"There is no love without sin, love is best measured in what we forgive."

142 AC

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Jaehaera Targaryen sat still as a statue at her vanity, the faint clinking of pins and combs filling the quiet chamber as her maid worked diligently on her hair. The girl's fingers, however, betrayed her, fidgeting incessantly with the seven-pointed star that hung delicately from her neck; a last relic of her grandmother's, a parting gift from a time that felt like a fading dream. In the mirror, she watched the gleam of it against her pale skin, but she was drawn to the figure behind her—a spectral presence seated on the edge of the bed draped in sorrow as usual, her eyes distant, as if she were staring through some invisible veil into the past.

Her gaze lingered on her mother's reflection for a moment longer before shifting to her own face in the glass. The same silver-gold hair, the round features, though softened by youth. She closed one eye, her heart stuttering as she tried to summon her brother's face into her memory once more. He had been so small, so fragile in her recollection, but time had not been kind, and the edges of her memories had blurred, his characteristics dissolving completely. She tried to remember the sound of his voice, but all that came was the murmur of the wind through the Red Keep's halls, and it left a crater behind, this forgetting—this inability to hold onto him.

Sometimes she dreamt of that night, and though most of the events remained obscured in shadows, she remembered the screaming—the screaming and the overwhelming stench of blood. Her mothers? Her brother's? Her own? She could never be certain, and she did not wish to remember. It was easier to forget, and it was also not.

The only evidence that Jaehaerys had even existed was in the ever-present grief of their mother. It had a shape, a texture—something tangible, and Jaehaera could feel it in the air, thick and suffocating, like mist that never burned away with the dawn.

Behind her, Helaena stirred ever so slightly, her fingers tightening on the fabric of her gown. She did not weep, not outwardly, but the young princess had learned long ago that her mother's desolation ran deep, far too deep for tears. It twisted in the corners of her mouth, haunted her eyes, and darkened the lines of her face. From her perch, Helaena watched her daughter, her heart heavy with the knowledge that this day, this marriage, would change everything. She should be relieved—relieved that Jaehaera was not being sent away to some cold, distant castle to be a stranger's wife, to endure his cruelties and bear his children until she was spent.

But the thought of her only daughter—her bright, precious child—marrying the son of the man who had murdered her boy twisted Helaena's insides until she felt ill. She had spent so many nights lying awake, waiting for the day the queen would finally succumb to the demands of her council, trading her children for alliances. But this... this had been a different kind of cruelty. An unexpected one, for her daughter had chosen this herself.

She did not notice when the maids finished their tasks and exited the room, and it wasn't until Jaehaera moved from the vanity that Helaena was pulled from her thoughts.

"Mother, you are sad again. What is wrong?"

Helaena tried to smile, but it barely reached her lips, let alone her eyes. "I shall miss you, that is all."

"I am right here, Mother," Jaehaera laughed, a bright, bell-like sound that seemed foreign in the dismal room. "I'll break fast with you every morning as we've always done, and we will sit together and embroider all day long. I'll remain yours until the end of our days. Nothing will change."

Everything would change.

"That is if your husband can spare you."

"What is a husband to a mother? To my mother?"

Unable to help the bitterness that crept up her gullet, like bile, like death, Helaena's frown deepened. Her sweet, simple girl, didn't understand the reality of marriage. Things would change. Of course, they would, but how could she explain that? How could she break her daughter's fragile hope when she looked so earnest, so full of love?

"Are you..." she began hesitantly, reaching for Jaehaera's hand, her thumb tracing circles over the girl's cool skin. "Are you certain? No one has forced your hand? You know, no one will say a word if you wish to remain unwed. If you wish to stay here with me."

Stay with me forever. You are all I have left.

The girl looked down, a faint blush creeping up her neck. She ducked her head, her fingers twisting in her lap. "I am not being coerced, Mother. I assure you." She smiled almost shyly. "I am... happy, I think. Aegon is kind. Wonderfully kind." She hesitated for a moment, her thoughts fluttering like the pages of a book. "It's more than I ever dared hope for."

There was something in her words—a quiet truth that passed between mother and daughter. The friendship that had blossomed between her and the queen's son in their childhood, born from shared grief, had grown into something sweeter. Something more. But how could she speak of it, to her mother of all people? Some things remained best in the confines of one's heart.

No. It was enough to say she had chosen him freely. That she wanted this, wanted him. Jaehaera turned to face her mother fully, her fingers hovering over her hands but not touching them, knowing her distaste for contact unless she initiated it. "I chose him, Mother. No one else."

I only wish that grandmother was here, and Jaehaerys...and Father. There were far too many important people missing for it to be a truly joyous occasion but she would make do. At least she had her mother...and Maelor.

"And what have we here?"

Ah, speak of the devil.

