Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The last thing Aemond Targaryen remembered from the final moments of his life wasn't pain. Not the fierce cold of the stormy sky above God's Eye, nor the tearing agony as Daemon's sword pierced his eye while Vhagar plummeted into the abyss. No. The last thing etched into his consciousness was futility. The deep, unbearable futility of everything he and his family had relentlessly fought for, everything they had lost.

The world spun around him, blurring into a whirlwind of blue-black mist. Vhagar, his majestic, ancient dragon, who had been his only true support in life, screamed in agony. This cry, full of age-old wisdom and untamed wildness, tore through the air before being swallowed by the storm. Aemond felt her massive body, hardened by dragon's blood and countless scars, struggling to hold on. But he knew. He had always known this inevitable day would come.

He felt Daemon's hatred – the same hatred that burned within himself for his uncle. The feeling that consumed them both. This hatred was the thread that bound them, and it was also the blade that severed their lives. The eye that had once been gouged out now felt the blow again – symbolically, fatally. "An eye for an eye," the wind whispered then, whether they were Daemon's last words or Aemond's own ironic thoughts.

Familiar faces flashed before his inner eye: Queen Alicent, whose love was a heavy burden for him; his brother Aegon, a weak and reckless king for whom he had given everything; Helaena, his unfortunate sister, whose prophecies were as painful as her innocence; Viserys, the one whose crown became the cause of this bloody carnage. Each of them was a pawn in a game where the pieces were made of bone.

He recalled his rage, his fury, which had fueled him throughout all these years. Rage at Lucerys, who took his eye, rage at Rhaenyra, who claimed what rightfully belonged to his brother by birth. But now, in these final moments, it all seemed so minuscule, so meaningless. Thousands dead, lands ruined – to the destruction of which he himself had contributed – families torn apart – for what? For a throne that would never bring happiness, only more blood.

"Dragons are a power that can destroy the world if used for one's own unholy motives." This was repeated in every book dedicated to the tales of dragons past. Vhagar, his pride, his extension, a magnificent dragon from the time of the Conquest with centuries of knowledge, but even she cannot change fate when riders are blinded by their own ambitions and hatred.

As the dark waters of the lake swallowed him, as the cold embraced his body, Aemond felt the inevitability. He had lost. Everyone who plays the game of life loses. The only thing he desperately yearned for now was peace. Peace from endless war, from endless intrigues, from his own uncontrollable rage. He closed his single eye, and darkness consumed him, promising oblivion.

The darkness, which should have been eternal, turned out to be just a transition. There was no hell or heaven as promised by every religious treatise, only a feeling of compression, warmth, and a strange, yet somehow familiar, heartbeat. Aemond's consciousness, so clear, vivid, and full of memories of his demise just moments ago, was now compressed, limited. It was like a cocoon where he was imprisoned, and the outside world reached him as muffled sounds and indistinct sensations.

He was no longer Aemond One-Eye, Prince Targaryen, warrior and hater. He was... something new. Something unusual. The sensation of warm fluid surrounding him, rhythmic movements rocking him, and a surprising, yet now familiar, steady pulse echoing within him.

It was a womb. He was in a womb.

The shock was as profound as any sword blow. This couldn't be. He had died. He felt Vhagar falling, her death throes. He felt the pain of the sword strike, the cold of the lake water. But now... now he was here. And he was tiny. Incredibly, helplessly tiny.

The memory of God's Eye was as fresh as a wound, yet it already seemed distant, like a dream. New sensations began to fill him: a muffled voice singing a gentle lullaby, soft touches stroking his skin.

"Hush, my little eaglet," the voice whispered. It was a woman's voice, tender, yet full of hidden strength. This voice was unfamiliar to him, yet at the same time, it felt right, fundamental, like a part of this new existence.

As time blurred into days, weeks, and months, the sensations became clearer. He felt his body growing, his tiny limbs forming. He couldn't see, but his other senses sharpened. He felt his mother's pulse, her breathing, even her emotions – tenderness, anticipation, a slight worry. He began to distinguish individual words, though their meaning was unclear to him. Then he heard a name that stirred a storm in his consciousness.

"Aemma."

Aemma. The only person Aemond remembered with that name was Rhaenyra's mother. Aemma Arryn, Queen Consort to King Viserys, who died in childbirth. During his birth? It was too much to comprehend. This woman, whose voice was his only comfort, whose warmth enveloped him, turned out to be Aemma Arryn, his mother.

He began to connect the fragmented pieces. He was in Westeros. He was... in the past? One thing was clear: he was in the body of Aemma Arryn's child. And that meant he was her son. A prince. Again. He had been reborn. Not in another world, as he had desperately hoped, but in the same one, only much earlier, long before most of those he knew.

Suddenly, a chilling realization washed over him. Rhaenyra. His older half-sister, his enemy. She was here too.

The birth was traumatic, as any birth is. The cry, the pain, the bright light, the cold air. But for Aemond, it was also a full return to consciousness in a new body, with all the horrifying memories of a past life.

The first thing he realized wasn't an empty hunger or a need for milk, but shock. The shock of remembering absolutely everything. Every battle, every burned castle, every fallen face. He remembered Daemon leaping onto Vhagar. He remembered his own hand tightly gripping the sword hilt. He remembered the cold steel in his skull.

This wasn't just a memory; it was a reliving. Every detail was vivid, as if it had happened just moments ago. He, Aemond Targaryen, was here, in this small, helpless, fragile body. And it was nothing short of terrifying.

He lay in the arms of the woman he knew as Aemma, yet who was also a stranger to him. Her face, blurred by his still unfocused vision, was filled with immense love and weariness. She smiled at him, and it was something he had never experienced in that other life. The unconditional love of a mother. It was strange, even unsettling, as he associated maternal love with another woman, Alicent, and her love, which had turned into pressure and inflated expectations.

"It's a boy! We have a son, my love!" a man's voice exclaimed.

Viserys. His father. The same Viserys who had been such a weak yet destructive force in his previous life. A man whose indecisiveness and sluggishness in making important decisions led to the beginning of difficult times in the kingdom.

And Rhaenyra. Who, through her own shortsightedness and unwillingness to take responsibility, caused a split at court and within the royal family.

"Hello, little brother!" her voice chimed, so young, so carefree. She was close by. And this undeniable fact was particularly unbearable for him.

Despite his disdain for the two people he knew from his previous life, Aemond felt a strange detachment. This was his new body, his new life, but he didn't feel it was his own. He was like a puppet whose strings had been cut, but who had miraculously come back to life, only to find himself in a new play. He was an outsider observing his own, newly begun, existence.

His past life had been full of anger, ambition, war, and loss. He had seen how it all ended—in catastrophe. And now, given a second chance, his sole, fervent desire was not to interfere. Not to make the same mistakes. Not to become part of this endless game for power.

When he cried (and he cried, like any infant), it wasn't just hunger. It was a cry for lost peace, for the longed-for oblivion that never came. It was the cry of a being who remembered hell and now had to live with that knowledge, trying to find his own path to a quiet, inconspicuous life, far from the eternal intrigues of the Iron Throne.

Chapter Text

His first breath wasn't a cry, but a barely audible whimper, lost amidst the silk pillows and the heavy, sweet air of a room steeped in the scent of roses and myrrh. Even in this new form, pink and wrinkled, freshly drawn from his mother's warm womb, Aemond felt an invisible burden. It wasn't merely the weight of flesh or the awkwardness of a new body; it was the burden of awareness.

He was a newborn. An infant who remembered his previous life, every detail of it, as if etched onto a stone wall. He was Aemond Targaryen, rider of the greatest dragon of his time. He was the son of King Viserys and Queen Alicent Hightower, the younger brother of King Aegon II, the shield and sword of his own family. But now... now he was a child again. And the very fact of this birth was, to say the least, unsettling. His mother, Aemma Targaryen, was a stranger, though she bore the silver hair and violet eyes characteristic of his family. She was soft, her touch light and gentle, and her scent — sweet and calming, like lavender and honey. He had never known such maternal tenderness. His own mother, Alicent, was a strong, even at times stern, woman whose love was expressed through duty and expectations. Aemma, however, was the pure embodiment of warmth, tenderness, and something his instincts identified as "omega."

Omega. The word was foreign, new, yet it branded itself onto his consciousness like a mark. He heard the women surrounding his mother whisper, their voices soft as silk and full of deference. "Her Highness is such a strong omega," one would say. "And her scent is so pure, so alluring," another would reply. Aemond, lying in his cradle, swaddled in thin blankets, could smell these scents. His mother's scent was indeed intoxicating, and strangely, it calmed him, taming the restless storm of memories swirling in his newborn mind.

The first days were a blur. Hunger, sleep, uncontrolled limb movements. But through this fog, clarity emerged. He wasn't a mindless infant. He observed, listened, felt. He noticed that the world around him was similar, yet different. Dragons still existed; he heard their cries from afar. The Targaryen banner still flew. But there were these... secondary genders. Alphas, Betas, Omegas. This was unusual, and his sharp mind began to analyze.

He quickly understood that his mother was an omega. Her handmaidens, her guards—everyone showed her immense respect, mixed with something he identified as a protective instinct. And Alphas. His father, on the other hand, had a strong, sharp scent that seemed to dominate the room when he entered. Aemond, unable to move freely yet, instinctively sensed his power. This was the scent of an alpha.

His own body was a mystery. Was he an Alpha? An Omega? He felt something different within him, something that set him apart from ordinary infants, but it was still indistinct. He was too small to feel the manifestation of these secondary traits.

Days flowed into weeks. Aemond, despite his infantile appearance, was an unusual baby. He rarely cried unless he was hungry or wet. His eyes, still violet and deep, were too watchful, too intelligent for a child. This perplexed his mother, but she considered it a sign of his unusual nature.

"He's so calm," Aemma would say, gently stroking his soft, downy head. "And so observant. It's as if he understands my every word."

"If that's the case, he'll become a great man, like our ancestors," Viserys murmured, placing his hand on the edge of the crib where his son lay. "Dragon blood flows in his veins, and the gods are very kind to their chosen children. Perhaps right now he's thinking about how to get out of the crib faster and start conquering this world."

Aemma smiled. "Don't rush him, Viserys, he'll have a whole lifetime full of events. Just let him be carefree for now."

Listening to his father, Aemond inwardly agreed with him, for he truly wanted to get out of the crib sooner and start exploring other differences between this world and his old one. He absorbed information like a sponge. He memorized the names of the handmaidens, the time of the changing of the guard, and other sounds of the castle. He tried to decipher the political situation, listening to snippets of conversations that drifted in from outside. It turned out his father was still just a prince, the eldest son of Baelon Targaryen, the heir to the Iron Throne. This was unusual. In his own world, Aemond hadn't had the chance to meet his grandfather. Of course, he had Otto, but Otto was too blinded by his own ambitions to pay attention to his grandchildren. Baelon, however, proved to be his opposite. He was a typical Alpha—strong, decisive, with a dominant presence. Baelon often held Aemond, and his scent, the scent of forest and steel, was strong but not threatening. Aemond felt a power in him that commanded respect. In between his duties, he always found time to spend with one of his grandchildren. Most often, he would bring Rhaenyra to his room and tell them both family history, tales of his own exploits, or simply read interesting works aloud. Despite his sister's presence, Aemond genuinely enjoyed this.

The first few months were dedicated to adaptation. He learned to control his body, which was incredibly frustrating. He, who even after being maimed, wielded a sword with the same ease as he breathed, now couldn't even hold his head straight. It was a humbling reality, but he was patient. He was a Targaryen; such obstacles wouldn't stand in his way.

Throughout this time, his mother was always by his side. She fed him, sang him lullabies, and played with him. Her scent was a constant companion, a source of his comfort. He noticed that when her scent intensified—during certain periods he didn't fully understand yet but learned were called "heats"—he felt a strange, lingering unease. It was an instinctive, almost animalistic feeling. He wanted to protect her, to be near her. This was unlike anything he had felt before. It was something new, something that had awakened in him along with his new body.

One day, when Aemond was about three months old, he lay in his crib, watching the play of light on the wall. Suddenly, he felt a strong, almost suffocating scent fill the room. It was the smell of smoke, blood, and something primal. He remembered this scent; it was the scent of a dragon. Although in his past life he was accustomed to the presence of these magnificent creatures, in this one, his small body reacted to the unexpected appearance. He instinctively flinched, and his little heart began to pound.

His childish cry, tinged with terror, surprised his father, who had just entered the room.

"What happened, Aemond?" he asked worriedly, picking the boy up.

Aemond couldn't answer. He just pointed his small finger towards the window, from where loud hissing sounds echoed. Viserys looked there, and a smile appeared on his face.

"Oh, that's just Vermithor," he said, stroking his son's back. "He must have just landed. He won't harm you, little one. He's your great-grandfather King Jaehaerys's dragon."

Aemond trembled. He remembered Vermithor. In his past life, he was also his great-grandfather's dragon, one of the oldest and most powerful dragons. The dragon Rhaenyra claimed, allowing a royal bastard to bond with him. Vermithor's presence brought back memories of his own dragon, Vhagar. The other half of his soul. The memory of her was bittersweet, and he felt a strange emptiness within him, no longer having that majestic creature by his side. In this world, she still belonged to Baelon, and it would be strange to try and bond with a dragon that already had a rider.

By six months old, Aemond was already crawling. He was quick and curious. His violet eyes explored every corner of the room, every object around him. He showed particular interest in the books on the shelves. They were a source of information that would allow him to better understand this world.

His mother, Aemma, was delighted by his development. She was gentle but didn't spoil him. She encouraged his explorations, allowing him to crawl around the room, albeit under her watchful eye. She talked to him, read him books, and sang songs. Her voice was soft as silk, and her presence was always calming.

When he turned eight months old, Aemond began to utter his first words. The very first word was "mama," which greatly pleased Aemma. The second was "dragon," which caused surprise.

"Dragon?" Aemma repeated, smiling. "Do you want to see a dragon, my little eaglet?"

Aemond nodded, his small eyes burning with determination.

Aemma couldn't refuse. After talking with her husband, they decided to visit the Dragonpit. Holding Aemond in her arms and walking beside Viserys, who held Rhaenyra, the family set off for the place where the dragons were kept. The air there was thick with the scent of sulfur, smoke, and something primal. The intensity of it all made Aemond quietly sneeze like a kitten, which brought smiles to his family's faces.

Aemond was captivated. He saw dragons of various sizes and colors. Their majesty and power were undeniable. He felt a tremor in his chest, a mixture of fear and awe. Among these feelings, there were also notes of sadness when his gaze fell on Dreamfyre, when his sight caught the glint of golden scales, or when he saw the blue in one of the dragons. Although he didn't feel longing for the life he had, memories of his loved ones tugged at his heartstrings.

"Syrax!" a thin girl's voice exclaimed. Aemond barely noticed the white-haired blur that ran past him with his mother towards a small golden-pink dragon. Rhaenyra ran to the dragon and hugged its neck tightly.

"Mama, can Syrax meet Aemond?" she asked.

"I don't know, dear, it might be dangerous," Aemma said with apprehension. "Your brother is still too small for this."

Viserys approached his wife, gently placing a hand on her shoulder. "There's no need to worry, my love. Our son is a true Targaryen; his family's dragons will never harm him." He said with a reassuring smile.

Looking into the Alpha's eyes and assured by his trust, Aemma and her son approached their daughter's dragon. A few inches from Syrax, Aemond felt his hand being taken and brought closer to the dragon. Startled by the unexpectedness and a touch of revulsion at being touched by Rhaenyra, Aemond kept his eyes on Syrax. He felt the roughness of the scales and the warmth of the dragon's body on his palm. She was still very young but already impressively sized. Even knowing the harm this dragon could inflict at its rider's command, Aemond was captivated by the sight before him.

"You see, Aemma," Viserys whispered softly, "a dragon will never harm another dragon."

By his first birthday, Aemond was already a confident walker. He was active, curious, and his mind was developing with extraordinary speed. He absorbed words, repeating phrases, and his vocabulary was much larger than that of an average one-year-old.

But along with his physical development, other signs began to appear in him: scents. He started to perceive the scent of other people—not just their perfumes or natural aromas, but their "designations." He could sense who was an Alpha, who was a Beta, and who was an Omega.

He noticed that his own scent was changing. He couldn't identify it, but he felt it becoming more distinct. It was confusing, yet intriguing.

On his first birthday, the castle was filled with guests. Family members, lords, and ladies from all over the country arrived. Aemond, dressed in luxurious red velvet with obsidian trim, sat in his mother's arms, receiving congratulations.

He was the center of attention, and his violet eyes, as always, were overly watchful. He observed everyone, analyzing their movements, their facial expressions, their scents.

During the celebration, he suddenly detected a strange, new scent. It was strong, sharp, almost aggressive. It was the scent of an Alpha, but not like his father's or grandfather's. This scent was filled with something he couldn't decipher, but which triggered an instinctive reaction in him. His small fists clenched, and a strange, unfamiliar feeling began to stir in his chest.

He looked up and saw a young man standing nearby. His back was turned, obscuring his face, but revealing the long white hair characteristic of Valyrians. His scent was powerful, and he was... unfamiliar.

"Who is that, Mama?" Aemond whispered. Aemma looked in the direction Aemond was gazing, and her face brightened slightly.

"That's Prince Daemon," she replied. "Your father's brother."

Daemon. Prince Daemon Targaryen, the Rogue Prince, King Viserys's brother, his killer. Although he was a different person in this world, his aura, his scent, his power were just as noticeable and fear-inducing.

Aemond felt a strange mixture of curiosity and caution. He remembered Daemon well from his previous life—strong, unpredictable, dangerous. And he was certain that in this world, Daemon was still the same.

Even though seeing Daemon had quite an impact on him, the presence of other esteemed guests at the celebration quickly distracted him from his uncle. As the celebration drew to a close, Aemond felt his body weary, but his mind was filled with new impressions. He had been in this world for only a year, but he had already learned and discovered so much. Despite a new body and new relatives, he was and remained a Targaryen. And no one could change that.

Chapter Text

The meeting with Prince Daemon on his birthday left a deep impression. Daemon wasn't just his uncle; he embodied the chaos and unpredictability that Aemond remembered from a past life. After the celebration, he began to see Daemon frequently in the castle, and each time it evoked a mixture of curiosity and caution.

Daemon treated Aemma with a respect that bordered on a certain detachment. He was her brother-in-law, but there wasn't the warmth between them that Aemond observed between Aemma and other family members. Daemon was reserved, his gaze gliding over Aemma as if he were studying something, but never lingering too long. Aemond felt that Daemon, being an alpha, recognized her status as his brother's omega, but an invisible barrier existed between them, perhaps due to his own complex nature. His own mother treated Daemon with respectful caution, like a storm that could suddenly change direction. Her omega instincts seemed to sense his dangerous energy, though she never openly indicated fear.

For Aemond, interacting with Daemon was a game of cat and mouse. Daemon would sometimes enter the nursery, observing them with a curiosity that wasn't gentle but rather predatory. His scent, sharp and strong, filled the room, making Aemond instinctively tense up.

One day, as Aemond was playing with a wooden dragon, Daemon entered without knocking. He stopped by the door, arms crossed over his chest, and simply watched, his eyes like a predator assessing its prey.

Aemond held his gaze in return, his violet eyes unblinking, studying his uncle just as intently. Silence hung in the air, filled with an invisible tension.

Finally, Daemon broke the silence in a low, almost purring voice. "Nice dragon," he uttered, pointing to the toy. "But my Caraxes is much bigger. Do you know about Caraxes?"

Aemond merely nodded, without looking away.

Daemon smiled, predatory and slightly menacing. Then he leaned in, his whisper low, filled with implications: "You're special, little dragon. I see it in you." These words evoked a strange feeling of pride and anxiety in Aemond simultaneously. He understood that Daemon saw something more than just a child in him, perhaps echoes of his previous "self."

When all three of them were together, the dynamic changed. Daemon seemed to feel the need to restrain his energy when Aemma was near. He became less menacing, but his presence was still dominant. Aemma, in return, tried to create an atmosphere of calm, as if protecting her son from Daemon's excessive intensity. She often held Aemond in her arms, pressing him gently to herself, her scent becoming stronger, like a calming shield. Aemond felt this invisible protection and was grateful for her attempts to shield him from his uncle.

The most significant event of Aemond's second year of life was the determination of his secondary gender. Although he had already felt changes in his scent and his body instinctively reacted to certain smells, the full revelation happened unexpectedly.

One morning, when he was one year and eight months old, Aemond woke up with a strange sensation. The air in the room felt thicker, and his own body was enveloped in a new scent—sweet, soft, almost floral, which he associated with his mother. It was the scent of an omega. He lay in his crib, bewildered, his small mind trying to grasp it. He, Aemond Targaryen, the warlike, the proud, was an omega.

At first, this caused him deep distress. He remembered how in his previous life, women were objects of protection and sometimes even possession. Yes, there were instances when a woman was a warrior, resolute and unconquerable. The most famous was his ancestor Visenya, the first and so far only queen of Westeros who wielded a sword as well as, or even better than, her brother. Also, Aemond, like most chroniclers, respected Princess Nymeria Martell, who, despite all difficulties, withstood the full wrath of the Targaryens. But these women were exceptions. Not everyone can stand up for themselves and their desires.

In this world, omegas were treated similarly. This thought was abhorrent to him. His pride, his certainty that he possessed strength, was deeply shaken. He wanted to scream, to deny it, but his body, his own pheromones, did not lie.

Aemma, entering the room, immediately sensed the change. Her eyes widened, and she approached the crib with an expression of mixed joy and deep understanding.

"Oh, my little eaglet," she whispered, picking him up. Her scent, the scent of an omega, was now even more vivid to Aemond, and he felt a strange, instinctive pull towards it. In her gaze, he saw not pity, but love and acceptance. "You are an omega, my heart. And you will be incredible, I know it."

His mother's words, her tenderness, her unconditional acceptance, slightly softened the bitterness in his soul. He was an omega, but he was a Targaryen. He would not let his secondary gender define him. He would find a way to use it to get what he wanted. It was a challenge, but he never shied away from challenges.

Despite his own dissatisfaction with his revealed secondary gender, his family reacted quite joyfully to the news. As it turned out, he became the first omega male in the House Targaryen. The last male omega was Prince Viserys, his great-grandfather Jaehaerys's older brother. To celebrate his presentation, a feast was held, attended by the closest family members. One of the invited guests was his aunt, Princess Rhaenys.

Rhaenys Velaryon, his father's cousin, was a vibrant personality. In Aemond's previous life, she was known as "The Queen Who Never Was," a strong woman with dragon blood in her veins; she carried the true spirit of the Targaryens. Aemond had felt considerable respect for her even in his past life. If they had been on the same side in past, he would have proudly stood by her.

Rhaenys, standing before him, like Daemon, had a strong aura, but her scent was different—mixed, more complex than that of ordinary alphas or omegas, perhaps due to her age and experience. She was a beta, but her presence was exceptionally commanding. She respected Aemma, and Aemond noticed that Rhaenys treated his mother with a warmth he hadn't seen in Daemon.

When Rhaenys first saw Aemond after his secondary gender was revealed, her face softened. She picked him up, and her gaze was penetrating. "An omega," she whispered, and there was no judgment or pity in her voice, only a statement of fact. "But with a strong spirit. This will be interesting." And in this life, Aemond felt her strength and respected her. She saw no weakness in him, only potential.

This interaction was important to him because it confirmed that being an omega did not mean being weak. His initial disappointment began to subside, giving way to pragmatic analysis. Aemond had the consciousness of an adult who had survived a war. He began to interpret his memories through the prism of this world. In that life, his ambitions and craving for power led to complete collapse. His own rage, such corrosive, uncontrollable fury, only made the situation worse. And here he was. An omega. In a world where omegas are often underestimated, or conversely, overly protected. This understanding came to him as a sudden revelation. Being an omega might not be a curse, but a protection.

If he were an omega, he would not be required to be a warrior or a leader. He would not be expected to fight on the front lines. He could remain in the shadows, bothering no one, claiming nothing. This was truly a liberating discovery. He could not change his nature, but he could use it. He could pretend to be weaker so that he would be left alone. He could use society's expectations of omegas to his advantage—to be inconspicuous, quiet, and therefore forgotten and safe.

From the first days of realizing the benefit of his new position, Aemond began to meticulously "play" his role. He knew that the royal court was a place of constant drama, intrigue, and endless competition for the king's attention. Rhaenyra, still a young princess, already attracted many gazes; she was starting to be called "The Realm's Delight." An alpha by nature, she easily became the center of attention. Many lords offered their daughters for friendship with the princess, as it was a sure way to get closer to the royal family. Girls came and went, but so far no one stayed long enough to earn the title of Rhaenyra's best friend. The main obstacle to friendship was the princess's desire for Aemond's presence in all their games. Aemond tolerated all the antics, understanding that these were the actions of a normal little girl. His hatred was directed at the other Rhaenyra, the woman who took everything from his family and whose pride plunged Westeros into civil war. This Rhaenyra, this little alpha, was merely a child who adored her younger brother.

While his sister shone like the sun, Aemond became a shadow. He wasn't overly talkative. His voice, when he did speak, was quiet, barely audible. He avoided loud games with other children in the castle, not participating in boisterous conversations. Instead of running and playing pranks, he often sat in his room near bookshelves with one or two toy figures or by the window, observing life in King's Landing. He was a "good" boy who caused no trouble.

One day, during a walk, his grandfather Baelon addressed him:

"Aemond, you're so quiet today. Is everything alright?"

Little Aemond, focused on how the wind rustled the leaves of the trees, barely looked up at the adult.

"Yes, Grandfather. I just really like the view," he replied softly.

The elder prince smiled and stroked the omega's silver head.

"Agreed, the view is indeed captivating. Since you like it so much, we'll take you outside the castle more often."

His appearance also contributed to this. He was pale, with a delicate constitution, which was characteristic of omegas. His silver hair and violet eyes, typical of Targaryens, were flawless, but his gaze was distant, as if he was always far away. This created an aura of mystery, but not excessively so as not to attract undue attention.

Aemma, perhaps sensing his certain detachment, took it for natural modesty. She often tried to cheer him up, to involve him in games, but he always returned to his calm behavior.

Having lived through his second year and determined his next steps, Aemond enjoyed his childhood and the freedom it afforded him. Unfortunately, the gods, seven or fourteen flames, were not benevolent enough towards Aemond for everything to go according to his plan. The news of his grandfather's death was shocking to the entire royal family. Aemond felt the atmosphere in the castle change—it became heavy, filled with sorrow and uncertainty. He observed his mother, who was deeply saddened by the loss of her father-in-law, whom she highly respected. Her scent, usually so sweet and calming, was now mixed with the bitterness of grief, and Aemond, as a newly presented omega, felt her emotions with particular intensity.

His father was also deeply affected. He became more withdrawn, his scent, usually commanding, now subdued. Observing his parents' grief, he recalled how difficult it had been to lose loved ones in his previous life. In addition to that pain, he felt deep sorrow for the grandfather he had been fortunate enough to know in this life. Baelon Targaryen was a great man, an excellent father, and a caring grandfather.

Soon after Prince Baelon's death, an event occurred that changed the dynamics of power in the kingdom. King Jaehaerys, unwilling to see his granddaughter Rhaenys as his heir, proclaimed his grandson Viserys as his successor. Although this had also happened in his previous life, Aemond had hoped that this time the king would notice how capable Princess Rhaenys was, what a great queen she could have become. But even in this world, there were conservative lords who would prefer an unskilled alpha son over a direct descendant like Rhaenys.

Although it was Rhaenys who was cast aside, it was her husband, Lord Corlys Velaryon, who was particularly incensed by the king's decision. His suffocating alpha scent spread throughout the room whenever he found himself in the same space as Viserys. A scornful smile constantly appeared on his face whenever his gaze met the current heir to the Iron Throne.

While Westeros adjusted to the new order of succession, the next loss soon occurred. Unable to bear the burden of losing his last living child, Jaehaerys, who already had a weak heart, left this world. It was a rather peaceful death. The evening before, the king had gone to bed, and the next morning the servants found his body. Unlike Baelon, Jaehaerys had never been close to Aemond; their entire relationship consisted of exchanging glances during ceremonies. Therefore, his death had no impact on Aemond, but a loss is a loss, and it leaves its mark on the lives of those around.

As per Targaryen tradition, Jaehaerys's body was burned by dragonfire, and the ashes were moved to the crypt alongside those of their ancestors. The funeral itself was attended by family and influential lords of the Realm. And although Viserys had not yet been officially proclaimed the new king, everyone already treated him as one. One of such persons was Otto Hightower. From the moment the news of Jaehaerys's death broke, he began to hover near Viserys, eager to retain his position at court. Knowing the extent of his former grandfather's ambitions, Aemond was not surprised when his father announced Otto as Hand of the King.

The first year of his father's reign had little effect on Aemond's life and plans; he continued his role as a quiet child, subtly observing the intrigues unfolding at the royal court. Although his eyes followed the political games of the lords around him, Aemond's thoughts were occupied by something else: his mother.

As queen, Aemma had duties that the kingdom expected her to fulfill. Her most important duty was to ensure succession for political stability. Although his father had repeatedly emphasized that he already had two children, one of whom presented as an alpha, Otto, along with the lords of the small council, insisted that the king must have an alpha son to continue the Targaryen dynasty.

Aemma, as a loyal wife and omega, tried to conceive and bear another child, wishing to give her husband an alpha son. Each attempt was difficult for the woman. Her heats became even more exhausting, her body drained. Aemond, as an omega, felt this with particular intensity. He felt her pain, her fatigue, her despair. Her scent, once so sweet and life-giving, was now mixed with notes of sickness and exhaustion. He saw her growing paler, her movements becoming more sluggish.

He often sat by her bed, holding her hand; his small omega instincts yearned for her comfort. He understood that his mother was suffering. He heard the whisper of the maidservants that "their majesties so desire an alpha son," and he understood that this was connected to his own secondary gender—he was not an alpha. This evoked mixed feelings in him: guilt for not being the desired alpha, shame for thinking that presenting as an alpha would have ruined all his plans. And anger. Anger at a world that demanded such a sacrifice from his mother. Her failed pregnancies were incredibly difficult for everyone, but especially for Aemond. He, who had always been controlled and calm, felt waves of emotions wash over him. He wanted to protect his mother but was powerless. He saw her slowly fading, and this became a profound lesson for him about the fragility of life and the unchangeability of fate.

Chapter Text

His mother's health continued its relentless decline. Each unlucky pregnancy left her more and more exhausted. Her body, worn out by constant attempts to bear an alpha heir for her husband, was fragile. Aemma's scent, once so vibrant and life-affirming, was now subdued, tinged with fatigue and a constant, barely perceptible melancholy. He often found her in bed, pale and weakened, and her smile, when he entered the room, seemed forced.

One day, when Aemond entered her bedchamber, Aemma tried to sit up.

"Aemond, dear, have you finished your lessons with your tutors?" her voice was barely audible.

"Yes, Mother. How are you feeling today?" He sat on the edge of the bed, gently touching her fragile hand. She sighed almost imperceptibly.

"Better, son, much better," her eyes sought his, but were filled with unspeakable weariness. This caused a deep, burning pain in Aemond that he tried to hide. He felt helpless seeing the sacrifices his mother was making.

After news of the Queen's several unsuccessful pregnancies, Princess Rhaenys began visiting the castle more often. Although the sight of Viserys on the throne stirred a bitter resentment within her, she appeared in the capital not for him. She was there to support her cousin Aemma. Their friendship was strong, built on mutual respect and deep understanding. Rhaenys, a strong and wise woman, was not just a relative to Aemma, but a reliable pillar of support. During these visits, Aemond noticed his mother come alive. Aemma, who was usually pale and gaunt, began to shine in her cousin's presence, her eyes became brighter, and her smile more genuine. Their conversations were long and intimate; Rhaenys could listen to Aemma and support her without judging her weakness. She saw in Aemma not just a queen struggling for an heir, but a woman whose body and soul were being depleted by endless attempts. Rhaenys, who herself knew what it was like to fight for power and influence, understood the pressure omega was under. She never mentioned the queen's duties, instead always speaking of personal matters: love, loss, dreams. Aemond observed these meetings with a sense of relief, seeing that his mother could, for a time at least, forget her pain.

One time when Rhaenys arrived at the castle to visit Aemma, she was accompanied by her daughter, Laena. Aemond saw Laena for the first time, and she immediately caught his attention. In his past life, he hadn't known her, only attended her funeral. The only thing that connected Aemond to Laena Velaryon was their shared bond with Vhagar, whose rider she had been before him. The current Laena was only a year older than him, with thick silver hair and bright violet eyes, like many Valyrians. She was confident, calm, and had an authoritative but pleasant aura. Her scent was clean and strong, and her presence was like a breath of fresh air in the stifling atmosphere of the palace. He watched her as she interacted with his mother, Rhaenys, Aemma, and Rhaenyra. Laena also turned out to be an omega, but her strength of spirit was undeniable.

"Hello there," Laena said, leaning down to Aemond as he spent time in the garden, flipping through the pages of a book. "What's your name?"

Aemond, surprised by her appearance, raised his violet eyes to her. "Aemond," he replied softly.

"Aemond," she repeated, smiling. "I'm Laena. What are you reading?"

"Tales of ancient Valyria," he said. "There are many here."

"Interesting," she ran her hand along the grass next to where he was sitting. "There must be many mentions of dragons from the past. Do you have a favorite dragon?"

Aemond didn't hesitate for a moment before answering. His response was quick, almost instinctive. "Vhagar," he whispered, and a spark of interest ignited in her eyes, like a flame. Laena lit up with the memory of the dragon, and a dreamy smile appeared on her face. She began to recount facts about Vhagar that she knew, her voice soft but with a note of authority, as if she herself were part of these legends. She mentioned her size, her age, her legendary battles, and how she was the last of the great dragons to survive the Doom of Valyria.

Several hours of conversation flew by unnoticed, like a mere moment. Aemond, surprisingly, truly enjoyed it. He listened to her, captivated, feeling his heart fill with joy. This conversation was more than just an exchange of information for him; it was a connection he hadn't felt with anyone else. He was surprised by how easy it was for him to talk to her, how quickly they found common ground. He understood that for Laena, Vhagar was not just a story, but a living legend, part of her heritage. And he, Aemond, who knew Vhagar's future, felt a strange sense of guilt, but at the same time, deep admiration. He knew she had no idea how closely their fates were intertwined. This meeting with Laena left a deep impression on him, making him reflect on the unpredictability of life and how strangely people's destinies can intertwine.

Another significant encounter of the year for Aemond was his unexpected meeting with Alicent Hightower. As soon as Otto, as the Hand of the King, firmly secured his position at court and gained Viserys' unquestioning trust, he, with his characteristic prudence, brought his young daughter to the capital. Alicent, with her natural grace and quick wit, effortlessly adapted to the hustle and strict rules of King's Landing. She quickly accustomed herself to the role of one of Queen Aemma's younger ladies-in-waiting, and her elegant figure soon became an integral part of the queen's entourage, often accompanying her to official events and in daily affairs.

Upon seeing her for the first time, Aemond couldn't believe his eyes. Was it truly her? Aemond remembered Alicent from the future as a woman who carried herself with such rigid grace that it seemed as if her body was forged from steel. Her smile was rare, and her gaze always showed the weariness caused by endless intrigues and fear for her children. In his memory, she was always a queen, burdened by the weight of the crown and responsibility, a woman who had lost her youth for the sake of duty. Now, a completely different Alicent stood before him. Young, open, with clear eyes that sparkled with a lively interest in the world. She was not yet corrupted by court intrigues, not yet broken by loss, not yet forced to choose between duty and heart.

Aemond watched her with unconcealed curiosity. He saw how easily and effortlessly she conversed with everyone, from nobles to serving girls, always finding the right words and appropriate gestures. Her voice was soft, but it carried an inner strength that had not yet fully manifested. When she laughed, her eyes would close, and those same charming dimples, which he had never noticed before, would appear on her cheeks. It was a laugh that came from the soul, unburdened by the mask of royal restraint. This laugh was music to his ears, and Aemond involuntarily found himself wishing he could hear it more often.

Every smile, every genuine gesture from Alicent only intensified Aemond's bitter sense of prophetic knowledge. He knew that this carefree girl, who now played so joyfully with him and his older sister, would sooner or later transform into the woman he knew. Even then, when she patiently answered his endless questions about the histories of Westeros, or when she read aloud to him, her voice was so calm and soothing, Aemond felt his heart clench with pain. He saw her future, full of suffering, and could do nothing about it. It was an agonizing feeling of powerlessness.

His omega soul, which longed for peace and tranquility, yearned to protect this young Alicent from her future fate. He wanted to shout, to warn her, to tell her what awaited her, but he knew it was impossible. No one should know about his rebirth. This was his secret, his burden. So he simply watched, trying to remember every detail of this bright and joyful version of Alicent before the shadow of the future engulfed her completely.

He watched her effortlessly adapt to court life, despite all its splendor and cruelty. Her natural grace allowed her to easily overcome social barriers, and her keen mind quickly grasped the subtleties of court etiquette. Queen Aemma quickly appreciated her qualities, and Alicent became her favorite lady-in-waiting, always by her side, always ready to help. This only confirmed Aemond's bitter memories of how her father, Otto Hightower, skillfully used her charm and intelligence for his own ends.

Despite the weight of his knowledge, Alicent's presence brought Aemond a certain solace. In his own home, an atmosphere of gradual decline prevailed. His mother, Queen Aemma, grew weaker with each passing day, her body withering, and her gaze becoming more and more distant. The home that was once filled with her laughter and vibrancy was now shrouded in silence and a premonition of grief. In this oppressive environment, Alicent was a ray of light.

She was patient when Aemond, despite his advanced age in his previous life, displayed the curiosity of a small child. She read him fairy tales and legends, answered his endless "whys?", and her voice was always calm and soothing. Her gentle scent was a kind of anchor in reality for him, helping him cope with the emotional burden. He never thought that a beta's scent could be so pleasant and calming. He was delighted by her inexhaustible patience, especially when it came to Rhaenyra. Rhaenyra was six years younger than Alicent, so she often behaved like the child she was, inventing new antics. Alicent, instead of scolding or getting annoyed, reacted calmly and with a smile to the princess's mischief, often even helping her, thereby winning her favor.

Aemond often watched their games, feeling a strange mixture of joy and sadness. He saw a friendship that was just beginning, a friendship that, he knew, would be torn apart by cruel circumstances. It was so painful to see the potential for happiness, knowing that it was not destined to come true. Nevertheless, he cherished every moment spent with this version of Alicent. Her presence was a kind of balm for his soul, which still suffered from harsh memories.

Interacting with Daemon remained consistently challenging, like trying to catch mist. He would appear suddenly, his presence like a flash of lightning cutting through the silence. Aemond, despite his five-year-old body but with a mind that remembered decades of a past life, always felt his approach not so much with his body as with his soul. It was something more than just a sense of presence – it was the feeling of Daemon, eternally unpredictable, eternally dangerous.

