The silence was stifling– the usually bustling keep was quiet. It didn't breathe nor creak like normal. It was lulled to sleep.

The scent of fading smoke still permeated the air, lingering down into paltry ash. Shera wasn't sure if it was her dream still at play. The world around her suddenly felt different. Not just at Aegon's pronouncement, but the tone of reality was slightly askew. Askew and off color. There was a throbbing deep within Shera's skull as if she'd lost something dear— or mayhaps, a memory she was never meant to have was shoved into her cranium. An intense pressure pressed at her mind, threatening to drive her mad.

Shera held onto Aemond for as long as she could, as long as he would have her. His arm was tucked under her legs to hoist her up, his other arm secure around her back, pressing her to him. She felt safe, peering over his shoulder like a stealthy cat. He held her up with ease as she observed Aegon, now apparently pronounced 'King'. She should be shocked– but she knew Viserys had passed. She watched it, in some twisted semblance of the vision her poppy-addled mind had concocted.

"How long have... I been asleep for?" she asked Aemond tentatively, whispering into his ear.

"Five days."

Five days. Much happens in five days, then.

"Is everyone... alright? Helaena? The children?" she posed the question to Aegon then as Aemond sat her back down on her bed. She squirmed slightly, not wanting to stay in bed any longer.

"Everyone is fine," Aegon said, quirking a brow to Aemond. "She's awake now. You should go before grandsire gets any more cross."

Go? Where are you going? She stared at Aemond with a pinched expression, tilting her head.

"I will return, Shera," he paused, brow furrowing. "I promise. Then, we shall speak. 'Tis a quick flight to Storm's End."

"He is petitioning Lord Borros on my behalf, so the Baratheon seat will declare for me." Aegon answered swiftly as Shera's mouth opened to protest.

"Petitioning?" she interjected.

"Daeron will be a suitable match for any of his four daughters, I assume." Aemond nods to Aegon, whom tips his head in agreement. "Keep Shera safe, brother."

"'Tis no greater honor upon a King to guard the banshee."

Shera scowls, folding her arms over her chest. Even with the crown upon his head, Aegon was still an agitation.

Aemond rolled his eye in turn, prying one of Shera's arms from her chest, turning her palm upwards. "We will speak further, little wolf," he whispered, leaning down to the shell of her ear. "I hope to never see you in red again. You're better suited to blue."

Shera's eye wandered to the bedside table where her dress, the red and black garment worn at the Lucerys' inheritance hearing, was strewn.

"You should have Vhagar burn it, then," she hummed back, the ghost of a smile curling at her lips. "Along with any other pieces of my wardrobe you deem... unsuitable."

"I'd say what you're wearing currently is, in fact, unsuitable, my lady," Aemond responded, his thumb pressing into her upturned palm. Not a warning. It was a promise.

Aegon cleared his throat. "If you two are going to fuck, get on with it. Make it a show for your king, then! I haven't got all night."

Heat burned at Shera's cheeks as she hid her face sheepishly in Aemond's shoulder. He gave her a chaste kiss on the forehead and let go of her hand. "If I were a lesser brother, you would be eating a meal of your own teeth, Aegon."

And then he was gone. The door closed behind him and the warmth of the room vanished. Aegon didn't make a move to leave— in fact, he adjusted himself to be more comfortable.

"You're... staying?" Shera questioned softly.

"I promised my honorable brother I would keep you safe, did I not? I cannot very well do so if I leave."

A long silence stretched between them. It wasn't awkward, per se, but it felt overbearing. It felt... heavy for both of them. A proverbial woolen blanket casted over them, warmth rising to a point of discomfort, to which Shera couldn't be silent any longer.

"Why did you do it, Aegon? This... this will bring disaster for everyone," she exasperated suddenly, the breath leaving her lungs as she thought of all the things that could, no, would happen. She worried her lip between her teeth as she stared at Aegon. "You usurped her. You usurped Daemon."

"Why? You really ask me that, Shera?" he responded, lazed back in his chair.

"Explain it to me– so I might... understand."

"They will do anything to secure their position. You know that– they... they would kill my children, kill my siblings, my... my mother–" the king choked on the last word like it was bile stuck in his craw.

"You don't know that for sure, Aegon." She didn't want to believe it, even if it was likely true. Undoubtedly true. she thought.

