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Maereys Velaryon does not seek out fortune tellers. She does not cling to prophecies. She does not worry over visions of the future, or men with the Sight.
She does, however, look at the stars.
How can one not?
They are beautiful. Powerful. Like shimmering specks of fire in the sky that light the night path for them.
Stars cannot not tell her the future, but she thinks perhaps—perhaps if she reaches out and claims one—a bright one—it will grant her a future she wishes.
The first time she sees such a star it is in the form of a boy who rides the largest dragon in the world.
She sees them high in the clouds gliding and soaring. She is a Targaryen. She is fire and blood. She has seen enough dragon riders, been in the sky herself on her precious Brightfyre.
But she has witnessed nothing like this. He burns brighter than anything she has ever seen.
She knows this boy well.
He is the second son of King Viserys I Targaryen and Queen Alicent Hightower. He is her uncle, though they are nearly the same age.
Aemond Targaryen.
His brother, Aegon knows him to be strange. Her own brothers, Jace and Luke know him to be arrogant and cold.
Even after years spent growing up together in Kings Landing, Mary has never known what to make of him.
He is often sullen and harsh, the absence of his own dragon a wound that seems to have cut deep and it does not help that he is reminded of that fact in jest often by his own brother and nephews.
She has never felt ill will towards Aemond. In fact, she has admonished her brothers time and time again for their lighthearted bullying.
Staring up at him through a window of Castle Driftmark, as he rides Vhagar in the dark of the night among the stars, she sees what she has always known, that he will burn bright.
It is only when boy and dragon disappear from her sight that she steps away from the window. The walk back to her room is short. She knows her way well, knows how to keep out of sight from the patrolling soldiers.
She has just about turned the handle of her door, when she spies Jace and her cousins, Baela and Rhaena, sneaking out of his room, little Luke following behind.
“What are you doing?” Her whisper startles the four of them.
Her brother, only a few minutes younger than her, shakes his head. “Nothing to worry about, Mary. Go back to bed.”
The dismissal does not hurt.
She is used to how her family sees her.
She is considered soft—they may deny it but she knows it to be true. Her heart, her wishes, it makes her weak in their eyes. Her uncle Daemon looks past her as if she is not there. Jace and Luke though they love her, often exclude her believing she won’t be able to stomach their antics.
But never Princess Rhaenyra. Her mother has never made her feel like that.
Her mother tells her, her heart is what makes Mary stronger than them. She tells her, in that way she is like her father.
Mary is old enough to know what that means.
Though they have come to Driftmark for Laena Velaryon’s funeral, it is not she who Mary mourns most for.
The loss of Harwin Strong is still frightfully visceral.
It has never been acknowledged that he was her true father. There was only ever the short glimpses of love in his eyes, the comforting warmth of his hand on her shoulder, and small words when she needed advice or encouragement.
If something so small can be missed so deeply—she cannot fathom losing any of the rest of her family.
As her brothers and cousins disappear down the hallway, she ruminates. She knows where they are going.
Just as she had, Baela and Rhaena have witnessed the star in the sky.
For Rhaena the chance of claiming her late mothers dragon is now gone, a fact that is no doubt painful.
But nothing can be done about it.
Vhagar has chosen him. Just as he chose her.
Mary’s feet have already turned her in the direction the other children have gone.
They will not understand it. Then old grudges will reignite, and tempers will flare.
She fears she is already too late as she nears the entrance of the caves down below. She hears raised voices, the sound of struggling.
She sees her cousins huddled to the side. She sees Jace on the floor, Aemond standing above him, his hand raising a rock high in the air. And she sees Luke scrambling for a dagger from the sand. He moves to lunge, a rageful scream ripping from his throat.
“Stop it!”
Her shout echoes through the cave and their faces turn to her. She breaths a sigh of relief as the rock falls to the floor, and Luke falters in his steps.
A long moment passes and then Aemond lunges in an attempt to disarm Luke. The struggle causes the dagger to fall a few feet from them.
Aemond is on it before any of them can move and once he has retrieved it, he shoves Luke to the floor.
A movement catches her eye, and she cries once again, “Don’t Jace.”
But her words fall on deaf ears. Her brother, brave but foolish lunges for Aemond with no weapon on him.
Jace manages to get a few hits before Aemond fights back. She sees the sharp blade swipe and then raise, she sees her defenseless brother, and the terrifying idea of harm upon him is too much.
She is moving quickly, her hands and feet working on their own accord, to pull out her own dagger that is strapped to her hip and putting herself between Aemond and her brother.
The sound of a clang reverberates. Metal against metal. His eyes shine with anger, blinding her, burning her alight.
But she will not yield, even as her hand shakes in the effort to hold his dagger in place right in front of their faces.
His face twists into something cruel and smug. “I thought we were missing a bastard.”
The slight does not faze her. It is Luke who bristles. A cry of anger again, and Luke is moving, shoving into the both of them though his target is Aemond.
Aemond stumbles one foot back, his knife slides against hers. She goes forward, the weight against her own dagger suddenly gone, she cannot control its path.
She sees it cut his skin and the hue of his eye. She feels the barest drops of his blood splatter on her skin. And worst of all she hears his guttural cry.
And then she is being moved to the side, as Kingsguard soldiers rush in and attend to Aemond’s writhing form.
Her hand falls limp against her side, the dagger slipping from her fingers to land on the sand.
She barely registers what happens next. Jace’s hand pulling her away, up the stairs, the deep frown on her mother’s face as she assesses her children’s injuries. She distantly hears the sound of people whispering as the court gathers to witness the incident. She hears King Viserys demand to know what happened, and then there is a cacophony of arguing.
Mary is not weak. She is not cowardly. But tonight, she hides behind her mother—hides from what she has done.
Queen Alicent’s voice pierces through the fog in her mind. It is broken, angry, laced with desperation.
And she sees it then, how deeply Alicent loves her children. No one can ever doubt it, not after tonight.
Her own mother is ice and stone in the face of Alicent’s fury. As if their roles have been flipped. As if there is fire in Alicent’s blood. So long among Targaryens perhaps there is.
An eye for an eye, Alicent demands and perhaps there is an inkling of merit to the sentiment.
It will lessen the claw of guilt that grips her heart surely.
Her eyes drift to Aemond. The boy had barely cried out as the maester stitched his face and now he stands watching his mother, half of his face marred by Mary’s hands.
She wants to speak. She wants to tell Alicent that it was an accident. That her son is not in danger among his own family.
She wants to tell her mother that she did not mean it. That she would never hurt someone like that.
Most of all she wants to tell Aemond that she is sorry.
But she does not. The only sound she makes that night is a cry when Alicent lunges towards them, a knife in hand, only to be stopped by her defiant mother.
Perhaps she is weak.
