The throne room of the Red Keep is suffused with a grim quiet, the kind that seeps into the stone walls and settles like dust in the corners. The great iron throne looms at the far end, an imposing relic of a thousand swords fused by dragonfire. It casts long, jagged shadows that stretch across the floor, reaching almost to where Aemond Targaryen sits in silent contemplation.

Aemond has never been one to deceive himself. He knows what he did at Rook's Rest was more than just the elimination of a threat; it was a statement. Aegon's weakness is laid bare now for all to see, the charred remnants of his body a testament to his frailty. And Aemond... Aemond is strong. He is the true heir, the rightful ruler, the one with the vision and the will to shape the realm as it should be.

The room is cold, but Aemond doesn't feel it. His mind is sharp, focused, already moving through the necessary steps that will follow his brother's arrival. The maesters will tend to Aegon's wounds, of course, though Aemond doubts they can do much to mend what he's done. Aegon is more dead than alive, clinging to life through sheer stubbornness, but even that won't be enough. His brother's reign is over, whether or not his heart still beats.

And when that final breath is drawn, the Seven Kingdoms will fall into Aemond's hands. The thought sends a surge of satisfaction through him, though he does not smile. This is his destiny, the culmination of everything he has ever fought for, everything he has ever desired. The throne will be his, and with it, the power to shape the world in his image.

Yet, despite the certainty of his rise, there is one element that gives him pause. One piece of the puzzle that has always eluded him, one force that has ever been beyond his control. Vaemyra.

His wife, his one true love, the woman who is as much a part of him as the very blood in his veins. Aemond closes his eye and pictures her as he saw her last—fierce and beautiful, a storm of white hair and green eyes, with the fire of a dragon in her heart. She is the embodiment of everything he desires, the one soul in this world who understands him, who matches him in both passion and ambition.

But Vaemyra is also a threat. She is wanted for treason, condemned by the crown for attempting to kill Aegon during his coronation. Aemond's fingers curl into a fist at the thought, the leather of his gloves creaking softly in the silent hall. He knows Vaemyra's heart, knows that she was driven by the same ambition that drives him now. She sought to claim what should have been hers by blood and marriage, and for that, she has been hunted like a criminal.

The thought of Vaemyra in exile, hiding from her enemies, fills Aemond with a burning rage. She should be here, by his side, preparing to rule as his queen. Together, they could forge a new world, a world of strength and unity, where the Targaryen bloodline would reign supreme, unchallenged. But instead, she is forced to skulk in the shadows, a fugitive in her own land, because of his weak, pathetic brother.

Aemond forces himself to relax, unclenching his fists and taking a deep breath. The time will come when he can set things right. He will claim the throne, and once he is king, he will bring Vaemyra back to him. He will pardon her, declare her innocence, and crown her as his queen. And then, together, they will burn away the rot that has infested the Seven Kingdoms, just as he burned away Aegon's claim.

He can almost see it now, the image of Vaemyra seated beside him on the Iron Throne, her hand in his, her eyes glowing with the same fire that blazes within him. They will be unstoppable, a force of nature, a storm that will sweep away all who dare stand in their way.

The sound of footsteps echoes through the hall, breaking Aemond from his reverie. He opens his eye and watches as a group of maesters, followed by a contingent of guards, enter the King's chambers. In their midst, barely conscious, is Aegon. His face is almost unrecognizable, half of it burned beyond recognition, the flesh charred and blackened. The stench of burned flesh fills the room, and Aemond watches without emotion as his brother is gently lowered onto the bed.

The maesters swarm around Aegon like vultures, murmuring to each other as they begin their work. Aemond does not move, his gaze fixed on his brother's broken form. Aegon's eyes flutter open for a moment, unfocused and filled with pain, but there is a flicker of recognition there when he sees Aemond.

Aemond meets his brother's gaze, and for a moment, they simply stare at each other. There is no love lost between them, no bond of brotherhood. Aegon knows what Aemond did to him, knows that his own brother tried to kill him. .