The serene moment between mother and daughter was swiftly interrupted by the booming voice of their youngest, who burst into the room with his usual boundless energy. At seventeen, Maelor was the very picture of youthful exuberance, and Helaena often marvelled at how such a happy, carefree boy had sprung from her, from the unhappy union that was her marriage. She could not help but smile as he bounded over to wrap his arms around his sister, laughing as she tried to push him away.

"Maelor!" Jaehaera exclaimed, swatting at him playfully. "My lady's maid only just finished with my hair! Do not ruin it, or I swear—"

"I only came to lighten the mood, sister. And from the looks of things, it wasn't a moment too soon. If I hadn't come in, you'd both be crying by now, and you'd look horrid on your wedding day! You wouldn't want Aegon to see you with puffy, swollen eyes, now would you?"

His sister stood up and made a half-hearted attempt to smack him on the back of the head, both of them missing the flinch from their mother at the mention of her betrothed.

"Besides," Maelor continued, rubbing his head theatrically, "our dear uncle will be arriving soon. We must all be in good spirits to greet him."

"You never told me, how did you convince him to come? He hasn't set foot in King's Landing in almost eight years! What could you have possibly said to make him agree?"

"Ah, that, dear sister, is a secret. Consider it my wedding gift to you, since I know how much you wanted him here."

Jaehaera narrowed her eyes in mock suspicion. "Well, I hope you don't expect me to thank you."

"My sweet sister? Thanking me?" Maelor gasped dramatically. "Oh no, I could never ask such a thing!"

The amusement soon faded from the girl's face, her brow furrowing with concern as she remembered the topic at hand. With their uncle's presence in the Red Keep, tensions were bound to rise, and since it was she who had insisted on his attendance, she knew it would be her responsibility to keep the peace. Resolving to head off any brewing conflicts, she linked her arm through her brother's and began dragging him toward the door.

"We should greet him ourselves," she proposed. "Better that than letting him stumble into the wrong people before the ceremony."

Before Maelor let himself be led, he leaned down to brush a quick kiss against Helaena's temple. "You look lovely, Mother, as always. Even lovelier than Jae."

Jaehaera scowled, giving him a little shove. "Out! Now!" she demanded, pulling him out of the room faster, but not before flashing their mother a smile. "But he is right, you look divine, you always do."

As they walked down the corridor, Maelor turned and winked at one of the passing maids, inciting a groan from his sister.

"You live to vex me, brother."

"I cannot help it if everyone adores me," he jested with a mock sigh of resignation.

"They don't. You're just too full of yourself."

Before he could respond, two children came sprinting past them, shrieking with delight as they carried a third, smaller child between them like a sack of grain. Close behind was Viserys, red-faced and out of breath, trying to catch up with the rambunctious trio.

The boy came to a halt beside his cousins, hands on his knees as he panted for air, and Maelor looked at him, grinning broadly. "Enjoying your time with the children, Vis?"

Viserys gave him a long-suffering look, straightening up. "It seems both of my sisters passed down their mischief to their children. I can't keep up with them. They're absolute menaces." He glanced at Jaehaera and handed her a folded note. "My brother asked me to give you this. He wishes to speak with you."

Maelor swiped the note from her hand before she could open it. "Oh no, lover boy can wait until after the wedding," he declared. "We have more important matters to attend to, and you," he added, pointing at his cousin, "have children to watch."

Groaning, the boy nodded, turning to holler after the fleeing children. "Luke, Laena, put Rhaenys down before you drop her, or I'm telling your father!"

"You wouldn't!" Laena shouted back. "Or else we'll tell Father that you've been—"

She broke off with a giggle and as their cousin dashed off after the unruly children, Jaehaera and Maelor exchanged amused glances.

"You know," Maelor mused, leaning in conspiratorially, "I do hope this wedding of yours is exciting, otherwise we'll be stuck entertaining ourselves with these little terrors."

"If anything, you'll be the one causing the trouble."

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Aegon paced the length of his chambers, the thud of his boots barely perceptible over the crackling of the hearth, his hands moving in nervous patterns, fingers curling and uncurling. The room was bathed in the dying light of the late afternoon, golden hues casting shapes that danced against the stone walls. When an abrupt knock came at the door, he nearly jumped, his heart leaping to his throat as if he'd been caught in some secret moment. Composing himself, he reached for the door, surprised to find Jaehaera standing there, leaning casually against the wall.

He blinked, but before he could gather his words, she scoffed with a playful lift of her brow. "Aren't you the one who requested my presence?"

Aegon stared for a heartbeat too long before clearing his throat. "Yes, well... I didn't think my brother would actually deliver the message," he muttered. "Or that yours would spare you for a moment."

A slight smirk curled at the corner of her lips as she stepped inside. "I have my ways," she replied, the tease in her voice light but filled with a quiet warmth. "So... what is it?"

The question seemed to pull the prince from his daze, his eyes widening as if remembering his reason for summoning her. He moved quickly, retreating into the room to retrieve something from a small desk. When he turned, he held a modest box in his hands, his expression tinged with an unexpected shyness.