One sunny morning, as Aemond sat in the courtyard, trying to focus on tying a simple knot that his new teacher had assigned him. Rolland Lynderly, by his father's order, had been appointed as his writing tutor. The beta, though from a less significant yet still noble family, had been able to receive an education and wished to share it with other noble children. His unconventional teaching methods were unusual but incredibly effective. One such method was tying specific forms of knots, which, according to Lynderly, would help his hands' fine motor skills. Being skeptical, Aemond set about the task. He understood that he would have to learn everything anew, as his body was different from what he had in adulthood.

Finishing one of the newly reworked knots, Aemond felt a shadow fall upon him. He looked up and saw Daemon standing by the arched doorway. His amethyst-colored eyes pierced right through him, and Aemond felt everything clench inside him. This man, his uncle, was a source of both respect and deep suspicion.

"Crafting something, nephew?" Daemon's voice was low, with a hint of irony. He approached, his steps silent. "Will this help you somehow when the time comes to stand on two feet and fight?"

Aemond, in his five-year-old body, barely reached Daemon's waist. He gripped the rope tighter. "I... I'm just learning," he replied in a childlike voice, trying to hide the adult discernment within it. Every word had to be carefully considered so as not to give himself away.

"Learning? Why?" Daemon squatted, his face surprisingly close. Aemond noticed the wrinkles around his eyes, signs of age and sleepless nights. "You're an omega. Your destiny is to be protected, not to protect. Isn't that so?"

"So what? Does that mean I have to be stupid?" Aemond replied, surprised by his own boldness.

A smile flickered across Daemon's face, but it was devoid of amusement. "That's it. I see fire in you. It smolders, but it's there. Don't let it go out. Don't let them turn you into a docile sheep when there's a wolf hidden inside you."

Aemond remained silent. He felt it. The sensation of the fire Daemon spoke of was familiar to him from his past life. It was the fire of ambition, the fire of pride, the fire of the desire for power. And he fought against it, knowing what it could lead to. But to see Daemon, an alpha, recognize this in him, in this five-year-old omega, was a strange source of both alarm and validation. He feared Daemon would look too deeply and see the truth.

"You must be strong, Aemond," Daemon continued, his voice now sounding almost paternal, which was unusual and frightening. "This world is not for the weak. Even if you're an omega, even if they expect obedience from you. If you don't fight for your place, someone else will take it."

Daemon gave him a quick, piercing look, as if trying to read his thoughts, and then, as suddenly as he appeared, he turned and left. His words, as always, were enigmatic, but their meaning was clear. Daemon saw potential in him that went beyond his omega status, though he didn't understand why. He saw the fire in him that Aemond was trying to tame, remembering his past mistakes. He knew he would have to be strong, but this time he would choose his own path.

A few days later, as Aemond, lost in thought, wandered through the empty corridors of the Red Keep, he once again felt a familiar presence. It wasn't just a sensation of smell or sound, but rather a change in the atmosphere, as if the air around him grew denser, charged with an invisible energy. He turned a corner and saw Daemon standing by a large window, looking out at the city spread below. His silver hair fell over his shoulders, and his black attire made his silhouette even more menacing.

"Wandering alone, little dragon?" Daemon's voice was calm, but a hidden tension could be felt within it. He didn't take his eyes off the window. "It's dangerous. This castle is full of shadows, and not all of them are harmless."

Aemond walked closer, feeling his five-year-old body instinctively want to retreat, but his old mind forced him to stand his ground. "I'm not afraid of shadows," he replied, trying to make his voice sound confident.

Daemon finally turned to him, and his gaze was sharper than any blade. "Not afraid? That's good. Fear is a poison that corrodes the soul. But foolishness is even worse. Do you know what true danger is, Aemond?"

Aemond, recalling the battles and intrigues of his past life, should have answered "yes." But his child's body demanded a different answer. "No," he said, lowering his gaze.

"True danger isn't in the shadows hiding in corners," Daemon took a step towards him, and Aemond felt his small heartbeat quicken. "It's in what you don't see. In an enemy's smile, in a friend's words, in your own blindness. You must learn to see. To see what is hidden."

Daemon reached out and touched Aemond's cheek. It was just a touch, but it was filled with such intensity that Aemond flinched. In his past life, he had lost his eye on that side. Memories of the pain, the rage, the price he paid, rushed through his head. Finding something that satisfied him in the omega's eyes, Daemon stepped back, gently stroking the part of the face he had touched. His gaze lingered on Aemond for another moment, as if Daemon was trying to solve a puzzle, before disappearing into the darkness of the next corridor.

Interactions with Daemon always left Aemond in a suspended state, from which only the presence and scent of his mother could release him. Therefore, after each encounter, he would always head to the royal chambers. There, he frequently encountered his elder sister.

The time spent with his mother was a breath of fresh air for Aemond after the intense and often unsettling meetings with Daemon. Rhaenyra often visited Aemma, and Aemond noticed that her presence was also pleasant to him, like a warm, soothing breeze after the storm that Daemon brought with him. She was straightforward, proud, and strong-willed, but her attitude towards Aemond was friendly. She truly saw him as her younger brother, not a potential rival, as was often the case in his past life.

One day, Aemond, sitting by a window in the library, was looking through old maps of Westeros, imagining distant lands and the dragons that flew above them. The door opened, and Rhaenyra entered, carrying a stack of scrolls. Her eyes lingered on him, and a slight smile appeared on her face.

"Always wandering somewhere in your thoughts, little brother?" she asked, her voice soft. She approached and placed the scrolls on the table next to him.

Aemond looked up, his five-year-old body instinctively straightening. "I'm looking at maps. I'm imagining... what it's like to fly." He almost blurted out his desire for a dragon, but held back.

Rhaenyra leaned over, examining the maps. "Ah, flight. There's nothing quite like it. Feeling the wind in your hair, seeing the world from above. All problems seem so insignificant when you're in the sky." She looked at him, and in her eyes, Aemond saw only dreams of flight. "You're thinking of dragons, aren't you?"

Aemond nodded, his eyes shining. "Yes! I really want to have a dragon. I feel... that he's waiting for me."

Rhaenyra sat next to him on the floor, her long skirts fanning out around her. "Not everyone is destined to find a dragon, Aemond. It's a great honor. Some princes and princesses never find their companion." Her voice was serious, but without a hint of judgment. "But if you truly believe your dragon is waiting for you, then that's what matters most. Faith can work wonders."

"But what if I... I'm not like the others?" Aemond hesitated, hinting at his omega status, which in this world was often associated with weakness.

Rhaenyra placed a hand on his small shoulder. "Whatever your nature, Aemond, your soul defines you. Don't let anyone tell you that you can't dream big. Our father always told me that it's not gender, not rank, but strength of spirit that defines a true Targaryen." Her gaze was direct and sincere, making her words trustworthy.

She began to tell him about her dragon, Syrax, about her golden scales, her intelligent eyes, her loyalty. About how they fly together over King's Landing, about the wind whistling in their ears, about the feeling of freedom and boundless power. Aemond eagerly listened to every word Rhaenyra said about her dragoness, reminiscing with nostalgia about what it was like to fly on the back of his own dragon. How it felt to breathe in unison with the one who accepted him, with all his flaws and shortcomings, with the joy and sorrow he carried within him. After Baelon's death, Vhagar had left Westeros, and no one knew where she was now. He understood that the loss of a rider with whom she had spent decades had left a huge and painful wound that might never fully heal, even with time.

"You must be patient, Aemond," Rhaenyra said as the sun began to set, painting the sky in shades of orange and violet. "A dragon will find you when the time is right. Or you will find him. The most important thing is to believe. And remember: true strength is not in the size of your dragon, but in the bond you share. And in the strength of your spirit. Don't let anyone tell you that you are not worthy. Not even yourself." These words calmed Aemond. His sister was right; the time would come, and he would be with the other half of his soul again. He just had to wait.

A few days later, Aemond sat in the courtyard, watching the knights train with real weapons. He felt a keen desire to participate, but his five-year-old body made it impossible. He felt disappointment and frustration, knowing what he had been capable of in the past but unable to demonstrate it now.

Rhaenyra approached him, carrying freshly picked flowers from the garden. She sat beside him, watching the training.

"You're looking at them as if you want to join," she said, her voice soft.

Aemond sighed. "I do. But they won't let me." He looked at the gleaming steel and imagined his past self with a sword in hand.

"Of course, they won't," Rhaenyra laughed. "You're still so small! But that doesn't mean you'll never fight. Father says even queens must be strong, so I'll be swinging a wooden sword with them soon too," she said, pointing at the knights opposite. She said it with such confidence that Aemond for a moment imagined her dressed in light armor with a sword in hand.

"But you're a woman," Aemond whispered, remembering how the kingdom regarded women who wished to take up steel.

Rhaenyra's expression changed. She looked at him with a serious gaze. "That doesn't matter, Aemond. Strength isn't just muscles or gender. Strength is mind. Strength is will. Strength is believing in yourself. We are Targaryens. We have the blood of dragons and their strong spirit. And that's what matters most." She broke off a small twig from a rose bush growing nearby and handed it to Aemond. "This twig seems weak, doesn't it? But it can grow into a large bush that will bear many beautiful flowers. You are the same. You are still growing, but you have potential. Don't let anyone tell you that you cannot be strong."

Aemond looked at the twig, then at Rhaenyra. In her eyes, he saw not only understanding but also a respect that few adults showed a five-year-old child, especially an omega. She, herself a girl fighting for her place in a world of men, understood his inner yearning for greatness. Her words were like balm to his adult, weary soul, trapped in this small body. Rhaenyra was not just his father's first daughter, as she was in his past life, but an older sister who, unknowingly, also helped him reconcile with his new existence and find strength within himself.

Chapter Text

Aemond, enveloped by the fog surrounding the island, rose into the boundless sky above Dragonstone. Below, the fortress stretched out like a giant sleeping beast, its jagged outline incredibly sharp under the blinding sunlight. A cold, piercing wind, smelling of salt and distant seas, whipped through his hair, and the whistle of the air in his ears was the only sound he could hear. His mighty companion, silent and majestic, cut through the clouds, leaving only a gentle swirl in its wake.

Each almost soundless beat of the enormous wings was filled with primeval power, lifting them higher and higher above a world that seemed to shrink with every stroke. The clouds, which had once seemed distant and unreachable, were now close enough to touch. A feeling of absolute freedom and boundlessness overtook Aemond as he soared over the island and the adjacent bay. His heart hammered in his chest, filled with a mix of pure adrenaline and the strange, stark beauty of this night flight. Dragonstone, which had been a massive fortress just moments ago, now diminished beneath them, turning into a tiny island of light in a vast sea of darkness.

It was strange.

No, the wind in his hair, the endless sky, the smell of the sea breeze, and the feeling of the dragon's hot body were familiar and even somewhat relaxing. The strange part was the absence of a saddle with many ropes to hold onto, the different color of the scales, and the slightly smaller size of the dragon beneath him. There was no loud sound from the beating of its wings, which was sometimes mistaken for a clap of thunder. There was no familiar purring, which was occasionally interrupted by a loud growl when Aemond, lost in thought, pulled too hard on a saddle rope. Just the sound of the wind in his ears and the faint whoosh of the pale gray wings. He enjoyed the flight over Dragonstone, deeply inhaling the longed-for scent of the small freedom he got from being so far from the ground. Holding tightly to the large neck spines, Aemond recalled everything that had led to this moment.

After long conversations between Rhaenyra and Aemond about dragons, with their small voices weaving into whimsical patterns of dreams about fire and wings, Rhaenyra felt a determination awakening within her.

"Aemond, you must have your own dragon!" she declared one evening, her bright alpha eyes burning with zeal. Aemond just sighed heavily. He missed Vhagar, his Vhagar, and no other dragon could fill that void. Not wanting to disappoint his sister, he decided to play along with Rhaenyra until she got tired of Aemond's failed attempts to bond with a dragon and found a more interesting pastime.

In the Dragonpit of King's Landing, amidst the noise and stench, at his sister's insistence, Aemond tried to get close to one of the majestic creatures. But each dragon turned away, as if sensing his deep longing for his lost connection. He would extend his small hand toward a fierce snout, but in return, he would only get a growl or an indifferent look.

"Kepa, please!" Rhaenyra tirelessly pleaded with their father, her nine-year-old voice buzzing like a persistent bee. "Aemond needs a dragon! We have to go to Dragonstone! He'll definitely find one there!"

Viserys merely spread his hands, already accustomed to his daughter's persistence. "Rhaenyra, it's a long journey... and your mother isn't feeling well."

But Aemma, despite her poor health, unexpectedly supported her daughter. Her gentle voice, a little tired but full of warmth, sounded resolute: "Viserys, I insist. I also want to spend some time away from court, and it will be good for the children. Aemond really needs his own dragon, and we know that only on Dragonstone can he find his companion. We can also bring Rhaenys with us to look after me if you are worried about that." She looked at her son, her eyes lingering on his fragile omega figure, which reminded her so much of herself at that age. From his childhood, she had felt his longing for dragons and a sadness that she still didn't understand.

After much persuasion, Viserys finally agreed to the trip, extracting a promise from his cousin to watch over Aemma. So it was decided. The next day, Aemma, Rhaenyra, and Aemond set off for Dragonstone. They were also accompanied by Rhaenys and Laena, who also dreamed of her own dragon and couldn't pass up the opportunity to bond with one.

Dragonstone is not just an island; it's a place woven from fog, stone, and ancient magic. Its shores were embraced by majestic, black cliffs that rose directly from the turbulent sea waves, like the spines of sleeping dragons. They were sharp, like claws, and covered with patterns carved by millennia of winds and salty spray. Here and there, where the cliffs gave way, strange, jagged formations protruded, resembling petrified spines jutting from the earth, as if reminding of the giant creatures that once lived there.

Even the air here was special. It was thick with the salty smell of the sea, mixed with the mineral aroma of sulfur escaping from invisible cracks in the earth, and a barely noticeable but persistent scent of smoke that seemed to come not from fire, but from the very essence of the island. The fog that almost constantly enveloped Dragonstone added to its mystique, hiding the tops of the cliffs and creating a feeling of being on the border between two worlds – the real and the ethereal.

Aemond felt this on a deep level. His omega senses picked up the pulsating energy that permeated every stone and every blade of grass. For Rhaenyra this power was palpable as a vortex of energy that filled her with vitality. She saw not just an island, but the home of dragons, where every corner could conceal a secret. Even Laena, an omega like Aemond, felt this pull, which beckoned her to the island, promising a meeting with the future.

Here and there, the gray outlines of Dragonstone Castle emerged through the fog, its sharp spires and jagged walls seeming to be an extension of the cliffs from which it was built. It was not just a fort, but a work of art, created from stone and dragonfire, its shapes resembling scales and wings. It seemed that the castle itself breathed history, preserving the memories of the Targaryens who once ruled on the backs of dragons. In some places, old, almost ruined dragon lairs were visible, deep caves yawning in the cliffs like empty eye sockets, inviting one to peer inside.

Even the vegetation on the island was harsh and resilient. Only short, stocky grasses and a few dwarf trees could survive in this harsh climate, clinging to life among the stones. But it was this very harshness that made Dragonstone so special—it was a place not marred by human hands, but shaped by nature itself and the breath of dragons. It was a place where the past was tangible to the touch, and the future awaited those brave enough to meet it.

Rhaenyra, despite the cold, was running around, her cloak flapping in the wind, and excited exclamations escaping her lips. "This is so magical, Aemond! Can you feel it? The power!"

Aemond, holding Laena's hand, nodded. "I feel it," he whispered, his violet eyes searching the fog for something familiar, something native. Laena squeezed his hand, her gaze just as full of hope. "We will definitely find our dragons, Aemond. Definitely." Her voice, though childish, was filled with a determination that echoed Rhaenyra's. "Maybe we'll even find them together!"

The first days on Dragonstone were spent exploring the island. The queen, despite her fatigue, blossomed next to her cousin Rhaenys, sharing memories and laughter. They spent this free time enjoying rare moments of peace and conversation. Rhaenyra, however, full of impatience, immediately pulled Aemond and Laena to explore the surroundings of Dragonstone Castle, her restless energy radiating an insatiable thirst for adventure.

"Look, this is a real dragon's lair!" she exclaimed, pointing to a huge cave that gaped like a black hole in the rock. "Maybe someone still lives there!"

Aemond, though full of hope to see something new, felt a slight disappointment. None of these dragons, even the ones sleeping in the distant caves, would respond to his inner call as Vhagar once did. Even though he knew he wouldn't be able to connect with any of them, he wanted to look at and touch their warm bodies. He had that unchanging desire to feel the power that was in every inch of these majestic creatures. He walked slowly, his small hands clenched into fists, and his omega eyes peered intently into the darkness of the cave.

Laena, understanding his state, quietly squeezed his hand. "Don't worry, Aemond," she whispered. "We need time. Dragons choose their riders." She herself also felt anxious but tried to support her friend. Together, they searched every crack, every shadow, hoping for a miracle.

Days turned into nights, and the search continued. They explored countless caves, looked into every crevice that led deep into the cliffs, but all was in vain. The dragons could be heard, their powerful breaths shaking the ground, and sometimes a huge shadow would drift across the sky, but none of them appeared at their call. Rhaenyra began to show impatience; her determination was slowly turning into disappointment.

One evening, as the sun was setting behind the horizon, painting the sky in crimson and golden hues, Aemond felt something different. It wasn't just the smell of sulfur, but something more subtle, something that attracted him like a magnet. It was the smell of pure power, the smell of untapped potential, coming from the most remote part of the island, which they had not yet reached. His omega instincts, which had always been sensitive to his surroundings, felt it much more strongly than ever before.

"There..." Aemond whispered, his voice barely audible, his gaze directed toward where the fog was thicker and the cliffs seemed even more menacing. "There's something there."

Rhaenyra and Laena exchanged glances. They saw Aemond's eyes gleam and his small body tense. "What do you feel, Aemond?" Rhaenyra asked carefully.

"I don't know... But it's calling me." His voice became more confident. It wasn't just a desire to have a dragon; it was a feeling that he had to be there, that something was waiting just for him. This time it was not sadness for Vhagar, but a new, powerful feeling that awakened hope in him.

The next morning, as the first rays of the sun barely broke through the thick fog, Rhaenyra, Aemond, and Laena were already on their feet. Aemond's feeling from the previous day didn't give them peace. Even after hearing about her son's strange intuition, Aemma reluctantly gave her consent for their independent journey to the part of the island that was not usually visited. She trusted Rhaenyra, despite her young age, and knew that her alpha daughter would look after the younger ones, but this didn't stop her from ordering two guards to accompany the children.

They walked along gloomy, moss-covered cliffs, the air getting colder and the fog thicker, like a living, breathing creature. Aemond walked ahead, his small body filled with determination. He wasn't searching; he was following a call, a scent that was getting stronger and stronger. It was the smell of wild, primal energy, unlike that of the tamed dragons of the Dragonpit.

"Are you sure, Aemond?" Rhaenyra asked cautiously, her voice sounding a little worried in the eerie silence. She felt this energy, but for her, it was just strong, whereas for Aemond, it was a call.

"Yes," he replied shortly, without even looking back. Laena silently held his hand, sharing his tension. She believed him. Their path led to the most remote part of the island, where, according to legends, wild, untamed dragons lived.

The fog cleared a little, and before them opened a huge, almost vertical cliff with a deep gorge yawning in it. From its depths came a faint but powerful breath that made the ground tremble. The scent became unbearably strong, and Aemond almost fell to his knees from its intensity.

He let go of Laena's hand and, without hesitation, walked toward the gorge. Rhaenyra and Laena cautiously followed him. As they went deeper, the gorge turned into a huge cave filled with damp, raw air. And there, in its very heart, in the shadows that were only occasionally illuminated by flickering rays of light from above, he lay.

It was a majestic dragon, the color of whose scales was almost identical to the gray rock that surrounded it. He was so motionless that it seemed as if he had grown into the mountain itself. His body was massive, wrinkled, and his eyes—narrow, sapphire—were filled with a thousand years of wisdom and distrust. This was the Grey Ghost, wild and untamed, of whom there were only legends.

Rhaenyra gasped, amazed by his grandeur. Laena clenched her fists tighter, her breath caught. But Aemond... Aemond was slowly approaching him, his small steps were confident, and his eyes were filled with a strange sense of kinship. He held out his palm, like a child offering a candy, and his face was full of deep concentration.

And then a miracle happened. The Grey Ghost, who had never let people get close to him, moved his head. His huge blue eyes settled on Aemond. He slowly lowered his massive head to the boy, inhaling his scent, this unique omega scent mixed with the smells of the two other children behind him. The air in the cave trembled. A deep, loud purr erupted from the dragon's chest, which seemed to penetrate the rocks. It was not a menacing growl but a sound filled with recognition.

Aemond, without hesitation, placed his small palm on his huge, rough snout. At that moment, he felt not just a dragon but an echo of his bond he had with Vhagar, a part of the grandeur that had always been in his life. The Grey Ghost, who was considered untamed, found his rider in a small, five-year-old omega who felt older than he was.

"My dragon," Aemond whispered, and tears glistened in his eyes. This was not exactly the dragon he had lost, but it was a dragon who had called to him himself.

The news that the wild and elusive Grey Ghost had allowed the five-year-old Aemond to touch him quickly spread across Dragonstone. Even the experienced dragon keepers who lived on the island were impressed. Rhaenys, upon hearing about it, arrived at the cave, her face a mixture of alarm, astonishment, and respect.

"How is this possible?" she whispered, looking at the huge gray hulk that now allowed Aemond to sit by its paw.

Aemond, beaming, told her about his feelings. He explained how the Grey Ghost's scent, his energy, had pulled him like a magnet, and the strange feeling of kinship with this old dragon.

The Grey Ghost, surprisingly, turned out to be patient. He allowed Aemond to spend hours with him, talking, touching his scaly skin. With each passing day, the bond between them grew deeper; the dragon felt Aemond's longing, his past memories, and responded to them with his ancient wisdom.

Finally, the day of the first flight arrived. The morning was foggy, like most mornings on Dragonstone. Worried about her son, Aemma, on the advice of the maesters, was forced to stay in the castle but watched everything from the window. She asked Rhaenys to accompany Aemond, knowing that with a dragon as fast as Meleys, the beta would have time to save her boy if anything happened.

At the entrance to the cave, Rhaenyra and Laena, filled with excitement, stood watching as Aemond, small but incredibly determined, climbed onto the Grey Ghost's huge back. The dragon lowered himself as much as he could so the little one could get on.

"Be careful, Aemond!" Rhaenyra shouted, her voice sounding a little shaky.

Laena just clenched her fists, her eyes glued to her friend. She felt both fear and admiration.

Aemond, holding on to the crest on the dragon's neck, felt a powerful movement beneath him. The Grey Ghost slowly emerged from the cave, his huge wings unfolding, cutting through the damp fog. A powerful gust of wind rushed from under his wings, forcing Rhaenyra and Laena to step back. With each beat of his wings, they rose higher and higher, leaving the cliffs of Dragonstone behind.

Above the fog, the world changed. The sun finally broke through the clouds, bathing the boundless sky in golden light. Aemond felt his hair whip in the wind, and his heart beat in unison with the powerful wing beats of the Grey Ghost. It was a feeling of freedom he had long craved, a sense of flight that was an integral part of his past life.

He seemed to dissolve into this flight. The sadness for Vhagar had not completely disappeared, but now it was mixed with a new joy, a new connection. The Grey Ghost flew smoothly, as if sensing its young rider, who was so light but so important. The dragon didn't do crazy dives or dangerous tricks; it simply flew, allowing Aemond to feel the wind, the sun, and the boundlessness of the sky. It was a flight of peace, mutual understanding, and healing.

Aemond, nestled against the dragon's warm neck, whispered: "Thank you for accepting me, Grey." He knew that this dragon was special and that their bond would not be the same as with Vhagar, but no less strong. It was a new life, a new flight, a new future.

After his first flight with the Grey Ghost, the sky became Aemond's second home. Every day, as soon as the weather allowed and after reassuring his mother that he would be perfectly fine, he would ascend into the sky with his huge, silent companion. Of course, Rhaenys and Meleys accompanied them on every flight. Sometimes Rhaenyra with Syrax would also join them. Then Rhaenys would take Laena in her saddle, and the four of them would soar through the skies above Dragonstone. He saw a slight disappointment on Laena's face as she settled into Meleys' saddle. She also wanted to have her own dragon, but no dragon on the island or in the Dragonpit had formed a bond with the girl. Aemond knew this was because Vhagar was waiting for her, but he didn't know how to speed up the time of their meeting without attracting unnecessary attention.

The flight itself was not just a joy for him, but also a way to feel whole again. The Grey Ghost, who now responded to the boy's quiet call, was constantly by his side. This bond was unique—not as turbulent and fiery as Rhaenyra's with her dragon, but deep and calm, like an old river. Aemond felt his senses expand in flight, allowing him to feel the air currents, the warmth of the earth, and the cold of the heights.

During one of these flights, as the Grey Ghost fled effortlessly over the turbulent waters of the Narrow Sea, Aemond, leaning against the warm scales, began to ponder. Where could he fly? All the usual places—King's Landing, Driftmark—seemed too small after the endless sky. His gaze fell to the southeast, where the barely visible outlines of land were lost in the hot haze. Dorne.

He remembered old books and conversations he had heard in King's Landing. Dorne, a land of heat, deserts, and unconquered people. A place where the Targaryen iron yoke had not reached, a place shrouded in mystery. And most importantly, a place where, according to rumors, amazing things capable of working wonders existed.

Returning to the castle, Aemond, filled with a new purpose, began to search for information. He tirelessly looked through old manuscripts in the Dragonstone library, questioned old maesters, and even eavesdropped on the conversations of courtiers. And one day, in a tattered book about the geography of the Seven Kingdoms, he stumbled upon a description: "Suntears."

His omega eyes, always sensitive to the smallest details, lingered on those words. He read about a rare, translucent, amber-golden resin that slowly exuded from thorny, drought-resistant shrubs known as "Silver Thorns" in the deepest and hottest canyons of the Red Mountains of Dorne. He imagined its light, bittersweet scent, reminiscent of honey and hot sand, and felt its thick, sticky consistency that dried quickly.

But he was most interested in its healing properties. Aemond read how "Suntears" could restore balance after heatstroke and dehydration, increase endurance, heal wounds and burns, strengthen bones and joints, and even fight the mysterious "sand fever." Each word penetrated his young mind, painting a picture of a true miracle.

His thoughts immediately returned to his mother. She was weak; her health had always been fragile, and each pregnancy exhausted her even more. Aemond remembered how pale she became, how quickly she tired.

"Suntears... They could help Mom," he whispered to himself, clenching his small fists. If this resin could restore the balance of vitamins, lower the internal body temperature, and strengthen the body, could it not alleviate his mother's suffering? Could it not give her strength?

He remembered the "Sand Hunters" who harvested this resin in dangerous conditions, that it was a sacred gift of the desert for the Dornish and cost a huge amount of money. This was not just a desire; it was a determination.

Aemond knew: the search for the healing resin was not an idea that could be easily shared. He also knew that his parents would never agree to such a dangerous journey for their five-year-old son, even with a dragon. And what if it didn't work? Then their hope would be shattered. Therefore, despite all his childish sincerity, he decided to keep it a secret until he was sure.

But he also understood that, alone, in his small body, he would not be able to get the resin. First, he didn't know exactly where to find those "Silver Thorns." Second, even if he did, he would lack the strength and skills to survive the scorching heat, snakes, and scorpions mentioned in the book. He needed an adult, someone who could help but also keep a secret. His choice fell on Rhaenys.

He found Rhaenys in her chambers, where she was studying scrolls. Her face, always calm, radiated strength.

"Velma?," Aemond began, his voice, for a five-year-old boy, sounded extraordinarily serious. "I need your help. It's very important."

Rhaenys raised an eyebrow, surprised by the boy's unusual manner. "What's wrong, darling?"

Aemond came closer, lowering his voice to a whisper, despite the fact that they were alone. He told her about the "Suntears," about how they could help his mother. He described all the details he remembered from the book: the Silver Thorns, the Red Mountains, the Sand Hunters, the dangers. And he concluded: "I can't tell my parents until I know if it really works. And I can't get it myself. But you... you are strong. And your husband, Lord Corlys. He often travels there. You definitely know Dorne better than all of us."

Rhaenys listened in silence, her expression shifting from surprise to caution. Her thoughts raced. This was a dangerous plan, especially for a child. But she was impressed not only by Aemond's persistence but also by his deep concern for his mother. He, a small omega, just beginning to understand his feelings, was thinking about the health and comfort of others.

She sighed deeply. "Aemond, this is very risky. Dorne... is not a toy. And what you're asking for is the illegal harvesting of a sacred substance that the Dornish guard."

"I know," Aemond replied, his eyes filled with a determination that was unusual for his age. "But Mom... her health... We have to try."

Her maternal heart, though hardened by years of loss and trials, could not refuse this little boy who loved his mother so much. She saw in him not just a child but a deep, sensitive omega soul that yearned to help.

"Alright," Rhaenys finally said, her voice low and filled with hesitation, but also with resolve. "I'll help you. But we won't fly there alone. It's too dangerous. We can't just burst into Dorne and demand their 'Tears of the Sun'. It requires delicacy."

She shook her head. "The best way is letters. I have contacts in Dorne, among merchants and some influential people who might have a connection with the 'Sand Hunters'. I'll write to them. I'll explain that it's for the royal family, but without excessive details. We'll need their help in delivering a small amount."

Aemond nodded, his face brightening. He understood that this would be a slow process, but it was a chance. "Thank you, velma. Thank you so much."

From that day on, a secret correspondence began between Dragonstone and Dorne. Rhaenys, using her old connections, cautiously inquired about the possibility of acquiring the "Suntears" without revealing the true purpose or the client. She knew that the path to the trust of the Dornish would be long, but for Aemond's sake and, perhaps, for Aemma's, she was willing to take the risk.

The correspondence with Dorne dragged on. A year passed, filled with Rhaenys' cautious inquiries and even more cautious, reserved replies from the "Sand Hunters." Aemond, though just a boy, felt the burden of waiting. Every raven that flew to Dragonstone and then to King's Landing unknowingly carried his hope on its wings.

Meanwhile, life went on. Rhaenyra, Aemond with their mother returned to the hustle and bustle of King's Landing a few months after their unforgettable stay on Dragonstone. Rhaenys and Laena went home to Driftmark, promising to meet later. The separation was difficult for Aemond, as he had grown accustomed to Laena's presence and her calm support. He understood that his secret, which he had shared with Rhaenys, was now at a distance, slowly making its way through thousands of leagues and hundreds of sea miles.

King's Landing greeted them with its usual clamor and palace intrigues. Viserys, their father, was absorbed in the affairs of the kingdom. Always a little detached, he now seemed even more engrossed in state matters than ever. His eyes were often tired, and his thoughts were somewhere far beyond the Red Keep. Although he tried to pay attention to his children and especially Emma his presence was more formal than anything else.

On the other hand, his uncle continued to appear unexpectedly in his life. The interactions with Daemon remained complicated, now especially after Aemond's return from Dragonstone, where he had found his dragon—the Grey Ghost. This bond should have been a source of pride, but for Daemon, it seemed only to have intensified his interest in the boy. Aemond, though only six years old, now being a dragonrider, felt even more confident but at the same time more vulnerable to Daemon's piercing gaze.

A few days after returning from Dragonstone, where Aemond had felt the joy and shock of bonding with the wild Grey Ghost, he sat on a windowsill in one of the Red Keep's towers, looking at the clouds. His small hand could still feel the roughness of the dragon's scales, and in his ears, he heard its wild, low roar. Suddenly, the air in the room changed, and a familiar scent—a mixture of steel, leather, and something wild, like the evening wind over the sea—announced Daemon's arrival.

"So you're a dragonrider now, nephew?" Daemon's voice was low, almost a whisper, and came from behind Aemond. As always, he had appeared silently, like a shadow. "A wild one. The Grey Ghost. An interesting choice for such a small boy."

Aemond slowly turned around, his face trying to show only childish pride, but inside, memories of past battles and the experience of controlling dragons were swirling. "He... he came to me," Aemond said, trying not to sound too confident.

Daemon walked to the window, leaning against the frame, his amethyst eyes intently studying the boy. "Came? Or did you take him? Wild dragons don't just 'come.' They have to sense strength. Something in you. What was it, taoba? What made the most elusive dragon on Dragonstone allow you to climb on his back?"

Aemond hesitated. How could he explain something that only his old soul could understand? "I... I just went to him. I wasn't afraid." This was true, as his fear of dragons had long been forgotten.

A thin, barely noticeable smile appeared on Daemon's face, a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Not afraid? Interesting. Most children tremble at the mere mention of a wild dragon. And you, an omega, went to him. You took a risk. How... unusual." He took a step closer. "I always said you had fire in you. And now you've proven it. You're truly becoming stronger."

He reached out and gently squeezed Aemond's shoulder. The touch was firm but not aggressive. "Remember, Aemond. A dragon is power. But it's also responsibility. And it's not a toy. It's a weapon. And like any weapon, it can turn against you if you're not wise. Are you ready to be wise, little prince?"

Aemond nodded, feeling the weight of those words. He knew what it meant to be responsible for a dragon, and he knew the price of reckless actions. "Yes, Uncle."

Daemon released him, and his gaze became thoughtful again, as if he was trying to read something in Aemond's eyes. "You're becoming a very interesting boy, Aemond. Very interesting." With those words, he turned and disappeared as silently as he had appeared, leaving Aemond with the feeling that he had passed another of the tests Daemon had prepared for him.

To clear his mind, Aemond and Rhaenyra flew together more often on their dragons. Unlike Rhaenyra, whose dragon was bright and swift, the flight on the Grey Ghost was calmer, more measured. They soared over King's Landing, watching the city from a bird's-eye view, and then flew far into the sky, where there were no palace walls, intrigues, or illnesses. In flight, Aemond felt the most free. He told Rhaenyra about his bond with the Ghost, about how he felt the air currents and his dragon's mood. These moments of sibling unity were a consolation for Aemond and Rhaenyra. They helped them distract from the constant anxiety about their mother. Aemma's condition remained unstable, and thoughts of the "Suntears" constantly swirled in Aemond's head. Although he was a child, he felt the responsibility and gravity of the situation.

The year seemed to pass quickly, but at the same time, unbearably slowly. After returning to King's Landing, Queen Aemma became pregnant again. And now she was in her final trimester. Viserys came to Aemma's chambers every day, Rhaenyra tried to be with her mother as often as possible, reading to her or simply holding her hand. Aemond, feeling the approaching birth of the child, felt his heart tighten. He prayed to the gods that this time everything would work out and the past he knew would not be repeated. Maybe the gods had brought him back for this very reason, to help Aemma and prevent the bloody war. He prayed to all the gods he knew that Rhaenys would receive a positive reply from Dorne as soon as possible. "Suntears" were his last, hidden hope.

The night Queen Aemma went into labor was long and anxious. Her cries, piercing the silence like sharp knives, echoed from the walls of the Red Keep. Viserys stayed by her bedside, his face pale and contorted with fear. Rhaenyra sat in the corridor, leaning against the cold wall, her eyes filled with tears. Aemond, sitting next to his sister, felt every one of his mother's screams as a blow to his heart. His omega senses were too sharp, picking up her pain, her weakness, her passing. He prayed, clenching his small fists, but felt hope fading with every minute.

At dawn, there was one last, weak cry, and then silence. Then a maester came out of the chambers, his face grim. "A boy... was born," he said, but there was no joy in his voice. "But the Queen... the Queen has passed."

Aemond's world tilted. He felt something inside him crack. Mom. His mom. The one who was always warm, who hugged him so gently, who listened with a smile to his childish stories about dragons, was dead. He felt a cold, bitter pain descend upon him, embracing his small body.

The newborn boy was named Baelon. His fragile presence was the only ray of hope in that black abyss. Viserys held him in his arms, his face contorted with grief, but a speck of light flickered in his eyes. Rhaenyra looked at her little brother, trying to find solace in him. But that hope died as quickly as it had ignited. The next day, little Baelon also passed away.

It was unbearable. Two funerals. Two losses. The entire palace plunged into deep mourning.

The funeral preparations were quick and somber. Queen's body, dressed in white silks, lay on the deathbed, surrounded by candles, her face serene, as if she were sleeping. Next to her, in a small white shroud, lay Baelon. Aemond stood by them, his face emotionless, but a hurricane raged inside him. He held his grief deep within, like a true omega who feels the emotions of others but hides his own so as not to burden anyone. He felt the emptiness his mother had left behind and the pain of the unfulfilled hopes he had.

The funeral procession was grand but sad. The royal banners were lowered, and the streets of King's Landing fell silent. The bodies of Aemma and Baelon were placed on the funeral pyre, next to which stood Viserys, his face contorted with unspeakable grief. Rhaenyra, clenching her fists, watched as the smoke rose into the sky.

Aemond, standing next to her, couldn't take his eyes off the fire that was consuming the bodies of his mother and brother. He felt the heat on his face, but the cold inside was stronger. This was an injustice. He had hoped so much for the "Suntears" believed so strongly that they would help. But they didn't make it in time. This thought, like poison, permeated his mind. He felt helpless, small, and unable to change anything. He thought about how his mother had suffered and how she had passed away. Could she have been saved? This uncertainty tormented him.

After the funeral, when everyone had dispersed, Aemond was left alone. He felt an emptiness in the palace, an emptiness that nothing could fill. His inner omega world, which was sensitive to the emotions of those around him, was now filled with grief, despair, and a sense of loss. He didn't cry; his tears were somewhere deep inside. He just stood there, looking at the smoldering embers, and felt the cold wind of sorrow.

The day after the funeral, when grief still hung in the air like a thick fog, Aemond overheard a conversation among the courtiers. It was about his uncle, Daemon. "Prince Daemon has been sent to fight the Triarchy in the Stepstones," they whispered. "King Viserys could no longer tolerate his antics."

This news brought Aemond a sense of relief. Daemon was too chaotic, too unpredictable. In this moment of deep grief, Aemond didn't need more chaos. He needed peace to deal with his loss and the stability that Daemon rarely provided. He needed time to come to terms with what had happened and re-evaluate his feelings.

A month passed. A month filled with silence, sorrow, and emptiness. Aemond continued to fly on the Grey Ghost, finding in the sky the only place where he could feel free from pain. He often flew over the funeral site, looking down and feeling a constant longing. Rhaenyra was also immersed in her grief, and although they supported each other, each experienced the loss in their own way.

And then, one gloomy morning, when the sky was gray and overcast, a raven flew to his chambers. It was not a usual palace raven but seemed like a stranger who had flown from afar. Tied to its leg was a small but tightly sealed package wrapped in rough cloth.