The return to Kings Landing feel likes home.
It is not comfortable like Dragonstone. It is not beautiful like Driftmark.
It certainly does not look like how it had been when they left many years ago.
But it is the place she grew up in.
The halls of the Red Keep are familiar to her, not far away, is the beauty of the Dragonpit, and there is a particular spot on a terrace of the Red Keep that provides a sight one cannot find anywhere in Westeros.
During the day it is of the sprawling city and distant green hills. During the night it is of the bay glistening with moonlight and the sky littered with stars.
The city itself is overcrowded, the streets lined with filth and wafts of pungent smells but that only serves as a reminder, that they must do better as rulers of Westeros.
And that can only be done if they are at their rightful home.
She only wishes they were there for better reasons, but over the past few years she has tried to do less of it—wishing. She still looks to the stars, but she does not expect anything from them. Not after that night.
They are there for their birthright to once again be scrutinized and called into question as the court debates on the line of succession for Driftmark.
She sees and hears the whispers that follow them upon arrival. It is only Jace who is unaffected by it, and as their mother and Daemon visit upon the King, he drags his two siblings to the courtyard unencumbered.
Mary’s steps slow as Jace and Luke go ahead of her to examine the weapon table.
Something quick and bright, has caught her eye. She turns her head and walks forward catching only glimpses between a crowd of people.
Then she sees him, and she cannot look away even if she tried.
The people are similarly transfixed, even Jace and Luke have pushed through the crowd to witness him.
Aemond is ethereal. Shining, burning brighter than he has ever been before. She knew it would be so.
If not for the covering over one eye, perhaps she wouldn’t have recognized him.
It has been nearly ten years since they last saw each other, and they have all grown.
There are curves on her body, that had not been there before, the swell of her chest more pronounced now in her dresses, and when she looks in the mirror it is the eyes of a woman grown that look back at her.
Jace is taller than her now and reminds her much of their father what little she remembers of him. And little Luke, still boyish and innocent, but now almost reaches her height.
But Aemond has changed most of all. He is tall and lithe and terrifying. There is now a vicious coldness, a righteous arrogance, to his sharp features. And he fights as if he was born with a sword in his hand. His movements are controlled and almost graceful, his focus steadfast on his opponent, who happens to be Ser Criston Cole.
She watches as Aemond rolls his sword in his hand, the sun glinting off the blade, before he fields off the swing of his opponent’s morningstar. Before anyone can blink, he turns with an impressive display of footwork, parries another attack, before his hand is shooting out and placing the tip of his sword to Ser Criston’s neck.
Words are exchanged, his voice is soft and measured, and it makes it all the more deadly. She hears him address her brothers before his eyes suddenly flick to her just beyond the edge of the crowd.
It is the smallest of moments, just as quickly he has turned his attention elsewhere, but she feels as if someone has scorched her.
Her skin grows warm all over, and there is twinge in her stomach though she is not sure if it is from fear or something else entirely.
What she does know for certain from the gleam in his eye when he looked at her, is that though time has passed, their past is certainly not forgotten.
Mary has always enjoyed her grandsires company.
He has always been as much of a lover of the written word as her.
Growing up she and him had often poured over the history and philosophy books, spending hours in the massive archives of Kings Landing, or visiting the Citadel to stargaze. His words were always wise, his stories always captivating.
When she comes to visit upon him in his room, she is both overjoyed and sorrowed.
He has recovered after his appearance in court on the matter of Driftmark’s succession, but he is not much better. It pains her to witness so closely the state that he is in. The constant pain, almost bedridden, and only half-lucid.
She thinks of the years lost and once more she wishes that this simmering tension—this underlying feud between the family be put to rest, but she now recognizes that voice in her head as the innocence in her.
It is naivety. It is idealism. It is wishing upon the stars.
It is something she must tamp down because it is a weakness.
Her dear grandsire, for all his age and wisdom, never realized this.
They will say King Viserys was an honorable man, a kind man—but they will also say he was a weak man.
Whether it had been due to innocence or willful ignorance, he never once firmly righted the problems in his own house.
His shaky cough tears her from her thoughts. Her hands hover, unsure how to help her grandsire but he waves them away.
She sits back in her seat, listening to his breathing as it evens out. She does not know if he recognizes her, his eyes have barely blinked open, but she hopes he registers the sound of her voice as she opens up the book she brought for him.
They stay there like that for the next hour. She has made it halfway through the texts of a tale from Old Valyria when she notices him stir.
His eyes open, the most she has ever seen and there is a recognition in them as he looks at her.
“Maereys.”
She moves to sit by him on the bed, taking his hand in hers. It is cold and missing digits, but she pays it no mind.
“Grandsire.”
He makes a pained sound, his eyes blinking slowly. “Mary, sweet child…”
“I’m here grandsire.”
“Will you—” He coughs violently. “Will you allow me to burden you with my thoughts?”
“Of course, I’m listening grandsire.”
“I…I wish to pass.” Her heart twists painfully, at the words uttered with a tone of moroseness. “But I am held here, burdened by a weight that has not left my heart for many years. I fear…Mary, I fear I have not done enough.”
She does not need any more words to understand what he means. She knows what troubles him, it is the same thing that worries her.
She squeezes his hand in comfort. “You did all you could.”
“No.” He shakes his head as if he does not want her sympathy. “I could have done more—I should have…I was afraid that one of them would loathe me for it.”
He had been too weak to face a loved one’s wrath, she could not fault him for a soft heart.
Perhaps if he had had someone—someone who could have supported him, strengthened him, who he could have told his wishes to, and have it been done—Perhaps things would be different.
“It wasn’t wrong for you to want everyone to be happy.” She hesitates and speaks her next words very softly. “But perhaps, it had been wishful to think it could have worked.”
He mumbles somthing, his eyes falling shut and when they do not open, her heart stops beating. “Grandsire?”
Her grip on his hand turns into a vice but finally he stirs, and his eyes open again, wide and desperate. He looks as if has found something—strength of some sort, as if he means to get up right then.
“She will hate me for it.”
There are only two women he can be speaking of and for the sake of the realm, she hopes it is his wife.
“In time, she will come to understand.”
“Perhaps.” But he does not look like he believes it. “Or perhaps not. But it is for the good of the family, for the good of the realm. You must believe me, I have seen it. This is the only way.”
She nods, truly believing every word of it. He is teetering on the edge of some decision, and she hopes her words will help him reach it.
“You still have life—fire and blood in you.” She says earnestly. “If you wish to do something, you must not hesitate, please—Or perhaps it will be too late.”
He nods but his eyes are unfocused now, and he has returned to his state of half-lucidity.
“Rhaenyra…” He rasps slowly. “You will be a good queen…a far better ruler than me.” His eyes stray away, a heavy sadness in them. “Do not let her hate me for too long.”