His betrothed raised a questioning eyebrow. "I thought wedding presents were meant to wait until after the wedding."

"Yes, well... this isn't a wedding present, Jae. It's just... a present."

"Oh?" Her curiosity was piqued as she took the box from him, lifting the lid to reveal the delicate ornament within. A crystalline hairpin, encrusted with small blue butterflies, shimmered in the fading light, each wing a gem caught in mid-flight.

Aegon, misinterpreting her captivated silence as disappointment, hurried to explain. "It was going to be a necklace, but... I know how much you're attached to that one." His eyes darted to the seven-pointed star she wore. "I didn't want to make you choose. So I thought this might... suit you better."

"It's beautiful, Aegon. Thank you."

He hesitated, his fingers twitching as though uncertain of themselves. "May I?"

At her nod, he stepped closer, the space between them shrinking as his hand brushed through her tresses, carefully pinning the ornament into place. It aligned well with the swarm of butterflies embroidered across the bodice of her dress, courtesy of her mother's endless labours of love. As a child, nearly all her clothes bore this symbol of Helaena's affection and as she got older, Jaehaera adopted the practice too, sewing them onto every single one of her gowns and even some of Maelor's tunics—their very own crest for their very own little family.

Aegon's touch lingered for just a moment longer than necessary, but then he pulled away quickly, as though the closeness unsettled him. The hush that followed was comfortable, and Jaehaera watched him carefully, noting the conflict that seemed to flicker in his eyes like the flames in the hearth.

"Jaehaera, is your mother... unhappy?"

The princess's gaze fell briefly to the floor. "It is not your fault," she apologized. "She is just... I am sorry. I wish there was something I could do to soothe her."

"I know."

"And your mother?"

Her husband-to-be let out a humourless laugh. "Mother is ecstatic. She wishes for peace, more than anything. It's my father that's..." He trailed off, running a hand through his hair. "Well, he's my father. So... as you'd expect."

Jaehaera's lips pressed into a thin line. "Right..."

"But it won't change anything," Aegon added quickly, as though trying to reassure both her and himself.

"Oh."

"I still choose you," his tone firmer now. "I will always choose you."

The younger girl's chuckle carried a fragile undertone. "At least I know your sister is happy for us."

"Daenys adores weddings. You know how she can be. We haven't even been wed yet and she is already looking forward to Viserys's union."

"She just likes to see you all happy, I think. And besides, she's looking forward to Viserys's wedding because she likes his betrothed."

"I don't think she likes anyone quite as much as she likes you, though," Aegon pointed out.

"Except maybe you, Egg."

"Do not call me that!"

"I shall call you whatever I please," Jaehaera beamed.

"As you wish." The prince hesitated then, his expression tightening as if bracing for something unpleasant. "She is coming today."

"I know."

"And I am told... he is too."

Jaehaera avoided his gaze, her hands wringing slightly, disliking where their conversation was headed. "I am sorry. I only—"

"You don't have to apologize to me," Aegon interrupted, his voice strained. "He is your blood. It makes sense for you to want him here. I just... I just worry, that is all."

"I will make sure he does not antagonize anyone."

"That is not what I am worried about. I highly doubt that our uncle has the audacity to try that."

"I am sorry...do not be upset with me."

"I could never be, Jae," her betrothed sighed, lifting her hand to press a comforting kiss to the back of her fingers. "At least Viserys seems fond of him, though I'll never comprehend why. Perhaps he'll help."

"Yes...and your sister... she is always a help."

"Yes, she tries. Family is everything to her."

"I am to meet them at the docks. Would you like to accompany me?"

He pulled his hand away immediately, turning to busy himself with something at the desk. "I'm sorry," he mumbled. "I think I was supposed to help Jace with something. I'll see you at the ceremony."

"Oh. Okay."

Shoulders slumped ever so slightly, Jaehaera nodded, her understanding clear even if her heart was heavy. Without another word, she slipped from the room, leaving Aegon to stand frozen for a long moment, staring at the door as the light outside slowly dimmed, casting his chamber into a familiar gloom, one that he could not quite escape, no matter how much he tried. Forgiveness was near impossible sometimes.

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The sky blazed with hues of crimson and gold as the sun dipped beneath the horizon, casting a fiery glow over the wooden docks of King's Landing. The water lapped quietly against the moorings, the city's hum muted as Daenys walked along the weathered planks, Aemond's presence a cold but steady shadow at her side. Her steps were sure, though her heart twisted within her chest, the familiar knot of dread coiling tighter with each breath she took. Ahead, Atticus moved with a purpose that contrasted their slow, measured pace, his figure a mere outline in the waning light, keeping a short but deliberate distance from the pair.

Daenys glanced sideways, her words frayed at the edges from a repeated plea. "And remember—"

"I know," Aemond cut her off, his tone sharp with impatience. "Do not speak to your brothers. Do not look at Daemon. Avoid your mother altogether. I heard you the first three times. Do not patronize me, wife."