"Look what they did to you, Shera. They mauled you like beasts and then expected you to be okay with it. They betrothed you to one of them. I may be a drunken lecher, but even I know it's wrong," he took a shaky breath, the heights of his cheeks reddened. "They took my brother's eye and no punishments were brought forth. Daemon caved his first wife's head in with a rock and was allowed to marry into Velaryon money, even. They killed Vaemond in the throne room in front of two dozen guards and the bleeding King for fuck's sake– and nothing happened."

"Aegon..."

"I am not my mother's favorite child, I know that. I am not my sister's favorite brother. I am not your favorite Targaryen by any means. I..." Aegon twisted his rings on his fingers in a way so reminiscent of Alicent. "I cannot sit by idly and let them take and take and take until we," he gestured between the two of them, then beyond to the general direction of his mother, sister and children's chambers. "Until we are nothing but dust and ash," his knuckles were white as he was straining, fist clenching the back of his chair. "Make no mistake, I do not want this. I don't want the burden, the strife. I'd be much happier stripped of all titles and frills and be nameless in Essos–" he paused, swallowing. He could say it all he liked but knew it not to be true. He needed his family-- as much as they needed him in this moment.

Aegon had always been the eldest of them all, shouldering the brunt of what it meant to be eldest child, but never the favorite. Expectations set upon him the moment he exited his mother's womb, but never sought to fruition. The deep set dark circles under his eyes were reminiscent of someone much older, who had been through much more– but his posture; defeated for the last time as a disappointment, slouched, veins bulging from his hand was a painted picture of a child, a child who wanted to do better. Who had to be better. This would be his metamorphosis.

"Mother said that he professed me his heir with his dying breath. Mother is many things— but I do not think her to lie like this. Especially against Rhaenyra."

Aegon's dream. The depiction of the younger, much more alive Viserys danced before Shera's gaze once more. If the world of men is to survive, a Targaryen must be seated on the Iron Throne. A king.

Or a queen.

But the latter was left unsaid, wasn't it?

"Then... this is... war?" she finally uttered, looking down at her hands.

"Indeed." Aegon acknowledged, his voice hollow.

—

The sky finally cleared, if only for a moment. The roiling clouds opened a pathway to Storm's End, allowing Vhagar to ascend towards the land with ease. Aemond kept his head low as he scoured the palisade, seeing the puny figure of a green and yellow tinged dragon. He felt Vhagar tense beneath him ever so slightly, the bubbling of a growl stuck in her craw.

Vermax. Aemond would recognize his eldest nephew's bile colored dragon anywhere. Steering Vhagar outside of the castle walls and as far away from the snack-shaped whelpling as possible, he slid down from the saddle.

He didn't fancy much having to beg and plead Lord Borros against Jacaerys— it was unbecoming. He loathed having to beg for anything, especially from an oaf like Borros. The man could not even read and apparently only knew how to sire girls. Aemond pitied Daeron having to deal with the Baratheon lord as his future good-father.

The prince's steps were quiet and measured, hands behind his back. The clouds swirled above, threatening to dole out the Gods' wrath once more.

"Prince Aemond of House Targaryen has arrived, Lord Baratheon," the page announced, leading him to the seat of Storm's End.

It was a terribly bleak room, Aemond thought. In tune with a bleak castle and bleak house. The Baratheon house words were 'Ours is the Fury'. There was certainly nothing ferocious to be seen, however.

Borros Baratheon lazed in his stone chair like a sloven boar as a maester read off a missive next to him. "Another Targaryen prince graces Storm's End. The house of the Dragon is confused on who rules it and the realm, it seems. The young pup here is asking for a declaration for the Queen. Might I ask what you are asking, prince Aemond? And what you might offer." he balanced a single gold dragon between chubby, sausage-like fingers.

"I've come to seek House Baratheon's alliance with the true king— King Aegon, second of his name. May I remind you that the current sitting monarch does indeed have the Conqueror's name, his crown, and his weapon," Aemond began, standing with a rigid back.

Jacaerys was there, as well, meandering on the outskirts of the room. Anxiety roiled off of him like smoke from a dragon's nostrils— albeit, a puny one.

Aemond paid him no mind as he continued. "I fear the Queen that my naïve nephew proclaims for is a farce. My father named Aegon his heir upon his dying breath, denouncing Rhaenyra."

"Grandsire would never!" Jacaerys butt in. "My mother has been named heir and upheld for years. The vipers are spewing their poison, my lord. Their lies are not to be believed."