Her heart breaks, and yet she is somehow relieved her dear grandsire has confirmed his support for her mother.
Alicent will not hate him. Mary knows the Queen holds some semblance of love for him and she truly believes that the doubt in her mother’s claim does not stem from Alicent. Rather it is the good lords of Westeros who believe they cannot be ruled by a woman.
But when her mother takes the throne, she will do well in reassuring Alicent that her children are safe under her rule. Then their family will stand together and there will be little those lords will be able to do.
“She will not hate you, I know it for certain.”
He nods weakly, his eyes slowly falling shut, but the promise that leaves his lips is unwavering and strong.
“Tonight.”
After so many years, their family now in the same place, King Viserys requests they have dinner together.
And it is a request Mary follows more enthusiastically than the rest of her family. She nearly has to drag Luke, who proclaims his envy for their younger brothers, who have been put to sleep before the night’s events.
She sits at the foot of the table, watching her family as they interact as if they are strangers. There is little talk, just the same tense silence that has carried on for years.
Her grandsire sits among them, tired and deteriorated but there is a spark in his eye that was never there before.
Her mother sits on one side of him, reserved and stone-faced but Mary can see the hint of anxiousness on her face that is always present when among her family.
Queen Alicent sits on his other side and is in a state not much different than her mother’s, only Alicent is more practiced at hiding it.
Daemon is like he always is, smug and unbothered, and yet somehow Mary knows this gives her mother some form of comfort.
Whereas the adults sit in silence and avoid each other’s gaze, the children are not yet aware or perhaps are uncaring of the fragility of their family.
Aegon looks as if he has just rolled out of bed, his red rimmed eyes find hers and the unashamed glance at her chest and the leer, rid her of any appetite she has.
She firmly tears her eyes away only for them to be caught by his brother, who sits across from her on the far side of the table.
Austere and proud, Aemond looks like he has been carved from stone, the only thing that speaks to it otherwise is the unnerving intensity of his gaze that sparkles even in the dim light.
He does not look away and the fear that pooled in her stomach only moments ago due to his brother, is replaced with heat.
His stare is blinding, but it is certainly not warm. He regards her with coldness and a self-assured curl of his lips. Still, her heart does some strange flip in her chest, and she can do nothing more but hold his gaze and hope he does not find anything in hers.
The scraping of a chair relinquishes the hold on her, and she can finally breathe, as he turns his attention to King Viserys who is rising with the help of his good wife’s hand.
He regards each of them with love and sadness, and then begins a speech she is sure he has practiced a hundred times over in his life. Now finally, aged and sickened though he may be, he has finally gathered the will, the determination to speak it.
She feels her heart constrict painfully in her chest. She cannot speak for the rest of her family, but the somber silence and downcast gazes, as her grandsire’s sickly voice laced with desperation speaks, tell her his words are not lost on deaf ears.
She sees her mother glance at Alicent, the emotion on her face, only the other woman seems to understand.
She finds her own eyes straying towards Aemond again. His eye is fixed on the table, but as if he feels her gaze, he looks up.
Hastily, she turns away, refocusing her attention on her grandsire whose voice has turned to stone.
“We cannot stand strong if we are divided. I fear in the past I did not do enough to address this distance, this ill will in our hearts. That is why I must see to it tonight while we are all gathered here together. I must make certain that our family will remain united even after I am gone.”
Her grandsire’s eyes find hers and she is confused by the sliver of guilt in them.
“Words and promises will not suffice. I will have my son Prince Aemond of House Targaryen wed my granddaughter Maereys of House Velaryon to unite our family as one.”
As if he has lit a fire, there is an immediate chaos in the room. Queen Alicent and Princess Rhaenyra jump to voice their objections, Daemon chuckles into his cup, even her brother’s speak their opposition.
Mary can only stare at the King and admire, as he endures ire from each side of his family all while standing firm and resolute in his decision even in his sickly state.
Finally, he slams both hands on the table quieting the room instantly. His voice shakes in anger as he proclaims, “This union will succeed where I have failed, uniting our great houses as they once were and ensuring they will always be. It is your King’s command and as such I will not hear objections.”
Viserys steadies himself, motioning for his guards. The speech has drained him, it is clear for everyone to see, and it is just as well because if he stays, he will only hear more of it from his family.
The guards lift and carry him out to his chambers. The silence that follows is only momentary as many in the room push their chairs to stand, no doubt intending to seek a private audience with him.
Mary watches her mother bid her and her brothers to stay, before she and Daemon follow after the King.
Aemond had risen from his chair at the King’s decision, and now stands tensely, the palms of his hands resting on the table in front of him.
His gaze follows his mother as she and Otto stand. She passes by Aemond and her hand brushes against his shoulder as if in assurance that she will not let his father’s decision come to pass.
And then they too are gone through the doors, leaving their sons and daughters alone.
Aemond slowly sits back in his seat and this time she tries with all her might to ignore the stare that bores into her in all its renewed intensity and focus simply on maintaining a steady heartbeat.
“Well…” Aegon titters, glancing at his brother and then at her. “This is a rather interesting change of events.” He stands, cup in hand. “I’d like to be the first to raise my cup to the new couple. Maereys my lovely niece, you have always been a sight for sore eyes. I only hope it will be enough for my brother seeing as you took half of his. To a happy marriage.”
She feels the urge to throw her own cup at his head.
Helaena, her dear aunt who is oblivious to the tense air, smiles at her. “It’s not so bad. Mostly he just ignores you. Except sometimes when he’s drunk.”
Mary can only offer a weak smile in reply.
Jace who has been silently stewing up till then, abruptly slams is hands down on the table. “This is ridiculous.” He turns to her. There is outrage on her behalf, on his face. “He cannot make you do this. Both of you are unwilling—
“Who says I am unwilling?” Aemond speaks suddenly, silencing the room. His eye flicks from her to Jace.
“Mm. Supposedly this marriage will unite our family.” He speaks the words with a hint of mockery in them. “And it is the King’s command. See unlike others, I follow my duty. I don’t flout all to do as I please.”
The words are familiar, echoed by his own mother that very night he lost his eye.
“What do you imply?” Jace demands.
Aemond’s long fingers tap against his cup as he deliberately stretches the silence. “Just that if it would be anyone in this family who would go against the King’s wishes, it would be Rhaenyra’s brave…’ His eye trails to Luke and then to her, “strong children.”
Jace stands. “I dare you to say that again.”
Aemond stands a head taller than him, and approaches. “Why? T’was only a compliment. It takes pure courage to flaunt one’s disregard for honor and duty.”
Jace glares and lands a fist against Aemond’s cheek. She stands, as does Luke but Aegon grabs him and slams him against the table before he can involve himself in their brother’s fight.