Aemond cut the ropes and carefully unwrapped the cloth. Inside lay a small but heavy clay amphora, tightly sealed with wax. From it came a faint but unmistakable bittersweet aroma, reminiscent of honey and hot sand.

His heart tightened. It had arrived. Finally. But too late. He took out the amphora, its surface rough and cool. Inside, translucent and amber-golden, the resin shimmered, like solidified sunlight.

Aemond ran his finger over the smooth surface of the amphora. The pain that was already in him was now mixed with the bitterness of disappointment. They had waited so long, hoped so much, and now... Now his mother was gone. These "Suntears," which he had so craved, were a silent reproach, a reminder that he had failed to save her, despite all his efforts.

He felt their power, their life-giving properties, and it was almost unbearable. This was what could have helped, but it was too late. He felt cheated by fate. The valuable gift of the desert, a symbol of resilience and healing, now lay before him as a testament to his powerlessness.

Chapter Text

The death of Queen Aemma Targaryen left an unfillable void. The castle fell silent, and the air became heavy with unhealed grief. For six-year-old Aemond, this loss was not just the end of his childhood, but the beginning of a new, darker phase of life. His omega status, once a source of instinctive empathy, was now an open wound, allowing him to feel the pain and sorrow of those around him with particular intensity. Every whisper, every sigh, echoed in his ears like a scream, and the tears of others resonated in his own soul. His small world, once filled with joy and security, had now collapsed, leaving behind only the ruins of a broken heart.

After Prince Daemon's banishment, King Viserys made a decision that shook the kingdom. In his deep grief and sense of guilt over Aemma's death, he showed a surprising resolve. King Viserys proclaimed his daughter, Princess Rhaenyra, as the heir to the Iron Throne. Aemond watched this event, a mixture of surprise and respect burning in his eyes. He knew that Rhaenyra, with her strong alpha spirit, could be a capable ruler, but the idea of a woman inheriting the throne when there was a living male alpha in the family was unsatisfactory even to those lords who were not particularly fond of Prince Daemon. Still, when choosing between his uncle and his sister, Aemond would rather see Rhaenyra on the throne. As true dragon she was a fire that burned in the darkness, but a calm one, one that gave a sense of stability, as if returning to the warmth of one's home after a cool day. And this fire drew Aemond in, giving him a sense of stability in the chaos that was swirling around him.

Amid their shared grief, the bonds between Rhaenys, Rhaenyra, and Aemond grew stronger. Rhaenys, who herself knew the bitterness of losing parents, understood the pain the children felt. She became the one who shared their sorrow, and the three of them found solace in conversations that often turned into whispers so as not to disturb the sensitive walls of the Red Keep.

During one of Rhaenys's first visits after Aemma's death, Aemond, holding a small vial, extended it to her.

"These are Suntears," he whispered, his voice barely audible, the scent of grief clinging to him. "I got them by raven. They came after... after..."

His eyes, filled with unspoken pain, sought understanding in Rhaenys's. "You bought them for my mother... but she never needed them, so I'm giving them to you." Aemond could no longer bear this burden; he felt that this vial, filled with hope and love, had now become a symbol of what was lost.

Rhaenys took the vial, but after examining it carefully, she closed it and handed it back to Aemond.

"Yes, I bought them for your mother, Aemond," she said, her voice soft and sure. "But now they are yours. Perhaps one day you will need them. Let them be with you as a reminder of your mother's strength and resolve."

Rhaenys leaned down to the boy and placed her palm on his cheek, gently stroking it. It was a gesture not only of sympathy but also of recognition of his resilience. In this quiet, intimate moment, the bond between them deepened even more.

"Some treasures are better kept than given away. Especially those that hold the memory of our loved ones," she added, and then, with a gentle smile that seemed to light up her face, she whispered, "You are your mother's son, Aemond. Never forget that."

These words remained in his heart like a beacon in the darkness, giving him the strength he so desperately needed. He clutched the vial tightly in his hand, feeling its warmth, and in that moment, he realized that the memory of his mother was not just a pain, but a legacy he had to carry with dignity.

As the shadow of grief enveloped all of Westeros and deepened the royal castle's sorrow even more, Aemond and Rhaenyra found solace in each other. Their closeness became a quiet harbor in a stormy sea of sadness. They spent hours alone in the royal garden, where even the flowers seemed to bow their heads in mourning.

One evening, as the sun slowly set on the horizon, painting the sky in blood-red and golden hues, Aemond and Rhaenyra sat on an old stone bench in a quiet corner of the royal gardens, a spot where Emma used to take them to escape the clamor of the royal court. The usually talkative Rhaenyra was surprisingly silent. Her scent was so muted it was barely noticeable. Only the smell of tears and salt was present, and only when the wind blew in Aemond's direction. She was looking at the sunset, but her gaze was empty, as if she were seeing something else—something distant and painful.

Aemond barely recognized the girl beside him as the Rhaenyra he had been so fortunate to know. The energetic whirlwind of laughter and happiness was gone. Even in this life, he had never seen his sister so broken. Although he suspected that he himself could not be called the happiest child in Westeros right now. His mother's death had left a wound in his soul that seemed as if it would never heal. Sometimes he woke up in the morning with thoughts of going to his mother's chambers to tell her about a dream he had or to comfort her. But as soon as his foot touched the floor of the room, he remembered she was no longer there.

Resting his head on Rhaenyra's shoulder, Aemond whispered softly, his voice so quiet it was almost lost in the rustling of the leaves. "I feel like I've lost a part of myself. As if it was torn from my chest and can never be returned."

Rhaenyra pressed her own cheek to the top of her brother's head and carefully took his hand in hers. "I know, Aemond," her voice was soft but firm. "It's like a void has been left in your body. But we have to be strong, for her sake. She would want us to live, to be happy, and to remember her as she was—smiling and happy."

Aemond shook his head. He turned his face away to hide the tears that were slowly streaming down his cheeks. "I'm trying, I really am. But it's so hard. Every corner of the castle reminds me of her. I see her in every shadow, I hear her laughter in the wind... I can't stand it."

Rhaenyra hugged him, holding him tightly. "Cry if you want to. Don't be afraid. I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere," she whispered. "Your pain is my pain, too. We'll get through this together."

Their fragile solace hung in the air like thin glass, about to crack. Aemond, seeking a distraction from the unbearable pain, immersed himself in ancient manuscripts found in the library, where he stumbled upon old blueprints of the Red Keep. He remembered the existence of secret passages throughout the castle, which, according to legend, extended beneath all of King's Landing. These hidden paths, known only to a few, became his new source of comfort.

He began to explore each one, silently, like a shadow, disappearing into one wall and reappearing in another. It was like a game, but a game of survival that helped him forget the emptiness within. He moved through the castle unnoticed, listening to the conversations of the servants, observing the knights. Sometimes it seemed to him that he felt someone's gaze, but he attributed it to the anxiety of being discovered. Aemond was no longer just a quiet prince; he had become part of the castle, its ghost, dissolving in the dark corridors. This was his private domain, where no one could enter.

Once, emerging from an old, dusty passage where cobwebs had woven their lace for centuries, he found himself in a corridor near the library. Muffled voices drifted from inside—Otto Hightower and his daughter, Alicent.

Aemond, clenching his fists, pressed himself against the wall. He heard every word as if it were spoken directly into his ear.

"You must spend more time with the King, Alicent," Otto insisted, his voice cold and calculating. "You are beautiful, sensitive, and he, like any man, is looking for comfort. It is your duty to be by his side."

"Father, this is wrong," Alicent objected softly, her voice filled with doubt and despair. "Queen Aemma died so recently... How can I get close to the King so quickly? It looks terrible."

"Sentiments are out of place now! You can become queen, Alicent! King Viserys is our chance to strengthen our family's power. You must not lose him!" Otto's assertiveness grew, and his words had a metallic hardness to them.

A wave of disgust washed over Aemond. This was terrible; he knew that in his past life Alicent married his father after his first wife's death, but to do it so quickly? Was Otto so blinded by ambition that he was willing to put his own daughter with a man who had just lost the woman he loved? Did he not remember how he himself suffered from the loss of his own other half, Alicent's mother? And now, for the sake of power, he was using his own child. Aemond felt his contempt for the Hand of the King grow. Now he began to understand why his uncle hated Otto so much and called him "a snake that Viserys so trustingly warmed on his chest."

And his father... Could Viserys, who had so many times emphasized that Aemma was his heart and soul, so easily succumb to the temptation of a young woman's body?

After hearing the conversation, Aemond began to notice a secret closeness that starts between Viserys and Alicent. He saw them exchange glances filled with hidden feelings, and their laughter grew quieter. The corridors, which had once been his refuge, filled with whispers and shadows moving too close to each other. A sense of betrayal filled his heart as he realized that his family was falling apart.

He found Alicent in the garden. She was sitting by the fountain, reading a book, but her eyes wandered over the pages, her thoughts far away.

"Alicent," he approached her cautiously. "I found a new book about dragons, do you want to read it with me? And I also heard that Rhaenyra wants to practice fighting with real steel swords tonight. Can you imagine? We could join her."

Alicent looked up at him with sad eyes and just smiled mournfully. "Thank you, Aemond, but I can't. King Viserys asked me to accompany him on a walk."

"A walk?" Aemond repeated, his scent tinged with annoyance. "You'd better spend time with Rhaenyra than with him. You... You refuse to spend time with us more and more often." He frowned and lowered his gaze, hoping to make her feel guilty.

Alicent closed the book. "Aemond, you don't understand. I can't refuse the King. It's... it's complicated."

"What's complicated? Is Father pressuring you? Is he forcing you? If so, tell me!" His voice became more insistent. "Rhaenyra and I will talk to him!"

"No, Aemond, don't!" Alicent sharply objected. "That's not it. Just... let it go. It's all decided."

Aemond's attempts were in vain, and his disappointment grew. He felt that his father, who had so quickly forgotten his mother, was betraying not only her memory but also him and Rhaenyra.

A few weeks later, she arrived at court, which was always full of noise and intrigue. Laena. Her arrival was an anticipated event, but the reason for her appearance was a real blow to Aemond. They were friends, drawn together by a shared desire for a dragon and a special love and respect for one of them, Vhagar. The girl who was once a stranger to him had become someone he confidently called his best friend. Now she stood before him as a potential bride for his father.

Her hair was like a silver waterfall cascading over her shoulders, and her eyes shimmered with innocence. Aemond felt his heart constrict with pain and despair. It seemed unfair to him, that it was wrong. Laena, so young, much younger than Alicent, deserved more than to be a pawn in a political game.

Without hesitation, he rushed to find Rhaenys. He found her in the garden, surrounded by flowers. Her majestic figure radiated calm, but Aemond saw a shadow of sadness in her eyes.

"Velma," Aemond began, out of breath. "You have to listen to me. Laena... she's too young for him. This is wrong!"

Rhaenys looked up at the boy. Her eyes, which had seen too much grief and disappointment, were filled with understanding. She remained silent, allowing him to continue.

"She... she deserves love, respect! Not to be just a queen," Aemond spoke passionately, trying to convey his feelings. "You can't let this happen!"

Rhaenys, although she agreed with every word, knew how cruelly this world worked. She herself had tried to convince her husband. She sat down on a bench and patted the spot next to her, inviting Aemond to sit.

"Aemond, I know. I understand your feelings. I talked to Corlys about this myself. I emphasized her age, her dreams..." Her voice was quiet but resolute. "But he didn't listen. He only sees the throne. He only sees his blood sitting on it. He believes this is her destiny, her duty."

"But..." Aemond couldn't believe she had just given up.

Rhaenys placed a hand on his shoulder. "Laena is Corlys's daughter. And he, as her father and Lord of House Velaryon, has the right to decide her fate. He wants to see her as queen. And I, as a mother, can only watch this happen, because in this world, even a queen, even the most powerful woman, doesn't always have the right to her own choice."

Rhaenys's words, like an icy rain, pierced Aemond. He realized that his despair and desire to save Laena were futile. Their friendship, their shared memories, meant nothing in the face of cold politics and ambition. Laena was part of this game, and even her own mother couldn't change it. From his own past, he knew that the chances of Viserys choosing Laena as his new queen were slim, but Aemond still decided to make sure it wouldn't happen.

Realizing that his father was always inclined to believe in prophecies and signs, the omega decided to use this. He seemingly casually chatted with one of the white cloaks guarding the royal family. Aemond positioned them to be within earshot of a talkative courtier so that he would spread rumors that the white raven that flew into the city was a bad omen. He said that the white raven was a harbinger of misfortune and that it had come to warn the king against rash decisions.

Thanks to his excursions, Aemond found a place in a small abandoned garden where a white raven lived. The boy arranged for the bird to appear before Viserys and Laena as they walked together. Passing by the girl in the morning, he also discreetly attached a few white feathers to the hem of Laena's dress to add more drama to the situation.

When Viserys saw the white raven, his face went pale. He remembered the old stories that white ravens were harbingers of misfortune. He couldn't believe it happened at this very moment. He quickly ended the meeting with the omega, citing the need to return to kingdom affairs. This gave Aemond a little more time to come up with another plan.

Understanding that he couldn't directly influence politics, Aemond decided to use religion. He knew that some septons might have some influence over the king. He wrote several anonymous letters condemning the marriage of Viserys and Laena, calling it "sinful" and "unacceptable" due to the large age difference.

He slipped these letters to the septons who were in the castle and, using secret passages, slipped more letters to the septons in the city so that it would seem like the opinion of more than one person. He wrote that this marriage could cause the wrath of the Seven and that it could lead to misfortune in the kingdom.

The septon with the closest access to the king, upon receiving the letter, felt confused. He didn't know whether he should obey the letter or ignore it. However, he still decided to show it to Viserys. He was afraid that if he didn't, it could be seen as disobedience.

When Viserys read the letter, he was enraged. He couldn't believe that someone dared to speak to him like that and decide what he could and couldn't do. But at the same time, he began to have doubts. What if the person who wrote the letter was right? What if this marriage would indeed bring misfortune? This situation added to the doubts that Viserys was already beginning to have enough of.

After several successful attempts, Aemond, filled with determination, decided to take a risk and appeal directly to his father. He found him in the King's Tower study, where he was studying maps of Westeros.

"Father, can... Can I talk to you?" Aemond began, trying to keep his voice from trembling.

Viserys looked up, his eyes showing patience. "About what, son?"

"It's about Laena Velaryon. We're the same age! She can't be your wife. You... You can't... Did you really forget Mother so quickly?" The words burst out of Aemond like a torrent. These were not the words he had prepared and wanted to say, but he hoped he could still reach his father.

Viserys put a hand on his son's shoulder. "Aemond, your mother..." he began, a lump in his throat. "Your mother was everything to me. My sun, moon, and stars. My heart. Her loss brought me immense pain, a pain that you and Rhaenyra also share. But... we must not live in the past, the three of us must move on... She... I'm sure she would have wanted that for us." Tears were in Viserys's eyes, and he looked at his son with a blurred gaze, at the one who was a small copy of Aemma. Every time he looked at Aemond, Viserys was momentarily speechless, because it seemed to him that his beloved omega was looking back at him. Although both Rhaenyra and Aemond inherited their mother's features, it was the boy who resembled Aemma like two peas in a pod. This was why, after the funeral, he delved so deeply into politics and distanced himself from his children. After all, seeing their faces, he remembered what he had done.

Slowly kneeling, he embraced Aemond carefully but firmly, as if trying to completely melt his son into himself. And although in this life Aemond was not deprived of his father's attention, he was still surprised every time Viserys treated him with tenderness. Surprisingly, his father was a very tactile person and often placed a hand on his shoulders or wrapped his loved ones in half-hugs. Quickly regaining his composure, Aemond raised his arms and hugged his father back.

A few minutes later, without letting go of his son, Viserys spoke quietly:

"I understand this is difficult, Aemond, but it's just a marriage. A political union that will strengthen our dynasty. Laena is the daughter of House Velaryon, and this marriage will unite the two most powerful houses in the kingdom."

"But what if her heart never belongs to you? What if she's unhappy?" Aemond asked, his scent filled with pain.

Viserys turned away, his face turning to stone. "In our world, happiness is not always the main goal for royals, son. You have to understand that. Now go, Aemond, I still have some unfinished business."

Aemond, saddened and disappointed, walked away. He saw that his arguments seemed not important to his father, who saw political gain in this union.

Perhaps Viserys came to the realization himself, or perhaps Aemond's words sowed a seed of doubt, but shortly after their conversation, the future wedding of King Viserys and Alicent Hightower was announced. The news hit like a thunderclap. For Rhaenyra, it was a double betrayal: a betrayal of their mother and a betrayal of her place as the only woman, besides her mother, with a right to her father's heart. She felt her future was being taken from her.

For Aemond, it was expected news, but it didn't stop a mix of betrayal and resentment from settling in the boy's soul.

Rhaenyra and Alicent began to argue. Their conversations, once filled with laughter and secrets, turned into short, tense exchanges.

One day, Aemond witnessed another of their disputes. Alicent, red from tears, trembled, trying to hold back her emotions.

"You're taking everything from me!" Rhaenyra cried out, her scent heavy and filled with anger. "My family, my father, my future!"

Alicent's response was barely audible: "I didn't choose this, Rhaenyra. You know that..."

"Then why didn't you refuse? Why didn't you tell him you didn't want this?" Rhaenyra yelled, her voice breaking. "You're my friend! You should have refused for me!"

Aemond, who was standing behind the door, could no longer stay out of it. He entered the room.

"Rhaenyra," he said, focusing on keeping his scent calm and trying to soothe the tense atmosphere. "Alicent doesn't have a choice. She's the daughter of a simple lord, not even the head of his house. Her father is doing what he believes is right for his family. She simply had no choice."

But Rhaenyra, blinded by her pain, couldn't understand. "She's to blame! She could have said 'no'!" She fled the room, leaving Aemond and Alicent alone.

Alicent looked at Aemond, her eyes full of tears. "She hates me so much," she whispered, covering her face with her hands.

"She doesn't hate you," Aemond looked at her, her scent filled with sadness and pain from Rhaenyra's harsh reaction. "She just doesn't know how to deal with this pain. She's lost. And I understand her."

The wedding preparations were tense, as if every castle and every tapestry in the Red Keep was permeated with silence and pain. The wedding of Viserys and Alicent itself was luxurious, but its shadow was overshadowed by grief. It seemed that even the sunlight filtering through the stained-glass windows was dim. Guests smiled, but their eyes were empty.

Aemond and Rhaenyra, feeling betrayed, stood side by side, holding hands, as the only allies in this strange world. They looked at Viserys, and in their eyes was not only sadness but also a cold detachment. They felt they had lost not only their mother but their father as well. Their relationship with Viserys became strained, filled with a cold remoteness.

"Are you still holding on, sister?" Aemond asked quietly, squeezing her hand.

"Do I have a choice?" Rhaenyra whispered, looking at the newlyweds. "They took our mother from us; now they want to take everything that's left."

"No one will take anything from you, Rhaenyra," Aemond said, his voice full of determination. "You are the heir to the throne, and most importantly, you are my older sister. And I promise you, no matter what happens, I will be by your side."

Soon after the wedding, unrest once again fell over the castle. Alicent became pregnant. The news was another blow to Rhaenyra, painfully hitting her hopes for her father's love and attention. She couldn't calmly look at Alicent's rounded belly, which grew every day like a symbol of her defeat.

Aemond, on the other hand, felt a strange mix of emotions. On one hand, he was happy for Alicent; her face was lit up with a happiness he hadn't seen in her since the engagement was announced. But on the other, his heart was squeezed with anxiety. He feared that the birth of Aegon and his presentation as an alpha could provoke a conflict that would destroy the already fragile peace, just as it had in his past life.

Aemond stood at the door of Alicent's chambers, not daring to enter. His father put an arm around his shoulders. "Come on, Aemond. Your future brother or sister is waiting for you." But Rhaenyra was his sister. The only daughter of the mother whom he, after all the love she had given him, confidently called his own as well. The mother who had died from what Alicent, now his stepmother, was now going through.

He walked into the room. The light from the window fell on Alicent's rounded belly. She was sitting in a chair, embroidering, her face glowing with a strange happiness that was unusual for Aemond.

"My husband, Prince Aemond," she smiled, her eyes seeming warm. "Come on, sit down."

He sat uncertainly on a stool at her feet. Alicent put down her embroidery when Viserys placed a hand on her belly.

"Your little brother or sister is in here. Do you want to feel them?" he asked.

Aemond shook his head doubtfully. He was uncomfortable. He didn't know how he was supposed to act. He wished everything could go back to the way it was before.

After sitting there and seeing that both Viserys and Alicent were more focused on each other, Aemond decided to quietly leave the adults.

He met Rhaenyra in the garden. She was sitting by the fountain, lost in her thoughts, and looked so lonely.

"Mandia," he began carefully. "You look upset."

"I don't need your pity, Aemond," she replied without looking up.

"It's not pity. I just... understand how you feel," he sat down next to her. "But you shouldn't let these feelings control you."

"How else can I feel?" Her voice trembled with resentment. "She's going to give birth to an alpha. This is the end. Father will turn away from me and choose this new son as his heir."

"Maybe," Aemond countered.

"Maybe it will be a girl, and we'll have a younger sister. Maybe our future brother will be an omega, like me. We can't know everything, Rhaenyra, especially what our father is thinking. He could change his mind and name uncle Daemon as his heir again. But you know what I'm absolutely sure of?"

Aemond moved closer to his sister, he saw how carefully she was listening to his every word.

"I'm sure that if the entire kingdom wants to see you on the throne, even the king will have to listen and carry out the will of his people. You are decisive, full of confidence, and your will burns like the fire of a thousand suns. I know you can be a wonderful queen who will be remembered for generations. But this is possible if you are truly worthy not only in my eyes but also in the eyes of others."

Aemond looked at Rhaenyra, these words were difficult for him, because they went against everything he had been taught his entire past life, but if in this life he was on his older sister's side, then he would not lose his chance to make her a worthy ruler for whom he would go into battle if necessary.

His words seemed to ignite something in the alpha's heart, because after this, she began to spend more time with father to learn more about ruling the kingdom. More and more often, everyone could see the white-haired shadow behind the king, carefully listening to Viserys's every word.

Time passed, and a boy was born, named Aegon. The name brought a wave of memories of the past to Aemond, of his older brother. Now, Aegon had become his younger brother. It was surreal. He felt a tenderness for him that was combined with a certain detachment, but he especially noticed how Rhaenyra avoided their little brother.

Aemond sat on the floor next to little Aegon's cradle. He stretched out his finger to the baby's tiny hand, and it squeezed it tightly.

"You don't know it yet, but I'm your brother," Aemond whispered. "I used to be the younger one, and now I'm your older brother. I don't know why everything happened this way. I don't know why the gods decided that I needed to be reborn. I don't know why I..."

He didn't finish. A question he was afraid to ask came to mind: "Why is he here?"

This question had no answer. Aemond felt that he didn't have the right to be the oldest brother. It was a role he didn't expect and couldn't fully master. Daeron was sent to Oldtown long before Aemond realized he had become an older brother. He wanted to be Aegon's younger brother. But now he was his older brother, and he would do everything so that the terrible past would not repeat itself. He would protect his siblings. All of them.

Aemond was determined to bring Rhaenyra closer to Aegon. When Rhaenyra resisted, he always remembered what their distance from each other could lead to, and this inspired him to continue his attempts.

"He's our brother, Rhaenyra," he told her, holding little Aegon in his arms. "Even if he's only half, our blood flows in him. You are his future queen, his protector. You must not let us be separated."

Rhaenyra was silent, but something like pain flashed across her face. She looked at little Aegon, who was peacefully sleeping in the omega's arms.

"You say the right things, Aemond," she said quietly. "But... it's too painful."

"I know," his voice, like his scent, was soft and resolute. "But we have a shared future with him. And we have to fight for that future together."

These words were more for himself than for her. He held Aegon, feeling the warmth of his small body, and was afraid that this idyll, like a house of cards, would fall apart with the slightest breeze.

Chapter Text

The year leading up to Aegon's first name day passed in unexpected tranquility, though not without its share of events. Aemond, with his foreknowledge of the future, moved with careful and subtle intent. His main goal was to prevent the coming catastrophe, and to do so, he started with the most important figures: Rhaenyra and Aegon.

Aemond, playing his favorite role of the "quiet younger brother who adores his older sister," spent a lot of time with Rhaenyra, carrying little Aegon in his arms. It seemed she was finally beginning to get used to the youngest's presence.

Rhaenyra stood before the door to Alicent's chambers. Her hand was frozen in the air, as if not daring to touch the cold wood. Aemond, watching her from around the corner, could sense her hesitation. He saw her struggle with herself, with her pride and anger. He knew this step was more than just a visit. It was crossing an invisible line that he had been trying to dismantle for so long.

Finally, Rhaenyra, tempted by a new curiosity, quietly opened the door. Aemond, unable to contain his excitement, followed her. The room was bathed in soft morning light that streamed through the tall windows. The air was filled with the scent of lavender, Alicent's favorite. In the center of the room, in a richly decorated cradle, a small Aegon slept, looking so defenseless.

Aemond watched as Rhaenyra approached the cradle. Her face softened, the tension gone, replaced by a tenderness he had never seen before. He saw her heart melting. She reached out and stroked his cheek, and this simple gesture filled Aemond's heart with hope. He stood in the doorway, not daring to take a step, just watching Rhaenyra. He said nothing, remaining silent, afraid to disturb this sacred moment.

Rhaenyra, her face wet with tears, turned around. Their eyes met, and Aemond understood everything without words. She was frightened, bewildered by new feelings she couldn't comprehend. He went to her, and Rhaenyra threw herself into his arms, as if seeking refuge from the storm raging within her.

"I am afraid, Aemond," she whispered, her voice trembling. "I am afraid he will take everything... my place, my future. I am afraid father will turn away from me."

"You're thinking of this as a competition, sister," Aemond replied, gently stroking her back. His heart ached at her words. He knew her fears were justified, but he was here to change it. "But it is not. Our destinies are intertwined, not opposed. I will not let anyone take what belongs to you. I am your brother, and you are my sister. We will always be together, and with his arrival, our family only grows."

Aemond held her tightly, feeling his promise solidify. He knew Rhaenyra was the future of the kingdom. And now that she herself was beginning to realize that her future was not a competition, he was ready to fight for her place.

A few days later, he stood in the corridor, holding his breath, watching Rhaenyra. She stood outside the door, her ears listening to the sounds from inside, where the faint gurgling of a baby and the soft voice of a woman singing a lullaby came from Alicent's chambers.

Aemond could feel her internal struggle. The scent he perceived was a mix of bitterness and resentment with curiosity and tenderness. He saw that she was angry at Alicent, the woman she believed "stole" her place in their father's heart. But he also saw that she could not be angry at the child, who was her own blood. This feeling was something new, something she had not experienced before.

Aemond squeezed the small toy dragon he was carrying for Aegon. He knew this was his chance to begin rebuilding the connection between Rhaenyra and Alicent. The chance he had been waiting for. He slowly approached his sister, trying not to make a sound, as if he were a real mouse. When he was close, he raised his head and looked at her.

"Don't you want to go in?" he asked, tilting his head slightly.

Rhaenyra flinched, as if waking up. Her eyes were filled with a mixture of surprise and confusion.

"I..." Rhaenyra didn't know what to say.

"I'll go with you," he nodded, and without waiting for her consent, took her hand.

She looked at their hands. Once he was a tiny boy who constantly held onto her skirt. And now, although he was younger than her, he was the one who held her hand firmly, as if he were her shield. It was strange, but at the same time, it soothed her. She let go of him, but he didn't let go of her. He leaned into her.

Aemond felt her tension ease, and her scent became softer and sweeter. He knew he was doing everything right. He was not only creating a bond that did not exist in the past, but also changing her attitude towards him and their new family. He could not know if this would be enough to prevent the war, but he knew that every small step brought him closer to his goal.

"I don't know what I feel," Rhaenyra said softly.

"Me neither," Aemond replied, and Rhaenyra hugged him tightly.

Rhaenyra and Aemond entered the room. Alicent looked up, and her smile faded when she saw Rhaenyra. The air became electrified with unspoken words.

"You... came," Alicent said, her voice barely audible. Rhaenyra did not answer, her gaze fixed on the small Aegon who was snoring in his mother's arms.

"He's so... small," she said quietly. Alicent nodded. "He looks like his father, doesn't he? With the same silver hair."

"His eyes... they're purple, like all of us," Aemond noted, feeling the need to diffuse the tension.

"Do you want to hold him?" Alicent asked, and there was so much hope in her eyes that Rhaenyra could not refuse. She carefully took her brother into her arms. Little Aegon opened his large purple eyes, looked at her, and then grabbed her finger. His touch was so sincere, so defenseless. Rhaenyra felt her heart melt, and this moment became key to their reconciliation.

Aemond, watching this, felt a sense of triumph. Step by step, he was creating a bond that he never see in his past life. He also encouraged Rhaenyra to be more responsible, asking her about governance, diplomacy, and history. He told her stories of great kings and queens, emphasizing that true power was not in the crown, but in wisdom and dedication to one's people.

"Queen Alysanne," Aemond once said, sitting with Rhaenyra by the fireplace. "She was wise and merciful. She ruled as if her people were her own family. She understood that a king's strength is not in armies, but in the love of the people."

To his surprise, Rhaenyra listened. She began to spend more time with the maesters, studying the history of Westeros, and even participating in some of her father's meetings. Aemond, watching this, felt joy. His efforts were bearing fruit.

Her attitude toward Alicent also changed — instead of cold courtesy, Rhaenyra now often turned to her for advice. They talked late into the night, and Aemond, who watched it all, felt that he had succeeded in creating a connection that could change the course of history.

In his desire to show his favor to all corners of the kingdom, Viserys decided to appoint several new guards to the ranks of the Kingsguard. Aemond, who was watching their arrival from the inner courtyard, immediately noticed one of them. Ser Criston Cole, an attractive alpha with dark hair that fell to his shoulders and calm eyes, was the same person he remembered from the past. His face seemed to be carved from stone, with a firm jaw and a straight nose. He carried himself with confidence, but not arrogance. In his past life, he had been Queen Alicent's loyal shield, who later became her most devoted, and, ultimately, cruel ally. Now, to Aemond's inexplicable surprise, he was assigned to guard Rhaenyra.

"This must be some kind of cosmic joke," Aemond muttered under his breath, trying to understand why history was so bizarrely changing its course.

Next to Criston stood another man. Tall, swarthy, with hair as black as night pulled back into a tight bun, and thin, elongated facial features. His movements were fluid and silent, like a snake's. He didn't smile, but only observed everything around him, his dark eyes penetrating the very essence of things. This was Ser Alaro Sand of Dorne. He had arrived to become Aemond's personal guard. He smelled of the desert after a rain—a light, fresh scent that brought a sense of calm.

With Alaro's arrival, Aemond's life became complicated. It was impossible to slip away from his supervision. The Dornishman was like a shadow—he didn't interfere, didn't demand, but was always nearby. One day, when Aemond was about to disappear into one of the secret passages, he heard Alaro's quiet but firm voice behind him.

"My Prince, your father asked me to tell you that he expects you at training. He would like to see how you handle a sword."

Aemond stopped. He turned around, and his gaze met the calm eyes of the beta.

"Actually, ser, I was going for a walk to get some fresh air," Aemond lied, surprised at how discreet the Dornishman was.

"I will go with you," Alaro replied without any emotion.

Aemond gritted his teeth. He understood that this was not a suggestion, but a statement. It had been a month since Alaro Sand became his guard, and in that time, Aemond had not been able to slip away once. The only time he could be alone was by taking to the sky on the back of Grey Ghost, but he couldn't always hide from the guardsman on a dragon. Every time he approached one of the hidden doors, Alaro found a way to stop him.

"Are you looking for something you shouldn't find, my Prince?" Alaro once asked.

Aemond looked around and saw that they were alone. "What is that supposed to mean, ser?" he replied coldly.

"Every secret has its price, your highness," Alaro said, not smiling. "Sometimes it's better not to know what's behind the hidden doors to keep your peace of mind."

Aemond didn't know what to say. The Dornishman spoke like a philosopher, not a soldier. He felt that this man knew more than he was letting on.

The next week, Aemond decided it was time to act. He came up with a complicated plan to distract Alaro, but everything went wrong. Just as he was slipping into one of the least-used passages, he heard a sound behind him.

"Going for a walk again, my Prince?" Alaro's quiet voice made him freeze.

Aemond slowly turned around and saw the guardsman standing in the doorway. His face was calm, but his eyes showed immense weariness.

"How do you know?" Aemond whispered.

"I saw you leaving," Alaro replied. "You don't walk like other youths strolling through the castle. Your steps are too purposeful."

"Are you... spying on me?" Aemond's voice trembled with fury.

"I am guarding you, your highness," Alaro replied, stepping closer. His eyes were filled with a strange mixture of curiosity and understanding.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, beautifully carved wooden object. It was a snake with golden eyes and golden stripes on both sides. The figurine seemed familiar, but Aemond had no idea where he might have seen it.

"I think we both have our secrets," the Dornishman said softly. "And perhaps the day will come to talk about them."

Aemond looked at the snake, then at Alaro. He had a feeling he was on the verge of something big, something that would change everything.

"Who are you?" Aemond asked, his voice barely audible.

Alaro smiled, and this smile was strange, unlike any Aemond had ever seen before; it was calm, yet at the same time, it conveyed immense wisdom.

"A friend," he replied confidently. Without hesitation, he turned and silently disappeared down the corridor, leaving a bewildered Aemond alone with the small snake in his hand.

Aemond, still stunned, returned to his chambers, his thoughts consumed by the mysterious Dornishman. The next few weeks, he spent observing the guardsman, trying to understand his motives. Aemond noticed that Alaro always kept his distance, not interfering in his affairs unless it concerned safety. He moved quietly, like a ghost, always appearing where he was least expected. But every time Aemond tried to sneak out, Alaro was there, like an invisible wall. He didn't use any excuses; he just stood nearby, as if silently inviting Aemond to a dialogue.

One day, as they were walking through the inner courtyard, Aemond couldn't take it anymore.

"Are you always going to be here, or will you give me at least a minute alone?" he asked.

Alaro replied, looking directly into his eyes, "You choose your own path, Prince. I merely walk alongside you."

Aemond felt that Alaro's words were not just a riddle, but a hint that the Dornishman had some knowledge of the omega. He could have tried to find out more, but something stopped him. It was the fear that the knowledge the beta had might be even more terrifying than his own. But in the end, seeing that Alaro was not doing anything unusual, the omega decided to leave things as they were.

For now.

Aegon's first name day was celebrated with royal splendor. The castle was decorated in Targaryen colors—red and black. The courtyard was filled with musicians and clowns, and the air smelled of roasted meat and sweet wine. The little birthday boy, dressed in a tiny red tunic, sat in Viserys's arms, his purple eyes wide as he watched everyone celebrating.

When it was time for gifts, Viserys, with a smile on his face, lifted his son, bringing him to a large table overflowing with toys. Among the wooden horses and plush dragons gifted by the courtiers, Aemond felt an unpleasant chill when he saw the gift from Otto Hightower. It was a small, but real, sword forged from the finest steel. Engraved on the hilt were gold and red seven-pointed stars, and the pommel was decorated with a small dragon.

"Happy name day, Prince Aegon," Otto said quietly, his voice calm, but his eyes held a malicious glee. "May this sword help you become a great warrior."

Alicent, who stood nearby, cast a quick, subtle glance at her father. Her face was tense, as if she were wrestling with her inner feelings. She placed a hand on Aemond's shoulder, who was standing behind her.

"He is so small," she whispered, turning to Viserys. "Isn't it too early for a sword?"

"It's never too early to be a true prince," Viserys replied proudly, but there was a strange shadow of doubt in his eyes.

Aegon, small and unaware, reached out his hand for a bright toy, not even looking at the sword, but at a large, vibrant tambourine held by a jester.

Aemond watched this, and his heart was filled with a strange feeling. He remembered a different Aegon, one who was cruel and envious, and who, after becoming king, was thirsty for the attention that power brought. But this little one, who sat in his father's arms, was just a child. With eyes that shone with pure joy and a smile that melted hearts. This Aegon was not yet corrupted by the world, and Aemond felt that it was for him that he was here. He looked at Rhaenyra, who stood nearby, and saw mixed feelings in her gaze: from concern to a new, incomprehensible tenderness. And in that moment, he understood that his plan was working.

Another half-year passed, filled with quiet tension and political maneuvering. The bright morning mist, descending from the hills, slowly dissipated over the waters of the Blackwater, revealing a majestic fleet. On the raid of King's Landing, brilliantly illuminated by the morning sun, the ships of the Velaryon fleet appeared. Their sails, resembling seahorses on a white background, proudly fluttered in the wind like snow-white wings.

Lord Corlys Velaryon came ashore with his son, Laenor. Corlys, with a gray beard resembling a tangle of seaweed and a wise, penetrating gaze, seemed to embody the very power of the sea. Aemond, watching them from a window, saw in him not just a lord, but a symbol of power that disregards obstacles.

Laenor Velaryon, his son, was a tall and slender alpha, with long, fair hair that lightly swayed in the wind, and a gentle smile on his face. His scent, with its freshness, reminded one of Rhaenys's, but had notes of salt and minerals, creating an interesting, somewhat wild mix.

Although their arrival was officially to improve friendly ties between the houses through friendship between the children, Aemond, watching them from the window, knew the true reason. He suspected that after Viserys's refusal to marry his daughter Laena, Corlys now intended to marry Laenor to Rhaenyra. Corlys sought to unite the two strong Valyrian houses to strengthen his position and solidify his own dynastic line.

Aemond returned to Viserys, who stood nearby, looking at the arrivals with genuine joy.

"They have arrived, Father," he said, trying to hide his true thoughts.

"What wonderful news, son!" Viserys exclaimed joyfully, patting him on the shoulder. "I hope this will be a good omen."

Aemond merely nodded, his thoughts far away. He felt this was not a "good omen," but merely another step in the political battle for the throne that had already begun. He imagined Rhaenyra marrying Laenor, and a sense of bitterness enveloped him. In his past life, he had envied her; now, when Rhaenyra had become close to him, he felt he might lose her, lose a part of his family.

Later, as Viserys welcomed Corlys and Laenor, Aemond found himself next to Rhaenyra. She looked tense, her gaze fixed on Laenor, who was gallantly bowing over her hand.

"He didn't come to visit our father," Rhaenyra whispered to Aemond, her violet eyes shining with anger. "He brought his son as a trophy to place him on the throne."

"He brought a fleet, sister," Aemond replied. "And the Crown needs a fleet. They seek to unite the Blood of the Dragon and the Blood of the Sea Snake."

"And that means I have to lie beneath him?" She nodded with disgust toward Laenor. "He's a true alpha, I know. But his scent... it's... too much for me."