"You cannot blame me for worrying."

"And you need not make it my burden."

"You speak as if being here is the last thing you want."

"It is!" he snapped, his frustration unmistakable.

"Then why did you come?" Daenys's cadence rose, betraying the strain of her tightly held composure. "You should have stayed in Dragonstone, like you always do."

Aemond's jaw tightened. "I am here for my sister. And for Jaehaera. Forgive me if I'm trying to show loyalty."

"You? Showing loyalty? What a novel concept."

"Don't you dare start with me, you vicious—"

"Then stop complaining! If you are truly here for them, then put on a bloody smile and perhaps—if the gods are kind—we might survive the night."

"You make it sound as though all the fault lies with me."

"I do not see who else could be blamed," Daenys muttered under her breath.

Ahead of them, Atticus looked back. Their voices, though hushed, carried in the evening air, and he rolled his eyes at the bickering couple. It had become such a familiar sight that it almost failed to surprise him, but when Daenys turned to wave at him with that gentle flick of her wrist, his resentment waned. He stayed not for the prince, whom he despised, but for her—for the woman, who, for all her sharpness, was his tether to something resembling goodness; his mother in everything but blood. Atticus Waters was as loyal as they came.

The silence between Aemond and Daenys stretched like a taut string, threatening to snap. Each step on the docks felt like an eternity, but then, just as she thought the distance between them would grow wider, she felt the brush of his fingers against hers. Tentatively at first, then with a quiet urgency, he took her hand, entwining their fingers.

"I am sorry...I didn't mean to be sour with you."

Daenys exhaled, the tension in her shoulders easing. "I know. It's okay."

It was always like this—apologies wrapped in apologies. Their life was one built on fragile bridges of remorse, patched over with whispered amends and reluctant forgiveness.

After Viserys' retrieval, the queen could not order her half-brother's execution, but that did not make him any easier to stomach. He repulsed her, her loathing made stronger because when Aemond was permitted to retreat to the desolate solitude of Dragonstone, her daughter had followed, the exile shared between them like an unspoken vow.

The island offered respite, or so they tried to convince themselves. Away from the suffocating completeness of her family—her brothers, her mother, all of them so whole, so painfully good and unerring—they had found something like peace. It wasn't the peace of contentment, but rather the fragile quiet of survival. They fought often, their arguments echoing through the stone halls, dredging up old wounds to bleed anew. And yet, they always found themselves returning to each other, as though forgiveness was something they had to relearn with every passing day.

Thirteen years had come and gone since the war had scarred them both, yet even now, they were still learning.

While it was true that she would never pardon him for Luke, and he would never pardon her for Daeron, they were also the only two people alive who could empathize with each other. They could not uncremate their dead or siphon the dust back into their arms because if they did, those they had lost would still be gone, and an armful of gray was of no use to anyone.

It was a trade of sorts, his transgressions for hers, and hers for his. There was no love without sin; love was best measured in what they forgave.

Theirs was a life built on regret. They threw sharp words at each other, cruel accusations drenched in truth, barbed wires meant to scrape at the tender organs nestled between their ribs. That desire to hurt and maim and cause irrevocable pain lingered, but there was always an apology, at the end of the day or week, or even after moons of not speaking to each other. Theirs was a life built on apologies and the selfishness of mutual amnesty.

Beyond the harbour, where waves glittered like shattered glass beneath the sinking sun, stood Helaena's children, framed against the sprawling silhouette of King's Landing. Viserys, now taller and leaner with the weight of boyhood only just behind him, balanced little Rhaenys on his hip. The babe rested her head on his shoulder, tiny fingers nestled against her lips, eyes wide and wondrous as they watched the ships come and go in the distance.

Laena, all eight years of stubborn defiance, clung to his tunic, her fingers twisting the fabric into wrinkles, scanning the horizon with barely contained excitement. Both children had insisted on accompanying the group to greet their long-awaited aunt, though Viserys had warned them of their parents' displeasure.

It was easy enough to spot Daenys' arrival. Her presence was a study in stark contrasts—a veil fluttering like the wings of some ethereal creature suspended in the wind, not the familiar black of mourning she always wore, but something far more striking. Today, her gown shimmered with the crimson of House Targaryen, vibrant and alive as though she had donned the very heart of their bloodline. The fabric moved with her, catching the golden light in delicate folds that danced like fire, a sharp contrast to Aemond, whose monochromatic ensemble seemed to draw the very light into itself, swallowing it in his quiet storm of black and silver.

Atticus arrived first, his steps sure but his expression troubled as he met them. "They've been fighting again," he divulged exasperatedly.

"Again?" Jaehaera frowned, her pale brows knitting together.

Maelor, standing with his arms crossed and a wry smile playing on his lips, shrugged. "It's nothing new. The question is, have they made up yet? I do not wish for our poor uncle to have to battle on all fronts tonight."

Viserys nodded, spotting the entwined hands of his sister and her husband. "Yes, they've made up."