Aemond turns his head, barely affected by Jace’s hit and uses one hand to shove him down. Her brother goes tumbling to the floor and Aemond smirks and turns away, sharing an amused laugh with Aegon.
But Jace is scrambling up, not willing to accept defeat, and the guards stand around not knowing whose orders to follow.
She rushes towards Jace, stopping him in his path. It did not work out well the last time she placed herself between him and Aemond, but this time she is not a child.
“Enough, Jace.” And when she is satisfied he will listen, she turns to Aemond who is watching them still with that unaffected smirk.
“And uncle.” She regards him with a glare. “Where is your regard for unity, honor, and duty that you lauded seconds ago?”
“I was merely expressing my admiration, niece. It comes so easy to you. You needn’t barely lift a finger and yet you are absolved of your duty. This time won’t be any different.” His eyes cut to hers. “If you do not wish to marry you need only say it the King.”
She is unsure if he means to taunt her or actually persuade her into talking to her grandsire.
She had not known what he had planned—that the one whose hate her grandsire had been afraid of, had been hers. He had been strong in his countenance and his resolve, and he is willing to endure even her wrath, but perhaps it is true. Perhaps if she goes to him and begs it of him, he will rescind his decision.
But she does not want to.
If this is what her grandsire believes will unite their family, then she will do it. She will be his strength, his support, his star, since he has no other, and she will grant him this wish.
“Who says I do not wish to marry?”
The cruel humor on Aemond’s face slowly drains from his face. His eye darts over her own face looking for signs of a bluff, and when he does not find it, his expression hardens into something unreadable.
Perhaps he believes she is punishing him. But that is not her intention—it has never been her intention.
Finally, he speaks, his voice quiet and unnerving. “You want to mend our family, ease our past troubles and yet you forget you owe a great debt to me.”
She inhales sharply. Luke jumps in to defend her, “You got your great beast of a dragon, leave her be.”
Aemond’s eye does not leave her even as he calls to her brother, “Vhagar was only a temporary consolation.”
Aegon snickers. “Brother, why ask for the eye now when they are delivering you the entire thing? Collect your debt then.”
“You will do no such thing.” Jace glowers at both his uncles.
“Mm.” Aemond looks almost thoughtful, “I suppose that will be between me and my wife.”
His eye has never left hers, and she has stared back unafraid because that is all he aims to do. He means to scare her.
What he does not know is that she has looked upon him for so long it has blinded her. It has blinded her to his faults, to his weaknesses, and it has certainly blinded her to his terror.
Princess Rhaenyra is tired.
Mary sees this especially now in the dim of light, in the late hour, as her mother visits her room, after returning from the King’s chambers.
She sees the fight her mother put up. And she sees the defeat.
“My sweet Mary.”
Her mother’s hand is callous and warm, as it cradles her cheek. All Mary can do is give her an answering look of solace.
“Your grandsire is taking his last stand. He cannot be reasoned with.”
Mary cannot help her next words. “But isn’t he right? Our family is on the brink of—something terrible. I know it, you surely know it. Something must be done.”
“The solution cannot be taking my only daughter and putting her in that man’s hands.”
“He is your brother.”
She looks to her mother in confusion, and her mother looks back as if her words are naïve. But if Rhaenyra has forgiven Daemon for all that he is, surely there is room in her heart for the rest of her family.
“The King wishes for you and Aemond to marry. Tomorrow.”
Mary is not surprised at the haste. Her grandsire’s condition is precarious, and it will give him peace knowing with certainty that his final decision has come to pass.
“And he wishes for you to be named my heir in Jace’s stead.”
Her eyes shoot to her mother in question.
“It is the only way Alicent would ever agree.”
“Jace is—"
“Jace is a man yes—but you are my firstborn. Perhaps this was how it should have been.”
Mary looks away. “Jace wants to be King.”
“He wants what’s best for the family. Luke will take Driftmark. Jace will take Dragonstone. Your brother will understand, and when I am Queen, the realm will understand.” Her mother’s words hold a hint of resignation.
Mary feels a growing restlessness, too many thoughts whirling in her mind to be just sitting there placidly. “May I be excused?”
Her mother nods, as if she had been expecting it and lets her go.
As she quietly slips into the dark of the halls, Mary knows where she is going before the idea has even crossed the forefront of her mind.
Though it is dark out, it is not too late for her to traverse about. She takes a long route to the courtyard that allows her to pass the King’s quarters and she sees that her grandsire has already retired to bed.
Her steps falter when she nears a lit room, the door forgotten open, but it is the voice she hears that causes her to peek inside.
“First they take his eye, now they mean to take him whole.”
The room is illuminated by a roaring fire. Queen Alicent paces, seemingly venting to Helaena whose only focus is playing with a stray thread on her dress.
“Aegon has been lost for years but Aemond—"
Alicent picks at the beds of her fingernails.
“He may not be warm, he may not be kind, but he is not cruel. Not yet.”
“Will there be dancing at the wedding tomorrow?” Helaena muses.
“He will do it because it is his duty, but he will resent her.” Alicent’s worried tone, makes Mary long for a day she hears the woman’s voice without the cold façade or the troubles she always carries.
“He will resent her every time he looks upon her face. He will be reminded of who she is, what she represents.”
Mary thinks of the upturn of her nose, to the long, straight edge of his. The freckled tan of her skin to the pale lightness of his. The long brown curls that run down her back to his silver, sleek hair.
She will never manage to look like her Targaryen kin, but their blood runs in her veins all the same, and she is certain he knows this.
“I at least still had you and Aemond—and now if he succumbs to darkness like your brother and is lost too…I won’t bear it.”
“Darkness cannot touch what is light.”
Alicent only spares a glance at Helaena’s words, and Mary moves away from the door leaving the mother and daughter to their privacy.
It is now with a renewed haste that she makes her way through the courtyard to call for a carriage. She longs for her thoughts to desist if only for a moment. The ride is short and largely unencumbered, yet it does little to assuage her impatience.
It is only when she arrives at the Dragonpit and sees Brightfyre that she feels some semblance of calm.
She has not flown with her dragon since arriving at Kings Landing many days ago, now as she climbs on into the saddle and pats Brightfyre’s smooth scales, she wonders how she even managed it.
With a quick command to take flight, Brightfyre rears her wings and pushes off into the air. Mary lets out a laugh and holds on as they fly up to the clear night sky above Kings Landing.
It is a feeling like no other being high above in the clouds, the world below a distant speck. It is here she can cease her worries, clear her mind, and simply enjoy the thrum of her dragon and the whip of wind against her face.
They make a lap around the city and then near the bay, where Brightfyre swoops and grazes the water. Tiny flecks of the sea hit Mary’s face as they fly, before she pulls the reigns, and they are soaring up towards the sky again.