"Aegon was crowned in the Dragonpit before Gods and men, as well as blessed by a Septon. I do not recall your mother being coronated with the conqueror's crown, nephew? Ah, that would be due to her incessant need to hide upon Dragonstone."

"My mother was crowned b—,"

"That is enough!" Borros bellowed, sitting up in his chair slightly. "I don't care what the Gods have professed, nor a dead King. What can you offer me, Prince Aemond?"

"A betrothal of my brother, Prince Daeron, to one of your daughters." Aemond said simply. He knew that Rhaenyra did not have any sons to offer up, all of them being betrothed or still in child's nappies. It was a fruitless affair.

"May I remind you, Lord Borros, of the oath that your father took in favor of my mother, the rightful heir?" Jacaerys cut in again, voice raising in urgency. Aemond could feel the nerves pouring off of him, no doubt feeling the pressure of failure weighing upon his shoulders.

"That is all well and fine, young prince— but I am not my father, am I? Am I so beholden to the oath of someone who is dead? An oath made when your mother was barely fourteen?" Borros perked a brow as he continued to flip the coin between his fingers. "You weren't even a thought yet, nary conceived."

Jacaerys shifted his weight between both feet, clenching his jaw. His leather gloves squeaked under the balling of his fist— and yet, he stayed silent.

"Your uncle brings me quite the offer. I can wed one of my daughters into the King's family with ease. What do you offer, little prince?"

"My mother's favor, my lord. The Baratheon name will be sung through the halls of court when she ascends to her throne, rightfully."

"Her favor? And what can I do with favors and minstrel's songs? I cannot even wipe my arse with those pitiful offerings."

"Lord Baratheon—," Jace attempted to interject.

Borros silenced him with a firm hand. "You've lost, boy. Go back to your mother with your tail between your legs," the stout Baratheon looked at Aemond, who was quiet all the while with his hands neatly behind his back. "House Baratheon declares for King Aegon, second of his name."

—

Finalizing the affair with Borros was surprisingly straightforward— Daeron would have his pick of four brides when the war was over. Borros didn't seem to favor any of his four daughters to be wed over one another, but he did mention his youngest being the most 'comely'.

Shera crossed his mind for a moment, thinking of the situation— she was no different than any of Lord Baratheon's daughters, was she? In circumstance, merely a pawn for treaties, alliances to be forged, bloodlines to be mingled and heirs to be conceived. Surely, the state of the realm severed her betrothal to Jacaerys, wasn't it? And if not, surely Aegon would be prevalent to dissolve it.

But Aegon wasn't the only one with power or a voice. He was the final say and could invoke absolute authority if needed— but it would be wasted on something as tedious as a betrothal during a war. Cregan wouldn't forsake his oath to Rhaenyra for anything, it seemed. Not even for his own sister. Nothing would be gained by marrying Shera, not in the eyes of the council at least.

Aemond curled his lip in agitation as he left the Keep, fearing that his brain may wither and die if he were to share any further words with that oaf. The ground rumbled with the promise of thunder, as well as Vhagar's looming presence beyond the walls. Heavy clouds loomed above, dark and swirling.

He felt something cold against his throat as he was suddenly pushed backwards, undoubtedly with a weapon to him. Grabbing his attacker's arm, he twisted it at an awkward angle and shifted his body weight to stagger them. Wringing their arm behind their back, he spoke evenly. "Drop your weapon."

A clang of metal upon stones was heard as Aemond got a look at his opponent's face. "Jacaerys. That was a pitiful attempt, truly." he drawled, hoisting his nephew's arm higher behind his back.

The young prince grunted in pain, thrashing against his uncle like a pinned animal. "Where is she?! You and your damnable brother have her captive, you cowards!"

Aemond blinked once. Twice. He was referring to Shera. Did his nephew actually care for her? Or mayhaps the reaction of her brother, instead, that he was afraid of. "She's safe, 'tis all you need to know. She's away from you and your inept side of the family. In fact, I daresay, she is with her real family." he let go of Jace's arm, shoving him away and sending him spiraling on the cobble. He drew his dagger, twirling it. "Do you really think anyone believes your charade, nephew? That you actually like her?"

Jacaerys got back to his feet, unsheathing his sword. His grip was shaky, but with some intention. "You know nothing, uncle! I care for her— we are to be married!" he professed the words with hollow conviction, a dullness behind his deep brown eyes giving way to his true emotion: doubt.