Just then, the couple reached them, their approach bringing a sudden hush over the group. The air shifted with the rustle of their clothing, and though no words were exchanged at first, the warmth of the reunion was palpable. Daenys stepped forward, her expression lightening as Viserys pulled her into a firm embrace, his lips brushing her cheek through the veil in greeting before she turned her gaze upon the rest of the children.

"Jaehaera!" Her exclamation was coloured with both surprise and reproach. "Your wedding is in a few hours! Why are you out here, when you should be readying yourself?"

Maelor snickered. "I told her the same thing, cousin, and yet here we are. My sister is too stubborn for her own good."

The girl in question only smiled, a small, serene curve of her lips as she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around Daenys. "I only wished to see you two," she confessed, turning to Aemond next. Her delicate fingers barely touched his cloak before she added, "Thank you for coming, Uncle. It is an honour."

The one-eyed prince, who had remained somewhat apart, stiffened under her scrutiny, his expression unreadable. "Yes, well," he replied, his voice clipped as he shifted uncomfortably, "your brother didn't really give me a choice."

Their exchange was interrupted by a sudden tug at Daenys's skirts. Little Laena, ever the curious child, stared up at her aunt with wide, expectant eyes that wandered to the sky above.

"You did not come on your dragon," she observed with disappointment.

"No, sweetling, not today."

Her niece's small face crumpled into a scowl. "But I wanted to see her!"

"She is here, somewhere," Daenys assured, bending slightly to brush a hand through the child's wild mahogany curls. "I'm sure she follows us, and you will see her soon enough."

While Aemond preferred the isolation of Dragonstone, humbled by the knowledge that there was no one who actually wanted to see him, Daenys made frequent journeys to King's Landing on dragonback, attending every name day and birth, her presence a reminder of the blood that bound them. But today, she had forsaken Silverwing, choosing instead to accompany Aemond and Atticus by ship. The solemnity of the occasion seemed to warrant it.

Laena huffed again, her hands finding her hips in a pout. "I want a ride when I see her again."

Viserys flicked the back of her ear in admonishment. "Let us be polite, Laena. My sister has only just arrived."

"She is my aunt!"

"She was my sister first!"

"No, she wasn't. Lying is bad, Father said so."

"Oh I know a thing or two about your father, so do not tempt me, child."

"I'm telling him you called him a liar!" The girl pivoted on her heel, batting her lashes in mock sweetness at the one person she knew could not resist her charms. Reaching for Daenys's cane, she demanded, "Can I borrow this, Aunt Daenys?"

"Don't give it to her," Viserys warned. "She'll use it to chase Luke, no doubt."

Maelor snorted, his lips twitching in amusement. "She certainly is something," he muttered under his breath.

"Tell me about it. Just today, the twins were running around the Keep with poor Rhaenys in tow. They nearly dropped her."

"I did not drop her," Laena protested, sticking her tongue out at him. "That was Luke!"

"It was not," Viserys countered, shaking his head. "I saw it."

"You probably cannot see very well, Uncle. Perhaps the maesters can help you with that."

Daenys, amused by the exchange, smiled, her worries momentarily easing in the warmth of her family's presence. She leaned forward to pinch Rhaenys's chubby cheek, and the little girl babbled gleefully, squirming against her uncle's hold as she reached out for her.

"I applaud Rhaena for trusting her babe with those rascal twins," she remarked casually.

"Come now, people, my sister has a wedding to get ready for." Maelor clapped his hands together in mock command. "I think Aegon would have my head if I didn't return his bride to him on time."

Viserys raised an eyebrow. "She's not even his bride yet."

"Well, I shall be soon enough." Jaehaera entwined her arm with Daenys's to offer support in the absence of her cane.

"Yes, and we must return her if she is to be at all," Daenys admitted as Rhaenys babbled her name again, straining to escape Viserys' arms. Shaking her head with a gentle sigh, she patted the child's head. "Another time, sweet girl, when I am seated, perhaps."

"Well, who will carry her? Because I am getting tired, and someone has to keep an eye on that one," Viserys pointed to Laena, who had now taken to joyfully swinging her aunt's cane like a sword against the cobblestones.

All eyes turned to Maelor, but he held up his hands in mock surrender. "You know it can't be me. She doesn't like me. Though I cannot imagine why—everyone likes me."

Jaehaera scoffed, her lips barely concealing a smirk. "I told you that wasn't true, brother."

A silence settled over the group as Viserys's gaze flicked to Aemond, and though his uncle avoided him, the boy was undeterred. With a sly grin, he deposited the wriggling babe into the prince's reluctant arms.

For a heartbeat, tension crackled in the air, but Rhaenys, much to everyone's surprise, cooed, nestling into his chest without so much as a wail. The sight of the scarred man, stiff and awkward with the child in his arms, was a curious one, and the family resumed their amicable chatter as they made their way toward the Red Keep.