Aemond smiled subtly. He knew Laenor was fond of other alphas company, but of course, he couldn't tell his sister that. Instead, he focused on her main problem.

"Laenor is not our enemy, Rhaenyra," he said quietly. "His father is our opponent. Our true enemy is those who see him as a tool to eliminate you."

Rhaenyra turned to him, her face softening.

"You've become so wise, little brother. When what should I do?"

"Accept him as an ally and friend, not as a potential husband," Aemond advised. "Show that you are stronger than politics. And for now, show him your hospitality, so as not to give Corlys a reason for anger. The throne must be in your hands, not in his son's."

Rhaenyra paused for a moment, then nodded, her determination returning. She reached out her hand to Laenor and, despite her inner resistance, smiled at him as only she could, the true Realm's Delight. Aemond felt triumph: every small step they took was a step in the right direction.

A few months later after Velaryon's first visit, news of Daemon's triumph over the Triarchy thundered throughout the Kingdom. He had returned. And this fact could not but affect everyone in the capital, especially Aemond. At the celebratory gathering that Viserys had arranged in honor of his brother, the air in the hall was heated with anticipation. Courtiers whispered amongst themselves, glancing at the entrance to the Great Hall, but no one dared to speak loudly, knowing who was about to enter.

And then he appeared. Daemon Targaryen, dressed in black leather soaked with the smell of battles, stood in the center of the hall, as if the very space around him had compressed. His face, covered with a thin layer of travel dust, seemed to be carved from stone. Aemond felt his heart beating wildly. Before this, when they had met, Daemon's gaze was filled with an incomprehensible obsession, a mixture of curiosity and kinship. But now Aemond felt something else, something akin to true hatred, and it bewildered him.

Daemon slowly approached Viserys and knelt on one knee.

"I brought you a crown, Your Grace," Daemon said, offering Viserys a crown made of driftwood, inlaid with shark teeth. "I won it back for you."

Viserys, flustered and impressed, yet happy, lifted his brother and hugged him.

"I always believed in you, Daemon," he said, his voice trembling with joy. "I believed you would find your way."

Daemon smiled, his gaze gliding over the crowd, stopping on Aemond. His eyes seemed to pierce Aemond. Alpha twisted his face into a grimace, something between contempt and anger. It was the same look Aemond had seen in his past life, and it made him shudder. He felt that Daemon, just as in the past, saw a threat in him.

"Why is he looking at me like that?" Aemond thought, trying to find a logical explanation. He knew that Daemon had always been ambitious and jealous, and perhaps after the time spent at a distance, he saw in him not only a nephew but also a competitor for Viserys's attention. Aemond spent time with Rhaenyra every day, reminding his father of her, and was closer to him than Daemon.

The reason for the alpha's behavior might also be the fact that after Rhaenyra was proclaimed heir and with each subsequent child his brother had, Daemon was moving further and further away from the coveted Iron Throne. His gaze spoke not only of contempt but also of deep disappointment. Aemond felt that Daemon saw in him not just Viserys's son, but a symbol of everything he had lost.

Daemon, without another word, turned and went to Rhaenyra, hugging her. Aemond felt that Daemon, despite all his flaws, still remained a part of the family, and this was something he couldn't change. But he also knew that their possible battle for the future was just beginning.

Later, when the celebration was over, Aemond found Rhaenyra standing by the window, watching the lights being lit in the harbor.

"He's back," she whispered, her voice quiet but tense.

"I saw," Aemond replied, coming closer. "He was... as always."

Rhaenyra turned to him, her eyes filled with a mixture of anger and sadness.

"Did you see how he looked at you? And at Aegon? With some kind of... hatred. He thinks you're a threat to me."

"No," Aemond countered, his voice confident. "He sees us as a threat to himself. I am not a part of his game."

"His game?" Rhaenyra looked at him, surprised.

"Yes," Aemond nodded. "I'm sure he wants the throne for himself. And if not for himself, then for you, but only because by marrying you, he'll still get it. Me, on the other hand, simply too close to Father, and that annoys him."

She thought for a moment, then said softly, "I don't want you to be a part of this game. You are more precious to me than any throne."

Aemond felt his heart melt. This was what he was living for, to change her attitude toward him, to create a bond that did not exist in the past.

"I won't be," he whispered in response.

"We will be together. No throne, no intrigues will separate us. We are family, and we will be together."

Rhaenyra smiled, and this smile was sincere, one he had not seen before. She took his hand, and they stood together, watching the lights of the Harbor, knowing that a long and difficult road awaited them, but they were ready to walk it together.

After Daemon's return, Otto Hightower immediately sprang into action. Every day, like poison, he poured doubts about his brother into Viserys's ears. He insisted that Daemon, having just returned, would once again pose a threat to the stability and peace of the realm.

"Your Majesty," Otto repeated, his voice calm and insinuating. "You know your brother's ambitions. He has always wanted the throne, and his victory over the Triarchy has only fueled that desire."

Aemond knew that Otto, in his attempt to undermine Daemon's authority, was actually fighting for his own power, which he might lose with Daemon's return. Otto also insisted that Rhaenyra should marry someone influential to strengthen her status as heir. Although Viserys was a weak man, he couldn't help but notice the change in Rhaenyra. Her thirst for knowledge and responsibility, which Aemond had nurtured in her, impressed him. Viserys, who had previously seen his daughter only as a disobedient girl, now saw her as a future queen, and his choice to name her his heir became even more certain.

One day, during a Small Council meeting, when other matters had already been discussed, Otto, sensing that the situation was slipping out of his control again, decided to speak up. The beta, hoping the king would still listen to him, began to offer his "advice" to Viserys again.

"Your Majesty," he began, his voice calm but with an underlying persistence. "To avoid further misunderstandings, we must urgently find a husband for Princess Rhaenyra who would serve as her 'shield' to prevent Daemon from taking power. I am confident that young Velaryon would be an excellent choice."

When he finished speaking, silence fell upon the hall. All eyes were fixed on Viserys, who was already tired of the constant complaints about his brother. He turned to Otto, his face calm, but a dangerous spark ignited in his eyes.

"I see you will not rest until you sow hatred in my family," Viserys's loud voice boomed, surprising everyone present. He rose to his feet, his voice growing even firmer.

"You wish to turn me against my brother, who has just returned from war, where he won the crown for us! You wish to turn me against my daughter! I will not let you divide my family, Otto. You have just made your final move. I dismiss you from your post as Hand of the King. Go to Oldtown and do not return until I summon you myself. Perhaps in the quiet peace of your home, you will find peace for your soul."

At these words, Otto turned pale, his face contorted into a mask of fury. He merely bowed his head, his eyes flashing. It was humiliating for him, and he understood that this was not only Viserys's doing, but possibly Rhaenyra's as well, who had now become wiser and wanted to remove his influence over her father and her own daughter, Otto.

Aemond, hiding in a secret passage, was so engrossed in the conversation he had just overheard that he didn't hear someone sneak up behind him. He never understood how Daemon suddenly appeared behind him. From surprise, a high-pitched squeak escaped his lips, which he would always deny. A firm hand pressed him against the cold wall.

"Unc...?" the omega managed to say and felt the cold steel of Dark Sister press against his throat. His eyes wide open, he looked at Daemon. The alpha's face, though showing no emotion, held eyes shining with determination and a faint glint of anger. His scent was saturated with a mixture of bitterness, steel, and smoke that stung Aemond's nose.

Daemon leaned closer to his nephew, his gaze fixed on the violet eyes opposite him. The alpha growled lowly.

"Give me," he began angrily, "give me one good reason not to spill your blood right now, kinslayer."

Chapter Text

The cold of the wall he was pressed against was palpable even through the layer of thick fabric his doublet was made of. This sensation was the only thing grounding Aemond in that moment. The tremor that ran through Aemond's body could have been explained by the cold of the wall, but it was shock. Perhaps if someone saw them now, they would think this shock came from his own uncle pressing a sword to the boy's neck. But in reality, in reality, it was shock from not understanding how Daemon knew that nickname.

Kinslayer. This name had haunted him ever since he killed his nephew. A name he wore with pride in public to intimidate his enemies, but one that plunged a knife into his heart with every utterance. He hadn't wanted to kill him; all Aemond wanted was for Lucerys to feel fear of him, a fear he would tell his mother about, and which would sow its seed in the heart of everyone who chose to support his half-sister. But he underestimated his fury and overestimated his power over Vhagar. His mistake, the very first blood he spilled, became the beginning of that cruel and bloody war. A war that also claimed so many innocent lives like Jaehaerys and Maelor. All those innocent souls never got to know the joys and happiness of life, all because of callous and bloodthirsty monsters like him.

He was such a monster, because now he had a new life in this world that had become familiar, where everything was almost the same, yet completely different. In this world, he was not the "Kinslayer," as he had not killed his nephew, who was not born yet. Therefore, the only explanation for why Daemon called him that was that he had somehow learned about all the sins he had committed in that other life. But how?

Did Daemon receive the gift of Dragon Dreams in this world instead of Helaena? But then he would immediately treat him with hatred or even disgust, not with a sometimes alarming curiosity. Besides, knowing how much of a narcissist Daemon was, Aemond doubted that the alpha's ability to see prophetic dreams wouldn't be known to the entire kingdom.

Then... Did his uncle also get a second chance at life? And it must have been quite recently, because otherwise, Daemon would have already started changing the future to his advantage. Aemond realized that his father's decision to send Otto to Oldtown might have been Daemon's idea to keep the beta away from Viserys and the royal court.

All these thoughts flashed through Aemond's head while he stood bewildered opposite the alpha. Realizing that patience was not one of Daemon's virtues, the boy said the first thing that came to mind.

"Because Father will execute you for murdering his only son, whom his beloved Aemma gave him."

Surprisingly, it worked. After a brief consideration, Daemon withdrew the blade from his nephew's throat. Although the sword was no longer at his neck, Aemond remained pinned to the wall, cautiously watching his uncle and awaiting his next move.

Daemon did not keep him waiting. As soon as he returned his sword to its scabbard, Daemon sharply approached the omega, firmly grabbed him by the collar, and pulled him toward the nearest exit from the secret passages. They emerged in a corridor near the castle gardens and headed toward the wing with the royal family's chambers. Rounding one of the stairwells, they encountered Ser Arryk, who froze for a moment at the sight they presented. An adult alpha holding his omega nephew by the collar and dragging him toward his rooms. Even Daemon, filled with quiet fury, understood how this might look, so he quickly released Aemond's clothes but did not release the boy himself, placing a hand on his shoulder and gripping it tightly, knowing the boy would flee at the first opportunity.

"My... My Princes! Is... Is everything alright?" the guardsman asked, shifting his eyes from one to the other. His beta scent was filled with confusion and uncertainty about how to act in such a situation. Recovering slightly, Arryk straightened up and approached the royals with greater confidence.

"Prince Aemond, are you well? Perhaps I can assist you with something?"

"No!" Aemond quickly replied. "No, Ser Arryk, everything's fine. My uncle and I are just... We..."

The boy looked at Daemon.

"I just wanted to show my nephew one of the artifacts I acquired in battle. Our little omega loves to hear his uncle's tales. Isn't that right, Aemond?"

Daemon leaned in toward the boy, squeezing him in a half-embrace. His face expressed ease and a slight smile, but his eyes were filled with firmness.

"Yes, that's exactly right, Ser," Aemond nodded confidently.

Arryk looked closely at the boy and, with reluctance, nonetheless ceded the way to the Princes.

"Well, if you are sure..." he said reluctantly, stepping aside.

"Yes, yes, good day, Ser," Daemon said, already moving on and pulling Aemond along with him.

As soon as the door to Daemon’s room closed behind them and the sound of the bolt echoed in the silence, the mask fell from his face. A gloomy expression, full of anger, contorted his features. Daemon released his nephew's shoulder and, crossing his arms over his chest, cast a cold, piercing glare at him. Aemond knew that look—it was the gaze of a predator that had cornered its prey, ready to pounce at any moment.

"Now speak," Daemon's voice was low, like a dragon's growl, and full of danger.

Aemond, just freed from the tight grip, carefully took a step back. His heart hammered loudly against his ribs, but he did not allow himself to show fear.

"What?" he played dumb, trying to buy time to think of an escape. "Say what?"

"Don't play the fool. You know what I'm talking about," Daemon approached the omega, his movements smooth and silent, like a tiger stalking its prey. "It's your bastard witch, isn't it? She did this? You were so terrified of your inevitable loss that you convinced her to use magic and return to try again."

The alpha was so close that Aemond could feel his breath on his face, warm yet dangerous. The scent of fury emanating from Daemon stung his nostrils.

"Well, you won't succeed. Whatever you do, you'll never defeat me."

Realizing that pretending was pointless, Aemond decided to talk to his uncle honestly, though without revealing everything. He raised his gaze, which no longer held fear, only determination.

"So, you remember," he stated quietly.

Daemon smiled maliciously, his face twisting into a grimace.

"And I shouldn't have? Wasn't that part of your plans, Kinslayer?"

"First, stop calling me that," Aemond hissed, his scent flaring with anger, further thickening the room already saturated with his uncle's rage. "Second, I have no idea why we are both here. Do you really think I'd be standing here in front of you if this was truly me? You wouldn't even know what hit you."

Daemon fixed his gaze on his nephew, trying to find even the slightest lie in his words. But Aemond's face was clear. As frustrating as it was, it seemed the younger one was telling the truth. He genuinely wasn't involved in their return. The alpha moved away from Aemond and sank into a chair, leaning back. His posture seemed relaxed, but it was clear he was still watching his nephew intently, like a cat observing a mouse.

"If this is the doing of the gods, then why you here?" Daemon asked suspiciously, looking at the boy. "I understand why they brought me back, but what's the point of giving a second chance to a green half-breed?"

Aemond flinched with offense, feeling a sharp stab of insult.

"Half-breed? Do you think the same of Rhaenys? She has the blood of the stags too. Do you call her a half-breed as well, or do you only insult those younger than you? The fact that not only Targaryen blood flows in my veins doesn't make me less of a dragon than you. I am your brother's son; the same blood flows in our veins."

"The same?" Daemon questioned with malice, his eyes blazing with fury, like a dragon’s fire. "I don’t care who my brother slept with, but I will never accept those cursed towers as my family. You are all just a nest of vile snakes, waiting only to sink your fangs into someone else’s neck."

"What is wrong with you? I understand the hatred you harbored for Otto. But what was our fault? We were children. We were only children when you started your battle for that damned chair. If you had behaved like sensible adults, none of us would have needed to become who we became."

"Ah, so you’re all innocent, then," Daemon smiled bitterly, throwing his head back. "You think you’re smart and sensible? Far from it. Remind me, how many castles did you burn?"

"No more than you, uncle," the omega retorted with a sarcastic smile.

"Don’t smirk. You can parrot me all you want, but you won’t become like me. No matter how much you pretend to be a dragon, the serpent’s heart is visible to anyone who comes closer."

"Perhaps if there had been a real dragon nearby who cared, there would have been no need to become a serpent." Aemond said passionately, and his words stung Daemon painfully.

Daemon fell silent. He looked closely at the boy. The omega didn't look away, and in his eyes was a non-childish wisdom and determination. In that moment, Daemon saw in him not a small nephew, but a reflection of himself—just as proud, desperate, and lonely.

"Hmm... You know, I have to admit that out of your whole brood, you were the one who might have become a dragon. But don't think I'll believe that after such blind loyalty to the usurper, you'll bend the knee to the rightful Queen. Would you kill your brother for her?"

"That's it. That's the problem. You only have one solution for everything. Kill someone. That worked out so well in the last life," the omega said ironically.

"Don't you find it hypocritical to hear this from the one who started it all? Have you already forgotten your dear nephew?"

"Killing Lucerys was a mistake. A mistake that weighed on me until the very end of my life. But unlike you, I didn't send assassins to kill a child who couldn't even hold a dagger. So it's not for you to lecture me about innocent blood. You can pretend to be anyone you want, but you can't hide the truth. You. You are the cause of everything. It was the fear of you that led to the war in the first place."

"What?" Daemon rose from the chair, tense as a bowstring.

"If my brother and mother hadn't been afraid of what you would do to us once Rhaenyra was on the throne, Aegon never would have become king."

"You could have simply bent the knee and sworn fealty."

"And then what? Even if we had bent the knee, as long as we were alive, the kingdom wouldn't have fully accepted Rhaenyra; there would still be riots and provocations."

"As if anyone would dare to rise up against dragons."

"That's exactly what I'm talking about. Kill, kill, kill. As if you don't know any other ways to resolve conflicts. And after that, you're surprised that no one trusts you? Not even father. Didn't you ever consider that if he could entrust the kingdom to you, with the certainty that you wouldn't turn it to ashes, you never would have been removed from the position of heir?"

"Don't you dare drag Viserys into this. My brother was simply blinded by all the lies your family instilled in him," Daemon said through clenched teeth.

"And, are you disagreeing? If you had been a worthy heir, father wouldn't have had to name Rhaenyra as the one to take his place, there would have been no war for the throne, Aegon and Rhaenyra would never have become enemies. Perhaps we wouldn't have been born at all, as the King would already have a male heir."

Seeing that Daemon was listening intently, Aemond decided to use the last thing that would surely influence his uncle.

"If father had trusted you, he might have agreed to continue the Valyrian tradition by marrying you and Rhaenyra from the very beginning..."

Daemon stared silently at his nephew. He pondered. What if this scoundrel was right? If he had been the man Viserys wanted to see, he would have listened to Daemon more and not fallen for the flattering words of the snake from Hightower. 'It doesn't matter,' the alpha thought, 'that was in the past and can't be fixed. I need to focus on what to do now.'

Exhaling, Daemon leaned back in the chair he had risen from during the tense conversation. He removed Dark Sister from his belt and laid the scabbard and the sword on the table, showing his nephew that he would temporarily set aside the desire to inflict harm.

"So?" he asked quietly, his voice losing its former tension.

"What 'so'?" Aemond replied.

"What do you propose? As I understand it, you've been here longer, and as I can see, instead of naming the little usurper heir, Viserys is becoming even more certain that he made the right choice by choosing Rhaenyra. You have a plan, don't you? And quite a successful one, it seems."

Aemond looked at his uncle in surprise. Had he heard right? Was the Rogue Prince really willing to back down for now? Quickly recovering, the omega decided to use this chance to learn more about the situation they were in.

"Well... I think it's better to first find out if we're pursuing the same goals. What do you want, uncle?" Aemond asked, cautiously moving around the chair where the alpha was sitting and approaching the nearest shelf with folios.

"I want the head of everyone with Hightower blood to hang on a spike, decorating the walls of the Red Keep." Seeing his nephew's raised eyebrow, he continued. "But as I understand it, you're categorically against that and will interfere in every way, so for now, the most important thing I want is to see Rhaenyra on the Iron Throne."

"Well, at least we agree on that. I'm not opposed to my sister being Queen. If she continues in the same vein, I'm sure the lords of the realm will crown her of their own free will."

Placing a few books on the writing desk, Aemond turned back to Daemon and continued. "But on the condition that our younger siblings are not harmed. I don't care what you do to Otto or the other Hightowers, but you will not touch Aegon, Helaena, or Daeron. Is that clear?"

Seeing his nephew's determined gaze, Daemon snorted and, crossing his arms over his chest, said:

"Fine, I won't go near your green kin."

Watching the boy place a clean parchment and an inkwell next to the books on the table, he added:

"Any other conditions, little omega?" he asked mockingly.

Aemond decided not to rise to the adult's provocation. He sat down at the writing desk, facing Daemon.

"Yes. Tell me what you remember and exactly when you recalled your past life."

Daemon stood up and approached the table where the boy was sitting, but instead of sitting next to him, he picked up a bottle that was there. Taking a goblet in his other hand, the alpha returned to the chair where he had been sitting and poured wine into the goblet. He began with their last encounter, which, as it turned out, ended with both their deaths.

After he felt the impact with the water's surface, he sharply opened his eyes, feeling hands pulling him along. He barely managed to look around and saw surroundings that resembled a room in one of the Flea Bottom brothels. Although his vision was blurred, the outlines of the Red Keep, to which he was being led, were recognizable no matter what state Daemon was in. As it turned out, the two white-cloaks dragging him were heading to the Throne Room, where a figure in black was seated on the Iron Throne. Initially, he thought it was that damned usurper and was ready to unleash a sharp retort when he heard a voice that shocked him. It was the voice of Viserys. Viserys, his dead elder brother.

"Did you say this?" Viserys' voice thundered. In the hall's complete silence, he could be heard as if he were standing nearby, though in reality, several meters and dozens of stairs of fused swords separated them.

Daemon did not utter a word. His gaze was fixed on the scene before him. His elder brother sat on the throne with Blackfyre in his hands. He looked healthier than Daemon had seen him in years. No sores, no decay, only the flawless white skin characteristic of Valyrians. His hair was lush and flowed over his shoulders like silk threads. His violet eyes, both of them, were filled with a rage whose cause Daemon did not understand.

Was this a dream? The last thing he remembered was plunging Dark Sister into the Kinslayer's skull. Did he die and go to hell? He had been told his whole life that he would end up right here. Was his hell a place where he would re-experience his brother's wrath over and over?

"Did you truly say this? The Heir for a Day?" Viserys questioned again with fury.

Heir for a Day? Oh... It was that day. The day his sister-in-law and nephew died. The day his brother's patience truly snapped, and after listening to that snake, Viserys was finally disillusioned with him. Daemon was still silent; if this truly was hell where he relived the days he regretted, there was no point in explaining anything—everything would repeat just as it had then.

"Is it true, Daemon? Don't be silent!" the older man shouted.

The words slipped from his lips on their own. The very words he had wanted to say to him so many times but never dared.

"I'm sorry, brother..."

"You're sorry... My family was destroyed, and when I needed you most, you dare to say such a thing?!"

Daemon felt his brother's fury and disappointment in every cell of his body. He genuinely felt the overwhelming guilt of not becoming the pillar of support Viserys needed. The only thing he could do now was to beg for forgiveness, even if this wasn't the real Viserys, but just a memory of him.

"You have no allies at court besides me. I always defended you to others, and this is what you do? Stab me in the back?"

"It may not seem like it, but I am truly grateful for everything you've done for me. But you weren't perfect either. You always tried to send me somewhere. To the Vale, to the City Watch, anywhere away from you. All these years, instead of listening to me, your own blood, you only listen to the whispers of that snake. I am your brother! Everything I did was for the sake of our family!"

He decided to speak his mind for the first time, hoping that at least this copy of his brother would listen to him. But even if this pseudo-Viserys heard him, he still acted like his brother.

"For the family? Then why do your actions constantly hurt me so much?" Viserys exhaled tiredly, and his shoulders drooped as if under the weight of another burden. Taking a breath, he looked up at Daemon.

"If you truly do everything for the good of the family, as you say, then you won't be disappointed when I send you to the Stepstones to defend our security," Viserys declared. His voice was full of resolve and finality.

Daemon looked at his brother in surprise. He didn't remember this. The reason he was sent to fight the Triarchy before was his desire to show his brother what he was capable of. And now Viserys himself was sending him there?

"Consider this a probationary period to prove the truth of your words. You leave tomorrow at dawn. I will order the servants to prepare your belongings."

With these words, Viserys turned back to the white-cloaks. They, understanding the unspoken command, escorted Daemon out.

Daemon walked, not understanding why the memory was different. Would it change depending on his actions to show him what could have been if he hadn't been so certain of his own righteousness?

Upon reaching his chambers, Daemon froze for a moment, as everything looked exactly as he had left it before he first departed for the Stepstones. He walked around the room, where all his belongings were in the same places he was accustomed to putting them. After cleaning himself up, he lay down in bed, wondering if this day would repeat again, or if he would have to live through the next memory he regretted.

Surprisingly, he woke up the next day, and everything around him was as it had been the evening before, except for the already prepared chests with his belongings. He decided to play along and find out how events would unfold next. As in the past, he reached the location of the Westerosi army camp, which, with Daemon's arrival, came under his command. The faces he saw were familiar—not all, of course, but those he remembered for one reason or another.

It all felt like an endless dream until his first injury, which brought him to his senses. He felt incredible pain from burns on the back of his neck and upper back. Being in the healer's tent, he became completely convinced of the reality of what was happening around him.

He had been granted a second chance. He had the opportunity to avoid most of the mistakes made in the past. But first, he needed to find out about this world he had found himself in. He noticed that everyone around him constantly called him this strange word. Alpha. And not just him; almost everyone serving under his command called themselves Alphas, or in very rare cases, Betas.

Unfortunately, there were no books or folios nearby with explanations, but from overheard phrases or whispers he shouldn't have heard, he learned that this world, though indeed similar to the past he knew, had significant differences.

The first difference was these names. As it turned out, they weren't just names for a person's character; they were biological markers. Besides men and women, there were also secondary genders in the form of Alphas, Betas, and Omegas. It was strange, but quite simple to understand. Alphas were strong, Omegas were delicate and needed protection, and Betas could resemble either Alphas or Omegas.

The good news was Rhaenyra's secondary gender. Being not just a woman but an Alpha, she already had greater confidence in her role as heir. By the laws of this world, she was already second only to him in the line of succession to the throne and would not merely be a regent until her son came of age, as she might have been if Viserys hadn't named her heir in his world.

The second and significant difference was the existence of his nephew Aemond. Instead of being one of that green whore's offspring, in this world, he was a son born from Aemma, which greatly reduced the chances of discreetly removing him. The only plus in this was his secondary gender. The little pest was an Omega, and this offered an opportunity to send him far away to one of the lords, where he would become a broodmare and not interfere.

He thought he still had a chance to stop his brother's marriage to the towers, but the letter about the royal wedding brought only disappointment. He was not present at the celebration. Firstly, because everyone knew about his hatred for Otto, and seeing the triumph in those snake eyes was beyond his strength. Secondly, it gave him time to consider his next steps and ensure that his Rhaenyra would sit on the throne.

The memory of the past significantly simplified his military campaign against the Triarchy. Knowing their possible moves made it easier for him to navigate the battles, feeling as if he were playing with a child. Daemon's confidence in victory and his determination in every battle significantly boosted morale and added even greater glory to the alpha. He managed to defeat that Crab much earlier and with fewer losses among the soldiers, which, again, improved his reputation.

Returning to King's Landing, he decided not to change his entrance. He once again presented his brother with the crown he was crowned with in the Stepstones, showing that Viserys was the only King. Sweeping his gaze across the assembled crowd, he locked eyes with his nephew. He was surprised that even having a different mother, he looked identical to how he had in the previous life. Daemon couldn't suppress a grimace. He had hoped a different appearance would distract him from the hatred for the child who bore the Kinslayer's name.

The passage of time and his success in battles gave Viserys a chance to cool down and more willingly welcome his brother home. For Daemon, this provided a favorable foundation for building a connection and improving the relationship between them. He tried to be as meek as can be; the only thing he did was get on Otto's nerves, trying to find his ultimate boiling point.

Of course, he didn't forget to visit Rhaenyra. He wanted to take her under his wing before the greens could sink their roots into the castle and cause her pain. But unfortunately, every time he wanted to be alone with her, that little annoyance was nearby, often accompanied by the little usurper. The Omega's presence and his attempts to distance Daemon from his niece, while also bringing Rhaenyra closer to their half-brother, increased the alpha's existing suspicions about Aemond. Moreover, although the younger one was constantly in sight, he often slipped through his hands like an eel.

Suspecting his nephew used the secret passages, Daemon decided to lie in wait for the Omega. As it turned out, his suspicions were correct, and the boy did indeed wander the hidden corridors. One day, the alpha followed Aemond and, inspired by his brother's conversation with Otto, decided to take a risk. He knew that if he was wrong and the boy was genuinely just a child, his brother would hate him forever and might even send him to the Wall, but the desire to know the truth overcame all those fears. His assumption led to an unexpected outcome in the form of a rather civil, for the two of them, dialogue.

While telling his story, Daemon looked out the window, not wanting to see the emotions on the omega's face. After he finished, there was silence in the room, broken only by the rustling of paper and the scratching of a quill. Realizing that Aemond would not comment after listening, the alpha turned back to him. He saw that the younger one had already managed to fill several pages of parchment.

Intrigued, he stood up and approached the table where the younger one was sitting. Simple phrases in Valyrian were written on the sheets. Something like: "I love my family," "Dragons have big wings and breathe fire," and so on.

"What are you doing?" he asked the boy.

"Setting up an alibi for us," he replied without looking up.

"An alibi? What do we need a..."

Before he could finish his sentence, two knights, led by Viserys, burst into the chambers. Rhaenyra, accompanied by Ser Arryk, stood behind him.

"I truly thought you had changed! Were you just pulling the wool over my eyes?!" The King's scent was full of fury; he was enraged and terrified of what Daemon might have done to his poor omega son.

"Father!"

Aemond approached and embraced the alpha, thus restraining him from attacking his uncle. Pressing the boy to him, Viserys carefully checked his son for any injuries.

"Aemond, my son, are you alright?" he asked the omega tenderly.

"Yes...?" he drawled with a slight question.

"Uncle was telling me about the battles he fought. When he recounted how he defeated the Crabfeeder, he was so engrossed in the story that he didn't notice he had switched to Valyrian. And I... well..."

Aemond lowered his head, trying to show his shame even with his scent. "I said I didn't fully understand him and asked him to switch to the Common."

The omega ran to the table and picked up the written sheets, which he showed to Viserys.

"Uncle Daemon said it's unbecoming for a Targaryen prince not to know his native language and offered to teach me proper pronunciation and writing."

Aemond extended the paper to his father, trying with all his might to prove the truth of his words. Past his father, he looked at his anxious sister, trying to reassure her with his eyes that he was fine. The boy understood the reason for Rhaenyra's concern, but now he needed everything to go according to his plan.

Viserys reread the text several times, meticulously examining the paper from both sides. Shifting his gaze to his son's open face and confirming that he was indeed fine, Viserys addressed his brother.

"You... You were truly just teaching him Valyrian?" he asked Daemon with uncertainty.

The latter, wrenching his arms free from the grip of the white-cloaks who had already detained him, turned to the elder.

"Well, someone had to," the alpha said with sarcasm. "You're busy caring for the kingdom, Rhaenyra is following your example, as an heir should, and Rhaenys is preoccupied with the affairs of Driftmark. Who would teach him? The Dragonkeepers? Or the Maesters?"

Shamefaced, Viserys backed down; he had truly been so immersed in teaching his daughter politics that he completely forgot about his son. He examined the omega once more and, placing a hand on his shoulder, directed him toward the exit, staying behind to finish talking with his brother alone.

Already in the corridor, having moved far away from Daemon's chambers and out of earshot of Ser Criston and Ser Alaro who were escorting them, Rhaenyra leaned toward her brother.

"Your knowledge of Valyrian already surpasses mine, let alone the knowledge I had at your age. Don't you care to explain?"

"Despite how he behaves with others, Daemon has always acted in the best interest of our family. He is a warrior, and he's not stupid; he understands what a driving force you become as you delve into the intricacies of politics. A man like him on our side will have more advantages than disadvantages."

Rhaenyra pondered. She had heard how the lords whispered about the ways they could manipulate her once she sat on the throne. She had also heard those who wanted to get rid of her in favor of Aegon. These people prepared plans without even knowing her brother's secondary gender, not considering if he would have a chance to claim the throne at all. Daemon's presence had already muted those whispers, and his active participation in promoting her to the Iron Throne would deter those who wanted to move from words to active deeds.

"Well, I understand the logic of your actions," the alpha conceded. "But please, Aemond, be careful with him. Promise me."

"I give you my word, mandia, I will be careful with our uncle. And if I have even the slightest suspicion, I will come to you immediately."

Still hesitant, Rhaenyra hugged her brother tightly and headed toward the council chamber, where she and her father had been going before Ser Arryk stopped them.

Aemond himself headed for Grey Ghost. Since his uncle's arrival, he had not mounted his friend, not wanting to meet him in the sky. He remembered how that ended last time, and those memories stopped him from visiting Grey.

After that conversation with his uncle, which was, as expected by Aemond, interrupted, the boy avoided the alpha. Their dialogue had been tense, and Aemond wanted to distract himself for a while, but, unfortunately, his uncle did not understand the silent hint and tried every way to meet with him alone. Due to Daemon's stubbornness, Aemond had to spend more time in the company of Ser Alaro, who, although still not doing anything strange, nevertheless kept Aemond in constant anticipation.

To get a break from both Daemon's attempts to talk and Alaro's seemingly all-knowing gaze, Aemond spent more time with family members. He spent time with Alicent and Aegon, but didn't stay too long with them. Aegon, as a child who needed frequent naps, couldn't be someone with whom one would spend a long and engaging time. And Alicent was a novice in managing the castle as Queen, so distracting her just to hide from someone would be wrong on his part.

With Corlys's increasingly frequent voyages, both Rhaenys and Laena did not have time to visit the castle often, so the only acceptable option remained is Rhaenyra. Initially, she was surprised by his desire to spend time together while she was studying, but realizing that she had become a kind of refuge for the omega, the girl didn't mind her brother's presence.

On one such day, they sat together in silence, enjoying each other's presence. Focused on his own thoughts, Aemond almost missed Rhaenyra's words.

"You know, Corlys thinks I don't notice, but I see his look every time Laenor and I are together." She looked at her brother, who was drawing lines on parchment. After the excuses in Daemon's chambers, their father decided to pay more attention to his son's education, and now Aemond had to pretend as if he was learning something new in his lessons. In reality, he was bored to the point where he was ready to jump out the window rather than listen to the monotonous voice of the tutors.

"And how do you think he looks at you both?" the omega supported the conversation.

"I see how he wants Laenor and me to marry as soon as possible."

Aemond stopped writing. This was a logical step on the part of the Velaryons, but he remembered the rumors about Laenor. And in this world, Corlys's heir was more inclined toward people of his own gender. He could more often be seen surrounded by other alpha and beta men than in the company of women. Yet, despite this, there were enough people wishing to become Lady Velaryon, and the scent of some contenders was so saturated that it seemed as if they had poured gallons of perfume on themselves.

Aemond looked at his sister, who was turning the pages of a folio. Laenor's unwillingness, or inability, to perform his marital duties led to the Rhaenyra of the past seeking solace in another man. This resulted in the birth of her illegitimate children, which became the first serious blow to his elder sister's reputation as heir.

Now Aemond had two options. The first would be to not interfere and allow the future to repeat itself. But then this would be a huge step backward for Rhaenyra, who was making progress in resolving political issues. Although Viserys had not yet offered the alpha a seat at the Council, Rhaenyra offered her own ideas without hesitation while refilling the lords' cups, and they were listened to.

He also remembered how tender and loving his sister had been towards her children. She protected them, supported, and adored them. Seeing how close Rhaenyra was becoming with Aegon, he was sure she would indeed be a good mother, and taking that opportunity away from her would be wrong.

There was another option. Rhaenyra could marry someone who was truly prepared to see her as the mother of their shared children. And then the need for someone else would disappear. But whom? Perhaps Ser Harwin? He was always considered the true father of the younger Velaryons. There had to be a reason why it was him. Perhaps there truly was love between him and Rhaenyra, because if that were not the case, Aemond doubted he would have had as many as three brown-haired nephews.

The omega looked at his sister.

"And how do you feel about it? Would you marry him?" he asked.

"I don't know," she replied, her scent filled with doubt. "He seems nice, but..."

"But...?"

"But something's not right with him. He looks at me like a trusted friend or sister, not like a future wife."

"Is that a bad thing? Most marriages that start with friendship are always strong."

Aemond genuinely believed this. Knowing what might await him as an omega, he was interested in getting to know his future alpha better before marrying him.

Rhaenyra pondered, her thoughts turning to their mother. Though their parents were cousins, they knew little about each other when they got married. Their relationship truly became the kind described in romance novels. But how much time did it take them to reach that point? Maybe it was good that she and Laenor had become friends.

"There is indeed sense in your marriage. But there are also plenty of downsides," the omega's voice rang out, pulling Rhaenyra from her thoughts.

"Downsides?" she asked.

"One of them is that both you and Laenor are your fathers' heirs. Being on the throne, it will be difficult for you to fulfill your duties as Lady Velaryon. Besides, I doubt that as your consort, Laenor will have time to be in King's Landing and continue his father's work."

He paused, carefully waiting for the girl's reaction. Her gaze was directed at the window, and her scent was saturated with freshness and a slight hint of relief, as if a small burden had fallen from her shoulders. He continued:

"Father values your opinion, and if you suggest someone you've chosen yourself and explain to him the advantages of that marriage, he will listen to you."

After a short pause, Rhaenyra narrowed her eyes, watching her brother closely. Her scent filled with a slight note of playfulness.

"Even if I suggest marrying Laena?" she asked.

Aemond looked at the alpha with suspicion.

"That could be a sensible choice after Laenor. By marrying Laena, you unite the Targaryens and the Velaryons, just as Corlys wanted. I think Laena could be a good wife for you."

"And you wouldn't object?" Rhaenyra asked, suppressing a smile.

"Why would I object?" Aemond didn't understand.

Rhaenyra couldn't hold back her laughter. She doubled over in her chair, holding her stomach. Aemond saw his sister's shoulders shaking with laughter but couldn't understand the reason for it.

"I don't understand the reason for your laughter."

Rhaenyra's laughter began to subside as she straightened up, but a smile was still on her face.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. But you're not as subtle as you want to seem," she said with a still-present smile. "I just remembered how you tried to prevent father's marriage to Laena. I admit, the idea with the raven was something."

Aemond froze. He thought no one would find out about his manipulation of his father. He wondered what else his sister might have seen. Had he made a mistake somewhere and sown doubts about himself in her?

Seeing the fear on the omega's face, Rhaenyra hastened to reassure her brother, assuming he was afraid of being exposed to their father: "I won't tell anyone, Aemond. I just saw you attaching white feathers to Laena's dress, and hearing the rumors about the raven, I guessed it might be your doing. It was a very clever move. And hilarious. I wish I could have seen father's face when he noticed the feathers."

She stood up and approached her brother, placing a hand on his shoulder. Her tone became serious, but her eyes still held specks of joy.

"I also noticed that you've been disappearing more often, and I understand that everyone can have their secrets. But... I'm your older sister and I'll always be here to help."

"Especially with pulling off any jokes," she added with a wink.

Lowering his shoulders in relief that his secret was safe, Aemond nodded in agreement.

"Good, if I come up with anything, I'll come straight to you," the omega said with a smile on his face.

After several months of failed attempts to speak alone and nearly complete ignorance from Aemond, Daemon decided to act. Since Otto, who held influence over the king, was not around and would counter Daemon's every word with an opposing but self-serving suggestion, the Alpha gained greater influence over his brother.