Without a word, Aemond rises from his seat and walks over to where the maesters are tending to Aegon. He stands at the foot of the pallet, his hands clasped behind his back, and waits.

Aemond remains where he is, watching as they apply salves and poultices to Aegon's burns, as they carefully wrap his wounds in bandages. His brother moans in pain, his body trembling, but Aemond feels nothing. No pity, no remorse. This is simply the way of things.

Aegon's reign is over, whether he lives or dies. And when the crown passes to Aemond, as it inevitably will, he will not mourn his brother's passing. He will embrace his destiny, and he will make the Seven Kingdoms bow to his will. And Vaemyra... she will be at his side, his queen, his equal in every way that matters.

The thought fills him with a dark satisfaction, and for a moment, he allows himself to imagine what it will be like when he finally sits upon the Iron Throne. The power, the control, the ability to shape the realm as he sees fit. It is everything he has ever wanted, everything he has ever fought for.

And yet, there is a part of him that knows this is only the beginning. The real challenge will come once he has the throne, once he has the crown. For there will always be those who seek to challenge him, to take what is rightfully his. And he will have to be ever vigilant, ever ruthless, to ensure that no one ever dares to defy him.

But he is ready for that. He has been preparing for this moment his entire life. And with Vaemyra by his side, there is nothing he cannot achieve.

Aegon's breathing becomes more labored, the sound of it raspy and uneven. The maesters exchange worried glances, but they continue their work, applying more salves, whispering prayers to the gods. But Aemond knows it is futile. Aegon is slipping away, and soon, the throne will be his.

He steps back, allowing the maesters more room, and turns to leave the chamber. There is nothing more for him to do here. His mind is already racing ahead, planning his next moves, considering the alliances he will need to forge, the enemies he will need to eliminate.

And, of course, there is Vaemyra. He must find a way to bring her back to him, to clear her name, to make her his queen. The thought of her fills him with a fierce longing, a need that borders on obsession. She is his, and he will have her, no matter the cost.

As he walks through the dark corridors of the Red Keep, his footsteps echoing off the stone walls, Aemond's mind is already crafting the future he envisions. The Seven Kingdoms will be his to rule, and with Vaemyra by his side, they will be unstoppable. The realm will tremble at their feet, and their enemies will be crushed beneath their heels.

But he is ready. He has waited his entire life for this moment, and he will not be denied.

The throne will be his. The realm will be his. And Vaemyra... Vaemyra will be his queen.

Vaemyra Targaryen stands in the cold, unyielding silence of Harrenhal's grand hall, its vaulted ceiling looming overhead like the open jaws of a great beast. The torches sputter, their weak flames casting erratic shadows that dance across the stone walls, whispering secrets in a language older than man. The air is thick with a palpable sense of malevolence, the very stones of the castle seemingly alive with a cursed memory, whispering to her, taunting her with the weight of history and bloodshed that has seeped into this place over centuries.

She forces herself to move, her steps measured and deliberate as she navigates the labyrinth of corridors that twist and turn like the serpentine paths of her mind. To any observer, she is the picture of Targaryen elegance—head held high, her silver hair cascading down her back, her green eyes sharp and focused. But beneath that regal facade, Vaemyra's thoughts are anything but calm. Her heart beats a frantic rhythm, echoing the pulse of the curse that seems to course through these halls.

Something is watching her. She feels it in every fiber of her being, a creeping sensation that crawls up her spine and settles at the nape of her neck like the touch of a cold hand. The shadows in Harrenhal are alive, shifting, muttering, conspiring against her. The curse of this place is ancient and potent, and it delights in preying on her deepest fears, gnawing at the edges of her sanity.

Vaemyra's paranoia, a constant companion even in the best of times, now warps into something more sinister. It is not the calculated suspicion that has kept her alive through years of treachery and war. No, this is something deeper, more primal—a sense of impending doom that grips her heart with icy claws. She has faced death many times, but here in Harrenhal, it feels as though the walls themselves conspire to consume her, to reduce her to nothing more than a ghost in the tower, a madwoman driven to despair by the weight of curses she cannot escape.