"You care for her? If that's true, you'll climb upon your puny dragon and go back to Dragonstone with your tail tucked between your legs. Cry to your mummy and tell her to cease this silly charade of war— and never, ever mention Shera's name again. She's too good for the likes of you, bastard." Aemond spat.

Jacaerys surged forward, sloppy and fueled by anger alone. Aemond shouldered his blow, clashing the metal of his dagger with the shortsword. "A rematch, then, nephew? I don't believe your guard dog is here to so valiantly come to your side, is he?" the elder prince taunted, felling another haphazard strike– sparks flew from their respective weapons, years of resentment, the bullying, prods and exchanges, taking his Shera, it had all finally come to a head. An elude to a dance between them.

Metal bit metal, flickers of those flames bleeding from their blades with each strike, strike, strike.

"Since you very well fancy yourself a dragonrider, nephew," Aemond continued to tease, gaining ground on Jacaerys with ease. "How about we take this fight to the skies, hm? Vhagar would do well with a snack out of your shitty little whelp." he cocked his head to the side as lightning struck behind them, near the sea. The skies churned and toiled, swirling like a threatening witch's brew. Then came the thunder, rumbling and shaking the ground beneath them. "I shall give you a head start," Aemond hummed, twirling his blade. "Run."

It was a blur of adrenaline, the pressure of the storm and something ancient brewing in his blood. He did not remember mounting Vhagar and beginning the chase. But as the rain pelted his face like shards of ice piercing his soul, his whole body sung. It was alight with fire, with molten lava straight from the molten hells of Old Valyria. Vhagar rumbled beneath him, as if to share sentiment with his thoughts.

"Dakogon, valītsos!" Run, boy! He yelled into the raging storm, not caring that he was thoroughly soaked to the bone. He felt alive.

The blur of Vermax dodging and weaving through the clouds, above and below the storm, was all Aemond saw besides the red in his vision. Crimson fury coursed through him as he thought back to Driftmark, feeling a ghost of the pain light up his nerves. The roar of the storm was muted over the ringing, the white noise playing in his ears, the echo of his own screams as a child being mutilated. He never told Shera, nay, anyone, but he had heard her cries. He had heard the colluding of his family to murder her.

"Kill her! She's going to tell on us, Baela!" one of the other kids had cried.

"I-I can't! I can't kill her, Jace!" Baela wailed back. "T-That would be... wrong!"

What was left of his strength at that moment, Aemond mustered it. Baela had the knife pressed to Shera's throat, hand shaking. The Stark girl was eerily still, soft whimpering cries coming from her. Blood was everywhere, the whites of her eyes no longer white, but stained red.

He would save her, he had to!

He hardly remembered moving, it was all autonomous, as he pushed his cousin's arm wielding the knife away–

The tunnel was silent, save for the noise of sickly gurgling as blood filled Shera's throat. It wasn't the action of Baela that cut it. It was Aemond's paltry attempt to save her.

It was truly an accident.

Aemond was pulled out of the memory by Vhagar's agitated roar, Vermax spitting fire at her from in front. It wouldn't hurt the old dragon, no, the whelp's flames didn't burn hot enough for that. But it was an annoyance to her– she was the Queen of Dragons, how could a lowly little hatchling think himself big enough to challenge her? Any semblance of clarity in Aemond's clouded mind was snuffed out at Vermax's display of aggression.

Instead, he plunged deeper into it. He embraced the madness. "Ao sylugon naejot vīlībagon se dāria zaldrīzoti, nādrēsy?" You dare challenge the Queen of Dragons, bastard? "Kesan jikagon ao arlī naejot aōha muña isse ñuqir!" I will send you back to your mother in ashes.

An updraft lifted Vhagar, her gargantuan wings billowing like sails as she rode the wind. They were approaching a craggy outcrop of cliffs which would spell doom for any would-be sailor. But they were not sailors. Tucking in her wings, she dove downward towards Vermax. Vhagar was not the fastest dragon by any means, but her size coupled with gravity pulling downward made her as fast as an arrow, barrelling towards the pair.

They were at war. It would be justified, surely. It was on the tip of his tongue. Dra—

No. No.

"Keligon," he whispered. Stop. "Keligon, Vhagar!" Stop! He pulled at the reins to steer them towards the open sea.

Vermax and Jacaerys Velaryon disappeared into the hovel of crags, just small enough to slip into them.

Vhagar protested, growling, snarling, blowing fire into the air as they skimmed the surface of the ocean, more water spraying across Aemond's face, some droplets turned to stinging steam.