Daemon's plan was simple: if his nephew didn't want the alpha to come to him for a talk, he would force the omega to come by himself. So, turning to Viserys with the suggestion to begin searching for spouses for both his children, Daemon waited for Aemond to come to him with complaints. His nephew was not stupid and would immediately guess who was behind the idea. Surprisingly, it was quite difficult to persuade Viserys to look for someone for Aemond. He insisted that the omega was still too young to think about such things and only agreed when Daemon drew an analogy with Rhaenyra and Laenor, whom they initially decided to bring together as friends.

Viserys also insisted that the prospective spouse be roughly the same age as Aemond, even when the members of the Small Council pointed out the advisability of considering all claimants. Not wanting to ruin his barely restored bond with his brother, Daemon was forced to dismiss most of the widower lords as candidates. His choice fell upon the Baratheons. Daemon remembered that to strengthen the usurper's position, the greens decided to gain the support of the stags through marriage. Seeing how easily Aemond abandoned his fiancée, one of Lord Baratheon's daughters, for the witch of Harrenhal, he understood that the younger one had not been very happy with the engagement to the girl. Daemon was sure his nephew would dearly enjoy dealing with one of the Baratheons again.

In the early sixth month of the year 111 AC, King's Landing became a bustling place. The whole city buzzed with news: Lord Borros Baratheon and his family had arrived in the capital. This news made Aemond frown in surprise. He had just celebrated his tenth birthday, and while his body was young and lively, in his soul he felt too old and suspicious of everything around him. So when his father, King Viserys, summoned him to the throne room, Aemond felt anxiety creeping into his heart.

He walked slowly down the corridor, his violet eyes, usually calm and thoughtful, wide with worry. He knew that one day his father would arrange his marriage, but he had no idea it would happen so soon. Aemond was not against marrying, but he felt the choice of a spouse would not be the best, and this thought distressed him. When he entered the Throne Room, he saw his father talking to a man with dark eyes and a beard. Standing next to them was a girl with dark hair falling over her shoulders. Her eyes were a deep blue, and they looked at Aemond with curiosity mixed with slight astonishment. He looked at her, and his heart beat faster. He felt her scent—the smell of damp earth, freshness, and tartness.

He realized it was Cassandra Baratheon. One of Borros's daughters he was being offered to marry. He was not fond of any of the Baratheons, as he had always considered them arrogant since his time with Borros's nephews, Gaven and Ormund, in his past life. He remembered their veiled mockery of his disfigurement and did not expect too much from Cassandra. She was a year younger than him, but her eyes were full of a maturity that struck him. Her scent was unlike any he had ever smelled before. He felt her strength, her confidence, and it made him uneasy. He felt small and weak next to her. She was an alpha, and he was an omega. And he realized that it was with her his father was trying to arrange a marriage.

Aemond felt his heart clench. He was an omega, and he would have to submit to his partner. He did not want to be under the power of another person. He wanted to be free. He wanted to make his own decisions. He wanted to choose whom to love himself. He felt a bitterness in his mouth. He knew his past life had been terrible. He had been a cruel, wicked person. He had killed many people, including his nephew. He knew his past life was awful, but he also knew that now he had no choice but to accept his fate.

King Viserys cleared his throat with satisfaction. "Aemond, I want to introduce you to Lady Cassandra Baratheon. I hope you will become great friends. You will be spending a lot of time together." Silence enveloped the hall, and at the same moment, Cassandra walked up to Aemond. She was tall for her nine years, her shoulders were broad and straight, and her posture was confident. Aemond felt his heart beat faster with every step she took. He looked at her face and saw a slight smile that made him even more anxious.

"I am pleased to meet you, Prince Aemond," she said, her voice low and calm, yet carrying strength. She didn't wait for him to reply but simply extended her hand. "You may call me Cassandra."

Aemond hesitated. He didn't want this. He didn't want to be dependent on anyone, especially her. But he knew his father was watching, and he had no choice but to take her hand. As their fingers clasped, Aemond felt a strong, yet not dominating, surge of her alpha pheromones. "I am pleased to meet you, Lady Cassandra," he replied. His voice was quiet, and he barely whispered her name.

Cassandra smiled even wider. "I hope we will be good friends. My father told me about you. He said you are very intelligent, but very lonely."

Aemond felt his face flush. He was not lonely. He just liked to spend time alone, contemplating his every next step.

"I... I like to spend time alone," he mumbled.

"I know. Me too. But sometimes, when I get tired of being alone, I want to talk to someone. And I think that you and I could be good friends," she said.

Her words were sincere, and he felt she was telling the truth. He looked at her in surprise. He never thought anyone could be this genuine.

"Do you want to... go for a walk with me?" she asked, her voice filled with hope.

Aemond looked at his father, and then at Cassandra. He didn't want to, but he knew he had no choice but to agree. He nodded, and Cassandra smiled broadly. She took his hand, and he felt his Omega instincts begin to react to her touch. They left the Throne Room and headed to the gardens. They walked side by side without saying a word. After a while, they awkwardly began to talk, and surprisingly, Cassandra turned out to be an interesting conversationalist who could support every topic Aemond started. Although the omega was initially not very interested in spending time with the alpha, he soon changed his mind. Cassandra, despite her seemingly stern appearance, was kind and understanding, and did not push Aemond into anything.

Returning to his own chambers, the boy analyzed their time spent together. Perhaps Cassandra was not the worst candidate for the person Aemond would spend his life with. He was glad his father had enough sense to choose someone roughly his age. Aemond shuddered, imagining marrying some old man and being forced to lie under him and squeeze out the alpha's children. If that happened, the omega was sure he would burn that lord with Grey Ghost's fire before he could even touch the him.

But why did the idea to look for a spouse suddenly occur to his father, and why did he find a suitable candidate so quickly? Did someone whisper the idea to him? But Otto was in Oldtown, and his father, still furious with the beta, would hardly listen to him. There was no one on the Small Council who would need his quick marriage. Unless... Aemond stopped walking.

Daemon.

That cursed alpha. This was definitely his doing. He wanted to marry Aemond off and send him somewhere far away from the castle. And he chose the Baratheons not by chance, as he knew they were the very family he had been meant to marry into, even though he hadn't wanted it.

Aemond's first thought was to head to the alpha's chambers with a complaint, but taking a breath and thinking it over, he turned around and headed in the opposite direction. If Daemon wanted to act this way, he should expect it, and the omega would not just sit idly by.

Reaching Rhaenyra's rooms, Aemond entered without knocking. At this time, as in almost all the time free from lessons and flying, his sister was in the company of books and folios, reading reports from the Small Council discussions. Rhaenyra sharply lifted her head at the unexpected opening of the door and addressed her brother with surprise.

"Aemond?" Her scent was a mix of surprise and curiosity.

The omega approached the table where the alpha was sitting and, with a cunning squint, said:

"You said you wouldn't mind joining me when I came up with something interesting. Is your offer still valid?"

Chapter Text

Reaching Rhaenyra's chambers, Aemond burst inside without knocking. His entrance was sharp, like a gust of icy wind from the north that abruptly severed the silence of the cozy rooms. ​

The Princess was sitting at a carved oak table, which was buried under parchments and heavy, leather-bound folios. She lifted her eyes from the Small Council reports, and her violet gaze, which always maintained an imperturbable royal dignity, instantly mixed the surprise of the intrusion with a sharp, unpleasant realization. She knew: peace was not to be expected after any, even the slightest, interaction between her brother and the Rogue Prince. ​

Aemond, dressed in black silk, resembled a living wound. He sharply tossed a heavy gauntlet onto a chair.

​"He tried to marry me off to a Baratheon," Aemond explained briefly, on the verge of breakdown. His voice trembled, like a string stretched to its limit, with suppressed fury, and the princess could smell the burnt scent of rage that the alpha Daemon had likely left upon him. ​

Rhaenyra slowly, almost mesmerized, arched a perfect eyebrow. A dangerous, predatory gleam ignited in her eyes. She put down the edge of the report and placed her hands on the table. ​

"Did he, now?" she whispered, and there was more admiration than outrage in her tone. "Oh, he's playing the High Games. Excellent. Let him. Then we shall play our own, Aemond."

​It was then, under the soft light of King's Landing, that a plan was born, one that not only bound them in a secret and dangerous alliance but also determined the fate of Prince Daemon. If Daemon sought to remove Aemond from King's Landing through an unknown lord, then Aemond and Rhaenyra would remove his marriage to Rhea Royce. It would be a fitting counter-blow, and, moreover, it would free up an alpha who could somehow be utilized. ​

Revenge, as is well known, is a dish best served cold. This was the creed Aemond Targaryen always adhered to. He did not strike immediately but waited until the enemy, neglecting the danger, dropped their guard. And only then, when the opponent had almost forgotten their actions, would Aemond's inevitable response come crashing down on them. Therefore, together with his sister, the omega devised a plan for revenge against Daemon for the treacherous contracted marriage.

​"You propose to marry him again?" Rhaenyra tilted her head to the side, her long silver hair sliding over her shoulder. "Daemon is already married to someone he cannot stand. Why should we pair him with someone else again? Won't he sense the treachery?"
​Aemond straightened up, a cunning calculation appearing in his gaze.

​"That's the point, sister. He is already accustomed to being shackled in marriage to Lady Royce. Most of the time, he forgets he even has a wife, as she is far away."

​Aemond leaned toward Rhaenyra, lowering his voice to a whisper.

​"We will persuade father to annul his marriage. This will mislead him. He will enjoy the freedom, thinking he is the victor. And when he drops his guard, confident in his invulnerability... he will find himself back in the chains of duty." ​

"If he finds out he is to remarry, what is to stop him from simply fleeing before the wedding, as he has done more than once?" Rhaenyra asked a pertinent question, her brows furrowing. She knew her uncle's nature.

​"He won't flee if father promises him something for it," Aemond replied, his lips stretching into a thin, almost cruel smile.

​"Such as?" ​

"Well, for example..."

​Aemond paused, his gaze thoughtfully gliding over the window. In the distance, through the light morning mist, the gloomy, majestic outlines of Dragonstone could be seen, the cradle of their house. The omega's face suddenly brightened with an epiphany. Daemon Targaryen, a prince, the King's younger brother, who, despite all his glory, possessed no lands of his own. The ownership of this castle, which held hundreds of years of their family's history, would surely appease the Rogue Prince's ego.

"Before the marriage, father will set a condition," Aemond stated, feeling the delight of the impending triumph filling him. "If Daemon and his new bride produce a child, the King will grant him Dragonstone, and Daemon will become its Lord. Besides, this will give him an official position in the kingdom, which he has always craved." ​

"And if he doesn't agree? If the value of freedom outweighs his ambition?" Rhaenyra asked, but confidence was already ringing in her voice. ​

Aemond leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest, and his violet eye shone like a gem. "He will agree, have no doubt, sister. You know how much he yearns to be heard and seen." ​

Over the next few months, concealing their intentions even from the most vigilant royal spy (which, without a doubt, was Daemon's), they began to act. Rhaenyra used her status as the heir to influence the High Septon and the Small Council, cleverly mentioning gossip about Rhea's supposed barrenness and the undeniable fact that the marriage had never been consummated. Aemond, in turn, used his charm, and at times intimidation, to procure the necessary testimonies and confirmations. Their joint work was perfectly coordinated and deadly: she is the sharp knife aimed at the enemy's weak spot and he is the shield and standard that guaranteed the truthfulness of their strike.

A suffocating shadow, like a damp shroud, gripped King's Landing. Anxiety was not just an emotion; it had its own bitter scent that permeated the marble walls and silk hangings of the Red Keep. Queen Alicent, who was carrying their second child, a daughter named Helaena, was suffering. Her pregnancy had been incredibly difficult, exhausting, and cruel. ​

Alicent, with her naturally soft, floral beta scent, now barely recognized herself. Her fragrance was mixed with the smell of feverish sweat, the thick taste of the bitter herbs prescribed by the Maesters, and the piercing, acidic notes of anxiety. She lay in her chambers like a fragile doll on satin sheets. Her once fresh, beautiful face had become pale as a wax mask, with deep, almost purple bruises under her eyes, attesting to endless sleepless nights. She barely left her bed. Even King Viserys, whose alpha scent usually exuded strength and authority, was now subdued and distressed, his pheromones as sluggish as soft clay. ​

Aemond, whose omega status made him acutely sensitive to emotional and physical suffering, was on the verge of despair. Seeing the beta, for whom he felt a deep, almost filial affection, so utterly depleted, was unbearable. His own omega instincts screamed for the need to nurture, protect, and alleviate the pain.

​He circled the Maesters like a hungry wolf searching for salvation. But he received only grim shakes of the head and banal, useless reassurances in response. ​

Maester Orwyle, trying to calm the boy, told him:

​"My Prince, we are doing everything possible. Her Grace must rest. This is the nature of a difficult pregnancy, nothing more." ​

Aemond looked at their exhausted faces and felt only mounting anger. "Nature," he thought bitterly, "that took my mother's life and now attempts to take my stepmother's. Maesters know nothing of true medicine." ​

One late evening, when another spasm of pain wracked the Queen, her scream, thin and piercing, echoed even through the thick walls and tapestries. This sound became the catalyst. Aemond made a critical decision, final and irrevocable. He went to his personal chest. ​

He found a vial he had kept from old times, the "Suntears." He remembered believing in the power of Dorne's medicine that might have helped his mother. "If the Maesters cannot help her," Aemond thought, his mind cold and clear, "I must try myself. I will not let her die because of the incompetence of these old fools."

​Taking the vial in his hands, Aemond was struck by the detail of the image on it. It was the delicate outline of a snake with golden eyes and similar golden stripes along its sides. The snake was not aggressive; it gently coiled around the amphora, as if protecting the contents. In the soft candlelight, the drawing was strangely familiar. ​

He recalled a figurine his sworn shield, Alarro, had once given him—a Dornishman who always carried a mysterious, restrained beta scent that was almost impossible to decipher.

​To be certain, Aemond found the figurine in one of his chests. He held it up to the image on the vial and compared them. ​

They were indeed alike, like two parts of a whole. The only difference was the snake's posture: while the statuette showed an attacking snake, tense and ready to strike, the snake on the amphora gently coiled around the container, symbolizing protection and healing. ​

This couldn't be a coincidence. To have a Dornishman with a connection to the Sand Snakes assigned as his guard—an omega who possessed the "Suntears"—was surely linked. Someone knew. Someone knew that this medicine would end up in his hands.

​Aemond felt he had reached a limit. In his memories, Dornish intrigues always felt like hot, inscrutable sand, and now he stood at their epicenter. To test his audacious theory about the vial and the guard, he found Alaro in the inner courtyard, where he was, as usual, training with his sword, his movements graceful and swift. ​

Aemond approached the Dornishman. His omega scent was surprisingly neutral, as if he wore a glass mask. He diligently suppressed any notes of anxiety or interest, knowing that the slightest surge of emotion could betray his secret to the seasoned guard.

​"Alaro, you know Dornish herbs and remedies. I have heard of a wondrous, mystical substance that can heal. It is called the "Suntears". Is it true that it can cure almost any illness?"

​Alaro ceased his movement. His dark, attentive eyes met the Prince's violet gaze. His beta scent remained calm, like the desert before dawn. But Aemond felt it—a barely perceptible tension, a weak but clear impulse that resonated in the space between them. Alaro knew. ​

"Prince Aemond, Dorne has many secrets. There are legends of the "Suntears". It is a potent remedy. But it is intended for certain people. Why do you ask?" ​

Evasive, yet informative. Aemond felt his heart rate accelerate. Alaro did not deny the medicine's existence; he only restricted its use. ​

Aemond slightly tilted his head, playing the role of a concerned son. His gaze was probing, trying to extract as much information as possible without revealing his purpose. ​

"Because of Queen Alicent. She is suffering. Her fever does not subside. The Maesters are powerless. I thought, perhaps, this remedy could help her."
​Alaro did not smile or change his posture. He looked like a stone statue. ​

Alaro shook his head, his voice calm but possessing an inner resolve that was beyond doubt.

​"It is a strong remedy, my Prince. You may not think so, but Her Grace is strong. Perhaps not in body, but in spirit. I believe there is no need to use it for Queen Alicent. It would be a waste." ​

Disappointed, Aemond was almost at the courtyard exit when Alaro spoke to his back.

​"Besides, Her Grace managed to cope the first time, did she not?"

​The words rang out like thunder in a clear sky.
​Aemond felt a storm rising in his soul. The first time. Was he talking about a past life? Or the pregnancy with Aegon? ​

By the time Aemond recovered, the inner courtyard was already empty. Shaking his head, the omega continued on his way. But another, more alarming question arose in his mind: Who is Alaro, truly? He is not just a guard. He is a messenger from Dorne who knows too many secrets. ​

Aemond felt his dilemma growing, like a sharp blade splitting his heart. With each passing day that brought the child's birth closer, Alicent's frailty became more apparent. The beta was pale as death. He felt deep affection for the Queen, but Alaro had made it clear: using the "Suntears" on Alicent would be a waste of the medicine.

​The only positive note that briefly distracted Aemond from his worries was the long-awaited result of his and Rhaenyra's careful actions and the annulment of his uncle's marriage. ​

A free Daemon was also a dangerous Daemon. Having freed him from Rhea, Aemond now had to control his next step. He did not want Daemon to marry Rhaenyra so quickly: many people would oppose having a man like Daemon on the throne. Being married to Rhaenyra, the shadow would also fall upon her, which could threaten their existing positions.

​Viserys, also trying to distract himself from his worries about Alicent, delved into the history of Valyria, including the histories of Valyrian houses. Seeing a chance to improve relations with House Velaryon, he willingly agreed to annul Daemon's marriage to Rhea in favor of his marriage to Velaena, the daughter of Vaemond Velaryon, Corlys's brother.

​It was a brilliant, though risky, move. Aemond secretly supported this maneuver. Marrying Daemon to Vaemond's daughter was politically advantageous for the Velaryons, it tied Daemon to an influential house, and, most importantly, it did not give him complete freedom of choice. They concluded an engagement agreement, hoping to announce it as a fait accompli.

​Aemond happily rubbed his hands. In his past life, he remembered that Vaemond was the one who most frequently threw wrenches in the gears for Rhaenyra and Daemon personally, which ended very poorly for Vaemond. It was Daemon who severed his head.

​Aemond chuckled softly, his omega scent briefly resembling a note of sharp delight.

​"One-one, uncle. Now let you enjoy the presence of Vaemond as your future father-in-law. Let him teach you subordination."

Aemond Targaryen sat in the inner courtyard. His refined, already sharp features and calm demeanor belied his young age. The air was softened by the sweet scent of flowers, but this gentleness could not entirely mask the sharp, dominant odor that permeated the space—spicy, like aged wine and leather. This scent belonged to Prince Daemon Targaryen. ​

Daemon stood, leaning against a pillar, arms crossed over his chest. Dressed in black, he filled the space with tension, the embodiment of ambition and unpredictability. Restless due to his own unrealized desires and the actions of his brother, King Viserys, the Rogue Prince was looking for someone on whom to try out his sharp wit. ​

Aemond, despite his status, exuded a surprising composure. His own scent was controlled and nearly imperceptible, which was unusual for an omega of his age.

​"Oh, little Aemond," Daemon's voice was low and insinuating, with a hint of mockery. "You sit here in silence, like a wise Maester contemplating the fate of the realm. Or perhaps... you are thinking of young Cassandra Baratheon?"

​Daemon took a step closer, and his scent intensified, as if he were unconsciously trying to dominate the young omega. A glint in his eyes promised provocation.
​Aemond lifted his violet eyes, looking directly at his uncle, and his voice remained level, without any sign of embarrassment. ​

"Prince Daemon. I am always pleased by your company. And yes, my thoughts are indeed occupied by Lady Cassandra. But not in the way you seem to hope, uncle." ​

Aemond's instincts urged caution with this alpha, but his intellect demanded firmness. He allowed his light scent to faintly intensify, as if to demonstrate that he was not intimidated by Daemon's presence. ​

Daemon laughed sharply, briefly, almost cutting the air. "Oh, don't be so tedious, boy. I heard you spend quite a bit of time with her. Her father is one of the most influential lords of the Stormlands. It's obvious! I even imagine you, like a true omega, will conquer her with your charm. There must be some reason why you, a young Targaryen, are so keenly forging ties with such an interesting girl." ​

Daemon deliberately emphasized the word "omega," aiming to provoke a reaction from his nephew, knowing his pride that conflicted with his secondary gender.
​The response was a quiet but precise strike of a blade. Aemond rose, and his tall, though still youthful, frame exuded unusual dignity. ​

"I enjoy the time spent with Cassandra. She is intelligent and composed, and I value that. But, of course, I also see the political advantage of my marriage to her. The Baratheons are key players. Their loyalty, cemented by an alliance with the Targaryens, is a price worth paying. Especially if we truly want Rhaenyra our alpha heir on the throne." ​

Aemond paused, deliberately using the phrase "alpha heir" to draw Daemon's attention to his own ambitions. The boy's voice became more confident, adopting a tone uncharacteristic of his age. He looked Daemon directly in the eyes. ​

"If our goal is to secure Rhaenyra's reign, we must use all means, uncle. Political marriages, new allies, even those brokered through a young omega. If you are so concerned about the fate of our house and the throne, perhaps you should think about how you will persuade King Viserys to marry you to Rhaenyra, instead of playing matchmaker for others?"

​These words were pure, cold manipulation. Aemond, a master strategist, knew exactly where to strike, using Daemon's desire to marry Rhaenyra to force him to retreat. He reminded Daemon that his own destiny was still undecided, and trying to control others was a waste of time. ​

Daemon's eyes narrowed. His sharp alpha scent momentarily wavered in surprise, and then became even more intense, like a challenge. He had not expected such directness from the boy.

​"You... you are growing bold, little serpent," Daemon sneered. ​

A faint, almost imperceptible smile appeared on Aemond's lips. He gave a small, formal bow, showing respect but not submission. ​

"I have merely learned the lessons given to me by the Rogue Prince himself, uncle. In this game, the one who sees further than others wins. I wish you success in your negotiations with the King. The Heir needs a person strong in spirit and body by her side. And there are many contenders for that role." ​

Aemond left Daemon standing, frozen in astonishment. His pride was wounded, but his mind had already begun to work on the new idea his nephew had given him.

The tension in the Red Keep reached a climax. Queen Alicent's frailty in the final months of her pregnancy, and the similarity of the situation to the late Queen Aemma's last pregnancy, created an atmosphere saturated with the scents of anxiety and fear. Yet, it was in this very chaos that Rhaenyra and Aemond's strategic efforts finally bore fruit.

​In early 113 AC their tireless work behind the scenes, reinforced by Rhaenyra's constant arguments and Aemond's subtle but accurate manipulations, culminated in success. Aemond, using the apparent innocence of a young omega, managed to convince several key lords that Daemon, while dangerous, was necessary for stability, representing the required male strength as the only adult, uncommitted Targaryen alpha eligible to sit on the Council. ​

King Viserys, weary of constant worries, his wife's illness, and above all, the relentless pressure from his daughter Rhaenyra, agreed. Aemond also made sure to emphasize the obvious political expediency: Daemon, being married to Lady Rhea Royce, had no legitimate heir, which was a political vulnerability. ​

The marriage between Prince Daemon Targaryen and Lady Rhea Royce was annulled. The decision rang out like a bell. The Rogue Prince was free once more. He learned of it during one of the Small Council meetings, to which he, thanks to what he believed were his own efforts, was increasingly being invited. Although Daemon showed no emotion, Aemond, hiding in the doorway, sensed a wave of sharp, almost triumphant alpha scent, mixed with anticipation, in his fragrance. Daemon was certain that the next step was marriage to Rhaenyra.

That same spring, the castle was gripped by other, equally important events that caused an avalanche of whispers. ​

Being under constant stress from the unbearable atmosphere in the castle and constant worry for Alicent, who was in the final stage of pregnancy and whose scent was a mixture of pain, fear, and hormonal surges, Rhaenyra experienced her first rut. It was an exhausting but fateful ordeal. Her alpha scent became incredibly strong, filling the castle with powerful notes of dragon blood and will. By the laws of Westeros, this marked her coming of age and readiness for marriage. It immediately increased the attempts of lords to marry their sons and daughters to the young alpha. Rhaenyra became a hotspot of political ambition. ​

Almost simultaneously, little Aegon, who was nearly four years old, first displayed his secondary gender during a small fit of rage. His childlike, yet distinct, alpha scent, notes of smoke and something sweet, like burning sugar, filled the room. Viserys was ecstatic: he finally had an alpha son. ​

Viserys decided to hold a lavish celebration in honor of his two alpha children. Although the feast was dedicated to Rhaenyra and Aegon, the King, in his blind paternal love, focused more attention on Rhaenyra, thus emphasizing his own favoritism. Aemond, whom his father also gave sufficient attention, felt the rising tension in the air between Alicent and Viserys. Each time the Queen's gaze caught the loving strokes her husband gave his elder children, envy flared in her eyes. Envy that her son, whom the alpha so anticipated, did not receive this too.

​It was during this celebration, while Daemon stood tense and expectant, and Rhaenyra looked radiant in her full-fledged form, that Viserys raised his cup.

​"My dears! We celebrate two great gifts today! The coming of age of my daughter, Princess Rhaenyra, and the alpha presentation of Prince Aegon! But there is another joyous piece of news that will strengthen our House and our Realm! Today I announce that my brother, Prince Daemon Targaryen, who has turned onto the path of loyalty to his House and duty... shall marry—" ​

Daemon's face froze, but his scent pulsed with pride and tension. He looked at Rhaenyra, a clear expectation in his eyes. Could his actions truly have paid off, and the only thing he needed was simply to tame his own pride? And now here it was, the most defining moment. ​

These thoughts flashed through his head as Viserys solemnly continued. ​

"...Shall marry Lady Velaena Velaryon! The daughter of one of our loyal subjects, a beta of pure Valyrian blood, who will strengthen the bonds between the Dragon and the Sea, the smoke and the salt!" ​

A profound, ringing silence fell over the hall. Daemon felt the ground slip from beneath him. His scent instantly changed: from triumph to pure, unrestrained fury and disappointment, which he barely managed to contain. Aemond, standing behind Rhaenyra, felt this change like a sharp blow. The fierce, pungent smell of alpha smoke and rage momentarily eclipsed all other scents. ​

Daemon clenched his fists so tightly that his knuckles turned white. He looked at Viserys with a face carved from stone, every muscle twitching with hidden anger. His eyes, filled with a dangerous gleam, momentarily met Aemond's, as if he knew exactly this was his doing and was blaming him for the failure. But Daemon was too seasoned an intriguer to allow himself to explode in front of the guests. He forced a grimace of proud indifference onto his face. ​

Daemon's voice came out slightly strained, but he raised his cup, displaying outward composure.
​"To the King. And to our future Queen. I will serve House Targaryen with honor."

​Aemond knew: these words were poison. His instincts screamed of danger. Aemond glanced at Rhaenyra: her face held a mixture of relief (at having avoided a union with the unpredictable Daemon) and apprehension (at not knowing how Daemon would react to their interference in his destiny). The feast continued, but the atmosphere was hopelessly spoiled: Daemon had become more dangerous than ever. ​

The night after the announcement of Daemon and Velaena Velaryon's wedding was thick and heavy. The faint scent of festive delicacies still lingered in the air of the Red Keep, mingled with pheromones of disappointment and anger. ​

Aemond returned to his chambers, his head heavy with strategic calculations. His scent, usually soft, was tight and barely perceptible, a sign of his internal struggle. He knew that today's announcement could destroy the fragile peace he had with Daemon.

​As soon as he opened the door, his instincts gave a clear alarm signal. A sharp, aggressive scent, a pure concentrate of fury, steel, and smoke, filled the room like poisonous air. ​

Daemon was waiting. He was sitting in a chair by the lit fireplace, his figure dark and menacing against the flames. His eyes, two burning sapphires, were fixed on Aemond. Even from a distance, Aemond felt the tension vibrating around the alpha. ​

Maintaining a surprising calm, the omega closed the door. His voice was quiet, but devoid of fear. ​

"I knew you would come, uncle. Thank you for lighting the fire while you waited. It's quite uncomfortable to be in the dark, isn't it?"

​Daemon's voice was low, like a growl, as if he was restraining a beast inside. He stood up sharply, and his presence struck Aemond, demanding submission. ​

"Don't mock me, boy! You knew. You knew what this was leading to! You! You manipulated me like a puppet! The annulment, the return to the Council... all to push me towards her. And what did you get in return? Velaena Velaryon, a beta! What a mockery!" ​

Aemond did not back down; he kept his emotions under tight control, which was an incredible feat for the current situation. He did not allow his fear to show.

​"I merely ensured the possibility. I gave Viserys a choice that made sense. Marriage to Rhaenyra might have been the logical step. But he didn't take it. His Majesty, in his blindness, still under the remnants of Otto's influence, chose the neutral, less threatening path. Then as now, Viserys is still weak." ​

Daemon took a step towards him, closing the distance. His rage was almost physical. His body was tense, like a spring ready to jump. His scent pressed down on Aemond, trying to break his will.

​"You have no right to speak of the King! You are just a boy, and an omega at that! You think the crumbs of experience you gained in the past give you the right to control alphas? I came here to hear the truth! What is the point? What is the point of marrying me to another? You yourself recently hinted at my marriage to Rhaenyra!"

​The omega's voice became cold, reflecting an ancient pride that was stronger than his secondary gender. ​

"First and foremost, I am a Targaryen, uncle! And I think of the fate of our house, unlike you, who thinks only of your own offense! Your fury is worthless if you cannot use it. You should have acted, not waited! You missed your chance!" ​

These words were the final nail. Daemon, blinded by anger, lost control. His hand shot forward, not to strike, but to grab Aemond's shoulder and shake him, forcing him into submission.

​"You dare!" Daemon roared. ​

Aemond, though smaller, had the quick reaction honed in his previous life. He instinctively pulled away to avoid the alpha's dominant touch. But, standing too close to the fireplace, he stumbled over a poker lying on the marble hearth. ​

He lost his balance. His small body, unable to straighten, was thrown backward. Although he should have first felt the pain of the burns, Aemond only felt a sharp pain in the back of his head, which made his vision go dark. The last thing he saw before losing consciousness was Daemon's face, which quickly changed from angry to terrified.

Chapter Text

Aemond opened his eye, and for a heartbeat, he thought he was still falling. The whistling wind roared in his ears, and Daemon’s furious face flickered before his eyes. But instead of the icy spray of the Gods Eye, the soft light of late autumn fell upon him, filtering through a tall, narrow window. The sky was grey, like faded silk, yet it held no gloom, only the stillness of weary nature. The scent of smoke and iron, which he had inhaled one last time before striking the water, had been replaced by the heavy, soothing aroma of dust, old wood, and parchment.

He was not in hell. Hell should have felt like an eternal plunge into the abyss, like endless cold and the agony of steel piercing an eye socket. Here, a silence reigned, so thick one could almost touch it. Aemond sat up cautiously on the wide bed, feeling the thick, cool dark-green velvet beneath his palms. His body obeyed him. He slowly raised a hand and ran his fingers over his face. The skin was smooth, whole. There was no trace of Dark Sister’s blade. His gaze fell upon his own hands—they were the strong flesh of a man nearing thirty. He remembered his death, but this world claimed otherwise: he had survived, he had grown old, and he had won.

The icy knot of dread in his stomach slowly uncoiled, hardening into a heavy, metallic certainty. Memories returned in waves, like a tide. The Dance of the Dragons had ended years ago. King Aegon II, his brother, sat upon the Iron Throne, though he had paid a horrific price for it. Rhaenyra was dead, nothing but ash and bone left after Sunfyre’s meal. But in this reality, victory had not demanded Aemond’s life. He had become the Hand, the will and the sword of the crown.

He rose, and the room filled with the dull, authoritative thud of heavy black boots against the stone floor. His cloak lay across the back of a chair, a heavy mantle of black silk and silver brocade. Aemond draped it over his shoulders, feeling the familiar weight that brought a sense of security. Approaching a large mirror in a carved frame, he froze. From the depths of the glass, a man with the ruthless expression of a single violet eye stared back. His gaze remained ever-strained, as if he were still expecting an attack from the shadows. A heavy gold chain glinted dully around his neck, its links forged in the shape of interlocking hands.

The door creaked heavily, and a servant entered the chambers; however, upon meeting Aemond’s gaze, he instantly bowed, his forehead nearly touching the floor.

“My Lord Hand... His Grace bade me tell you that he expects you after midday.”

“Has my brother taken to drinking since the early morning again?”

Aemond’s voice sounded dry and sharp, like the strike of a blade. The servant hesitated, nervously picking at the edge of his tunic.

“The King... he suffers pains in his legs, my lord. The Maesters give him milk of the poppy with wine.”

“I see,” Aemond cut him off, waving a hand for him to depart.

Aegon was king in name only. Ravaged by burns, broken by loss, he had become a shadow of himself, seeking oblivion in his cups. The true power belonged to Aemond. He was the force that made the realm breathe. He was the one who looked into the eyes of the younger Aegon, Rhaenyra’s son, who was kept in the castle as a ward. The boy was a pale, silent ghost, and Aemond, against his own desires, had become his mentor. He taught him not out of love, but out of a cold resolve to forge something useful for the state from this remnant of a hostile line.

Yet, there was another child in the castle. A son, borne to him by Alys Rivers among the ruins of Harrenhal. His brother, in a rare moment of gratitude or perhaps madness, had recognized the boy as a legitimate Targaryen. This child, now breathing softly in a cradle in the adjoining chambers, was the only thing that bound Aemond to something living and real.

He stepped out onto the balcony, looking over the rooftops of King’s Landing. “None shall dare gainsay me so long as I draw breath,” the thought flashed through his mind. Every lord in this castle shuddered at the sound of the Hand’s footsteps. He had gained everything a younger brother could dream of: power, recognition, an heir. But inside, he felt empty. Victory was as bitter as ash upon the tongue.

In the castle courtyard, he noticed two small figures walking slowly through the garden. Aegon and Jaehaera. His niece, who had lost her brothers and mother, was as fragile and broken as Rhaenyra’s son. They did not play, they did not laugh, they simply existed beside one another, sharing a single, silent grief. Aemond looked down at them, and for a moment, his harsh features flickered. These children were the true face of their victory: pale shadows amidst gold and stone.

He turned back to the room, where maps and reports awaited on the table. The war was over, but the struggle to hold what had been won in blood was only beginning. Aemond picked up a heavy seal from the table, its cold metal reminding him that peace was merely another form of exhausting battle.

Aemond woke to silence. It was not merely an absence of noise, but a heavy, pregnant stillness, as if the Red Keep itself were holding its breath, fearful of disturbing the young ruler’s morning. The silence was as thick as old, dark velvet, permeated by the faint scent of lavender mingled with the heavy aroma of fresh, costly wax—the scent of a long mourning’s end and the beginning of an uncertain era.

He slowly ran his hand over the bedcurtains. His fingers brushed the coarseness of heavy crimson silk, where, above his head, the three heads of the dragon were embroidered in gold thread—the sigil of House Targaryen, which now belonged to him by right. Aemond lay in a vast, carved bed, its posts once warmed by the hands of Jaehaerys the Conciliator. Now, the bed seemed far too large for a single youth.

He was in King’s Landing. Yet he was not that Prince Aemond, son of the Heir, who had once arrived here with his mother for grand weddings or boisterous tourneys. He was King. Beside him, in the part of the bed where his wife slept, the sheets were cool. Jaehaera always slept curled in a small ball, as if trying to make herself as tiny as possible, but she woke very early, lest the world—or he himself—notice her presence.

Aemond had married his cousin, the daughter of his usurping uncle Aegon, not out of love or passion. It was a marriage forged of iron and ash: a final attempt to stitch together the shards of a shattered realm. Jaehaera was a small, silent girl with pale skin and eyes in which the horror of what she had witnessed was forever frozen. He treated her with the caution one usually accords a broken bird, understanding that they were both merely survivors of the great conflagration.

The world around him, though now subject to his word, lay mangled by war. "The Dance of the Dragons," the minstrels called this nightmare, but to Aemond, it had been nothing but an endless slaughter, where the blood of kin stained every inch of Westerosi soil. His side, the Blacks, had claimed the crown, but the price was such that victory tasted like metal on the tongue.

He was Aemond I Targaryen, son of Her Majesty Queen Rhaenyra and Prince Daemon. He was King, but in his violet eyes, watching the first rays of the sun, an old, unbearable sorrow had taken root. His fingers touched the cold rim on the bedside table. The Conqueror’s crown, encrusted with rubies that shimmered like droplets of congealed blood in the dim light, glinted before him.

“How much did this crown cost?” he whispered into the empty room.

His own voice sounded foreign to him, too low and brittle for the morning silence. He thought he heard the shadows of his fallen brothers whispering in the corners of the room, but it was only the wind in the chimney.

The door creaked softly, and Baela peered into the chambers. As always, she was dressed in riding leathers, an unwavering resolve in her gaze. Behind her came Rhaena, whose very presence brought a flicker of peace.

“It is time to rise, brother.”

Rhaena spoke softly, approaching the window and drawing back the heavy drapes.

“The Master of Coin is already waiting.”

“More numbers, more debts to the Iron Bank, and more scorched fields,” Aemond replied, without looking at his sisters.

“The fleet is nearly restored,” Baela said, stepping closer and placing a hand on the headboard. “If we are to hold the Realm together, we must act now. You are King, Aemond. Do not let grief cloud your mind.”

They never spoke of how the dragons fell. Only of the morrow, of ships, grain, and the stone needed to rebuild Dragonstone. It was their shared conspiracy: to live on, despite the hollowness within.

Suddenly, Viserys burst into the room. The younger brother, whom they had already mourned and miraculously regained, held a parchment in his hands.

“Aemond, look!” the boy cried, leaping onto the edge of the bed. “I drew Vermithor. See? He’s big here, but not mean at all. He’s just flying home.”

Aemond looked at the naive rendering of the dragon. Viserys’s childish love was the only pure light he allowed himself to see. The boy did not understand the weight of the crown; he saw only a protector in his brother.

“It is very fine, Viserys,” Aemond said with a ghost of a smile, ruffling his brother’s hair. “One day, you shall surely see real dragons take to the skies again.”

He knew he had to be stronger than his weariness. He was the last dragon capable of keeping the Seven Kingdoms from utter collapse. But the price had been too high: it had consumed his childhood, his mother, his father, Jacaerys, Lucerys, and Joffrey.

Aemond stood and looked into the polished silver of the mirror. A pale youth with sharp cheekbones and the eyes of an old man who had seen the end of the world stared back. He remembered his mother’s words—that the throne was not a reward, but a duty.

“The Iron Throne…” he murmured, fastening the buttons of his doublet. “It is ice-cold and sharp, Baela. Why did they strive so hard to sit upon it?”

“Because they did not know what it takes in return,” his sister replied, handing him his cloak.

Aemond squared his shoulders. He was the only one left to carry this burden. And he had no right to fall.