She and Brightfyre continue like this for nearly an hour more before it is time to turn back home. As they fly over the bay back towards King’s Landing, she is only barely able to discern that there is something that flies towards them.
And when she realizes what it is, her heart freezes in her chest.
Vhagar is massive but what is most terrifying is how she blends into the darkness of the night, if not for her rider, who could very well also blend into the stars behind him, had Mary not recognized the silhouette of him and his dragon from that night many years ago.
They are coming straight towards them, and she knows it is with purpose.
She veers Brightfyre to the right, only for Vhagar to mimic the movement. She tries the other way, but Aemond seems wanting for confrontation.
She thinks perhaps he will move at the last second—only, as they meet headlong, Vhagar’s jaw opens wide. Brightfyre lets out a shriek, and Mary pulls on the reigns hard, barely missing the snap of the large dragons teeth.
She casts a look behind her as laughter echoes through the sky. His head is thrown back, there is wild glee on his face. It is perhaps the first time, she hates seeing him so beautiful.
Vhagar is turning, planning to give chase. She urges Brightfyre faster, her wing’s work urgently but it is no match for the veteran dragon who has already caught up to them.
She hears him taunt loudly, “Nykeā gēlȳn iksos enkagon.” A debt is owed.
It is a game to him, albeit a cruel one. But that does nothing to diminish the fear she feels when she glances behind to find Vhagar once again poised to take a bite out Brightfyre.
She urges them upwards, the sharp incline sends them higher into the sky, and it is only when she cannot see Vhagar below, that she lets up the reigns.
They take a moment to recover. Brightfyre is still panicked, all Mary can do is pat at her dragon’s neck in an effort to calm her.
Then suddenly Vhagar is in front of them, soaring out from beneath. She pulls frantically at the reigns while Brightfyre lets out another terrified shriek.
Thankfully, the dragon seems to have lost interest in baring its teeth at them, but they are not fast enough in evading Vhagar’s size.
Brightfyre clips the older dragon’s side, and the jostle sends them careening. Mary barely manages to hold on, and once she has righted herself, she grasps the reigns to gain some semblance of control again.
“Lykiri Brightfyre.” Calm.
They manage to find some sort of steadiness, but Brightfyre is still shaken and when Mary sees Aemond land Vhagar outside the city walls where she nests, she urges Brightfyre nearby so that her dragon may get her bearings.
Meanwhile, Mary has never felt such an anger blaze inside her. As they land a good distance away from her uncle and Vhagar, she disembarks and makes the trek towards them.
He does not look like he has just flown through the sky at reckless speeds. In his dark leathers, a sword strapped at his side, he looks completely collected and unbothered.
“Uncle, if you wish to kill me you need only unsheathe your sword and strike.” She calls not willing to come too close to Vhagar.
He turns away from his dragon and regards her with a cool smirk. “You do not care for a dragonrider’s death?”
She glares sharply. “If you mean to scare me into denying this marriage then you can continue to do so as we face each other in front of the Septon tomorrow.”
He nears her slowly, crossing one arm behind his back. “I was merely showing you what you will face in our marriage, niece. If it is not already clear this will be nothing short of fulfilling a tedious duty on my part. And on your part it will be—” He pauses for a long unnerving moment. “Trying.”
She straightens and raises her nose high. “I was never under any other impression, uncle. I know who you are, and I know what this marriage will be.”
His hand shoots out to grasp her forearm. Immediately, it feels as if lightning has struck up her skin, but she does not let her face betray her body’s reaction.
“I don’t think you do.” He leans infinitesimally closer. “In fact, I don’t think you’ve grasped the severity of what you are entering into. Let me make it clear. The day you cut me, every subsequent day I have thought about you.”
His words cause her to still. He releases her arm but continues in a quiet, almost nonchalant manner.
“I have thought about feeding you to my dragon. I have thought about maiming you. But most of all I have thought about taking your eye. And now, since I cannot have your eye and must have you instead, I intend to make the most of it.”
She cannot help but shiver at his words. “You intend to take your vengeance from our marriage.”
“I intend to take what I am deserved.”
Each word he speaks feels like a stab in her chest. Knowing this is what he’s carried in him for years, she has never felt such an immeasurable sadness and yet she stands strong before him, still unyielding, still angry.
“You have said your piece, uncle, now hear mine. It is not only you who thinks about that night. And every day since then I as well, have thought about what I did—thought about you.”
Though she forces herself to hold his gaze, her next words are nothing short of a whisper, “I have thought about whether you are still in pain. I have thought about how you may deal with the whispers and the stares. But most of all, I have thought about telling you I’m sorry.”
He is unreadable, the cruelness on his face gone to the depths and when he does not say anything for a moment longer she speaks it, finally after all these years.
“I am sorry, Aemond.”
Her eyes are earnest, pleading almost.
“I was defending my brother. I did not mean to hurt you. I have never wished to hurt you. You are my—” She catches herself. “—family. I should have said it then, but I— I was afraid. I’m not anymore. I’m truly sorry Aemond.”
It is quiet after her confession, among the barren land, the twinkling sky, and only the dull sound of their dragons rumbling.
But then after a long silence, he tears his eyes away from her and looks into the distance. And then he turns away with an unbothered, dismissive, “Mm.”
Her mouth parts. Her rage now tenfold. He walks away from her as if her words mean nothing, as if the confession she has held in her heart all these years is a tired, bothersome thing to him.
He is walking back to Vhagar, but she follows anyway, unstrapping the dagger at her waist. She is strong enough to do it, brave enough now. He has lit something in her.
“And yet, if you feel you are still deserving of this debt owed to you then save us both the trouble and take it.”
He turns, crosses his hands behind his back, and watches her approach with a raise of his chin.
When she is closer than she has ever been to him, save for once before when they held daggers in front of each other’s faces, she stops.
“One eye will suffice won’t it?” She pushes the handle of the knife into his chest. “I prefer it to be the right one so when we face each other as husband and wife tomorrow we may feel whole.”
His jaw works and then in a swift motion he has taken the dagger from her and brought it up to her face. “Do you think I won’t do it?”
She feels the point press against the corner of her eye, but she does not move. She answers him truthfully. “No, Aemond I don’t think you will.”
His lips thin, his eye stares its own daggers down at her.
“Because without this debt what would you have?” Her question is almost gentle in its cadence. “You hate my mother for your own. You hate my brothers for how they treated you. And you hate me because I took your eye. If you took mine, what then would you hate me for?”
He does not say a word. It is strange when she feels moisture gather in her eyes, as they stray to the rest of his face. His skin bright in the moonlight, his hair soft shimmering strands of silver, and his lips pink and crookedly upturned.
Though she is aware of the tip of the knife still pressed against her skin, she is unable to keep her hand from reaching up and touching him.