Aemond, though rigid, allowed a fraction of his guard to slip. He felt his wife looking at him, though he could not make out her expression behind the barrier she hid behind, and the world spun on, indifferent to his inner turmoil. He felt the bitter irony of it settle deep within his bones, nonetheless, because he of all people did not deserve to be here. At least these children had not inherited their parents' disdain for him, and for that small mercy, he could almost be grateful.

It wasn't so bad, this life. Although he had not visited King's Landing ever since he had returned Viserys, Helaena occasionally came to see him, once she had regained some of the joy she used to take in flying. As for Maelor and Jaehaera, they were there almost every other week, so much so that it sometimes felt like they lived on Dragonstone too.

These few people were the only ones who allowed themselves to pass his cursed name through their mouths, who could smell the rotten air of his sins and still tilted their heads toward the sky to think of him as family.

⋇⋆✦⋆⋇

The wedding ceremony itself unfolded with quiet grace, each moment steeped in both joy and sorrow. The great hall was bathed in warm candlelight, casting long shadows over the gathered nobles, whose colourful attire shimmered like a tapestry of jewels. The faint scent of incense hung in the air, mingling with the ever-present aroma of burning wax, as the solemn vows echoed through the chamber. Without a father to lead her, it was Maelor who escorted his sister to her husband, his hand steady as he placed Jaehaera's in Aegon's, though his eyes flickered briefly with emotion, a sign of the brotherly affection he harboured for her despite their petty squabbles.

At the edge of the room, almost hidden from view, stood Aemond and Helaena, watching the proceedings, their faces carefully composed, both of them unable to face the crowd's inspection. The one-eyed prince's gaze softened as he observed the ceremony, memories flooding him as if transported back in time to his own wedding. The way Jaehaera and Aegon stood before the Septon mirrored the way he had once stood with his wife, and his breath hitched as he allowed himself to imagine what might have been if things had been different. What if they, too, had been blessed with a family—children who would stand at their side, who would pull tricks and badger them for attention? Would the halls of Dragonstone be filled with the laughter of little ones, as opposed to the quiet indifference of Daenys's singular ward who detested him?

She stood tall with her family at the front of the room, yet noticeably uneasy as her hands picked at the frayed threads on her sleeves. Her discomfort was subtle, but Aemond knew her well enough to notice the way her fingers betrayed her anxiety. Even amid the celebration of the wedding, she remained distant, and yet, despite her discomfort, she endured, as she always did, for her family. She was beautiful, and radiant even though no one could see her face, surrounded by her nieces and nephews like a protective warden watching over her young charges, but Aemond saw through the illusion; he knew the loneliness that mirrored his own.

As the vows were exchanged, he could see the happiness on his niece's face, the way her cheeks flushed shyly, and how her husband's smile, though subdued, carried great admiration. If only fate had been kinder, if circumstances had aligned differently, perhaps—

No. Aemond had long since come to terms with the path they now walked. He would not be ungrateful for what they did have—however fractured, however incomplete. As long as Daenys remained by his side, he could live in Dragonstone, steep in their shared guilt and the tension that had become a constant presence between them. She was with him, after all. She hadn't left, not yet, and for that, he thanked the gods each day.

The night stretched on, the marriage complete, yet the celebrations continued as noblemen and women revelled in the union. Jaehaera and Aegon had long since retreated to their chambers, sparing the crowd the traditional bedding ceremony—a relief, Aemond noted, for it would have been an unnecessary cruelty to Helaena, who had already suffered enough. Not all of Rhaenyra's children had been raised to be pathetic fools then.

The revellers showed no sign of slowing, and his sister, who had remained by his side for much of the evening, eventually sought the solace of her chambers. Before leaving though, she asked him to stay behind and keep an eye on Maelor, who mingled freely with the young ladies of the court, and Aemond, accustomed to slipping into by unnoticed, retreated into a corner of the room, his presence all but forgotten as the crowd danced and laughed.

He could feel the eyes of a few linger on him, the hushed whispers that followed wherever he went. The uneasy peace between himself and the rest of the family was tenuous at best. Jacaerys barely tolerated him, Baela was cordial at best, but beyond that, there was little warmth. It was a marvel Daemon did not run him through with Dark Sister every time he looked over, and Rhaenyra simply pretended he did not exist. He was not here because they wanted him here—he was here because Jaehaera had asked, and he would not refuse her, not on her wedding day. But the distance between them remained palpable, a chasm that could not be bridged by polite words or forced smiles.

As Aemond observed from his secluded corner, he saw his wife across the room, speaking to her mother's Martell guests. He was drawn to her as always, the moth to her flame, but now he longed for the quiet of Dragonstone, the familiar solitude that had become both his refuge and his curse. There, at least, he knew where he stood—alone, but without the burden of expectation or the constant reminder of what could never be. Here, among the crowd, he felt like a spectre, a relic of a past that refused to die. At least Helaena had the dignity to disappear.