Aemond opened his eyes, and the world around him lurched as if the deck beneath his feet were a living creature. Consciousness slowly surfaced from the depths of a restless slumber filled with phantom wings and the flicker of flames. A sharp, salty wind rushed into his lungs, bringing with it the thick scent of fish, wet tar, and a faint, acrid tang of sulfur. The smell was painfully familiar—the unmistakable scent of Driftmark. Beneath him, he felt a low, familiar hum, a vibration rising from the very foundations of the island, as if a gargantuan sleeping dragon breathed deep beneath the cliffs. The boy stretched with a grimace, working out his stiff muscles; perhaps leaning against the helm for a rest while the ship was docking had not been his best idea.

“You have returned to us at last, son,” a low, slightly rasping voice rang out.

Aemond turned his head. Daemon Targaryen stood by the bulwark, hands clasped behind his back. His silver hair whipped in the wind, and his gaze, fixed on the horizon, held that same dangerous tranquility for which he was dubbed the Rogue Prince.

“My head is heavy, father,” Aemond croaked, struggling to find his footing. “How long did I sleep?”

“Long enough for the crew to make for the docks and for me to board,” Daemon replied, stepping closer. He laid a heavy hand on the boy’s shoulder, and Aemond felt the warmth his father reserved for only a few. “Your mother has already begun to fret. She awaits us in castle.”

Rhaenys, the Queen Who Never Was, was the embodiment of unyielding strength to Aemond. Her union with Daemon, born of political necessity after the passing of Corlys Velaryon, had evolved into something much greater. It was a fortress built of fire and blood. When Aemond looked at his mother, he saw pride in her eyes; she saw in him the perfect tempering of two dragons.

“Do you remember what Laena used to say?” Aemond asked suddenly, recalling the lessons of his half-sister.

Daemon offered a faint, fleeting smile. “That a smile cuts deeper than a sword?”

“Yes. She taught me how to scrub Meleys’s scales, but she always repeated: ‘Aemond, a dragon is your strength, but your mind is your power. Never let rage guide you when you are in the saddle.’”

“She is a wise woman, your sister,” Daemon nodded. “As is Laenor. Though he prefers seafoam to the clouds, he knows how to hold a course in a storm. You have learned his lessons in navigation well. It will serve you when you lead Ignax over the open sea.”

Aemond remembered Laenor standing at the helm of his ship, patiently explaining the movement of the stars. “It matters not if Velaryon blood runs in your veins, lad,” he had said then, “the sea only accepts those who respect it. Much like the sky.”

But not all in the family were so well-disposed. Memories of King’s Landing always left a bitter aftertaste. King Viserys doted on his nephew, showering him with gifts, rare Valyrian tomes, and exquisite dragon figurines.

“Your uncle has sent another raven,” Daemon remarked, noting his son’s pensive mood as they descended the gangplank. “He asks when you shall visit the capital again. It seems he sees in you what he fails to see in his own sons.”

Aemond merely gritted his teeth. He remembered the cold, disdainful stare of Queen Alicent. To her, he was a living insult, a reminder that Daemon always returned to the heart of Viserys, no matter her efforts.

“Aegon will only mock me again,” Aemond said quietly. “He and Haegon look at me as if I have stolen their birthright.”

“Let them look,” Daemon snapped, a dangerous fire igniting in his eyes. “Dragons do not concern themselves with the opinions of sheep. Only Helaena is worth your notice among that pack.”

Aemond’s gaze softened in spite of himself. Helaena was different. He remembered sitting for hours in the garden with her, watching curious insects. “They see what we do not,” she had whispered then, and Aemond felt she was the only one among the Greens who truly understood his solitude.

As they walked along the pier, a fiery roar thundered above, making the very air tremble. High in the sky, piercing the clouds, Ignax appeared. His scales, the color of congealed blood and burning gold, glistened in the sun. Beside him circled Caraxes and Meleys, and further off, Vhagar and Seasmoke.

“Look at them, Aemond.”

Daemon pointed to the sky, where five dragons formed a magnificent circle. The Blood Wyrm, the Red Queen, the bronze-green, the pale grey-blue, and his own fiery beast.

“This is our truth. As long as we are together in the sky, no queen, no lord, and no envy can undo us.”

Aemond instinctively squared his shoulders, feeling his weariness recede, replaced by the familiar call of the blood. Ignax pulled into a steep dive, washing the shoreline with the heat of his breath. Aemond knew: his place was not in the halls of intrigue, nor in the shadow of his father’s fame. He was a rider. He was flame given form.

“Come, father,” he said, stepping firmly onto the road to Driftmark. “Mother awaits us.”

Aemond opened his eyes and felt the soft morning light filtering through heavy velvet curtains the color of ripe wine. Dust motes danced slowly in the golden beams, reminiscent of the magical dust from the tales his septa used to tell him. The air in the chambers was thick, almost tangible to the taste; it was steeped in the scents of costly incense, dry parchment, and the faint, lingering smell of old leather, the thousands of books that surrounded his bed.

On the table by the window lay an open scroll on the history of Valyria, which the prince had been studying until late into the night. His fingers still remembered the coarseness of the ancient paper. Instead of sword calluses, his hands bore faint ink stains, the mark of a man who seeks truth in words rather than steel.

He was accompanied by a small ashen dragon dozing on the windowsill. As Aemond rose, the creature lifted its head. The dragon's scales shimmered in the sunlight like extinguished coals suddenly brought back to life. “You aren't in a hurry either, are you, Vermithrax?” Aemond spoke softly, running a finger along the dragon's warm neck. The dragon made a sound like a purr and released a thin wisp of smoke.

Today, an audience with the Archmaester awaited him. A silence reigned in the castle corridors, broken only by the rustle of his silk robes.

“My Prince, you have outpaced the sun once again,” the old maester greeted him, bowing his head. “Did you find your answer in the chronicles of the Conquest?”

“I found something better,” Aemond replied, narrowing his eyes. “Proof that kingdoms are held together not by dragonfire, but by timely signed tax charters. Strength is the foundation, but wisdom is the walls that hold up the roof.”

Relationships within his vast family resembled an intricate lace, where everyone had their clearly defined place under the wing of the Old King, his father Jaehaerys. Aemond felt an almost religious reverence for him.

During the morning meal, he met his brothers. Aemon, the heir to the throne, placed a hand on his shoulder:

“Brother, you look again as if you haven’t slept all night. The realm needs an advisor with a clear head, not dark circles under his eyes.”

“My head is clear precisely because I know where to look for answers when you ask the questions, Aemon,” Aemond smiled.

“Fair enough,” the elder nodded. “I rely on your voice in the Small Council more than anyone else's.”

Suddenly, the peace was shattered by loud laughter. Baelon, fiery and impetuous, swept into the hall, still smelling of wind and dragonflame.

“Enough digging in the dust!” he exclaimed, giving Aemond a friendly shove. “My Vhagar is in a splendid mood today. Shall we fly to the coast? Your little one will barely keep up, but it will blow away your boredom!”

“My 'boredom' is a report on grain stores in the Reach, Baelon,” Aemond replied restrainedly. “Fly on your own. Someone must ensure you have something to eat when you descend from the sky.”

His sisters brought a vibrant chaos into this orderly life. Alyssa approached from behind and deftly snatched an apple from his plate.

“Is our scribe-prince playing the wise elder again?” She winked at him. “You’re only twenty, Aemond, yet you talk like a century-old maester. Come, I’ll at least teach you how to hold a dagger so you don’t cut yourself on parchment.”

“Someone has to be the voice of reason in this family, Alyssa,” he sighed, though a shadow of a smile flickered at the corners of his lips.

Saera, meanwhile, simply sat silently beside him, examining his jewelry, and he allowed her to do so, knowing that in this boisterous family, he was their quiet anchor.

As the father passed by, his gaze lingered on his son for a moment. There was no disappointment in that look over the lack of military prowess. There was pride. Jaehaerys saw in him not a warrior, but an architect of future peace. Aemond had chosen the path of wisdom, and that path made him no less powerful than those who held steel in their hands.

Viserys would kill him. Slowly, exhaustingly, with that particular melancholic cruelty of which only weak men driven to despair are capable.

And Rhaenyra... she wouldn’t just kill him. She would sear Daemon’s very name from history, tearing him apart with her own hands without flinching at the brand of kinslayer. They would both rend him for this sin, for their precious Omega, for the fragile silver that he, Daemon, had just cast into the jaws of death.

Daemon froze. The air in the room suddenly grew too thick to breathe. He watched as his nephew’s body lay motionless amidst the glowing embers, surrounded by hungry tongues of flame. The alpha’s heart, which until then had been thumping with rage, skipped a beat and then slammed heavily against his ribs like a stone hammer. A hoarse cry caught in his throat, hardening into a bitter lump of pain. The scent of his own irritation, the sharp aroma of ozone and old steel, evaporated instantly, giving way to the nauseating, metallic tang of panic.

“What have I done? Gods, what have I done?” The thought pulsed in his temples alongside his blood.

“Aemond!”

His voice broke into a rasp. Daemon lunged forward, ignoring the heat that scorched his face and bit at his hands. He could already see it in his mind's eye: charred flesh, the horrific smell of burnt hair, and the scream of agony that would haunt him to the end of his days in the seven hells.

When he snatched the boy from the hearth, his fingers trembled so violently he could barely hold the boy’s weight. It felt as though he were holding not a living child, but a fragile figurine of burnt crystal that would crumble into ash at the slightest jar.

Daemon sank to his knees, laying Aemond upon the fur rug. His breath was ragged, escaping his chest in whistles. His eyes frantically, almost deliriously, scanned the Omega’s body. Aemond’s silvery hair spilled across the dark pile, stained with soot, but… it shimmered. It was whole.

Daemon reached out, his palm barely grazing the boy’s cheeks. He expected to feel wet blisters and mangled skin, but beneath his rough fingers was only a soft, slightly flushed warmth. With trembling hands, he tore away the thin fabric of the scorched sleeve. Where the silk should have fused to the meat, it simply slid away powerlessly. Beneath it lay utterly unblemished, porcelain skin, only slightly rosy, as if after a long day under the gentle sun of Essos.

“What in seven hells?..” Daemon whispered.

In that whisper, wild, animal relief mingled with a deep, primal fear of the unknown. He examined the remnants of his nephew’s clothes again and again. The expensive silk had turned to black rags, charred and disintegrated, yet the boy’s body remained untouched, pristine. This was not luck. This was not the protection of the gods. This was that ancient, fierce power of Old Valyria, mentioned only in hushed whispers in scrolls, and which even among the Targaryens was considered a mere legend to justify their divinity.

Daemon recoiled, staring at Aemond as if seeing a ghost. Thoughts raced through his mind in a dizzying whirlwind: “The fire did not hurt him.”

He remembered his own arrogance. His rage, his selfishness, his readiness to break this boy to prove his point. His inner alpha was no longer merely silent; it whimpered with guilt. The deep instinct of a protector, which he had suppressed regarding his nephew for so long, clawed its way out, demanding he immediately warm and comfort the small one, though he was still unconscious.

Daemon felt an icy chill run down his spine. If Aemond possessed this power… if he truly was the Unburnt, then all talk of strategy, of the line of succession, and the fate of the House turned to dust.

“You little monster,” Daemon muttered, but the words no longer carried their former venom or disdain. Only a trembling, almost religious acknowledgment.

He gently lifted Aemond into his arms, pressing the boy’s head to his chest. His own scent shifted: smoke, steel, and anger began to dissolve, transforming into a thick, enveloping musk of protection. He knew this incident must never leave this room. If Viserys or the Hightowers ever learned that the boy had walked through fire, the political chessboard would be blown to pieces.

Daemon moved to the bed, still clutching his nephew tightly and waiting for him to open his eyes. He felt something within himself finally break and be reborn. He no longer looked at Aemond as a tool in a game or a troublesome obstacle on the path to power. Before him sat an equal. A true dragon, one who could be tamed by neither iron nor fire.

When Aemond’s eyelids finally gave a faint flutter, Daemon tensed, feeling his breath catch.

“Wake up, Aemond,” he said softly.

And in that voice, usually brimming with sarcasm and threats, there sounded for the first time in years a true, stern tenderness, a tone previously reserved only for Rhaenyra.

The cold stone bit into Aemond’s back, jolting him into a sharp, sudden wakefulness. He opened his eyes to find, not the familiar vaulted ceilings of the Red Keep, but the boundless, suffocating darkness of a gargantuan cavern. The air here was heavy, pressing against his lungs; it was saturated with the thick scent of damp earth, the rust of raw steel, and a sharp, almost painful aroma of ozone—the kind that lingers before the fiercest of storms. The boy tried to rise, and the sound of his own breath felt deafening in the dead silence.

In place of one of the cavern walls, something impossible pulsed—a massive, perfectly polished diamond facet that sliced through the darkness like a blade. It did not merely reflect light; it was light. Enchanted, Aemond stepped closer, feeling the blood begin to thrum in his temples. Upon the smooth surface, as if in an infinite mirror, thousands of his reflections shimmered. These were not mere hallucinations; they were his lives.

He saw himself as a mighty alpha, whose growl forced subjects to bow their heads, and as a fragile omega, burning with another’s passion. In one frame, he was a King in a golden crown that weighed more than his own head; in another, a common lord whose laughter masked a hidden venom. Every moment, every joy, and every agony now played out in his mind, surfacing from the depths of memory like a long-forgotten but achingly real dream.

“It is a big deal for one mind to hold, is it not, Prince?” a voice spoke from nowhere.

From the dense shadows, a hooded Figure slowly emerged. Their robes were of an uncanny hue, neither black nor white, but a gray like the pre-dawn twilight that lacks distinct form. As they drew near, their scent was elusive: sterile, clean, and utterly devoid of any sign of gender. It was Truth itself, stripped of human nature.

The creature’s voice did not touch the air; it blossomed directly inside Aemond’s skull, echoing with a vibration felt in his very bones.

“Fear not. You stand upon the threshold of what you mortals, in your limited vision, call the end.”

Aemond tried to speak, but his throat felt parched. His voice broke as a raspy, unrecognizable whisper:

“What is this place? Who are you?”

The Figure stepped nearly flush against him, and though the face beneath the hood remained invisible, Aemond felt a gaze upon him that was older than the stars themselves.

“I am the Messenger. And this place is the boundary between worlds, the thin film upon the water. You see, Aemond, the Gods seek to avoid the End of the World. In all realities where the House of Targaryen flourished, there was a chance to halt the Great Winter. But that chance always crumbled into ash because of internal strife. The Gods require a thriving House, united and strong, so that the world might have even a glimmer of hope for survival.”

Suddenly, the diamond facet flared with a bright, sickly light. Aemond squeezed his eyes shut, yet the visions pierced through his eyelids. He saw the End of the World in a hundred variations. Everywhere, an infinite Winter reigned. White death crawled across Westeros, and finally, he saw her—the last of the Targaryens. She was beautiful and warlike, and she fell into the snow, pierced by the steel of a man she trusted more than life itself. With her death, the last flame flickered out, and the world plunged into absolute ice.

“The Gods tirelessly rearranged the worlds,” the Messenger continued, “they moved the pieces, created different versions of history. But one strange pattern emerged: in those worlds where Aemond Targaryen existed, the End always came latest.”

Aemond took a step back, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.

“Why me? I am but an ordinary man. A shadow of my brother.”

“You are the key to longevity.” The Figure’s voice grew softer, yet no less chilling. “Your spirit, your cold strategy, your unbreakable will. They are the axis that delays the inevitable. Therefore, it was decided to experiment with you. You are our anchor in this flickering ocean of existence.”

A cold dread pierced Aemond to the bone. He looked at his hands, feeling not like a prince of the blood, but like a small mouse the gods had tossed into a labyrinth for their amusement.

“The memories…” he managed to choke out, feeling the images of other lives pressing against his eyes. “My past life. The one where I already was... Why do I remember them now? Is this part of your plan?”

The Figure inclined its head slightly, a movement strangely reminiscent of a human apology.

“Your memories of that other life... they were an error. A stray oversight in the fabric of reality. But the gods, watching you, decided not to correct it. They are curious. They wish to see how this burden will affect the future. Can a ‘mistake’ create the perfection that calculations could not?”

Aemond wanted to scream, to demand explanations, but the space around him began to tremble. The cavern walls grew transparent; the diamond facet dissolved into mist.

“Before, you lived every life as if it were your first,” whispered the voice, which now sounded like distant thunder. “You forgot the mistakes; you forgot the pain. But now, you carry awareness. Go, Prince. You have been granted a free will that others lack. Show us what you will do with this curse.”

The light became unbearable. Aemond felt himself falling into an abyss, but before consciousness finally left him and the figure vanished into the vortex of time, he heard one last piece of counsel:

“You look too often at the ghosts of your father and grandfather. Viserys sought peace at the cost of truth; Jaehaerys sought order at the cost of family. Do not try to fix their mistakes, for they have already become a part of history. Your task is not to patch an old cloak, but to forge a new armor for the future.”

Aemond opened his eyes, and the first thing he felt was not the expected agony of burns, but a strange, almost unnatural coolness enveloping his skin like invisible silk. Consciousness returned to him in painful jolts, like fragments of a torn scroll: first, he felt the dull heaviness at the back of his head from the blow, and then the thick, enveloping scent of Daemon. Now, this scent, a mixture of steel, dragon’s blood, and ozone, did not smell of the usual threat, but of sharp, almost animalistic anxiety and a desperate sense of protection.

Slowly, as if through deep water, he shifted his gaze to his hands. The sight was grotesque. His sleeves, tailored from the costliest velvet, had been reduced to weightless ash. Black flakes of fabric still drifted from his shoulders with every breath, exposing pale but entirely unblemished skin. Aemond raised his hand before his face, examining it with cold, almost clinical interest. A thin layer of soot lay upon his fingers, but beneath it, there was not a single trace of redness. Not a single blister. Even the finest hairs on his forearm remained untouched by the flames that should have consumed him in mere seconds.

He remembered the cavern. He remembered the Messenger’s voice echoing directly inside his skull like the roar of a landslide: "Forge a new armor."

“You look at me as if you have seen a god, Uncle,”

Aemond’s voice rang out unexpectedly clear in the silence of the room.

There was no tremor of a victim who had just escaped death, nor the fright of a child. It was the voice of a man who had just received undeniable confirmation of his own exceptionality. The voice of one who had stepped across the threshold of hell and returned, having only slightly dirtied his hands.

He slowly pulled away from Daemon’s chest, sitting upright on the bed. His violet eyes, deep as a storm sky over Valyria, met the Alpha’s gaze. Daemon, the Rogue Prince, the man whose name made the Seven Kingdoms shudder, still could not master his own turmoil. With a hidden sense of pleasure, Aemond saw the slight tremble in the hands of the man who never bowed before anything.

“You... you were in the very heart of the fire,” Daemon managed to choke out. His voice, usually sharp as Caraxes' steel, cracked again. “I saw the flames licking your face. You should have burned. Turned into a pile of bone and charcoal.”

Aemond smiled faintly at the corners of his lips—a smile cold, mysterious, and far too wise for his years. He reached out to the charred edge of his tunic, which hung in tatters, and slowly rubbed the black ash between his slender fingers.

“Perhaps the fire simply recognized its owner?”

Aemond looked directly into Daemon’s soul, ignoring all hierarchies of Alpha and Omega.

“You sought the truth, Uncle. You wanted to know who I am and what I am truly capable of. Now you see. I am not merely an omega to be pushed into a corner, intimidated, or used as a tool. And I am not just a child with grand ambitions.”

The boy rose from the bed. Despite a slight dizziness, his movements were full of predatory grace. He stood before Daemon half-dressed, stained with soot amidst the ruins of his own clothes, yet in this moment, he looked more majestic than Viserys upon the Iron Throne. The knowledge of his thousands of past and future lives no longer weighed upon him; it had become his foundation, his inner citadel.

“You are afraid,” Aemond stated, taking a step forward, invading the Prince’s personal space. “Your scent... it has turned sour with guilt. What do you fear more, Uncle? That you have just witnessed a miracle, or that I now hold absolute power over you?”

Aemond took another step, his voice dropping lower, but with steel in every word:

“For if I tell Rhaenyra that you threw me into the hearth, you will lose her forever. She would never forgive such cruelty. And if I tell my father that I am the Unburnt... he will proclaim me a messiah, a new Aegon the Conqueror. And all your plans, your intrigues, and your authority will become dust beneath my feet.”

Daemon remained silent. His pride, which for decades had been his impenetrable shield, now lay shattered and useless at the feet of this twelve-year-old boy. He looked at his nephew and, for the first time in his life, did not know how to act.

“But I will tell no one,” Aemond said, his tone suddenly softening.

He reached out his slender, perfectly unharmed hand and touched Daemon’s cheek. His fingers left a dark smudge of soot on the man’s pale skin, like a martial mark of distinction.

“I do not need your fear, Uncle. That is too cheap. I need your loyalty. From this day forward, you belong neither to your ambitions nor even to my father. You belong to the House that I will forge upon the ruins of your mistakes.”

Aemond saw the realization reflect in Daemon’s pupils. The world had irrevocably changed during these few minutes in the silence of the bedchamber. There were now two dragons in the room, but only one of them possessed the primordial fire within, while the other had only an outer shell of scales and steel.

“Now, return to your quarters,” Aemond commanded, instantly reclaiming his mask of the calm, well-bred prince. “I doubt any of the guards would be pleased to learn you were here at such a late hour.”

Daemon rose slowly. His movements were mechanical; he still could not tear his gaze away from his nephew’s face, which bore not even a flush from the hellish heat. He understood the most important thing: he hadn't just saved a boy from the fire. He had become an accidental witness to the birth of something far more dangerous than any enraged alpha or ancient dragon.

In the silence of the between-worlds, where time does not flow but merely coils in rings like a sleeping serpent, the Messenger stood motionless before the pulsing diamond facet. Upon its surface, like a drop of oil upon water, the events in the Red Keep unfolded: Daemon, whose proud spirit had just been cleaved by the realization of a miracle, and Aemond, standing amidst the ash like a newborn deity.

The hooded Figure had no face, yet in its posture, one could sense something akin to profound satisfaction. The scent of ozone in the cavern suddenly sharpened as the sound of footsteps echoed from the darkest corner, where even the diamond’s light could not reach.

A man stepped from the shadows. His white hair shone with its own internal light, reminiscent of molten silver, and his eyes, two deep violet wells, looked out with a wisdom far too heavy for a mortal vessel. He stopped beside the Messenger, gazing at the reflection of the boy touching Daemon’s cheek.

The white-haired man’s voice was like the rumble of distant thunder over the volcanoes of Valyria.

“You see how he accepted it. Without fear. With a disdain belonging only to those who have already seen their own death a thousand times. But tell me, ‘Messenger’... why did you lie to him?”

The hooded Figure did not stir.

“The Gods do not speak to mortals in the language of absolute truth. They speak in the language of necessity.”

The man took a step closer to the diamond facet, and for a moment, his reflection merged with Aemond’s.

“You told him his memories were a mistake. A stray oversight in the fabric of reality. You and I both know that in the Valyrian game of gods, there is no room for coincidence. Every memory, every thread of his previous life was woven with cold calculation. It was not a glitch.”

The Messenger slowly turned its head toward the speaker.

“Had I told him he was merely an instrument, meticulously calibrated by other hands, he would have rebelled. Targaryens do not suffer shackles, even if those shackles are forged of starlight. Aemond must believe he is an anomaly. That he is a mistake who has earned the right to his own will.”

The white-haired man’s lips flickered into a shadow of a smile.

“You gave him the illusion of freedom by calling him cursed. You want him to fight not for us, but against the very fate we have prepared for him.”

“Precisely. Only one who considers himself a ‘mistake’ is capable of breaking the system that leads the world to ice. Had he known he was the Chosen, he would have become a fatalist. But now... now he believes he is cleverer than the gods. That will make him invincible.”

The white-haired man looked back at the facet. There, in the waking world, Daemon bowed his head before Aemond. It was a sight that, in any other universe, would have seemed impossible.

“His omega status in that life... You chose it specifically. You wanted him to know humiliation, to learn how to manipulate while being weak, before we returned the power to him.”

The Messenger inclined its head in agreement.

“Weakness is the greatest teacher of strategy. An Alpha relies on fangs. An Omega relies on the mind. Now, we have a creature with the mind of an omega-strategist and the power of the Unburnt.”

As the white-haired man retreated back into the shadows, he turned one last time.

“I hope you are right. For if this ‘mistake’ proves to be even more cunning than we calculated, he will come for us. And then, no diamond facet will protect this realm from his fire.”

The hooded Figure remained alone. It continued to watch as, in distant Westeros, a boy with silver hair began to rearrange the pieces on a board that had once been considered immovable.

Chapter Text

The year 113 after Aegon’s Conquest was fading in a golden smolder, leaving behind a heavy, electrified air that smelled of the Blackwater Bay’s salt and the sun-scorched stone of the Red Keep. The sun, like molten gold, sank slowly into the sea, staining the tower spires a blood-crimson hue. When the walls of Maegor’s Holdfast shuddered with the first piercing cry of the newborn Helaena, Aemond, standing in the shadows of the gallery, felt something in his own chest finally click into place.

It was the sound of life violently breaking free from the weight of Alicent’s grueling, sickly pregnancy. For Aemond, the arrival of his sister was more than just a family event; it was a true anchor in the chaotic sea of time that stormed within his mind. While handmaidens scurried with basins of hot water and King Viserys sighed with relief in the adjacent hall, the boy froze by the threshold, drinking in the moment.

He often spent hours by her cradle of white wood, adorned with masterfully carved dragon wings. Helaena was so fragile, with skin almost translucent, revealing the faint blue veins beneath. She smelled of warm milk and pure dawn—a scent not yet poisoned by the stench of smoke, soot, and iron that haunted Aemond in his nightmares.

Aemond would lean over her, his silver hair falling over the edge of the crib. In a low, barely audible whisper, he sang ancient Valyrian lullabies. The words surfaced from his memory of their own accord, like molten lava seeking an escape.

The air around the infant seemed to grow thicker and warmer, filling with a faint golden glow as if an invisible hearth warmed the walls. Even little Aegon, whose four-year-old temperament was already akin to an unguided storm, grew quiet upon entering the nursery. He would usually burst in with a racket, but seeing his brother’s focused expression, he instantly fell silent.

Aegon settled onto the soft rug at Aemond’s feet, clutching a wooden dragon with peeling paint to his chest. He listened, entranced, to his older brother’s low, vibrating voice, which seemed to belong not to a child, but to someone far older and wiser.

"Why do you sing as if you miss something you’ve never seen?" Aegon suddenly asked, lifting his large, clear eyes, in which the defiant, sometimes cruel spark of a true Targaryen already flickered. "It sounds like weeping, Aemond. Do dragons weep?"

Aemond paused for a moment. His hand froze in the air, then he gently traced the tip of his finger along Helaena’s plump, pink cheek. The infant grabbed his pinky with her tiny fingers in her sleep.

"Dragons do not weep, Aegon," he replied, never taking his eyes off his sister. "They only remember. I sing so that you remember who we are. In a world where dragons begin to forget their tongue, and men look at us only as tools for power, we must hold to one another tighter than steel."

Aemond turned to his brother, and a flash of such cold determination crossed his gaze that little Aegon involuntarily flinched.

"You are my blood. My only true wealth," he added with more weight. "And I swear by the gods of Old Valyria: I will let no one spill it. We shall not be the ash; we shall be the flame that sired it."

Aegon frowned, trying to grasp the gravity of the words, then simply rested his head against his brother’s knee.

"You’re strange," he muttered, but he didn't leave. "But Helaena doesn't cry with you. Mother says it’s a little gift from the Seven."

Aemond offered only a faint, subtle smile. He had voluntarily taken on the role of a silent guardian, following the younger ones like a quiet shadow, instilling in their unformed souls that unwavering, almost religious devotion to the bloodline that they so lacked in that other, grim reality he was trying to erase from the future. Every gesture, every lullaby, was a brick in the wall he was building around his family—a wall that no dance of dragons could ever breach.

Meanwhile, the outside world, teeming with predatory ambitions and veiled threats, did not stand still; it moved like a massive mechanism relentlessly gaining momentum. Daemon Targaryen finally solidified his strategic alliance with Velaena Velaryon, uniting dragonfire with the unstoppable might of the sea waves.

Yet, during the lavish ceremonies where wine flowed like a river and music sought to drown out the whispers of conspirators, the Rogue Prince seemed detached, like a ghost at his own feast. Amidst the glint of golden cups, the rustle of expensive silks, and the endless roar of the banquet, his sharp, piercing gaze of a dominant alpha invariably and almost instinctively searched the crowd for a single silhouette—the fragile yet unwavering figure of Aemond.

Try as he might, Daemon could not sear the memory of that evening by the hearth from his mind. He still felt the phantom heat of hot soot on his cheek and saw that icy, otherworldly composure with which the omega stood amidst the flames. Aemond had not simply survived; he belonged to the fire more than any of them. Every time their gazes locked over the heads of the courtiers, Daemon felt his breath hitch. It wasn't the usual irritation or a flash of anger; it was a primal, reverent dread of the being standing before him, hiding a strength behind outward fragility that was capable of incinerating the world.

"You are looking at him again."

Velaena’s low, calm voice sounded beside him. She stood there holding a goblet, her silver hair braided into intricate nautical knots adorned with pearls.

"My Prince, your gaze is currently sharper than Dark Sister."

Daemon did not turn his head immediately; his eyes lingered for a moment on Aemond’s pale profile as the boy quietly explained something to little Aegon.

"He is more dangerous than he cares to seem, Velaena," Daemon finally forced out, his voice sounding like sandpaper on stone. "An omega who holds no reverence for the alphas or betas before him. A dragon born in the body of a lamb, but with teeth longer than Caraxes’s."

"He is just a child," Velaena remarked, following his gaze. However, a flicker of doubt crossed her eyes as well. "Though... they say the flames behave differently in his presence."

He remembered how Aemond had looked at him through the tongues of fire—not as a victim, but as a judge. He took a large gulp of wine, but it tasted bland compared to the adrenaline thumping in his temples at the mere thought of his nephew. Daemon felt a wild, almost uncontrollable urge to stride over, seize Aemond by the shoulder, and force him to reveal that hidden power once more. But at the same time, the part of him that made him a great warrior screamed of danger.

When Aemond turned his head for a moment and their eyes finally met, the boy did not look away. He offered a barely perceptible tilt of his head, and a shadow of a smile touched his lips—a shared knowledge known only to the two of them. Daemon felt a chill run down his spine. He realized then: this omega did not need protection. Perhaps it was the world that would need protection from him.

Rhaenyra stood at the very epicenter of the storm that was rocking the walls of the Red Keep with increasing violence. The air around the Iron Throne had grown thick and stifling; it smelled not only of the dust of centuries but of the sickly-sweet rot of King Viserys’s illness—a health that had begun to slowly but inexorably slip away like sand through fingers. Viserys, pale and haggard, leaned more frequently on his cane, and his voice, once commanding, now sounded like a weary plea. He insisted on the continuation of the dynasty, seeing new generations as the only way to patch the holes in the future of the House of the Dragon. Meanwhile, the lords of the Realm circled the Princess like a flock of crows, demanding "stability"—a word that, in their mouths, meant only one thing: a marriage that would tether her will.

Weeks of internal struggle had turned Rhaenyra’s nights into an endless vigil of anxious thoughts. She saw the faces of the suitors—arrogant lords seeking not her favor, but her right to the throne. And then, she made a move that tore through the web of their intrigues. She chose Laena Velaryon. It was not merely a union; it was a political explosion. The joining of two women of dragon blood, two riders whose blood ran purer than Valyrian steel, looked like a challenge to the very nature of Westerosi customs.

But before casting this defiance in the face of the Small Council, Rhaenyra sought silence. She came to Aemond’s chambers late at night when the castle had finally fallen still. The door creaked open without a sound. In the half-light, illuminated only by a few candles melting in a soft dance of fire, she saw her brother. A twelve-year-old boy whose eyes shone with unchildlike knowledge sat in a chair, carefully cradling tiny Helaena to his chest. The infant was asleep, and her quiet breathing was the only living sound in the room. Aemond’s scent—a strange mixture of clean ozone and the soothing floral notes of an omega—acted on Rhaenyra better than any wine.

"They will say it is madness, Aemond," she said softly, stepping closer. Her own alpha scent was sharp, electrified with tension. "The lords will spit bile. Father fears I will leave him without male heirs. They want me to choose the safe path. To choose a husband who will make me his shadow."

Aemond did not stir, careful not to wake his sister, but he raised his violet gaze to Rhaenyra. There was no doubt in it, only cold, crystal clarity.

"The safe path is the path to a gradual fading, mandia," his voice was low, yet every word weighed as much as a gold ingot. "They ask for stability because they fear the power they cannot control. A lord-husband will bring you an army that scatters at the first rain. Laena Velaryon brings you the sea and wings. Together, you will not just lead the House—you will become the House itself."

"And what of heirs?" Rhaenyra perched on the edge of the table, watching Aemond adjust the infant's blanket. "What if we only have girls?."

"Targaryen blood does not need the permission of lords to flow onward," Aemond smiled faintly, and in that smile flickered the same spark that made the fire dance. "Do you fear their judgment, or your own strength?"

Rhaenyra caught her breath. The boy's words hit their mark, cutting through the remnants of her hesitation.

"I fear they will tear the kingdom to pieces, emboldened by my actions," she confessed.

"Then burn the pieces that refuse to bow," Aemond cut in. "You are an Alpha. You are a Dragon. And Laena is the only one who can fly beside you in true flame. Do not give them stability, Rhaenyra. Give them greatness. It is impossible to look away from, even if it blinds."

Rhaenyra nodded slowly. She felt the heavy stone that had pressed on her chest for weeks finally crack. Her confidence hardened under her brother's calm, almost prophetic gaze. She stepped toward him and briefly placed a hand on his shoulder, feeling the warmth of his body.

"You are a strange child, Aemond. Sometimes I think you are older than our father."

"Perhaps I have simply seen enough ends of the world to appreciate the right beginnings," he replied enigmatically.

Rhaenyra smiled at her brother's serious tone, unaware that there was more truth in his words than she could possibly imagine.

The year ended on an incredibly high, almost triumphant note. The news of the union between Rhaenyra and Laena stirred Westeros, but it was followed by another piece of good tidings. Velaena, now a Targaryen, announced her pregnancy. The Rogue Prince, whose face was usually a mask of contempt and danger, looked truly at peace for the first time in years. He could always be found near his wife, and his alpha scent became thick, protective, and warm. It seemed that in the expectation of this heir, he had finally found the refuge for his restless soul that no conquered land or won battle could provide. The entire castle held its breath, savoring this calm.

When Daemon reappeared at court alongside Velaena, the Red Keep froze in anticipation of another explosion, a bloody duel, or a daring stunt that would shake the throne. The courtiers, like a flock of frightened sparrows, braced for a storm. Yet, instead of the usual chaos, the subjects saw something much more unsettling, something that made hearts beat faster with an inexplicable premonition: peace.

The Rogue Prince, whose scent usually sliced the air with aggressive notes of ozone, scorched iron, and fresh blood, now carried himself with restraint, like a predator that is full and satisfied, yet vigilant. His movements became slower, and his hand reached for the hilt of Dark Sister less often. But what struck the courtiers most was how he behaved toward Aemond. Daemon no longer tried to dominate his nephew or cast the disdainful looks he usually reserved for "second-rate" family members. A deep, almost reverent doubt had settled in his eyes. Every time their paths crossed in the halls, Daemon would involuntarily tense, his muscles turning to stone beneath his doublet, as if he expected the boy to suddenly erupt in divine radiance.

During one of the evening receptions, while the music of lutes tried to drown out the political hissing in the corners and the wine in the lords' cups clouded their minds, Daemon detached himself from a group of banner-lords. He left their empty chatter about taxes and borders and walked decisively, yet quietly, toward Aemond. The boy stood alone by a high window, watching the lights of King’s Landing scattered below like the sparks of a dying bonfire. His silver hair, in the flickering torchlight, seemed cast from cold steel.

Daemon said nothing at first. He stood beside him, and the minute of silence between them was heavy, filled with the echo of that evening by the hearth. Then, the prince slowly pulled a narrow bundle from his belt, wrapped in dark velvet fabric that swallowed the light.

"This belonged to someone who knew the price of secrets and knew how to keep them in the dark," Daemon’s voice was low, stripped of its usual irony, almost respectful. "Now it is yours. This object has waited too long for a hand that can hold it."

He unwrapped the cloth, revealing a dagger of Valyrian steel. The blade shimmered with dark, smoky ripples, as if ghosts of volcanic ash from ancient Freehold had frozen within the metal itself. The dragonbone hilt looked warm, and a hidden power glowed within the very core of the weapon. Aemond accepted the weapon carefully.

"Why do you give this to me now, Uncle?"

Aemond raised his eyes to Daemon. In their violet depths was reflected an understanding of the nature of things that made the older alpha involuntarily shudder.

"Do you fear I cannot protect what I see? Or do you fear what I will do without a weapon?"

Daemon gritted his teeth slightly, looking at the boy who, at twelve years old, spoke like a patriarch of the line.

"For one who does not fear the flame and stands amidst the fire without burning, this blade is but an extension of the hand," the prince nodded curtly. In this gesture, there was more recognition of equality than in any official oaths or titles. "Use it wisely, boy. Remember: steel, unlike fire, has no will. It does not choose whom to cut—foe or brother. It obeys only intent."

Aemond tested the sharpness of the blade with his thumb, and a drop of thick red blood appeared on his skin, instantly soaking into the steel.

"Steel is but a tool," Aemond said softly, not looking away from Daemon. "As are we all. The only question is who holds the hilt: ourselves, or the fate we try so hard to outsmart. Thank you, Uncle. I will see to it that this knife remembers only the taste of traitors."

Daemon held his nephew's gaze for a second longer, then turned and vanished into the crowd, feeling that this gift was not just a gesture of goodwill, but the first step toward an understanding between them.

The wedding of Rhaenyra and Laena became the grandest event of the decade, a true triumph of Valyrian blood that silenced even the most bitter critics of this unprecedented union between two women. Driftmark arrived at King’s Landing in full force, displaying a level of might that made the lords of Hightower and Lannister involuntarily clinch their fists around the hilts of their swords. Dozens of ships with silk sails the color of seafoam lined the harbor like a flock of majestic, exotic birds flown from distant lands to declare their dominion over the Narrow Sea.

The city was instantly filled with the sharp scent of salt, expensive Eastern spices, and the faint, sweet aroma of pure gold emanating from the luxurious robes of the Velaryon lords. Laughter was heard everywhere, alongside the clatter of steel from knights preparing for the wedding tourney and an endless whisper that snaked through the corridors of the Red Keep, penetrating even the thick stone walls of the royal apartments.

They sat together at a massive oak table laden with silver platters of pheasant and candied fruits. The air between them was full—not with hostility, but with that specific intimacy born of a shared secret and a victory over circumstance.

