wooden map of Westeros. They did not speak much, but in this silence, a union was forged stronger than any oaths.
However, that morning everything changed. Aemond woke up not from an infant’s cry or the sound of the surf, but from a feeling that his blood had turned into molten gold. Every cell of his body vibrated with an unbearable, pulsing heat. He kicked off the thin silk blanket, but the air in the chambers, usually cool and damp from sea mist, now felt thick like hot pitch. An attempt to take a breath caused only a dry cough.
"What the hell?.." he rasped, trying to sit up.
The fire in his chest pulsed in time with his heart, and every throb echoed with sharp pain in his temples. The sounds of the awakening castle became unbearably loud: the distant clatter of weapons in the courtyard hit his ears like hammer blows on an anvil, and the rustle of Caraxes’s wings far in the caverns felt like a vibration in his very bones.
Aemond swayed, clutching the carved bedpost. The world before his eyes began to blur, pulling into a golden haze. He took a step toward the table where water shimmered in a crystal carafe, but his knees suddenly turned to water. His legs gave way, and he barely managed to catch the edge of the table, nearly knocking over a heavy candelabra.
This was not a cold or a fever from exhaustion. It was it, the first true heat of an omega. But because of his dual nature, because of the blood magic and the fire burning in his chest, it was not a soft call of nature. It was a devastating storm. His own body was betraying him, emitting a scent that was too sweet, too sharp, a scent of musk, wild flowers, and scorched stone. This aroma mixed with the eternal scent of Dragonstone’s sulfur, creating a mind-numbing cloud around him.
"Not now... not like this..." he whispered, sliding onto the cold floor. His fingers scraped against the stone, trying to find purchase, but his consciousness was uncontrollably sinking into the haze.
Suddenly, the heavy oak door of the chambers shuddered. There was the rattle of a bolt, and a stream of cold air burst inside, bringing with it the smell of salt, dragon smoke, and... safety. Aemond raised his heavy head, trying to make out the figure in the doorway through the veil of tears and fever.
It was a tall silhouette with white hair shining in the dim light of morning. Aemond wanted to push away, wanted to scream to whoever it was to go away, that this was a mistake, that they shouldn't see him so weak, so vulnerable. One last clear thought flashed through his head: "Why here? Why now?". But the words stuck in his throat.
The heat finally consumed him. Darkness began to close in from all sides, leaving only the sensation of strong arms catching his body a moment before his head would have hit the obsidian floor. He felt the warmth of a stranger’s chest and that unbearably familiar scent, which now seemed to him the only salvation in a world falling apart. Aemond closed his eyes, falling into a bottomless golden abyss, feeling stranger's arms pressing him close with a force that bordered on pain.