Her fingers graze his cheekbones, his jaw, the corner of his lips. Her thumb ever so carefully brushes against the beginning of the scar that creeps out from his eyepatch.
He is impossibly still, his eye intently watching her as she regards him with open reverence.
“What would you hate me for?” She asks again, this time there is genuine curiosity in her tone.
Her voice seems to startle him into action. He pushes her away, the hand that holds the dagger falls to his side. “It is enough you are Rhaenyra’s bastard children, flaunted about court.” He sneers.
“My mother will be Queen one day, no matter how much she is undermined.” She speaks the words calm but concrete. “And that is all that accusation serves a purpose for. Laenor or Ser Harwin, Targaryen blood runs in me just as it does in yours.” She shakes her head. “But that is not hate. Are you envious? Do you believe your family would deliver a better ruler?”
“A legitimate one.”
“Maybe in some eyes.” She agrees. “But Aegon does not want the crown, nor is he fit for it. If it would be anyone it would be you Aemond, but you are Queen Alicent’s second son.”
It is a source of pain for him she knows.
He has all the makings of a fine Targaryen ruler. He would have a firm hand perhaps, but he would be knowledgeable, fair, skilled in the art of politics and war both. But the hand he was dealt with at birth means that though he has molded himself into a man fit for the crown, it will never be bestowed upon him.
Even the mention of it causes his lips to curl in proud anger. Without thinking her hand darts up and grasps one side of his face.
“Second son you may be, but one day they will see you,” She murmurs, brushing her thumb across his cheek in a caress, as he tilts his chin back. “Just as I do.”
“And how is that?” For the first time she sees a flicker of fear in his eye and yet there is still a hardness there, as if he means to prepare himself for her response.
She can’t answer—shouldn’t answer. It will reveal too much but she cannot stop the words she has only ever had the bravery to think of, never utter. She says it in their mother tongue, “Se ōños hen issa glaeson.” The light of my life.
And because she cannot face him after the words leave her lips, she instead shuts her eyes and reaches up to press her mouth against his.
It is only the chaste press of their lips together. He is warm but he is still. His rejection is not surprising, but she still feels embarrassment flood through her, heating her skin and causing her stomach to twist in knots.
It is after a long moment that her heart beats back to life, when she feels him move his lips to fit against hers, his hand coming to slowly curl around her waist.
A warmth like nothing she has ever felt, washes over her. It is comforting, it is anchoring, and yet all the same it feels as if she is careening, as if she is suddenly aflame.
His lips press more firmly, their kiss growing deeper, more insistent, while his hands grip her tightly, drawing her against him. She makes a sound, something between a moan and a sigh and then his tongue his sliding against hers.
She is just as demanding, just as eager. The wishes she made, are nothing compared to this reality. He fits against her as if he was made for her. The taste of him, smoke and fire, she cannot get enough of. And every inch of his skin she touches sends a heated jolt through her.
He pulls away suddenly and grasps the back of her neck. He is startlingly vigilant, as his eyes dart across her face and when he confirms what he suspects, his murmur is ragged, “How long?”
She bites her lip. “Since I saw you claim Vhagar that night many years ago. I—" How can she put what she felt into words? “There has not been one night after that, that I have not looked up at the stars because they remind me of you.”
He swallows and then his mouth is crashing against hers again. Ferocious and devouring as if he too has waited all these years but she knows this is not true.
She pulls away only an inch from his lips, breathlessly she says, “Aemond you—” She speaks between kisses and brings her face further away to look at him. “You cannot have loathed me all these years.”
His expression shutters into something unreadable, aside from the way he averts his eye.
“How could I not?” He mutters quietly. “Growing up I—I thought you felt differently about me. You were unlike the rest of them. And then my eye was taken. Perhaps—perhaps it had hurt more because it had been by your hand.”
She feels her heart pound loudly as though it may rip from her chest at his confession.
“Could I?” She asks quietly, glancing at his covered eye, wishing to see the damage she caused.
When he remains silent but does nothing to stop her hand as it reaches up, she takes it as permission. She gently tugs the band, removing the eyepatch easily, and what is revealed causes the breath in her lungs to catch and her heart to stop.
He is beautiful. Marred, jagged skin and all, and there in his eye where there should be black emptiness is a star. Bright and blue and breathtaking.
She reaches out and slowly traces the edge of the socket with the pad of her finger, transfixed by the sapphire that gleams at her. And then she reaches up on her toes to kiss the scarred skin above and below it.
When she lands on her feet again, she sees his chest is rising and falling fast. There is an emotion in his eye that has never shined so brightly before. Something dark but not unkind. It is something akin to yearning, to desire.
He claims her mouth again, deep, and ravenous. There is an unmistakable ache inside of her, and when he wraps his arms around her, eliminating any space between them, she feels his answering hardness press against her.
She reluctantly pulls her lips away to draw air into her lungs, and Aemond moves to instead trail scorching kisses down her neck.
She lifts her face upwards, as the flat of his tongue licks at her skin and his teeth skim her pulse. Her eyes flutter open, getting a glimpse of the night sky above them and with an overwhelming surge of want, she brings his face up to kiss him again as her hands reach for his trousers.
He stops her before she can reach his belt and pulls away from her. She takes in the flush of his skin, the tousle of his hair, and the swell of his lips, committing it all to memory.
“Not tonight.”
Disappointment leaves a bitter taste in her mouth, but she does not let it waver her. “Do you want me to believe you truly do hate me?”
He catches her wandering hands, and a smirk graces his lips, the first she’s seen born not of malice, before it disappears, and he looks at her again with serious intent. “I’m going to fuck you tomorrow properly when we are named husband and wife.”
His words cause her to shiver, even as she thinks upon them.
It is a demand not out of character for him.
He is not like Aegon or Daemon, or many men she has known. He may be capable of cutting a man down like them in acts of violence, but he holds himself with restraint. There is a righteousness in him, that oft causes him to look down on anything that threatens honor or decency—perhaps an effect of living with Aegon all these years.
She knows this is why rather than taking her tonight, it appeals to him that their first time lying with each be on their wedding night, as husband and wife.
So, she nods slowly. She will grant him this, though the torrent of emotion swirling in her chest, urges her to declare firmly, “You are mine Aemond.”
She says it because it is true, he may not be hers in name yet, but she has claimed him, plucked him from the sky, and she will not give him up.
His fingers dig into her waist so tightly she is certain they will leave marks. “Just as you are mine, Mary.”
Her name, spoken only by those closest to her, on his tongue, causes something in her heart to shift; something true and irrevocable, and she presses her lips to his and wishes they could stay like that in the dark of the night forever.
The haste in which the wedding was called means it is a small affair, despite the importance such a union serves to the realm.