Aemond, whose figure in a silver-and-black doublet appeared elegant yet dangerous, raised his cup with a faint smile. His gaze lingered on Laena, who looked like a true sea goddess in the candlelight.

"Welcome to the family, sister," Aemond’s voice was soft. "Though you and your mother have always been the most frequent and welcome guests within these walls, you must now grow accustomed to the true chaos of the Red Keep. Especially to your alpha, who, I assure you, can be insufferably stubborn when it comes to morning training or the last piece of lemon cake."

Rhaenyra took offense, setting down her wine cup so sharply that a few drops splashed onto the snow-white tablecloth.

"Hey! I am a paragon of restraint, and you know it!"

Ignoring his sister, Aemond continued, leaning closer to Laena:

"If anything displeases you—for instance, if our future queen begins reciting long ballads of the Conquest in the middle of the night again—you know whom to turn to."

The omega gave a sly wink, and a spark of that same manipulator who remembered a thousand future scenarios flashed in his eyes.

"Threatening your own elder sister at her own wedding... Really, Aemond?" Rhaenyra interjected, trying to make her voice stern, though a smile twitched at the corners of her lips. "We’ve been married only a day, and you’re already on my wife’s side? What a treacherous move."

"Who said I was speaking for myself?" Aemond raised his hands innocently, showing palms that only recently had held a Valyrian dagger. "Allow me to remind you that your new in-laws are the Queen Who Never Was and the Sea Snake. Compared to them, my possible revenge for your antics would be mere child’s play. I am simply offering Laena... alternative methods of influence."

Laena, intrigued by the banter, leaned toward her new brother, and her scent momentarily masked the smell of wine.

"Do you have any ideas regarding these 'methods' already?" she asked, a spark of the same adventurous spirit that made her the greatest rider of her time gleaming in her eyes.

"Bored of my sister already?" Aemond asked mockingly, and they both shared a brief laugh at Rhaenyra’s feigned look of indignation, which at that moment resembled a vexed young dragon.

"I think, in addition to whatever your esteemed parents would do, I would take a subtler path," Aemond mused for a moment, twisting a ring on his finger. "I would command the court musicians to learn 'The Bear and the Maiden Fair,' but exclusively in a minor, funereal tempo. And they would play it every time Rhaenyra attempted to deliver a serious political speech before the lords. Imagine: she speaks of taxes or land borders, and behind her is a mournful 'Bum-bum-bum' about a bear. Not a single lord could maintain a dignified expression."

Rhaenyra’s face fell, and she hissed at her brother, feeling her Alpha dignity cracking under the weight of her own laughter.

"You wouldn't dare! That is high treason against my authority!"

Aemond adjusted his shoulders with casual grace, leaning back into his carved chair.

"Would I dare? Perhaps not. Would I do it? Definitely. History should be remembered for more than just battles; it needs good jokes as well."

This back-and-forth between the siblings amused Laena immensely. She had to take a large gulp of wine to compose herself and stifle her fit of mirth before any guests or watchful maesters took undue notice of their table.

Meanwhile, a true chaos of luxury had erupted in the banquet hall. The Velaryons had brought an unprecedented number of gifts, displayed along the walls so that everyone could see the grandeur of Driftmark. Chests filled with pearls as large as walnuts shimmered with soft moonlight; bolts of silk from Asshai shifted colors from deep indigo to fiery orange depending on the angle. Two exotic white lions in gilded cages particularly drew attention, watching the crowd with the calm fury of predators.

Laena Velaryon, in her wedding gown of turquoise velvet embroidered with tiny diamonds that resembled droplets of water, looked like the very embodiment of sea foam and Valyrian fury. When she rose and took Rhaenyra’s hand to lead her to the center of the hall for a dance, the room erupted in cheers.

Aemond watched this from the shadow of a massive pillar. He saw his sister’s joy and heard the triumph of the Velaryons, but his gaze, sharp and merciless, was fixed on the other end of the hall. There, like a statue of cold stone, stood Ser Otto Hightower. He was a guest in the castle at his daughter’s request, and Aemond could clearly see the jaw of the former Hand tighten. Otto stood motionless, and in his eyes—dark and analytical—there was no celebration, but a long list of future moves with which he intended to destroy this idyllic union.

The brief era of tranquility and sunny hope, which had blossomed so uncharacteristically within the harsh walls of the Red Keep, ended abruptly, like a candle snuffed out by the icy breath of death. Velaena lost the child in her fifth month of pregnancy, and the news swept through the corridors like a northern draft, instantly chilling the banquet hall. The castle did not sleep that night. There were the hurried footsteps of maesters, the clatter of basins filled with hot water, and a hollow, desperate wailing that quickly gave way to a dead, oppressive silence. The castle, which only yesterday had smelled of wine, flowers, and children’s laughter, was now thoroughly soaked in the scent of damp earth, wormwood, and the tart vinegar the maesters used to break the fever.

Daemon Targaryen once again withdrew into his brooding solitude. But this time, his rage did not seek an outlet in challenges to his brother or bloody skirmishes in Flea Bottom. This was a fall—quiet, deep, and irrevocable. The Rogue Prince, whose presence used to fill a room with the crackle of electricity and the premonition of a storm, had turned into a motionless shadow. He surrendered without a fight to an internal darkness that proved stronger than any enemy in the Stepstones.

Aemond passed by the training yard where the clash of steel usually rang out; Daemon had always exhausted himself there until he was drenched in sweat. Today, the yard was empty. Even the wind did not dare to stir the dust there. For the first time since the day Daemon had handed him the Valyrian blade, Aemond felt toward his uncle not cold respect or strategic interest, but a bitter, stinging pity. His omega instincts, sharpened by the knowledge of tragedies from past lives, were now operating at full strength.

He stopped before the massive oak doors of Daemon’s chambers. There were no guards here; the prince had driven them all away, promising to execute anyone who dared disturb his peace. Behind the doors, there was no sound of shattering glass, nor the usual heavy breathing following a workout. Only silence, so thick it seemed to ooze through the cracks in the wood. But the scent... the scent was unbearable. The heavy, sticky smell of "sour guilt" filled the corridor. It is the scent of a wounded alpha who believes his own blood has become poison to his pack. Daemon was punishing himself for every sin, for every burned hovel, believing the gods had finally found his weakness and struck exactly there.

Aemond touched the hilt of the dagger at his waist with his fingers. The cold Valyrian steel seemed to share its composure with him. He did not knock. He simply leaned a little closer to the wood, knowing that a dragon's hearing would catch the slightest vibration of air.

"You are not to blame for this, Uncle," he said quietly. There was no childish naivety in his voice, only the steel and the calm of eternity belonging to a soul that had seen the end of the world. "Dragon blood is fire, and fire does not always create. Sometimes it simply takes back what it considers its own. We are subject to laws older than Valyria and stronger than the Iron Throne."

There was no movement behind the door, but Aemond felt the scent of guilt flicker for a moment, like a flame in the wind.

"Death is not always a punishment," the boy continued, looking at the dark patterns of the wood. "Sometimes it is a mercy. Your child went to the ancestors before knowing the betrayal, pain, and poison of this imperfect world. They remained pure, unlike us. Perhaps the flame simply decided to shield them from what lies ahead for us all. Even with Valyrian steel in our hands, Uncle, we cannot command life to be eternal."

From the other side of the door came a heavy, ragged exhale. It was the sound of a man finally removing a suffocating helmet after a long battle. Aemond felt the "sour" scent of guilt begin to dissipate, replaced by a brief, sharp flash of gratitude. It wasn't a healing, but it was the first breath of air amidst the smoke.

"Your wisdom is loathsome, boy," came Daemon’s hollow, cracked voice. He sounded as if he hadn't spoken for an eternity. "It is far too heavy for your shoulders. But you are the only one in this cursed castle who did not come here with hypocritical pity that reeks of fear. Be gone."

Aemond felt the corners of his lips quirk into a faint smile. He needed no embraces or words of thanks. He felt the dark wave of despair that had been prepared to swallow Daemon recede slightly. The omega walked further down the dark corridor, his footsteps silent. He understood that his role in this Great Game had now become much more complex. He had to be the invisible pivot that would prevent the "Rogue Prince" from turning to ash prematurely. Because in the war that was already breathing cold down the neck of every Targaryen, he needed Daemon—not as a broken shadow, but as a furious dragon, loyal and ready for his final flight.

The year 115 AC became a true test of psychological fortitude for Aemond, transforming the Red Keep into a bizarre labyrinth of mirrors where every reflection was false and every familiar corridor led into the unknown. Laena and Alicent became pregnant almost simultaneously. This double anxiety hung in the air with the thick, cloying, suffocating scent of maternal fatigue, medicinal herbs, and hormonal storms, plunging the boy into a deep existential crisis.

According to his knowledge of the grim past—the one he remembered so clearly, sharper than any other recovered memory, as if it had happened yesterday—this was the exact moment he himself should have been forming in Alicent’s womb. The second son, Aemond One-Eye, who would one day lose an eye in a fight over Vhagar and burn the world in the flames of hatred. Watching the Queen’s rounded belly, the boy felt a wild, almost physical dissonance that triggered bouts of nausea.

He often stood in the shadows of heavy tapestries, holding his breath, watching Alicent move laboriously through the hall, hands pressed to the small of her back. Every tired breath she took echoed within him as phantom pain. His own memory as an adult man, a warrior and rider, entered a dangerous clinch with reality: he existed here, in the body of a fourteen-year-old teenager, while his rightful "place" in time was occupied by someone else, a ghostly version of himself who might never see the light.

One evening, he encountered Alicent in the corridor as she walked toward the royal sept. She stopped, breathing heavily, and placed a hand on her abdomen.

"Aemond?" she smiled weakly, but there was concern in her gaze. "Why are you looking at me like that, my prince? You are as pale as if you had seen a ghost."

"Everything... everything is fine," he replied quietly, not taking his eyes off her belly.

"You spend too much time in the dungeons," she sighed. "The child is kicking. Would you like to feel?"

Aemond froze. Before him was the opportunity to touch himself, or who he was supposed to be. He reached out slowly, but an inch from the fabric of her dress, his fingers began to tremble. His omega instincts flared with a warning: there, inside, beat a life that did not have his face. This was not him. This was the void he had created by his presence in this timeline.

"No," he snapped, abruptly hiding his hands behind his back. "I do not want to disturb... them."

He turned and walked away, feeling her bewildered gaze on his back. Every step echoed in his consciousness: *I was not meant to be here. I am a mistake.*

After his fall into the flames and the receiving of memories from his other selves, Aemond began to actively master pyrokinesis, the ancient, almost forgotten art of Valyrian sorcerers. It was not merely the mechanical skill of not burning oneself or holding a hand over a candle; it was an exhausting, soul-and-body-draining religious science of commanding a primal, chaotic element. In the half-light of the dungeons, where the walls seemed to still remember the breath of Balerion, the air became thick and dry, as if in the very throat of the Valyrian Fourteen Flames.

Aemond closed his eyes, focusing on the pulsation of heat originating somewhere deep in his solar plexus. He felt every cell of his young body begin to vibrate in unison with the fire blazing nearby. It was like a song sung by the blood itself when it meets its source. He slowly extended a thin, pale hand, and the flame of a lone candle, obedient to his silent, imperious command, suddenly stretched upward into a long, golden tongue. It began to curve, weaving into itself, transforming into an elegant, glowing pattern that resembled the solar sign of ancient Valyria.

Aemond did not open his eyes, but his inner vision became sharper than any other. Under his focused gaze, the glowing embers in the fireplace began to stir like living creatures waking from an age-old slumber. The dry crackle of wood changed into a strange, melodic ringing, like the collision of crystal goblets. Red embers began to crawl out of the ash, forming into perfect, miniature dragon figures. They flew upward in a mad, beautiful dance of sparks, flapping wings woven from pure white light. For a moment, the dungeon was illuminated so brightly that the shadows of giant dragon skulls on the walls began to move, as if returning to life, before the figures scattered into weightless ash.

In these deep dungeons, far from the hypocritical eyes of the maesters and the ubiquitous spies of Otto Hightower, Aemond sought not just power, but salvation. Without any living mentors, having discarded dry scrolls, he acted only at the behest of his turbulent blood. He would sit before a massive bronze brazier, legs crossed, and force himself to stare directly into the glowing heart of the flame, not blinking until his eyes dried before a single tear could roll down his cheeks.

At first, the fire was cruel; it burned his eyes, forcing his pupils to narrow to their limit, but with time, the sharp pain transformed into a strange, almost intimate feeling of kinship. The flame began to react to the slightest fluctuations of his emotions, becoming a mirror of his scarred soul. When rage for his own displacement in this time boiled within him like black bile, the fire in the brazier would fiercely leap toward the ceiling, scattering into billions of aggressive sparks that stung the stone.

He held his palm directly over the white heat, where even lead would melt. The skin instantly reddened, becoming as hot as metal under a smith’s hammer, but to Aemond’s own surprise, it did not blister or char. He felt the heat not stop at the surface, but penetrate within, through pores and veins, merging with his blood into a single pulsating flow. It was the only sensation that felt absolutely real and irrefutable in this bizarre world of ghosts, mirrors, and political masks. He no longer feared burning in this fire; on the contrary, he feared fading away, dissolving into a history that no longer belonged to him, becoming just another forgotten shadow in the annals of Westeros.

One day, Daemon found him there, in the dimness, as Aemond stared into the flame, attempting to control it without hand movements. Daemon leaned against a stone pillar, his gaze vigilant.

"According to my brother, Alicent believes you are avoiding her. She thinks you are jealous of your unborn brother."

"Jealousy is too loud a word, Uncle," Aemond did not turn, continuing to subtly manipulate the fire. "I am simply watching the old future die."

"You think too much about a future that has not yet come," Daemon stepped closer, and the scent of his alpha, stern and heavy, momentarily suppressed the smell of soot. "Live in the now. You are a Targaryen. You have already won your battle simply by being born."

"You have no idea what that birth cost," Aemond threw out bitterly, finally looking at his uncle. "And what price the one who comes next may pay."

At the end of the year, when the first winter winds began to ominously bite at the spires of Maegor's Holdfast and the sky over King's Landing was covered by heavy, leaden clouds, the castle was once again filled with the cries of infants. This sound, echoing like a sharp blade off the cold stone, was not just news of a birth, but signaled the beginning of a new era. Two boys came into the world, and their appearance was final proof: the old book of history was burned, and the ashes scattered over the Blackwater.

Firstborn of Rhaenyra and Laena, became a true miracle that silenced even the most vicious gossips. The lords who had secretly sharpened their tongues in dark corners of the Council, expecting to see a child with the "salty" traits of the Velaryons or, as the most brazen whispered, dark hair of questionable origin, were stunned. The boy was born with hair like molten silver that shone even in the dim light of a winter day, and eyes in which violet lightning played.

Aemond stood by the high bed of his sister-in-law, where the air was still electrified by the recent agonies of childbirth.

"He is perfect," Rhaenyra whispered, her voice low so as not to wake her exhausted omega. She carefully touched her son’s tiny palm, which had already gripped her finger tightly. Lifting her eyes to Aemond, she hesitated for a moment, and a palpable warmth was in her gaze. "He looks like you, Aemond. Not just in the face... He is just as calm, as if he already knows all the secrets of the universe and is just waiting for the moment to forget them."

"He is a true sea dragon, sister," Aemond replied, a mysterious, barely perceptible smile playing on his lips. "To my mind, Jacaerys sounds like a name worthy of a king."

But the real shock awaited him in Alicent’s chambers. There, the atmosphere was entirely different: the air felt heavy and oily from an excessive amount of frankincense and the nervous, almost predatory anticipation of Ser Otto Hightower, who paced the corridor outside the door. There, a boy was born who was named Gaemon. He was sturdy, loud, and his first cry made even experienced midwives shudder. The infant had red, fire-like hair, the Hightowers' mark, a clear symbol of his mother’s lineage, lacking even a hint of characteristic Valyrian fairness. This was the boy who, by all laws of nature and chronology, should have been Aemond himself, the Queen’s second son.

Aemond approached Gaemon's cradle late at night. The exhausted maesters had already dispersed to their cells, and Alicent finally fell into a restless, fitful sleep, in which she likely saw the towers of Oldtown. The room was bathed in deep gloom; only one candle burned melancholically on the table, casting long shadows on the walls. He looked at the little creature who had so unceremoniously taken his "place" in the birth order, effectively displacing the original Aemond One-Eye from this universe.

Instead of the expected cold envy, anger, or the physical nausea he had felt throughout his mother’s pregnancy, Aemond suddenly felt a strange, almost weightless relief. It spread through his body like warm wine, washing away the remnants of old bitterness.

"So you are Gaemon," he said quietly, leaning over the child so low that his silver hair touched the edge of the cradle.

He slowly traced the carved edge of the cradle with his finger, feeling the warmth of the wood. The old story, where he was merely the mangled shadow of his brother Aegon, a victim of childhood cruelty in the dragon pit, and a future executioner of an entire kingdom, had finally died in this quiet room. The chains of prophecy that had bound his soul since the awakening of his memories shattered. Gaemon was not his copy, not his shadow; he was the beginning of an entirely different branch of the lineage, one that was not destined to end in a bloody splash over the God's Eye.

"Grow strong, little Hightower," Aemond added with a faint note of irony in his voice. "Your brother will see to it that this world is safer for you than it was for me."

Chapter Text

The Red Keep breathed with children’s laughter, the patter of small feet on cold stone, and the cozy aroma of warmed milk and honey. Now, that scent was invariably laced with the faint, sharp tang of ozone, a precursor to a storm, that constantly radiated from Aemond. The past year had become a time of strange, almost unsettling tranquility for him. Walking the long corridors, he felt not merely like a prince, but like an invisible shepherd gathering a scattered flock, doomed in another life, under one reliable wing.

Aemond often spent hours in the great solar, where golden light streamed through high windows, catching dust motes dancing in the air. It was a sight that, in his grim past, would have seemed a fever dream or a cruel illusion. Little Aegon, now six years old, was attempting with uncharacteristic patience to teach two-year-old Helaena how to properly hold a wooden toy dragon painted red.

“No, Hela, not by the tail,” Aegon lectured, knitting his pale brows. “A dragon stays up by its wings. If you pull the tail, he’ll get angry and burn your dolls.”

Helaena only blinked her large eyes, fiddling with the toy’s legs and humming something softly to herself. Nearby, on scattered soft silk cushions, the infants fussed. Jacaerys, whose silver hair was practically blinding in the sunlight, tried to crawl, while Gaemon watched his nephew’s every move with an incredibly serious expression before suddenly lunging to grab Jace’s ear.

Aemond watched them, reclined in a chair with a heavy tome on Valyrian sorcery whose pages he hadn't turned in an hour. His heart constricted with a strange, sweet ache bordering on nausea. Looking at Gaemon, he saw not a "replacement" for himself, but a chance at redemption. When he was alone with Gaemon, cradling him in the nighttime silence, Aemond would press his lips to the babe’s forehead and whisper:

“You will never know the wrath of a father who sees only disappointment in you. You won’t feel the coldness of a mother who uses you as a pawn. You will simply live, little Gaemon. You will be whole.”

With Jace, he was different. In this infant, he already saw the future king, the spine around which a new world would revolve. His touches toward Jacaerys were cautious yet commanding. Aemond often took the babe’s tiny palm, closing his eyes and concentrating, as if transferring a portion of his fire-forged resilience through the skin, preparing him for the weight of the crown that would one day rest on that silvery brow.

Helaena was his special, most piercing ache. She had already begun to flinch at sharp sounds as if they caused her physical pain, and she often froze, whispering strange things about "red threads binding heaven and earth." When she started to cry for no apparent reason, Aemond would simply take her in his arms. He pressed her to his chest, feeling her tiny heart racing, and used his pyrokinesis to manifest tiny golden sparks in the air. They danced before the girl’s eyes like sunbeams come to life.

“Look, Hela,” he whispered softly. “Fire doesn't have to burn. It can keep you warm.”

The girl would calm down, her violet eyes focusing on the soft warmth, and she would fall asleep feeling the protection she had so lacked in "that" reality, where she was but a lonely rider in a world falling to pieces.

However, Aegon was becoming a problem that could not be ignored. His brother was growing increasingly withdrawn, avoiding shared games and often disappearing for hours. Aemond knew the reason for every sigh. Aegon saw how his older brother, the one who, by all laws, should have been a weak omega under guardianship, summoned Grey Ghost from the mists of Blackwater with one majestic gesture. Aegon saw this mystical, unbreakable bond and felt a black, corroding emptiness within himself.

Aemond caught him several times in the evening near the entrance to the Dragonpit. The young prince stood by the iron bars, inhaling the thick scent of sulfur, old ash, and beast musk with such despair in his gaze that it became difficult for Aemond to breathe.

“They won’t speak to me, lekia,” Aegon whispered one evening when his brother found him alone in the long shadow of the Pit's gates. The boy didn't turn; his voice was hoarse with suppressed tears. “I go to Dreamfyre, I give her the best meat... but they only growl. Why do they listen to you, so fragile and... and different? Why do you fly, while I only smell the smoke?”

Aemond stepped closer and gently placed a hand on his brother’s thin shoulder, feeling him tense up.

“Dragons do not listen to words, Aegon. They care nothing for titles or what is written in the maesters' books. They listen to the fire burning in your solar plexus.”

He paused for a moment, looking into the depths of the dark caverns where the heavy shifting of massive bodies could be heard.

“Your fire is just sleeping, valonqar. It is wrapped in your fear like a cocoon. Do not try to force them. Just... give yourself permission to be a dragon.”

But in his soul, Aemond knew gentle words were not enough. Aegon didn't need comfort that only softened his spirit. He needed a push, a challenge that would force his inner flame to break through the cocoon of doubt.

Meanwhile, Laena Velaryon, Princess Consort and the pride of Driftmark, was fading before their eyes like a wax candle in a strong draft. Her marriage to Rhaenyra, which was supposed to be the start of a grand era and a triumph for the two most powerful Valyrian houses, had brought her only the bitter, metallic taste of defeat that settled on her tongue every time she looked up.

She was surrounded by wings. Laena saw Rhaenyra laughing as she took flight on the golden Syrax, cutting through the clouds; her brother Laenor disappearing into the blue sky on Seasmoke, becoming a mere speck; even her mother, Rhaenys, finding true peace and majesty only where the air grew thin and cold. And there was Aemond, a boy, nearly a young man, who had daringly claimed the elusive Grey Ghost. Laena, whose blood was no less pure than that of the first conquerors, remained chained to the earth, to heavy tapestries and the stone floors of the Red Keep.

That evening, she and Aemond sat on a high terrace. The sunset painted the sky the color of blood and molten gold. Laena nervously toyed with the edge of her silver cloak, her gaze fixed on the horizon where the sea merged with the sky.

“I feel clipped, Aemond,” she said suddenly. Her voice was quiet, but it held such sincere, unbearable sorrow that Aemond instinctively set aside the old book on dragon anatomy he had been studying. “As if a part of my soul was severed before I was even born. Fire and salt of Old Valyria run through my veins; I hear the call of the sky in every gust of wind, but it is locked away from me. I am a princess without wings. Even my son, little Jace, will fly one day, I feel it... and I will be but a shadow on the shore, waving him goodbye.”

Aemond looked at her intently. In his mind, clouded by memories of the "other" life, the majestic and tragic image of Laena flared up as if through deep water, the woman who, in another reality, had claimed the mightiest of living dragons and perished in her flames. He could not allow this woman, full of life and hidden strength, to flicker out in the shadow of others' wings.

“What if I told you that your dragon has been waiting for you for a long time?” he asked softly, almost in a whisper, leaning closer. “She is not in the Dragonpit, Laena. Nor on Dragonstone. She is too large and proud for those cramped stone chains and the oversight of maesters. They say that on one of the Summer Isles, among the wild cliffs, sailors have seen a shadow that blots out the sun. Old, majestic, covered in the scars of past wars. Lonely, just as you are now.”

Laena’s eyes instantly ignited with a wild, hungry fire. She turned sharply toward him, catching her breath.

“Vhagar?” she whispered, the name vibrating with awe. “The last of the Conqueror's triad... But that is thousands of miles south. It is beyond our reach, Aemond. Father said she vanished after the death of your grandfather, Prince Baelon.”

“We will find a way to get there,” Aemond said confidently, and that same smile flitted across his lips, the one that made even Daemon turn serious. “Dragons do not simply vanish. They wait for those brave enough to find them.”

A plan formed in Aemond’s head within minutes. The next day, he went to Rhaenyra while she was resting in her chambers.

“We need to leave the capital. And we don't just need permission; we need the King’s official support,” he began without preamble. “Father is obsessed with stability and peace. Tell him our spies bring troubling news: relations with Dorne are as shaky as desert sands. That Prince Mors Martell is looking for excuses to ally with the Triarchy, threatening our trade routes. Propose sending Laena and me as official envoys—a prince of the blood and a princess-consort. It will be a gesture of respect the Dornish cannot ignore. And from Sunspear to the Summer Isles, it is only a short crossing by sea.”

Rhaenyra, who saw daily how the light was leaving her beloved wife’s eyes, agreed instantly. She understood the risk but saw it as Laena’s only chance. Viserys, weary of the endless bickering in the Small Council and Otto Hightower’s complaints about the "recklessness of youth," took to the idea with unexpected enthusiasm. He liked the thought of his dear son and daughter-in-law engaging in diplomacy, strengthening the realm’s majesty without the use of fire.

Preparations for the departure began immediately, shrouded in an atmosphere of secrecy. Aemond personally inspected every supply bag, secretly packing fire-resistant salves of his own making and old, yellowed Valyrian charts of the currents. Laena, meanwhile, seemed reborn. Her former grace returned; every movement became lithe, like a leopard before a pounce, and a calm but devastating flame settled in the depths of her violet eyes.

The day before they set sail, as they stood on the pier by the high hulls of the Velaryon ships, Laena stopped Aemond, placing a hand on his shoulder. The port bustled around them: sailors hauled barrels, gulls shrieked, and the air smelled of salt and tar.

“Do you truly believe she will accept me, Aemond?” she asked, and for the first time, a childlike fear of rejection surfaced in her voice. “She has seen centuries. She has seen gods. What am I to her?”

Aemond gave her a long, searching look. He felt the air around them begin to heat slightly from his own internal power, which he had hidden for so long.

“Vhagar does not accept the weak, Laena. She does not tolerate those who ask permission to breathe,” Aemond’s voice rang hard, like Valyrian steel. “But you are a Targaryen by blood and name. In your veins is the roar of the ocean and the heat of the volcanoes of Old Valyria. You are a daughter of sea and flame. She won’t just accept you. She has been waiting for a rider like you all these long, lonely years. Go and take what is yours by right.”

The Velaryon fleet sliced through the sapphire waters of the Narrow Sea, heading south under a relentless sun that bleached the wooden decks to a stark white. At the head of the formation sailed the 'Sea Snake', Corlys Velaryon’s legendary flagship. Its sea-foam green sails, emblazoned with a silver seahorse, swelled in the stiff wind like the chest of a proud bird yearning for freedom. Laena stood at the bow, her fingers gripping the wooden railing; her silver hair, woven into dozens of tight braids with interlaced pearls, snaked behind her, whipping against her cloak. She tilted her face into the salt spray, trying to wash away the stifling dust of King’s Landing, but Aemond, standing a step behind her, could feel her tension with his entire body. She was like a steel string stretched to its limit, one careless touch, and she would either ring out in triumph or snap from despair.

High in the sky, almost dissolved within the cirrus clouds, glided Grey Ghost. He shared nothing with the fire-bright Syrax or the blood-red Caraxes, whose roars could be heard for miles. His scales, the color of morning mist and molten lead, made him nearly invisible at the solar zenith. Only the occasional swift shadow racing across the crests of the waves caused the sailors to look up and cross themselves. Aemond closed his eyes, catching his dragon’s sensations through their mental bond: the biting cold of the heights, the sharp scent of salt, and that unbearable, sweet, boundless freedom that stole his breath away.

When Sunspear finally appeared on the horizon, golden, scorched by centuries of sun, and surrounded by glowing sands, the mood on the ships shifted. The joy of arrival turned into an anxious numbness. The Dornish had not forgotten the flames of Meraxes that had incinerated their cities a century ago. They had not forgotten Rhaenys Targaryen, whose blood these sands had drunk. As Grey Ghost made a wide circle over the city, releasing a long, almost transparent stream of pale smoke, thousands of spears glinted atop the fortress’s high walls.

The meeting with the Martells was as cold as Valyrian steel on a winter night. Prince Kyle Martell, younger brother to Prince Mors Martell, met them in the Shadow City, surrounded by guards in scaled armor. The air here smelled of spices, horse sweat, and hidden threat. Kyle’s eyes, dark and deep as desert wells, lingered long and scrutinizingly on Aemond.

“A prince with the eyes of an old man and a princess with the blood of the sea,” he said instead of a greeting, his voice dry as the rustle of sand. “You have brought winged death to our walls. Is this the arrogance of conquerors, or a final offer of peace before the storm?”

“It is a reminder, Prince,” Aemond replied calmly, being the first to step off the gangplank onto the scorched sand of the shore. He did not even flinch at the heat, for nothing could burn more fiercely than his own inner flame. “A reminder that the world is much larger than Westeros, and we all walk under the same sun. We come as envoys of your King, not as riders seeking battle.”

Their stay in Sunspear became a true test of endurance. The heat was so brutal that the air shimmered before their eyes like molten glass, and the massive palace walls radiated the day’s accumulated heat even in the darkest night. Aemond physically felt the hostility hanging in the corridors like thick steam; Dornish lords and commoners alike looked at him with a mixture of primal dread and ancestral loathing. To them, he was just another dragon in human form. But Aemond paid no mind to the whispers behind his back. He was worried about Laena; with each passing day, she grew gloomier, spending hours staring motionlessly at the empty sky from the window of her chambers.

“We depart tonight,” he whispered directly into her ear during an official banquet, as the loud music of Dornish lutes and the clinking of goblets drowned out his words for any spies.

“But the Martells... their eyes are everywhere, Aemond. They watch every breath,” Laena squeezed her silver cup so hard her fingers turned white, knuckles protruding under the skin.

“They watch a prince and princess sitting in silks,” Aemond gave a barely perceptible wink, his eyes flashing with a wicked fire. “They do not expect two ghosts to travel on foot through the night desert to meet their true wings.”

The preparation was surgical. With the help of two loyal Velaryon sailors, they obtained the traditional clothing of Dornish travelers, loose cloaks of coarse linen that covered their faces from the dust. At midnight, when the guards on the towers were weary from wine and the stifling air, they slipped out through a secret passage in the gardens, where the air smelled of jasmine and night coolness.

The journey through the Dornish desert proved to be a literal descent into hell. Fine sand clogged their lungs, and their legs sank knee-deep into dunes that seemed like the endless waves of a golden ocean. When the desert turned icy at night, Aemond used his internal heat, literally maintaining the flame in their veins to keep Laena warm. He felt the direction not with his eyes, but with his blood. Grey Ghost awaited them ten miles from the city, hidden in the shadow of a deep, wind-carved gorge in the Red Mountains.

When they finally reached the dragon, who was impatiently lashing his tail against the rocks, Aemond helped the exhausted Laena into the saddle. This was the first time she flew not as an honored passenger, but as a full member of a secret alliance. They set a course south, leaving the shores of Westeros behind.

The flight was long and grueling. They crossed a vast sea where the water looked like black glass, until the lush, emerald forests of the Summer Isles appeared on the horizon. Aemond felt the approach of something so immense that reality itself began to vibrate. The air here was different, sweet, thick, and saturated with such ancient, primal power that Grey Ghost began to twitch nervously, sensing the presence of a true god of the skies.

Laena straightened in the saddle, and a shadow larger than any cliff was reflected in her eyes. Now, she wasn't just looking at the sky; she was preparing to conquer it.

They found her at the very peak of an extinct volcano, its gaping maw hidden in the thick, humid clouds of the Summer Isles. The air was thin here and smelled not of jungle flowers, but of stale ash and eternity. Vhagar didn't just lie upon the rocks; she was part of the landscape, a living mountain covered in scales the color of old, darkened bronze and greenish patina. Her gargantuan body, scarred by hundreds of battles, seemed a motionless monolith until she drew breath. Each exhale echoed with a deep, guttural rumble, reminiscent of a rockslide in a distant canyon.

When Grey Ghost, pressing his wings to his body, cautiously landed on the porous volcanic rock, he trembled all over. His talons scraped the stone, and his throat emitted a thin, mournful whistle. Beside this relic of the Conquest, he seemed but a small bird, a chance spark before a fading sun.

Laena slid slowly from the saddle. Her feet touched the hot ground, but she barely felt it. Her own heart hammered so loudly and rapidly that a constant roar filled her ears; she feared this rhythm, steeped in human fear, would enrage the old she-dragon. Aemond remained by Grey Ghost, holding the reins tightly. His face was calm, but his eyes glowed with triumphant anticipation.

“Don't stop, Laena!” he shouted over the whistling wind. “She feels your blood. She hears the song of Driftmark and the fire of Valyria within you. Do not fear her wrath, fear only her loneliness. She is as solitary as you were until this day!”

Laena took a step. A heavy boot crunched on volcanic glass. Then another. Vhagar lazily lifted an eyelid, and a massive eye, green and murky as the sea abyss where monsters hide, stared out at the world. The old dragon let out a low, crushing roar that sent vibrations through the soles of Laena’s feet and straight into her bones. The ground beneath them trembled.

Laena did not look away. She straightened her back, squared her shoulders, and spoke in High Valyrian. It was not the command of a master; her voice held a prayer, a gentle song coming from the very heart.

“Dohaerās, Vhagar...” she began, her voice growing stronger. “Your sky has become too small without a rider. Your wings long for the salt of the Narrow Sea, not the moisture of these forests. I have not come to subdue you. I have come to bring you home.”

She spoke of the infinite horizons they would share, of the storms they would pierce through, and of the sea that would seem but a puddle to them. When Laena reached out a trembling hand and touched the rough scales on the dragon's snout, scales as hot as a stoked furnace, the world around her seemed to cease existing. Vhagar released a cloud of steam that scorched Laena’s face, but she didn’t even blink. The old queen of the skies slowly, almost gracefully, lowered her massive head to the very ground, allowing the woman to climb onto her gargantuan wing.

Laena’s first flight on Vhagar was a sight Aemond would etch into his memory forever. When the dragon flapped her wings, the gust of air was so powerful that Grey Ghost was nearly blown off the ledge into the abyss. With a deafening roar that shook the entire island, they took flight. A massive, black shadow covered the jungle like a sudden eclipse. Birds by the millions took to the air, filling the sky with their cries, and Laena... Laena screamed with pure, primal delight. Her voice, thin and happy, was drowned out by Vhagar’s triumphant rumble.

Aemond felt a complete, absolute triumph. He stood on the edge of the crater, the wind whipping his hair, tears rolling down his cheeks that he didn't even try to wipe away. He had done it. He had personally rewritten a destiny that had seemed inevitable. Laena was no longer a "princess without wings"; she was not "imperfect." Now she was the most powerful woman in the world, the rider of living death.

They made the return journey as equals—two riders, two dragons. However, the Dornish desert decided to remind them that it does not forgive strangers. A sudden sandstorm, like a wall of glowing ochre, rose to the very sky. The wind was so powerful that even Vhagar, with all her mass, struggled to keep course, and Grey Ghost was tossed in the air like a dry leaf. Through the yellow veil of blinding dust, Aemond noticed faint, flickering lights.

It was a small settlement near an oasis, safely hidden in a deep rift between high cliffs that shielded it from the strongest gusts.

They landed nearby, kicking up clouds of sand. Vhagar settled heavily on her belly and spread her leathery wings like a great tent, shielding Grey Ghost from the raging wind. She looked like a great mother protecting a hatchling. Aemond and Laena, heavy with dust and exhausted to their very limits—but with eyes still glowing with celestial power—dismounted and headed toward the lights of the oasis.

“We actually did it,” Laena exhaled, constantly looking back at the silhouettes of Vhagar and Grey Ghost, leaning on Aemond’s arm.

“We are only just beginning,” he replied, watching as the first figures of the local inhabitants came out to meet them.

The settlement where they found refuge from the sandstorm proved to be more than just a temporary camp for nomads; it was a true architectural marvel hidden within deep canyons. This was the stronghold of the Sand Hunters, an ancient, reclusive order whose roots had pierced through these sands long before the blood of the great Nymeria ever reached the shores of Dorne. While Laena, intoxicated by the adrenaline of her flight on Vhagar, breathlessly observed the ornate columns and arches carved directly into the red sandstone, listening to local tales of battles with giants of past eras, Aemond felt a strange, sunless chill creep up the back of his neck.

He turned slowly, his gaze catching a tall figure in the shadow of one of the arches. Among the crowd of tanned, weather-beaten warriors stood a man whose face caused Aemond’s heart to skip a beat. It was an absolute, mirror image of Ser Alaro, his personal protector, who at this very moment was supposed to be thousands of miles away, guarding the chambers in King’s Landing.

The man, named Illir, met Aemond’s gaze with a frigid, almost unnatural calm. There was no surprise in his dark eyes, only a heavy, deliberate knowledge. Seeing the prince’s pupils dilate in recognition, Illir gave a barely perceptible, short, and commanding nod. He understood everything without a word: if this silver-haired youth recognized him, then he was indeed the one about whom the sands had been whispering for many a night in the visions of the Seers.

“Come with me,” Illir said softly. His voice was identical to Alaro’s, but it held the harshness of the Dornish wind.

Without another word, he led Aemond deep into the rock formation, past low dwellings smelling of roasted grain and saffron, toward a massive curtain of heavy hide. Beyond it lay the cave of the elders. The air here was thick, sweet, and pungent with the smoke of rare desert herbs smoldering in bronze bowls. Under a high vault that glittered naturally with flecks of mica, reflecting the starry sky, three elders sat upon low carpets.

Illir stopped and gestured for Aemond to take a seat opposite them. Here, in the heart of the desert, the truth about the true structure of their secret brotherhood was finally revealed to him.

“We are not merely warriors, Prince,” Illir began, sitting beside him. “We are servants of the Sun, guardians of the Sacred, before which even the Valyrians, including you Targaryens, bowed your heads. Our order is divided into three branches that uphold this world.”

He began to explain, and each description sounded like a sacred text: The Gatherers were those with the rare gift of hearing the whispers of the earth. It was they who could find the “Suntears” They might wander the desert for years until they found the most fertile spot where the “Silvery Terrains” grow. From these bushes, the Gatherers, with incredible caution and care, collect every drop of healing resin.

The Seers are the prophets whose eyes look through time. They fall into a deep trance to learn exactly whom the ancient gods and elements deem worthy of possessing the gift of the “Suntears.” Some vials of resin may wait centuries for their owner until the Seers speak their names.