Why did he stop?

He could've killed Jacaerys and then Rhaenyra's side would be down one dragonrider. Shera would not be betrothed any longer. It would be revenge.

But– he remembered Shera rambling about something a few weeks prior.

Shera held a red leaf between her thumb and forefinger, observing it with a careful gaze. They had liaised into the Godswood after his morning training. She was wearing her usual garb of black and white with a lacy train that was getting caught in the twigs and grass as she walked. Her veil was off of her face, pulled to rest behind her neck for a moment of reprieve.

"The leaves are falling," she murmured, her moonstone jewelry on her hands shining as the sunlight filtered through waving foliage. "Do you think the Gods are watching us, Aemond?"

He glanced at her as he was loosening his armored gauntlets, unstrapping the leather beneath them. "Mayhaps."

"They're selective when they do see, don't they? What makes a God? And what are we..." she dropped the leaf, letting it float away on the breeze. "But just spaces in between? We wish to be blessed by being good, by adhering to their rules. The faith of the Seven condemn bastardry as a sin. The old Gods of the North behold guest rights as an immutable law. Both hold Kinslaying to the highest of faults, none are more damned than a Kinslayer," her eye met Aemond's as she tilted her head. "I want to believe in it all, to be good, to appease... but sometimes I feel as if it's never enough. It seems they only pay attention when you are to be cursed for your wrongdoings."

Aemond clenched his jaw as he guided Vhagar back to King's Landing.

—

"You're inevitable, you've always been." he muttered, loosening the fingertips of his gloves before removing them.

Shera poked her head up from the doorway, nightgown billowing around her like a ghostly shift. It was late— extremely so. The candles had burnt out, the only light available illuminating from the moon. "Aem... ond?" she squeaked, voice laden with sleep. A poor pageboy had been sent to wake her, the shaken lad citing 'The prince requested your presence immediately in his chambers'. It remained a mystery to her how Aemond had even found a servant at this ungodly hour.

"Why are you inevitable to me? It's as if I'm looking at my death when I see you, think of you— you're a parasite upon my own mind, like I have no self control." he continued, his silhouette outlined by the moonlight. One hand was clutched at his head, fingers running through his hair. The luminosity glared off of the sapphire embedded into his socket— he looked quite mad. Mad in a beautiful, haunting sort of way.

Shera thought them made for one another. "I'm... I'm sorry," she said, slipping into the room and closing the door behind her. Moongeist had escorted her, but he was left outside the chamber now. It was only her and Aemond. "I didn't think... I occupied so much of your mind."

"I could've killed him tonight, you know. Chased his whelp of a dragon through the storm and scattered him across the bay," Aemond rambled on, not addressing that Shera was even speaking. "I should have. Put the title of Kinslayer on me, over my head. I'm already damned."

Walking closer, he was soaked head to toe, rain water still dripping from his leathers. His hair clung to his skin, curled softly in its dampness. It almost brought a smile to her face, the curls she thought he lost were still there— but the mood of the room, the distant rumble of thunder, was oppressive. It felt like a hood over their heads.

"Would you still love me if I was a Kinslayer?" he turned to her completely. Even in the dark, she could see the smallest rim of violet in his eye— eclipsed by his blown out pupil. His expression was blank, mood unknowable.

Her stomach twisted at his words, legs feeling shaky beneath her once more. She hadn't told him that she loves him, afraid of denial, rejection. Taking a seat in his desk chair before him, she looked up. "Y-you... you must know," she whispered hoarsely. "You must know my feelings."

"Speak it into existence, Shera," the prince pleaded, almost. "Make it real." he got on his knees now before her, putting his hands in her lap, palms up— as if he was praying. His head laid sideways on her thighs as he looked onto the darkness, ear up, waiting.

Her heart plummeted to her stomach, to the deepest depths of the hells below them. She never thought herself brave, no, she was quite cowardly, in truth. She would catch a fright from odd shadows and most certainly would never stand up to the face of adversity. She wasn't made for it. But this— this was something she needed to do. It wasn't an act of bravery nor valor. It was selfish, cowardly. The words she spoke made it real between them both. And they could not be taken back. Her lips parted slowly, her voice soft as she whispered into his ear. "I love you. I love you irrevocably, irreversibly, irresponsibly, all consumingly," her words were jagged and unhewn, but it was so much like them. "You are everything, Aemond."