She is not a woman prone to fear, but here... here, she feels dread, pure and unfiltered. It slithers into her mind like a serpent, coiling around her thoughts, squeezing tighter and tighter until she can scarcely breathe.

She rounds a corner, her heart skipping a beat as she sees the massive weirwood tree standing stark and ancient in the courtyard, its white bark glowing eerily in the moonlight. Its red leaves shiver in the breeze, like a thousand bleeding eyes staring down at her, judging her. The faces carved into its trunk are twisted in expressions of agony and malice, their sightless eyes boring into her soul. Vaemyra shudders, pulling her cloak tighter around her shoulders, but she does not avert her gaze. She will not show weakness, not even to the dead.

Yet despite her best efforts, she cannot shake the sense of foreboding that settles in her bones. The air around the weirwood is thick with a power that feels ancient and malevolent, a force that does not belong to the Targaryens or even to the old gods. It is something older, something that predates the arrival of men to these lands. It wants her. She can feel it.r.

Vaemyra stands before the ancient weirwood tree, its gnarled branches reaching out like the twisted fingers of an old crone, casting long shadows that stretch across the ground and seem to writhe with a life of their own. The tree's pale bark gleams in the twilight, its carved face staring down at her with red, bleeding eyes. The sight of it makes her skin crawl, a cold shiver running down her spine as if the tree itself is whispering something vile in her ear.

She doesn't know how she got here. One moment, she was in the halls of Harrenhal, trying to quell the rising dread that has plagued her since she arrived. The next, she was standing here, at the edge of the Gods Eye, the still, dark waters of the lake reflecting the dying light of the day. It's as though she's been drawn here by some unseen force, a call she couldn't resist even if she wanted to.

The feeling of dread deepens, settling into her bones, making her blood run cold. Something terrible is going to happen. She can feel it in the air, in the oppressive silence that hangs over the lake, in the way the wind seems to hold its breath. She is not a dreamer; she has no gift for prophecy, but this is something more primal, an instinct buried deep within her that screams of impending doom. Her mind is a whirlwind of fear and confusion, and try as she might, she cannot shake the feeling that she is standing on the precipice of a great and terrible fate.

Vaemyra's green eyes fixate on the weirwood, and for a moment, she feels as though the face carved into its trunk is watching her, judging her, waiting for something. The face seems to shift, the expressions contorting into something that resembles both a warning and a curse. She feels like a child before it, insignificant and vulnerable, and the feeling infuriates her. Here she is, trembling like a leaf in the wind.

As the wind begins to pick up, rustling the leaves of the weirwood, she becomes aware of another presence, someone watching her. She tenses, her hand instinctively reaching for the dagger at her waist, but she does not draw it. Instead, she turns slowly, her eyes narrowing as she scans the treeline for any sign of movement.

And then she sees her.

A woman emerges from the shadows of the forest, her dark hair flowing like a river of ink over her shoulders. She moves with an eerie grace, as if the earth itself parts for her, allowing her to glide across it without disturbing a single blade of grass. Her eyes are as dark as the depths of the Gods Eye, and they fix on Vaemyra with a gaze that is both unsettling and mesmerizing.

The woman is beautiful in a way that feels dangerous, like a venomous flower luring prey with its sweet scent. She wears a dress of deep green, the color of the forest in the darkest hour of night, and around her neck hangs a simple pendant of silver, engraved with symbols that Vaemyra does not recognize. Despite the simplicity of her attire, there is an aura of power about her, something ancient and otherworldly that makes Vaemyra's heart race.

"Princess Vaemyra," The woman says, her voice smooth as silk, yet carrying an undercurrent of something far more sinister.

She dips her head in a gesture that might be mistaken for respect, but there is no humility in her tone, only confidence—confidence that she knows more than Vaemyra, that she holds some power over her.

"Who are you?" Vaemyra demands, forcing herself to stand tall, to keep her voice steady even as the dread inside her grows.

The woman smiles, a slow, knowing smile that sends a chill down Vaemyra's spine.