And finally, the Keepers—elite guardians and shadows. Their sole purpose, their reason for being, is to ensure the “Suntears” reach the chosen and are used exactly as prophesied.

Aemond instinctively touched his chest, where he felt the pulsation of his fire beneath his clothes.
“Your brother Alaro…” he began, but Illir cut him off.

“My brother did not swear fealty to your family out of whim or for gold, Dragon Prince,” Illir’s voice echoed hollowly off the cave walls. “He is a Keeper. One of the best. He was assigned to you the very moment the '' Suntears''—which you now possess—chose you as their owner while you were still in your mother’s womb. He is your shadow blade. He studied your habits, your scent, your soul before you ever learned to hold a knife. And he would die a thousand times over before he would allow anyone, be it king or god, to take what is yours or do you harm. He will be at your side until the time comes for you to use the ''Suntears'', after which he will return here to wait for whomever the gods choose as the next worthy possessor of one of our vials.”

The elders nodded in agreement, and one of them handed Aemond a cup of brew that smelled of wormwood.

“Now you are part of the truth we have guarded for centuries,” the elder spoke. “The fact that you tamed Grey Ghost and the presence of Vhagar’s rider—everything has led you here, to this moment, so that you might know. The ''Suntears'' in your hands have begun to glow differently. They have sensed that their time is coming soon.”

Aemond listened, and a wave of desperation rose within him. The pieces of the mosaic of his strange life, the memories of the past, the unexpected appearance of Alaro, his own pyrokinesis, were once again clicking into a new, grand, and yet incomprehensible picture.

The return to Sunspear was like the start of a new war declared against the heavens themselves. When the majestic, almost ethereal shadow of Vhagar appeared over the scorched horizon, she was so vast that for a moment the sun vanished, and the city plunged into a premature twilight. The inhabitants of the Shadow City scattered in a panic, overturning stalls of spices; fishermen on the shore abandoned their nets, leaping into the water.

Chaos erupted on the walls of the citadel.

“Load! Aim for the wing!” shouted a captain of the guard, and the heavy chains of the scorpions began to tighten with a screech. Steel bolts, capable of piercing a ship’s hull, swung toward the approaching monster.

But Prince Kyle Martell, standing on the highest balcony of the Tower of the Sun, raised his hand, stopping the gunners at the last second. His face, usually as still as a mask, twitched. He saw Grey Ghost flying alongside the bronze, patina-covered majesty of Vhagar, like a silvery fish in the wake of a whale. Kyle understood: this was not an attack, it was a demonstration. The balance of power in Westeros, built over decades of diplomatic maneuvering, had just crumbled into fine sand.

The reaction to their sudden disappearance and even more spectacular return was a toxic mix of fury, hidden fear, and awe. When Vhagar landed on the coastal rocks with a deafening roar, kicking up a cloud of sand and salt, the ground shook beneath the feet of those meeting them. Laena dismounted from the dragon's back with such natural grace and icy dignity that it seemed she had grown taller in those few days, her shoulders squared under the weight of her new power.

Kyle Martell approached them, his cloak dragging through the sand. He breathed heavily, trying to contain his rage.

“You have violated the laws of hospitality, Princess,” he hissed, though his gaze involuntarily returned to Vhagar, who was lazily sniffing one of the castle towers. “You slipped away like thieves in the night and returned with... this. You have brought the living doom of my people to our doorstep.”

“I have violated no laws, Prince Kyle,” Laena replied calmly, removing her flight gloves. “I have only reclaimed what belonged to my family by right of blood but was lost to time. Now that we are no longer a ghost and a woman dreaming of the sky, we may continue our negotiations. But now—as equals.”

Aemond, standing slightly behind, saw Martell’s jaw tighten. The Prince of Dorne took the hint: with Vhagar at their back, Targaryen “diplomacy” carried an entirely different weight.

The Omegas remained in Sunspear for a few more weeks. It was a time of tense, almost ringing silence. Aemond spent hours watching Laena from the terrace. She practically lived in the sky, honing her bond with the dragon daily. Vhagar, who had been alone for decades, seemed to have regained a taste for life. Laena was no longer that sad, broken woman who felt “imperfect” beside Rhaenyra or Rhaenys. Now she was the rider of the oldest and most fearsome dragon in the world. This fact forced even the boldest Dornish lords to bow their heads extremely low and be pointedly polite.

Finally, the time came to depart for the north. The path to King’s Landing lay through Storm’s End. Aemond understood that this was a harsh political necessity. His betrothal to Cassandra Baratheon was a cornerstone of Rhaenyra’s plan to strengthen the Iron Throne. Visiting Lord Borros and his fiancée after such a grand triumph was not mere courtesy; it was an act of dominance.

Preparations for departure took place under the relentless, triumphant roar of Vhagar, which echoed off the walls of Sunspear. As the sails of the Velaryon ships began to rise, Aemond and Laena prepared for their own journey.

“Ready to show the Stormlands what a real storm looks like when it comes not from the sea, but from the sky?” Aemond asked, tightening the saddle straps on Grey Ghost. He looked at Laena, whose face now radiated a dangerous confidence.

Laena, already settled between the massive spikes on Vhagar’s back, adjusted her saddle straps and smiled hungrily. Not a trace of her former depression remained in her gaze.

“The Baratheons think they know what thunder is because they live in storms,” she said, her voice rising above the sound of the surf. “It is time to disappoint them and show them the thunder of dragon wings.”

With a joint roar, the two dragons pushed off the rocks, kicking up so much sand that Sunspear vanished into a golden haze for several minutes.

The journey from the sweltering shores of Dorne to the rugged cliffs of the Stormlands felt like a flight through the elements themselves, where every beat of a wing blurred the boundaries between the seasons. Beneath the dragons' wings, the landscape shifted relentlessly: reddish sands and sun-scorched canyons gave way to foothills, and eventually, to a thick, dark-green blanket of forests that looked like soft moss from above. Finally, the somber, age-worn towers of Storm’s End rose on the horizon, biting into the sky above the Shipbreaker Bay like the fangs of an ancient beast. The air here was entirely different, heavy, saturated with salt, moisture, and that particular scent of ozone that always accompanied the approach of a storm, the inseparable companion of House Baratheon.

When Vhagar’s shadow, vast and inevitable, draped over the castle’s inner courtyard, the bells of Storm’s End rang out in alarm, sending flocks of terrified ravens into the sky. But this frantic sound was instantly drowned out by the triumphant roar of the old she-dragon, a sound that made the stained glass in the Great Hall vibrate. Grey Ghost landed beside her with feline grace, appearing like a slender silver dagger next to a massive bronze shield. Aemond felt the cold air of the Stormlands burn his lungs after the Dornish heat.

Lord Borros Barateon awaited them by the main gate, legs braced wide and heavy hands resting on his belt. He was surrounded by the "four storms", his daughters, whose garments fluttered in the wind like battle banners. The lord's face was a true mask of astonishment mixed with a shadow of primal dread. He had been prepared to see a prince on a dragon, but the arrival of Laena Velaryon on the back of the legendary Vhagar, thought lost to the realm, was a political earthquake.

“Seven hells, Prince Aemond!” Borros thundered, taking a step forward as Aemond vaulted to the ground. The lord's voice rose above the crash of the surf. “We heard rumors you’d gone to Dorne seeking adventure, but no one said you’d return leading a living mountain! Is this the new fashion in the capital—taming legends before breakfast?”

Aemond only offered a faint smile as he adjusted his gloves.

“Legends were always nearby, Lord Borros. One only needs the courage to look them in the eye.”

Cassandra stood slightly apart from her sisters. Her hair, black as a raven's wing, whipped in the gale, and in her eyes the color of a stormy sky shone not only awe for the dragons but a spark of sharp, almost predatory pride. Since their first meeting in King’s Landing, when Aemond had struck her with his unchildlike discernment, she had visited the capital several times. Officially, it was for court gossip, but in truth, it was to understand the omega who shattered all her preconceptions of weakness. Their correspondence over the last year had been a cautious dance on a razor’s edge, filled with intellectual duels. Now, looking at him, she saw that the journey had changed him. A steely confidence had settled into Aemond’s movements, and his gaze held a power that far exceeded his young age.

“Welcome home, my prince,” Cassandra said quietly but clearly as Aemond approached. She performed a deep, perfect curtsy, but when she rose, her gaze remained direct. “You promised in your letters that your journey would be educational, but you failed to mention it would shift the balance of power in all of Westeros. Was that modesty on your part... or cunning?”

“Some things are better seen with one's own eyes than described on parchment, Lady Cassandra. Words often cheapen majesty,” Aemond replied, taking her hand to kiss it with a light, almost weightless gesture. “Allow me to present Princess Laena, rider of Vhagar and the true queen of these skies.”

The stay at Storm’s End was filled with somber grandeur. While Borros, intoxicated by the prospect of such a mighty alliance, tried to pry details of the dragon’s taming from Laena, Aemond and Cassandra spent long hours on the castle’s high curtain walls. They walked along the ramparts towering over the abyss, where the waves of the Shipbreaker Bay smashed against the stones with a roar.

“My father already sees dragons in his ports,” Cassandra remarked one evening as heavy clouds pulled across the sky. “He thinks our marriage is simply additional swords and wings for his ambitions.”

“And what do you see?” Aemond asked, stopping to look at her.

“I see an omega who needs no protection,” she stepped closer, so that her scent mingled with the aroma of the rain. “It frightens me... and fascinates me at once. You are not just a prince, Aemond. You are a gift from the gods.”

The time at Storm’s End drew to a close. The bond between them had strengthened: from dry diplomacy, they had moved to the silent understanding of two predators who recognize each other's strength. Just before his departure, Cassandra personally draped a heavy cloak of navy-blue wool, lined with thick black bear fur, over Aemond’s shoulders.

“So you do not forget that in the Stormlands, a warm welcome always awaits you... or cold steel, should you betray us,” she whispered, tightening the silver clasp shaped like a stag’s antler. It was a symbol: House Baratheon now officially stood behind him.

As the dragons took flight, kicking up whorls of dust in the courtyard, Cassandra stood on the tower for a long time, ignoring the rain that began to wash over her face. She clenched her fists tight, watching the silver and bronze specks vanish into the clouds. She knew: this omega would soon return to her, and when that happened, Westeros would tremble at their union.

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.

Chapter Text

The darkness receded reluctantly, like thick, viscous tar wrapping around his consciousness. Aemond felt the fire in his veins finally settle, turning from a devastating blaze into a faint, familiar warmth. When he was at last able to open his eyes, the world around him was no longer a golden haze. He lay in his chambers, swathed in clean sheets that smelled of freshness and thyme. The air in the room was cool, and the heavy bolt on the door was drawn.

Beside the bed, in a heavy chair with obsidian armrests, sat Rhaenys. She looked tired, yet her posture remained flawless. A book lay on her lap, which she was not reading, staring instead through the window at the churning sea. She was a beta whose presence always had a calming effect on omegas—there was no aggression of alphas or anxiety of omegas in her scent, only stability and confidence.

“You have finally returned to us,” Rhaenys said softly, noticing the flutter of his eyelids. She set the book aside and slid closer, offering him a goblet of water. “Drink slowly. Your body has spent too much strength.”

Aemond propped himself up on his elbows, feeling weakness in every muscle. The water tasted like the sweetest nectar in the world. Once his thirst was quenched, he asked hoarsely:

"How… How long was I unconscious? And why are you here, velma?"

Rhaenys sighed, brushing a strand of silver-grey hair from her face.

“You were in a delirium for three days. I arrived at Dragonstone unexpectedly; I wanted to visit little Baela and Rhaena. But as soon as Meleys touched the cliffs, Daemon met me.”

She paused, and something strange flickered in her gaze.

“He looked... wild. His eyes were burning; he could barely hold himself together. He spoke only a few words to me and literally locked me in here with you, while he went to the caves, to Caraxes.”

Aemond looked away. The thought of Daemon seeing him in such a state brought a mixture of shame and an inexplicable tremor.

“Thank you for helping me,” he whispered. “I was always told that the first heat is difficult, but this…”

“Aemond, look at me,” Rhaenys's voice grew serious. She leaned forward, her eyes searching his face. “I have lived through many things in this life. I have seen dragons born and dragons die. But what I saw here in this room, when your fever reached its peak... that was not just a heat.”

Aemond tensed.

“What do you mean?”

“Your skin…” Rhaenys hesitated for a moment, as if she herself did not believe her own words. “It glowed from within. Not just heat, but a real light, as if you had swallowed a star. And when I tried to wipe your brow with a damp cloth, the water evaporated instantly, and I saw fire. A pale-gold flame that did not burn the cloth or your skin, but seemed to wash over it. It flowed down your arms like water.”

A heavy silence fell over the room. Only the waves crashing against the rocks beneath the tower windows could be heard. Aemond looked at his hands; they looked ordinary, pale fingers, thin skin. But he knew Rhaenys was not delirious. His inner flame in his chest gave off a quiet warmth. He realized that hiding everything would be impossible, Rhaenys was too wise and had seen too much.

“I can control it,” he finally uttered, his voice a barely audible whisper.

Rhaenys did not flinch, only gripped the armrests of her chair tighter.

“Control fire? Do you mean dragon fire?”

“Any fire,” Aemond raised his hand and focused. A moment later, a tiny golden spark danced on the tip of his index finger, growing into a perfectly steady, calm flame. It neither smoked nor smelled. “It started recently. I feel it as a part of myself. It does not hurt me. It... protects me.”

Rhaenys reached out her hand but stopped a few inches away from the fire.

“This is the magic of Old Valyria,” she whispered with reverence. “They say the first Targaryens did not just ride dragons; they were their embodiment. But this knowledge was considered lost. Why did you keep silent? Your father, the King... he would…”

“Father would be frightened,” Aemond interrupted her, extinguishing the flame. His gaze turned cold and mature. “And Alicent would call it witchcraft. There are too many eyes in King’s Landing. I told you because you saw what no one else did. My body reacts to the heat differently because the fire inside me awakens alongside my nature.”

He kept silent about everything else. He did not tell her about the fall into the hearth that had left no mark on him. He did not tell her about the memories that came from past, unlived lives where he was Vhagar's rider and where the world drowned in blood. He did not mention that Daemon, too, carried the burden of remembering another life. These secrets were too heavy even for a woman like Rhaenys.

“You are a wonder, Aemond,” Rhaenys said after a long pause. “But you are also the greatest threat to those who wish to see omegas only as tools for arranging marriages. Daemon... does he know?”

“He has seen enough to understand I am no ordinary child,” Aemond replied evasively. “But now I ask you for one thing: let this fire remain between us. The world is not yet ready for a dragon to awaken in human form.”

Rhaenys stood up and placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Your secret is safe with me, boy. But remember: a fire that cannot be quenched will sooner or later burn everything around it. Learn not just to control it, but to live with it so as not to turn Westeros to ash.”

She left, leaving him alone with the silence of Dragonstone. Aemond leaned back against the pillows, feeling his fire pulsing beneath his skin. The first heat had passed, but it had changed everything.

Over the next few days, while Aemond's body fully recovered from the exhausting fever, Rhaenys became his constant shadow. She did not just tend to him; she watched him with the sharp eye of a seasoned strategist who had suddenly found a piece on the chessboard not described in any manual. They often sat on the terrace overlooking the endless blue, where the salty spray reached even the high balustrades.

“You hold your back too straight for someone who almost burned alive,” Rhaenys remarked, turning a page of an old Valyrian manuscript. Her hair was tightly braided, and her gaze was steadfast.

“My back is all that keeps me together,” Aemond replied, without taking his eyes off the horizon where Meleys and Grey Ghost circled in the sky. “If I allow myself to relax even for a moment, the fire inside will decide it is in charge.”

Rhaenys set the book aside and looked at him intently.

“Do you fear it? Your gift?”

“I respect it,” Aemond turned his head toward her. “As one respects a storm or an enraged dragon. It is not a gift in the usual sense. It is a tool. And I must ensure that the hilt of this sword does not burn my hand before I strike.”

Rhaenys smiled faintly.

“Your father wishes to see in you only his perfect son of Aemma. But you... you are a storm gathering over King's Landing. Be careful, Aemond. The capital does not love those who are brighter than the Iron Throne.”

Upon learning of his gift, Rhaenys began to teach him the subtleties of self-control, recounting old legends of the "blood of the dragon" that the maesters had long considered mere metaphors. For Aemond, these conversations were a breath of fresh air amidst suffocating intrigues.

His encounters with Daemon were entirely different. His uncle avoided speaking with him, yet the alpha's presence was felt everywhere. When Aemond stepped onto the training yard for the first time after his heat, Daemon was already waiting for him, a training sword in hand. His face was inscrutable, but a dangerous glint smoldered in his eyes.

“Thought you'd be pampering yourself in silks for another week,” Daemon tossed out, making a lunge.

Aemond barely managed to parry the blow, feeling the weakness in his legs still making itself known.

“Silks are not the best choice for a battlefield, uncle,” he snapped.

Daemon stopped, lowering his sword. He stepped closer, breaching the boundaries of propriety, and peered into his nephew's face.

“You have changed,” he said quietly. “The heat awakened something in you that usually sleeps in your kind. You no longer smell like a newly weaned calf. You smell like ash after a great fire.”

“Perhaps that is because I have seen fire closer than you,” Aemond countered, holding his gaze. He wanted to remind his uncle exactly which of them had walked out of the fire unscathed.

Daemon suddenly let out a short laugh, a sound sharp and dry, like the crackle of firewood.

“Westeros is not ready for you, nephew. They expect an omega prince who can be profitably married off, but they will get…”, he paused, and for a moment it seemed to Aemond that a reflection of the very knowledge they both hid flashed in Daemon’s eyes. “They will get dragon in human form.”

Preparations for the return to King's Landing began abruptly, by order of Viserys, who demanded the presence of the entire family in the capital. Dragonstone filled with bustle. Servants packed chests; guards checked equipment. Aemond personally oversaw the preparation of the cradles for Baela and Rhaena for the journey on ships guarded by dragons.

Rhaenys decided to accompany them on Meleys, which added considerable weight to the escort. Daemon was gloomy, irritated by the necessity of returning to the "snake's nest," but he understood, now that Aegon had claimed Sunfyre and Aemond had released his true nature, the balance of power had shifted slightly.

As the sun began to rise, three shadows—Caraxes, Meleys, and Grey Ghost—soared into the sky, escorting the royal fleet. Aemond stood on the deck of the flagship watching Dragonstone disappear into the morning mist.

The capital greeted them with a suffocating haze and the stench of scorched stone, which even the sea breeze could not dispel. From afar, King's Landing looked like a golden trap spread out across the hills, and the Red Keep like a crown dug into the flesh of the earth. As the shadows of their dragons blanketed the city, thousands of smallfolk poured into the streets, craning their necks. But a different atmosphere reigned at the pier, cold, calculated, filled with the rustle of the septons' silks.

Aemond stepped onto the wooden planks of the dock immediately after the guards secured the gangway. He felt the watchful gaze of Rhaenys, who was dismounting from Meleys, a silent reminder of their shared secret. His skin beneath the high collar of his doublet still retained that strange sensitivity, and the clothes themselves felt heavier than usual.

Rhaenyra and Laena were already waiting for them. They stood out among the courtiers like two exotic birds among grey sparrows. Rhaenyra took a step forward, her eyes instantly finding Aemond. She did not wait for him to bow but came close, placing her hands on his shoulders.

“You have grown softer, valonqar,” she said quietly, examining his face with almost maternal care. “But your gaze... it has become sharper than Daemon's. What did that island do to you?”

“The island merely reminded me of who I am, sister,” Aemond replied, allowing himself a barely perceptible half-smile. “The salt and smoke did me good.”

Laena, holding little Jacaerys by the hand, approached next. She looked grander than ever; Vhagar's presence in her life seemed to have given her wings. She embraced Aemond, and he caught from her that same dragon scent he recognized unmistakably.

“Daemon... is he holding up?” she whispered in his ear.

“He has grown quieter, Laena. And still waters, as they say, run deepest,” he replied, pulling away.

Little Jacaerys, who was already standing firmly on his feet, tugged at the edge of Aemond's cloak. The boy looked at him with that childish innocence that did not yet know the taste of betrayal. Aemond dropped to one knee, bringing himself down to the toddler's eye level.

“You fly?” Jace asked seriously, pointing a small finger to the sky where Grey Ghost was making a final circle before landing.

“I flew, Jace. Would you like your uncle to take you on dragonback, hm?” Aemond reached out and lightly touched his nephew's cheek.

At the moment of contact, a spark seen only by him jumped between his fingers and the child's skin. Jace was not frightened; on the contrary, he laughed, feeling a warm tickle. Rhaenyra, watching them, noticed nothing but her brother's unusually tender gesture.

“You will become a great rider,” Aemond said, looking into the boy's dark eyes. “But remember: it is not the dragon that makes you a king, but what you are capable of holding in your hands when the fire burns out.”

“You are too serious for his age, Aemond,” Laena laughed, lifting her son into her arms. “Let him be a child at least until he gets his own saddle.”

The conversation was interrupted by the appearance of Alicent. The Queen approached with her retinue, her face a frozen mask, her fingers nervously working the beads at her neck. She brushed past Rhaenyra with only a cold nod and rushed toward Aegon, who had just stepped off the gangway looking tired and bewildered by so much attention.

Aemond stood up, adjusting his gloves. He could see Rhaenys watching the scene from afar. She was the only one who knew that beneath this ceremonial meeting lay something far more powerful than family squabbles.

The evening at the Red Keep promised to be long. The feast in honor of the princes' return and Rhaenys's arrival was gathering all the lords of the Small Council. Passing through the courtyard, Aemond stopped near a large fire brazier standing at the entrance to Maegor's Holdfast. For a moment, he held his hand over the flame, which began to bend toward him.

“Prince Aemond?” called out one of the guards.

Aemond snapped his hand back, and the flame instantly returned to its normal state.

“Just checking if you are keeping good watch over the light in this house,” he tossed coldly and walked on, feeling the fire from the brazier pulsing behind his back.

He knew the next few hours would be an ordeal. He would have to play the role of the humble omega prince, while inside him seethed a power capable of turning this castle into a molten puddle of stone.

The corridors of the castle met him with the familiar, suffocating silence that always preceded a storm. After the free, salty wind of Dragonstone, the walls of the capital seemed too narrow to Aemond, and the faces of the courtiers, false masks.

His first stop was in the solar, where Helaena sat by the window, her thin fingers sorting through a collection of rare beetles. Seeing her brother, she did not rush to throw her arms around his neck as an ordinary child would. She only raised her misty eyes and smiled faintly.

“The threads have turned to gold,” she whispered as he dropped to one knee beside her. “You smell of a sun that has fallen into the sea.”

“I brought you something, sister,” he handed her a small box of obsidian, inside of which lay a rare stone from the shores of the island, shimmering with a dark green.

Little Gaemon, playing on the rug nearby, immediately crawled over to his older brother, grabbing the edge of his embroidered doublet. Aemond scooped the boy up into his arms, and he squealed with joy, clutching at the silver hair.

With Aegon, things became different. His brother had changed after flying Sunfyre, but upon returning to King's Landing, he became quieter again, especially in the presence of his mother. Aemond found him in the training yard, lazily striking a dummy.

“Mother has already prepared a list of your duties,” Aegon threw out without turning. “You're a grown-up now, lekia. They already have invitations ready for the alphas who will take you.”

Aemond stepped closer, and such a coldness radiated from him that Aegon involuntarily stopped.

“They may use all the ink and paper they like, but I am still a prince, and the only one who has the final word on the matter of my marriage is our father, the King.” Aemond stepped closer to the young alpha and placed a warm hand on his shoulder. “No one will take me away from my family, Aegon; it will simply expand.”

Aegon snorted, but a look of relief flashed in his eyes. He saw that Aemond held no fear, or hid it very well. The alpha wished he could be just as fearless as the omega.

A special place in Aemond's heart, alongside his brothers and sisters, was held by little Baela and Rhaena. Daemon rarely let anyone near them except Aemond. When the omega entered their nursery, he saw in these tiny creatures a continuation of both Valaena and Daemon. Baela was already trying to wriggle out of the nurses' arms, displaying a true dragon temper, while Rhaena quietly observed the world.

Yet the political gears turned relentlessly. The fact that Aemond had crossed the threshold of adulthood meant only one thing—a wedding. Viserys, undoubtedly under Alicent's influence, decided not to wait and arranged his marriage to Cassandra. Preparations for the celebration began on a scale bordering on madness. Seamstresses worked around the clock on garments of heavy brocade the color of sea foam and gold, and cooks devised a menu fit for the gods.

Viserys called Aemond to his solar a few days before the ceremony. The King looked very ill, his hand was bandaged, and his breathing was heavy.

“You and your sister are my most precious treasure, Aemond,” Viserys wheezed, looking at the model of Valyria. “Rhaenyra is resolute and confident in her strength. You are calm, wise... Your mother would be proud of you. My dear Aemma followed the call of her heart, but always understood her duty. A marriage with the Baratheons can bring us stability.”

“I understand my responsibility to the crown and our house, father,” Aemond replied calmly, though inside him, the fire protested against this yoke.

“Cassandra is a fine girl. She will make you a good match. I want to see your children, Aemond. I want to see our line grow…”

Aemond looked at his father and felt only a bitter pity. Viserys saw in him only an omega, a copy of his late wife, whom he had driven to the funeral pyre with his dreams of an heir.

“I will do what I must do,” Aemond said. He could barely contain himself, but the air around them was warmer than usual.

The morning of the wedding dawned remarkably clear, though the wind from Blackwater Bay still carried the scent of rain and salt. The Red Keep buzzed like a disturbed hive: servants darted down corridors with armfuls of flowers, lords in the sunny galleries measured the opulence of their doublets, and the kitchens prepared feasts meant to impress the stern Baratheons. Yet in Aemond's chambers, silence reigned, broken only by the rustle of heavy brocade and quiet laughter.

The omega stood in the middle of the room in nothing but thin silk trousers while Laena and Rhaenys worked their magic over his attire. It was a tradition—only family members could touch an omega before marriage. Little Jacaerys, who refused to leave his mother's side for a single step, tried to help with a solemn expression, handing over silver-headed pins, though more often than not he simply scattered them across the rug.

“Jace, sweetheart, don't pick those up, you'll prick yourself,” Laena noted gently, draping a ribbon of white gold over Aemond's shoulder.

At that exact moment, the door swung open, and Rhaenyra walked in with a confident stride. She was already fully dressed in her official colors, and her alpha aura, strong and commanding, instantly filled the space.

“I brought the family necklace with dragonglass,” she began, beaming a smile. “Aemond, you look absolutely…”

“Out!” Rhaenys turned sharply, holding a hairbrush like a dagger. “Rhaenyra, you know the rules. Only omegas and betas here. Your presence will only fluster his scent before the ceremony.”

“But I am his sister!” Rhaenyra exclaimed indignantly, though playful sparks danced in her eyes. “I have a right to watch my younger brother be prepared for his wedding!”

“Get out, mandia,” Aemond laughed, looking over his shoulder. “You're disrupting Jace's focus on his vital task.”

Jacaerys, hearing his name, puffed out his chest and nodded seriously, pushing Rhaenyra toward the exit with his tiny hands.

“Go, Mama!” he commanded. “Only us!”

“Oh, so that's how it is?” Rhaenyra sighed with mock offense, raising her hands. “My own child and my own brother turning me out the door. Fine, fine, I shall go to father, but know this, I still saw that you are the most beautiful omega in this castle. Of course after you, my love.”

The alpha winked at her omega, and once the door closed behind her, a light chatter lingered in the room for a while longer. Soon Laena, scooping up a sleepy Jace, prepared to leave as well.

“I'd better go calm my alpha before she tears down half the castle over the 'injustice',” she winked at Aemond. “See you at the sept.”

The room plunged into silence. Rhaenys walked slowly over to Aemond, helping him don his outer doublet of heavy dark-red brocade, embroidered with golden threads. Aemond looked at his reflection, watching every movement of the beta carefully through the mirror. She fastened his cuffs with such care, as if he were made of the finest crystal.

“Usually, it should be the closest family member, a mother or a sister, helping me on a day like this,” Aemond said quietly.

For a moment, Rhaenys's hands froze. The air in the room grew thick, filled with memories of the woman whose laughter once filled Dragonstone.

“No one will replace my mother... neither you nor Alicent,” Aemond continued, and his voice, usually cold, now sounded with a childlike vulnerability. “She is the one who should be standing here with me now.”

Rhaenys remained silent. She knew this pain, the pain of a loss that years do not heal. She merely placed a hand on his shoulder, a gesture louder than any words.

“She is not here,” Aemond said, his back still turned to Rhaenys, looking her straight in the eyes through the mirror. “But I am glad that it is you doing what she ought to have done. When she passed, you were that pillar for Nyra and me that father could never be.”

He turned slowly to face her, and his gaze no longer held that predatory glint, only sincerity.

“Thank you for being there, Rhaenys.”

Aemond walked over to his table, where a small box lay among perfume vials and combs. He opened it and drew out an exquisite golden fibula in the shape of a dragon coiled in a ring.

“And thank you for being with me on such an important day,” he said, proistering the jewelry.

Rhaenys took the fibula with trembling fingers. Her eyes widened in surprise. It was not just a dragon—in every scale, in the curve of the wings, and even in the tiny ruby eyes, she recognized her Meleys. It was her Red Queen in miniature, crafted with incredible skill.

“Aemond…” she whispered, her voice faltering.

“I wanted you to know today: your loyalty and your warmth are valued above any gold,” he replied. “Today, you represent my family. My true family.”

Rhaenys, the woman who had stood firm in the face of her father's death, her mother's death, and the king's injustice, suddenly felt tears welling in her eyes. She pressed the fibula to her chest and then, unable to hold back, embraced Aemond. In this embrace, there was no magic or politics, only the bond of two lonely souls who had found sanctuary in each other.

“I will be with you, child,” she said, pulling back and wiping her eyes. The beta carefully pinned the fibula to Aemond's garments, patting the head of the metal dragon. “And may the gods have mercy on Cassandra Baratheon, for she has no idea what a fiery dragon she is trying to take as her omega.”

Aemond smiled, his smile this time sharp as a blade. Now he was ready. He stepped out of his chambers, and each of his steps echoed down the corridors of the Red Keep, marking the beginning of a new era.

The Grand Sept was flooded with the light of thousands of candles, their scent, a mixture of expensive wax and frankincense, cloying the senses. Aemond walked toward the altar under the gaze of hundreds of eyes, each of his steps ringing with the metallic chime of spurs. He wore a cloak of heavy velvet, which Rhaenys had personally secured with that very fibula. Cassandra Baratheon awaited him, looking like the embodiment of the storm itself: tall, statuesque, with a mane of hair dark as pitch and eyes in which flashed the pride of Storm's End.

They had known each other for years. Cassandra was no stranger to him; she was someone with whom he had shared childhood secrets during her visits to the capital, someone who understood the weight of duty no less than he did. When their hands joined beneath the traditional ribbon, Aemond felt not cold calculation, but a warm, familiar handshake.

“You look as though you're about to burn this sept down, not get married,” she whispered barely audibly as the High Septon began his monotonous prayer.

“I'm just trying not to step on your train, Cass,” he replied just as softly, the corners of his lips twitching into a half-smile.

The celebratory feast in the throne room was a whirlpool of sounds and flavors. Wine flowed like water; the lords of the Stormlands competed in the loudness of their toasts with the knights of the Reach. Daemon sat apart, spinning a goblet in his hands, his gaze, sharp and unreadable, never leaving Aemond for a moment. Alicent stayed close to the guests from Oldtown, keeping her children at arm's length. Rhaenyra and Laena laughed, tossing little Jace, who was trying to filch a candied plum from the King's table. Viserys looked happy, though his face was pale as linen.

When the time came to escort the newlyweds to the bedchamber, the castle erupted with traditional shouts. However, Aemond checked any attempts at crude jests or the bedding ceremony with a single cold look. He escorted Cassandra to their chambers personally, and the Hightower and Baratheon guards closed the heavy oak doors, leaving the world outside.

Silence reigned in the room, broken only by the crackle of logs in the hearth. Cassandra helped Aemond remove his heavy crown-piece. Her hands were remarkably steady.

“I know this isn't what you expected,” she said, unlacing the ties of his doublet. “Such a swift marriage almost immediately after a first heat is not what the minstrel songs are about.”

Aemond turned to her, his face serious.

“I am not just an omega, Cass. I am a Targaryen. And I know the real you. I do not need a knight out of fairy tales; I need an ally who will not flinch if the sky turns black.”

Their night was not filled with passionate madness; it was a gentle, almost sacred exploration of one another. Aemond felt the fire inside him purr like a contented beast. He shared his warmth, his magic, and Cassandra accepted it with an open heart, unafraid of that strange golden glow that occasionally seeped through his skin. In those hours, they became something more than just husband and wife; they became one before the eyes of the gods.

The next morning, the castle continued its bustle. Preparations for the departure to Storm's End were in full swing. Huge chests of dowry, gifts from the King, and Aemond's personal belongings were loaded onto wagons. Aegon came into his room while Aemond was checking the final arrangements for the journey.

“So, you're leaving us,” Aegon looked unusually somber. “Who will knock some sense into me now?”

“You have Sunfyre,” Aemond placed a hand on his shoulder. “And you have Helaena. And Gaemon. You are their older brother; do not forget that.”

Rhaenys watched the departure from a high tower. Shimmering on her chest was the golden Meleys, Aemond's gift. As the Baratheon and Targaryen caravan moved through the Lion's Gate, Aemond looked back at the Red Keep one last time. He was riding to Storm's End not as a hostage to a marriage, but as the master of his own fate, ready to turn the nest of storms into his new home.

Storm's End welcomed Aemond with the roar of the surf and the perpetual whisper of salt on his lips. This fortress, built by Durran Godsgrief in defiance of the gods, was the complete opposite of the refined, scheming Red Keep. Here, everything was massive, raw, and real. The massive stone walls, covered in moss, seemed to absorb every storm, only growing stronger, and Aemond liked it. He liked the way the wind swept the remnants of the capital's suffocating air from his mind.

The first month of life with the Baratheons passed in a strange, almost cozy rhythm. Lord Borros proved to be loud and short-tempered, but his home possessed a straightforwardness that Aemond had sorely missed. Cassandra became not just a wife to him, but a true guide in this harsh land. She taught him to read the shades of the clouds that foretold a great gale and showed him secret passages in the walls where the wind did not howl quite so loudly in one's ears. They often spent evenings by the hearth in her chambers, talking about the future, and Cassandra noticed with surprise that beside Aemond, she was never cold, a steady, almost palpable warmth always emanated from him, regardless of the temperature in the hall.

Aemond was gradually settling into the role of the future consort of Storm's End. He studied tax reports, trained with the garrison, and even began to win the respect of the local lords with his cold but fair disposition. He kept his fire under lock and key, allowing it only occasionally to warm his fingers during long night vigils over maps.

Yet one morning, the peace of the fortress was shattered.

It began with the alarmed cry of the watchmen on the walls, and a moment later, the space was filled with a sound that could not be mistaken for anything else—a piercing, metallic roar that made even the ancient stones of Storm's End shudder. Aemond, who was having breakfast with family in the solar, rose instantly.

“Caraxes,” he whispered, feeling Cassandra and the rest of the Baratheons rise behind him.

When they ran out into the courtyard, a massive red shadow was already blotting out the sun. The Blood Wyrm landed on the narrow courtyard before the main gates with such fury that dust rose in a cloud. But what Aemond saw when the dust settled made his heart clench with anxiety.

Daemon dragged himself out of the saddle, barely staying on his feet. The Rogue Prince, always flawless in his dangerous majesty, now looked like a man who had walked through hell. His silver hair was tangled, his eyes bloodshot from sleeplessness, and the deep bags beneath them spoke of weeks of exhaustion.

But the most astonishing thing was what he held in his arms. Wrapped tightly against Daemon's chest were two bundles—Baela and Rhaena. The girls were screaming so loudly that their voices drowned out even the noise of the wind. It was not just the crying of infants; it was a shriek of despair that made the blood run cold in one's veins.

“Daemon!” Aemond rushed forward, ignoring the warning gestures of Borros's guards. “What happened? Why are you here?”

Alpha raised his eyes to him, containing none of his usual arrogance, only helpless fury and fatigue.

“They won't stop, Aemond,” Daemon's voice was hoarse, as if he had swallowed glass. “We've tried everything: the best wet nurses, milk, Valyrian lullabies... Rhaenys spent the nights with them, but the moment she leaves, it starts anew. They only sleep from pure exhaustion and wake up screaming.”

Baela thrashed harder in his arms, her tiny face turning purple. Daemon looked as if he were ready to collapse and scream himself.

“Give them to me,” Aemond commanded, stepping close.

“They will strike you; they are frantic…” Daemon began, but Aemond had already extended his arms.

The moment he carefully took hold of Baela, and Cassandra, stepping up beside him, helped take Rhaena, a miracle occurred. Aemond pressed the older girl to his chest, right against the spot where his inner fire burned beneath the fabric. He did not restrain it; he allowed his warmth to spread across his skin, enveloping the child in an invisible, soothing cocoon.

Baela's crying cut off instantly, as if someone had snipped a thread. She took one deep, trembling breath, catching the familiar scent and that same golden warmth she had known on Dragonstone. Her tiny fists unfurled, and she nuzzled her nose into the crook of his neck. Rhaena, in Cassandra's arms, sensing the proximity of the omega and her sister's calm, quieted down as well, blowing bubbles.

Such a silence fell over the yard that only the heavy breathing of Caraxes and the crash of the waves beyond the walls could be heard.

Daemon staggered. His arms, which had just been holding the children, now hung loosely at his sides. He looked at Aemond with a mixture of shock and an unbearable relief.

“They... they are silent,” the prince whispered, running a hand over his face.

Cassandra exchanged a look with Aemond, understanding in her eyes. She stepped up to Daemon and touched his elbow.

“My Prince, you are barely standing on your feet. Go inside the castle. The servants will prepare a bath and a bed for you.”

Daemon wanted to object, his pride still trying to resist, but he looked at Aemond, who stood in the middle of the yard like a young deity, soothing the little dragons, and merely gave a heavy nod.

“I didn't know where else to go,” Daemon confessed, and there was so much vulnerability in this admission that for a moment Aemond saw in him not a great warrior, but a father who had nearly lost his mind from grief and helplessness. “I just couldn't bear to hear them suffer any longer.”

“You did the right thing,” Aemond replied. “Storm's End is vast. There is enough room here for you and the girls.”

That evening, for the first time in a long while, the fortress was quiet. Baela and Rhaena slept in a cradle in Aemond's room, while he sat nearby, watching a real storm gather outside the window. He knew that Daemon's arrival brought changes; now Storm's End had become not just his new home, but a place where dragons gathered. And Daemon, for the first time in many weeks, slept without dreams, knowing his children were under the most secure protection in all of Westeros.