Aemond let out the smallest puff of air from his nostrils. He still did not speak, nor verbally reciprocate her declaration. He was, of course, a man of action. His hands slid up to her face, pulling her downward into a ferocious kiss. It wasn't the sweet one they had shared in the Godswood before— no, this was different. It was the exchanges of breath, tethered to one another's oxygen like lifelines. His fingers threaded in her hair, tugging, teasing.

The heat in the room was rising, much like the fervor of their kisses. Tongues fighting, fingers roaming to snatch at exposed skin— anything to be closer, as close as they could be without their veins intertwining. Soon enough, Aemond lifted her up from her seat with one arm, not breaking their connection for even a second.

"You," he huffed between her lips as he sat her down at the edge of the bed. "Are mine. You are mine," his hands left her body as he unbuttoned his soaked jerkin and discarded it to the side carelessly.

"Yours," she echoed, her voice not sounding like her own. It was an autonomous thing, to give oneself to another, wholly and completely.

Laying back on the bed, her nightgown pooled beside her like silver ichor. The ichor slipped through his fingers like silk, pulling it taut. Aemond pauses for a moment, throat bobbing in an unheard ask for consent to go further. Despite his bravado with starting it, there was an air of apprehension swirling around him, an uncertainty that was almost unheard of with Aemond.

She knew it right away, seeing that own feeling within herself many times. Warmth grew in her chest as she reassured him without words, both hands making a home on his face as she swept him into a kiss that left no room for any other interpretation: she wanted him. Desperately.

To her delight, it seemed he felt the same, if the hardness prodding against her stomach was any indication. He peeled away her lone garment, leaving her bare before him. He blinked, chest rising and falling with a slow, feather light motion. He was observing her with extreme scrutiny, much as he had when he sketched her before. This was something he wanted— needed— to commit to memory. Then, after what felt like an eternity of staring, he let out a deep breath, hands back on her once more. His fingers notched themselves in the soft skin of her hips, silently marveling at them with a less than subtle squeeze.

They didn't need words between them. Not now, not for this. Words only got in the way, cluttering what could so clearly be said with action. With reaction. Shera let out a gentle sigh as he continued his exploration, palming her heavy breast, once again giving a squeeze. On mere instinct, to want more, to taste more, her lips latched to his neck and jawline. He wriggled out of his smallclothes and finally there was nothing between them.

Nothing but skin and warmth, on display for one another. All of their collective scars washed away with their extremities as their chests cracked open, bones falling away with all pretense, all duty, all expectation. It was just them. The two colors of their souls mingling together rightfully at last.

He prodded gently at her entrance, testing for any discomfort. She sung her consent by melding their lips together again, tongues taking one another and savoring as her arms looped around his neck, pulling him impossibly close. As he breached her, sliding in slowly, Shera paused for a moment, mouth open against his, peering at him beneath fettered lashes.

His eye was closed— the one he could still see from. The other, embedded with the sapphire, did not close completely. The puckered skin tried, eclipsing the gem ever so slightly, leaving a crescent of blue to shine through. Aemond's brow was furrowed, lips pursed in deep concentration as he finally bottomed out inside of her, hand clutched against her thigh, fingers indenting against her skin.

It didn't feel right to say anything else at the moment, truly. Her heart hung so heavy in her chest that she feared it would abscond from her ribcage and fall upon the floor. Softly and almost inaudibly, she whispered against his lips. "I love you."

Theirs was a muffled pleasure, besotted by one another's presence that all sound ceased. Only once they had finished, the union of dragon and wolf, Aemond planting his seed deep inside of her, did he speak. "I love you."

–

It was silent, save for the tandem pitter-patter of two bare feet and four paws. Her heart fluttered in her chest, her body still tingling from the encounter. She still felt his hands on her waist, his lips on the soft column of her neck– he absolutely worshiped her after they got over the awkwardness.

It felt like second nature after the initial moments– it felt right, to give themselves to one another, to profess so strongly...

She couldn't stop smiling. Her cheeks hurt, actually hurt, from smiling so much. When has she ever experienced something like this in her life?

Her fingers skimmed Moongeist's soft fur as they went back to her chambers. She had wanted to stay with Aemond, to sleep beside him, to wake up next to him– she had to put mind over matter when she left while he was sleeping. She always figured him a light sleeper due to his incessant training with Ser Cole. She was surprised to learn that he even slept at all. When she had awoken from the tiny nap after their coupling, he was, in fact, asleep– soundly, even.