He knew that when the revelry ended, and they returned home, there would be another argument. It had become a pattern between them—bitter words, followed by a fragile reconciliation that never quite mended the cracks. But even so, Aemond would withstand it. He would withstand anything for Daenys, for the slivers of peace they found in each other, however fleeting.

⋇⋆✦⋆⋇

"Daenys, may I present my youngest daughter, Myriah."

Aliandra Martell was a vision in amber as she regarded her former companion, her dark eyes sparkling with confidence as the young girl of barely seven summers bobbed in a polite cutesy.

Daenys, ever composed though not entirely comfortable in gatherings of this scale, inclined her head in greeting. The significance of the royal wedding and its political undertones was not lost on her. Aegon's marriage to Jaehaera had drawn powerful families to King's Landing, but this particular introduction carried even more significance. Dorne's future might very well be entwined with the Iron Throne, and the ruling princess of Dorne was here to negotiate more than mere pleasantries.

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Princess Myriah."

Baela and Jace stood with them, along with their firstborn, Luke, whose hands were tucked neatly in front of him as he gave a respectful nod to his potential betrothed, his face as serious as a child trying to mimic the solemnity of adults.

The conversation flowed effortlessly around Daenys, and briefly, she felt like her nephew, an outsider playing at paying attention, but not entirely there. Her brother had requested her presence during the introduction, seeking to leverage her past friendship with the Martell princess, and Daenys had obliged. If things proceeded well, there might indeed be a Dornish queen for the Seven Kingdoms one day.

A small tug at her sleeve interrupted the exchange, a gentle insistence that drew her attention downward. It was easy enough to excuse herself from the conversation, with a quiet promise to Aliandra about tea in the gardens sometime soon, before she followed Rhaena's son as he led her through the throng of guests towards the quieter corner of the hall where his mother sat, her feet propped on the chair opposite her, a picture of exhaustion. As Daenys approached, Rhaena shifted, moving her feet aside to create space for her to sit, which she did, carefully lowering herself into the chair before lifting the little boy, Joffrey, into her lap.

"And how is our future Lord of the Tides doing?" Daenys cooed, her fingers brushing his pale curls as he toyed with the rings on her hand. He was only six but already carried the weight of his future with an eerie quietness, his small fingers occupied with the glittering objects, oblivious to the conversation around him.

"His sister enjoys tormenting him, that is how he is," Rhaena snickered.

"Speaking of, where is Rhaenys?"

"With her father, somewhere I imagine. The gods only know where they've gone off to. I, for one, am exhausted and just about ready to retire for the night."

Daenys' gaze softened with sympathy. "I can imagine it must be difficult for you."

"It shouldn't be. I've done it twice before, and yet... I am so tired."

"We must make sure you rest then. Shall I escort you to your chambers?"

Rhaena waved off the suggestion with a tired smile. "Oh no, I am quite alright here, thank you, sister. I enjoy watching the revelry, even if I cannot partake."

"Oh, my girl!" Rhaenyra's voice rang out to interrupt them. "In all this commotion, I didn't even get to greet you properly."

Placing Joffrey down for a moment, Daenys stood to embrace her mother. "I saw you only last week, Mother," she replied with some amusement.

"It's not enough," the queen said firmly, holding her at arm's length, her expression filled with a deep love that only mothers could muster. "It is never enough."

They did not speak of the reasons why she did not remain in King's Landing permanently, a topic too complex and painful for such a joyous occasion. Rhaenyra would never fully understand her daughter's decisions, nor condone them, but in this moment, she let the matter rest.

"Walk with me," she said instead, taking her arm, and together, they moved through the crowd, their steps slow and deliberate.

"Something is bothering you, Mother. Tell me."

The older woman hesitated before finally speaking. "Maelor wishes to join the Queensguard."

"He told you this?"

"No...at least not yet."

"Then how did you know?"

"I overheard his conversation with his sister."

Daenys blinked, surprised. "Does Helaena know?"

"I think she does, but she does not know why."

"And what are his reasons?"

"You know what he is... who he is," her mother's words were heavy with unspoken truths. "He doesn't wish to become a source of discomfort or pain for his mother in the future, should any questions arise regarding his lineage. He wants to renounce all claims of inheritance, to swear an oath of chastity and loyalty for his mother and sister."

"Oh," Daenys almost flinched, her heart sinking. "Will you allow it?"

Rhaenyra sighed, her eyes filled with a mother's helplessness. "I don't see why I should not. I just... I just wish the boy peace. Those children have suffered enough. We have all suffered enough, I think."

"We have." Then after a lengthy pause, the princess spoke again. "Atticus wishes to join the Queensguard as well."

"Oh how our fates run in circles, my darling girl," the queen chuckled. "And tell me, will you allow it."

"I do not know why has has asked me for permission, it is not as if I am his mother."

"Are you certain?" There was a knowing glint in Rhaenyra's eyes. "And does he know that?"

"I never claimed to be as such. I only wished to..."