It is perhaps better this way, having only their family in attendance, rather than guests from houses all over the realm to stir tension.
Mary wears a cream colored dress, reminiscent of the one her mother wore at her first marriage. Aemond wears black of course, he stands tall and striking, his expression reveals nothing to the rest of them, but she sees the bright intensity in his eyes as they stand before each other and cut into their skin with a shard of dragonglass.
The ceremony takes from rituals from the faith of the new Gods and the old Gods of Valyria. They mark their blood on each other’s skin, and then in the same breath Aemond drapes his cloak over her, as they repeat their vows.
And when the Septon speaks the closing words and Aemond’s lips press against hers, her soul rights itself as if it is now whole and complete.
Their kiss lasts for perhaps a moment long, but if their family notices the familiarity and fervidness of the embrace, they do not mention it.
The feast afterwards consists of far more people, but she barely pays any attention to it.
She catches a glimpse of her mother and Queen Alicent engaging in the most tentative of conversation. She spies her younger siblings run through the hall with Aegon and Haelena’s. King Viserys is slumped in his chair but he is perhaps the happiest person in the room. He meets her eye, and she offers him a smile, hoping he knows she holds no ill feeling in her heart.
But most of her attention is on the man she now calls husband. Though he is seated right next to her, they have barely spoken. The heated tension between them grows with every second that passes.
When the bedding ceremony is finally called, she feels both relieved and uneased. She has been impatiently waiting for the wedding night, but as the men eye her with obvious lechery in their eyes she wishes they could be done with such a tired tradition.
It is Aegon and a few other men who approach her to escort her to Aemond’s room, the journey to which will most probably consist of quite a bit of jeering and fondling. But before they can even reach out their hand, Aemond, as if he has heard her wish, slams a hand down and stands from his chair.
His threat is quiet but that does nothing to detract from it’s lethality, as he promises any other man's limb that touches her will be removed.
She is sure Aegon has some crude, humorous retort on the tip of his tongue, but perhaps in the spirit of unity, he glances between the two of them, and then relents with a chuckle.
She and Aemond are then escorted through the hall by a crowd of men and women. Her husband’s threat is more than effective, as no man dares to touch her inappropriately. The japes and the colorful commentary, however, are relentless.
When they arrive, it is with a sigh of relief. Aemond shuts and locks the door, dulling the noise of the people outside as she casts a look around at the room.
It is large, well furnished, and that is all she manages to notice before her eyes land on the sizable bed, and then naturally stray to Aemond.
He is looking at her, only now his gaze is unabashed as it trails down her form. She feels a flutter in her stomach, he has not even touched her yet and yet her skin is flushed and warm.
“I believe I made a promise to you last night, wife.” He approaches her slowly.
She draws in a deep breath. “You did, husband.”
He comes to a stop in front of her, so close that she must tilt her head up to look at him. “You’ve waited patiently.”
She nods but lets him know, “I can’t wait any longer.”
“No?’” He murmurs, leaning down.
She watches his lips stop a hair’s breadth away from hers, watches the way they lift into a ghost of a smirk when she pushes up only for him to rear back. This new game of his is perhaps worse than the one he played with Vhagar.
She squirms in place, her hands on the front of his tunic, willing him with her eyes to finally kiss her, but he is content to let the moment stretch.
Finally, when the anticipation becomes unbearable. She cuts her eyes to his and her whispered reply is firm, “No.” And then she grasps the back of his neck and pushes upwards.
He is more than prepared for the crash of her lips. Immediately as if a roaring fire has been ignited in them, he is grasping her waist, devouring her mouth whole, and she is just as desperate as she moans and melts in his embrace.
Her hands tangle in his hair, tugging the band of his eyepatch off and catching a glimpse of the shimmer of his other eye.
His hands are firm and sure as they trail over her body, tugging at the laces of her dress, until it is falling and pooling at her feet. Her eyes flutter shut as his mouth, wet and searing, explores every inch of skin the thin shift on her reveals.
She tugs at his tunic, pulling it over his head. His skin is littered with marks and scars, and she wishes to kiss each and every single one of them.
He pushes her onto the bed, divesting her of her remaining clothes. He does not give her time to shy at her nakedness, before he is hovering over her, his hands warm on her skin as they run from the flat of her stomach up to her breasts.
He swoops down and takes one of her breasts in his mouth, and a moan escapes her lips as she writhes and tangles her fingers in his hair. His tongue laves over her flesh greedily, his hand kneading and caressing the other breast.
She keens and arches underneath him, rolling her hips in search of friction. The hardness she feels pressed against her thigh, fills her with an overwhelming need.
Grasping his face, she pulls him up and kisses him, all tongue and teeth. She arches her spine, their body presses against each other, removing any space between them, as if they mean to meld as one.
She swallows the groan that leaves his lips, as her hand slips into the waistband of his trousers to brush her fingers against his length.
“Please, Aemond.”
Her breathless whisper causes him to lose whatever control he’s held over himself. He kisses her hungrily once more before pulling away. It is only momentary, as he removes his trousers, and then he is looming over her again.
She feels him press against her soaking entrance. She bites her lips as he kisses her throat and then regards her with a silent question.
She leaves her face bare to him hoping he sees the years she’s wished for this, the desperate need she has for him. She opens her legs wider for him, presses a kiss against his lips in acquiescence and then he is slowly pushing inside her.
There is pain, a sharp twinge, a burn, but there is also pleasure, an entirely unique feeling of fullness as he buries himself to the hilt inside of her.
He remains there, the slightest tremble in his muscles the only thing betraying the effort to stay still. He drops his head, laying a heady kiss on her lips, to distract her from the pain.
When she feels herself ease slightly, and adjust to the size and stretch of him, she pulls away from the kiss with a tug of his lip between her teeth and raises her hips slightly as if to give him permission to continue.
His first thrust is still slow, but when it presses deep inside of her, and her heart rate quickens and a moan slips from her lips, he groans and picks up his pace.
Soon he is claiming her body with hard, rhythmic strokes, each one driving her closer to the edge. His fingers slide down to circle the bundle of nerves, and she keens feeling herself clench tightly around him.
She knows he is close, his thrusts are growing uncontrolled, desperate. She herself feels like she is nearing her climax, and when he pounds into her, hitting a particularly sweet spot inside of her she cries out loudly.
Her back arches as her eyes fall shut, only to see stars bloom behind her eyelids. Her body shudders as her orgasm washes over, and as her walls clench around him it brings him to his own climax. His face buries into her neck, a groan ripping from his throat as he finishes inside her.
It takes several moments for their breathing to even as they come down from bliss.
He lifts his head, brushes his thumb against the swell of her bottom lip, and drops a kiss there, before moving to lay beside her.