This was probably the only time he did sleep. She giggled to herself as she imagined it again, sipping at her herbal tea left on the side table, left presumably by the maids. It was lukewarm and could use a bit of heat. When did they leave this?

Perched on the settee, she attempted to cross one leg over the other, but was met with a dull, aching pain in the apex of her thighs.

Oh, right.

Her mind began to swirl as she thought of Aemond waking up... and seeing that she wasn't there. Would he be upset? Angry? Despondent?

Their time together for the past half year had been enlightening. About herself, about Aemond. The fact of it was– he was just as damaged as she was. He had just mastered the art of masking it. She had a lot to learn from him.

Mayhaps she should write him a note– saying she didn't want to leave, that she liked what they did, that she loved him, that she wanted to do it again and soon because she was absolutely aching for him–

She needed to calm down, beginning to feel wanton. Her head felt full of cotton, leaking from her ears like one of one of the stuffies that Moongeist destroyed as a puppy. Grabbing a quill and piece of loose parchment from the table.

I have always liked blue.

What color do you think we make together?

I think it would be a shade of periwinkle, a beautiful layering of vinca on the forest floor.

Please return to me. And we shall see what color we make.

I feel bereft without you.

She did not address it, nor sign it– Aemond should know her handwriting by now, shouldn't he? As she folded it up, fuzzy bundles of sheep's wool cotton spread across the room. When she tried to move, intending to stand up, a sudden illness rose through her, the quill slipping out of her hand. As she stood up, her vision went sideways. Moongeist began to whine, prodding at her hand with his wet nose.

This wasn't normal– to be frank, nothing about her usual illnesses was normal. But this was different. She was numb in her extremities, shots of ice spreading through her fingers and toes. It felt like being caught beyond the wall in the maw of an ice dragon, rime-wrought teeth burying into her skin. Moongeist was growling suddenly, snarling and snapping his jaws. She hadn't heard him so upset in so long, nary ever.

"Bloody fuckin' hell! There's a damn wolf in here!" an unfamiliar voice boomed.

Who is that? What is happening? Shera clutched the fabric of the chaise as she attempted to right herself, to right her mind and rid it of the cacophony of butterflies that were making a host in her ears.

"'Course there is, damn rogue wouldn't mention it! Stave 'em off while I grab the girl." another voice responded.

Please don't. Please don't touch me. Moongeist snarled, she heard, his body barrelling toward one of the intruders, knocking over furniture in his way. The wolf was a force to be reckoned with, sizing up to the burglar's height with ease, over six feet when standing on his hind legs.

The former man's voice wailed, his scream bloodcurdling, followed by a sickly crunch. "Fuck! Fuck! My fuckin' fingers!"

Strong and careless arms hoisted Shera up, her vision still spinning. "S-St... stop... stop," she whimpered, her limbs feeling like jelly. She tried to wrestle out of his grasp– he smelled terrible. Twisting her body as much as she could, she wriggled against him.

"Shut up, shut up," he grunted, looking around the room as Moongeist mauled his companion.

He tore out a chunk of flesh from his arm, then silenced him by ripping out his throat. The first intruder gave a sickly gurgling noise before he went still.

The man holding Shera bolted towards the opening behind the bookcase.

"A-Ae-," Shera rose her voice, trying her damndest to yell, to scream. Her consciousness faded like a failsafe, her voice cut off by a sharp hit to her throat. It felt like a steel ball ripping through her, her voice going dead and falling from her tongue like vomit.

She felt blood in her mouth, flesh in her teeth. She needed the violence, the rage–

I'll fucking kill you. I'll rip you apart, you fucking craven.

She slipped into Moongeist's being with ease, with urgency, jaws snapping as they whipped around, seeing her corporeal body being taken away.

No, no, no!

They howled, lamenting.

NO!

Their paws moved fast, chest heaving, lungs ballooning and deflating– so close, so close.

The bookshelf closed in their face. They howled again, their song filled with anguish. Their nails scratched against the wood, tearing books apart and splinters embedding into their paws. The physical pain was nothing– nothing compared to the tether between lady and wolf wavering. It flitted across the breeze, pulled taut, taut, taut.

Lost.

Taken.

Stolen.

SNAP.

The cord was severed. She was back in her own body again. Her nose was bleeding. She couldn't speak. She was well and truly silenced now.

Her vision went dark again as she heard the distant sound of seagulls.