What was she to him? The question had become more difficult to answer as the years passed, especially as their rare arguments bore a remarkable likeness to those her mother had with Jace. At first, he had been akin to her brothers, a surrogate for those she had lost, while she had inadvertently filled in the vacancy left by a lack of a maternal figure, and so their perceived roles clashed sometimes.

When she had been mothering her siblings for so long, where could she even draw the line? Where did one end and the other begin, being an older sister or a mother?

"He is angry with me because I refused," Daenys admitted.

"But he is not your son," her mother reminded her.

"I know."

"Then why would you refuse?"

"I am not sure."

"Perhaps that is your answer then."

"I only wish for his safety. I wish for his happiness and long life."

"Isn't that what a mother wishes for all her children?"

Isn't that what a sister wishes for her siblings?

Rhaenyra squeezed her hands gently. "Tell him how you feel about it, and allow him the freedom to do the same. That is the only way forward. I would know, I have dealt with eight of you."

It is not the same. But maybe it was.

"Thank you, Mother."

"Always my darling girl. Always, no matter what."

After her mother left, Daenys lifted her fingers to count. It had been something Cassandra had taught her recently, something to ground her when she felt like she was about to have another one of her unexpected bouts of grief. For all those she had lost, there were people who remained, people whom she loved and who loved her.

There was her whole family; Her mother, Daemon, her brothers and sisters. There were her nieces and nephews too, additional faces to cherish: Rhaena's children, Joffrey and Rhaenys; Baela's children, Luke, Laena, and their new babe Baelon. There was Helaena and her children. And the acquaintances she had made: Dyana, Cassandra and her sisters, the Lady Arwen Frey who had become a close companion.

There were so many people whose living memory she could grasp so that the dead did not drag her to their realm. She counted them over and over until the world no longer buzzed and her breathing steadied.

And then there was Aemond.

⋇⋆✦⋆⋇

"You look like you want to go home."

Aemond looked up startled, his chin slipping from its perch on his closed fist. "What?"

"I said, you look like you want to go home," Daenys repeated, settling down right beside him in the curtained corner she recognized as theirs from childhood.

"Yes, well, where even is home anymore?"

His wife turned to him, taking a moment to lift her vermillion veil over her head, baring her face to him in their privacy. While Aemond had eventually replaced the sapphire in his eye, her socket remained empty, just a gaping empty void, meant to be a window to the one inside of her.

"We may not be able to go home just yet, but we could return to our chambers. I do not wish to subject you to this gathering any longer."

"How considerate of you," the one-eyed prince responded sardonically. "Daenys the Magnanimous, they shall call you."

"At least I am trying, which is more than I can say for you."

"As yes, spare us your futile efforts, will you?"

He did not even know why he was being like this. Being here, around her family set him on edge, and no doubt she felt the same, bringing out the ugliness in both of them. But then again, there was little else to them besides this ugliness.

"You are not here on my account, Aemond, do try and remember that."

"I do."

"Good, then don't burden me with your irritability."

Their hands met halfway this time, both of them seeking out the familiarity of the other's touch. Aemond absentmindedly fiddled with one of her rings, the one he had given her. It had been created from the very same sapphire she returned to him, a changed accessory but it bound them nonetheless. Meanwhile, her index finger ghosted over the still-bleeding, carmine edges of his nails—the habit from his time in Lys had never truly gone away.

"I want to go home, Daenys."

"And where is that...do you think?"

He waited several moments before reaching forward, pressing their joined hands just above her collarbone where he could feel the steady thrum of her heart.

"You're my home, ābrazȳrys."

It was a shame that it had taken him so long to realize it. Everything he was, everything he ever would be, was all hers. How could he even begin to explain it, that his fleeting golden happiness and his all-encompassing obsidian despair, how much of it was hers—along with all his memories, poems, outbursts, and inner whirlwinds? Her name was engraved in the palms of his hands, in the crevices of his very lungs.

"You're my home, Daenys," he repeated, the High Valyrian slipping easily off his tongue, the language of their ancestors, the language of their souls.

Good, Daenys thought to herself, because despite her best efforts, for better or for worse, that is where he resided, in the wretched cavern between her ribs.

There was no desire as hideous as theirs, as incessant, two hands wrapped around a throat, fingernails gouging and tearing until flesh and sinew came apart, but it was theirs. Yes, it was theirs and it would remain so until the end of their days.

⋇⋆✦⋆⋇

A/N: so many feels now that we're done lol. This may very well be the most light-hearted chapter in this entire fic so that's crazy. I think everybody deserves a little peace after all that, but wow it's the end of an era. Also here's a little post war, epilogue Daenys sketch.

If you could stick around and read the author's note in the next chapter that'd be great lovelies, but if not, I do want to thank you all for being here with me so far and for every comment/vote/interaction because it has motivated me so much. It has been my absolute honour to share this story with you and I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. An Eye for an Eye is officially complete <3