She shifts to rest her head on his chest. There is a soreness in her, her thighs are slick with his seed, but she thinks she could spend her entire life like this, tracing odd patterns over his chest, as his fingers play with the ends of her curls.
They stay like this for a long moment.
When she glances at him she sees he is deep in thought. She longs to know what he is thinking, but she knows Aemond has for so long kept his emotions below the surface. He is not a man who will reveal his thoughts easily, and she is content to wait, for all the time that they have.
She, however, after years of bottling her emotions, is more than willing to break the silence.
With a small, amused smile, she raises her chin up and lazily regards him.
“I believe it is you who owes me a great debt now.”
“Mm.” His lips twist into an amused smirk. “Why is that?”
She shifts onto her stomach and reaches a hand out to trace his face. She may very well never stop touching him. “Well, firstly, I have given you a good match for a wife.” Her cheeks dust pink as she gives him a shy smirk. “Nevermind, my vested interest in it. Secondly, if I had said no our family may yet have still been divided. And—”
Her next thought causes some of the humor to slip from her face. Though it has been needling at her, in the back of her mind, she is hesitant to bring up such a delicate topic only hours after their union.
But it is a necessary act, so Mary gathers her courage and meets his eye.
“Aemond, there is something I need to speak to you about.”
His face hardens, both a grimness and a question in his eye.
She takes a deep breath. “When King Viserys dies, it will be my mother who will rightfully take the throne.” She looks at him pleadingly. “I wish for you to say it.”
Her eyes dart across his face, unsure whether he will be able to meet her request. After so many years of fighting against it, perhaps even the notion is unthinkable to him, but she does not need his support, not yet, just acceptance.
“Rhaenyra will rightfully take the throne when King Viserys dies.” He mutters, a resignation in his tone.
“And her children will be her heirs to Driftmark, Dragonstone and the Iron Throne. Your family will be under no harm, free to do as they please, and we will live in accord at the very least.”
She caresses his face with her hand, willing him to look at her. He does so, fixing her with a hard stare.
“And many years from now when my mother has reigned a long and prosperous one and passed an honorable dragonrider’s death. I will claim the throne and you—"
It is why she hadn’t argued with her mother that night.
Mary had been raised just like Jace, only like Aemond she had been preparing for a crown she believed she would never wear.
She thought herself too soft, too much like her grandsire to befit it. But Aemond, at his very core has always longed for it, always believed he was suited to it.
With him by her side, they would create a perfect balance.
“You will be my King consort, Aemond.”
His face remains unchanged as he states what he knows, “Jace is the heir to the throne.”
“Queen Alicent named this her only term, and we agreed. Jace will inherit Dragonstone now.” He blinks at her words, and she smiles at the unfettered reaction. “And you will be King one day.”
“King consort.” Aemond reminds her.
Her uncle still believes it is foolish to give such power to them, but in her heart of hearts she knows it will not be a mistake.
“Yes.” She agrees, grasping his chin. “But my wish is for us to rule together. You by my side. You will be my strength, my support, even in the darkest of hours, ōños hen issa glaeson.” Light of my life.
His stare, burns her, blinds her, just as it always does. And then suddenly he is kissing her. It is an all-consuming, overwhelming thing, as if he means to steal her breath, her heart, her soul. And when their lips pull away, she feels his whisper against her lips, “Aōha jaelagon iksos issa udrāzma.” Your wish is my command.
King Viserys I Targaryen dies days later, in the dark of the night. His last moments are spent with Queen Alicent Hightower. Whatever final words he whispers, remain with her.
The funeral is mournful but brief.
There is a grief that Alicent and Rhaenyra share, being the two people closest to Viserys and it is not missed by anyone when Alicent takes Rhaenyra’s hand in hers as Sunfyre unleashes fire upon the late King’s corpse to give him a true dragonrider’s death.
It is not long after that, that Rhaenyra Targaryen is crowned Queen and Mary is named heir to the Iron Throne.
It is met with some defiance, but nothing comes of it. Not with Otto Hightower returning to Oldtown, and Ser Criston Cole resigning from his post.
Alicent and Mary’s relationship is a tentative one. The older woman is still hesitant, not yet willing to give up the entirety of her trust to them. But at least Alicent sees what Mary feels for her son and for their family.
And day by day, it is visible, the tension melting from Alicent’s shoulders without the burden that comes from the title of Queen or the worry over her children's lives.
There is a moment where they think she will return to Oldtown like her father. But it is Queen Rhaenyra who convinces Alicent, her home is there with them.
The two women have mended the torn friendship of their youth into true accord, and Mary knows Rhaenyra is happier because of it.
As for Helaena and Aegon. The former is content to live her life with her children and with her family by her side. The pain and burden Aegon carries is lighter without the threat of a crown to be foisted upon him, and they are all better off for it.
The King consort, Daemon Targaryen is often sulking about, itching for something that never came to be. He does not often get along with Aemond, but Mary does not mind, as it is enough that her husband has made peace with her mother and brothers.
Jace and Luke have their rightful places, but when their heart grows weary Kings Landing is only a dragon’s ride away.
Mary spends every day with a family that is certainly not perfect. They are Targaryens. Fire and blood. There is still pain, there is still sadness, but now there is also love. Something that has been missing for years, she now wakes up to every morning.
She does not look at the stars quite so often anymore. It is only on nights when she and Aemond fly off into the sky together on their dragons that she can distantly appreciate their beauty, though her attention is almost always on her own star.
It is on one such night that she lands Brightfyre outside the city. Aemond is still in the sky, and she watches him with an emotion greater than even love in her eyes, as her hand gently rests on her stomach.
It is not long after that Aemond joins her on the ground, disembarking from Vhagar and meeting her halfway.
The kiss he places on her lips is possessive, his hands coming to cradle her belly. She is not quite yet showing, there is only a slight swell of her stomach that is barely noticeable in her dresses, which is why no one has yet come to know of her condition.
In fact, she had only just revealed she is with child to her husband a few short hours ago, after which they had taken out their dragons as in only a few short weeks she will not be able to ride for some time.
Queen Rhaenyra and Helaena will be ecstatic when they come to know. Alicent perhaps more so. Aemond has told her how much she wishes for a grandchild of his.
Her thoughts quiet as Aemond’s hand comes to curl around her waist. Her head drops to rest against his chest, and they remain like that for a long moment, standing in the same spot where it all began many nights ago.
When she has memorized the beating lilt of Aemond’s heart, she lifts her head, taking in the sharp angles of his face, the intensity in his eye, and the sparkle of the sapphire in the other. “Ōños hen issa glaeson, avy jorrāelan.” Light of my life, I love you.
He leans down and presses his lips against hers. “Sepār hae avy jorrāelan.” Just as I love you.
And for the first time, she finds there is nothing more she has to wish for.