"Names are powerful things," She replies, as though that explains everything, "And yours is known to many, far beyond the walls of Harrenhal."

Vaemyra's eyes narrow, a spark of anger flaring within her. She doesn't like this woman, doesn't like the way she speaks as if she holds all the answers, while Vaemyra is left grasping in the dark.

"I asked who you are," She says, her tone sharper this time, a command rather than a question.

"Alys," The woman answers, her dark eyes never leaving Vaemyra's, "Alys Rivers."

The name is familiar, whispered in the halls of Harrenhal by those who speak of dark magic and the old gods, of curses and prophecies. Vaemyra knows that Alys is not a woman to be taken lightly, that she is rumored to be a witch, a sorceress with powers that defy understanding. But Vaemyra is not one to cower before such tales. She meets Alys's gaze, refusing to be intimidated.

"What do you want?" Vaemyra asks, her voice cold as ice.

She has no time for games, not when her mind is already teetering on the edge of madness.

Alys tilts her head, studying Vaemyra as if she is a particularly interesting specimen, something to be dissected and understood.

"I could ask the same of you," She says, her tone almost playful, though there is a sharpness beneath it, "Why have you come to this place?"

Vaemyra opens her mouth to respond, but the words catch in her throat. Why is she here? She doesn't know. She doesn't even know how she got here. The admission makes her feel vulnerable, and she hates it. She clenches her fists, nails digging into her palms as she struggles to regain control.

"I didn't choose to come here," She says finally, her voice quieter now, tinged with a hint of the dread that has been gnawing at her since she arrived.

Alys's smile widens, a knowing glint in her dark eyes, "The weirwoods are old, older than men, older than dragons. They see much, and sometimes they... call to those who walk beneath their boughs. Perhaps they have something to show you."

Vaemyra scoffs, though the sound is weak, lacking the usual fire of her defiance, "I don't believe in such superstitions."

"And yet," Alys murmurs, stepping closer, her voice soft, almost a whisper, "you stand before the weirwood, trembling like a child in the dark."

The words cut deep, striking at the heart of Vaemyra's fear, the fear that she is losing herself, that this place is stripping away her strength, her will. She wants to lash out, to strike Alys down for daring to speak to her in such a way, but something holds her back. A part of her—a small, terrified part—wonders if Alys is right, if there is something in this cursed place that she needs to see, something that has been waiting for her.

"What do you know of this place?" Vaemyra asks, her voice barely more than a whisper.

The question is born of desperation, a need for answers that she cannot find on her own.

Alys's smile softens, becoming almost sympathetic, though there is still that unsettling confidence in her eyes, "I know that Harrenhal is a place of great power, of old magic that lingers in the stones and the earth. It is a place where the past and the future converge, where the boundaries between worlds grow thin."

Vaemyra feels a surge of anger at the vague, cryptic answer.

"You speak in riddles, like all the rest," She snaps, her temper flaring, "Tell me what you know, or leave me in peace."

Alys raises an eyebrow, unperturbed by Vaemyra's outburst, "You want the truth? The truth is that this place is cursed, and that curse is not something that can be fought or defeated. It is a force of nature, as old as the weirwoods themselves, and it will consume all who stand against it."

Vaemyra's breath catches in her throat, the weight of Alys's words pressing down on her like a physical force.

"Then why are you here?" She asks, her voice trembling despite herself, "Why have you not been consumed?"

Alys's eyes darken, and for a moment, she looks almost sad, almost vulnerable.

"Perhaps I have been," She says softly, "Or perhaps I am simply biding my time."

The words send a shiver down Vaemyra's spine, but there is something in Alys's tone, in her expression, that makes Vaemyra pause. For all her bravado, for all her power, Alys is still human, still bound by the same fears and desires that plague all mortals.

"I don't want to be consumed," Vaemyra says quietly, the admission slipping out before she can stop it, "I want to rule, to conquer, to make the Seven Kingdoms bow before me."

Alys's gaze softens, and she steps closer, her presence warm and comforting in the cold, oppressive night.

"Then you must be strong," She murmurs, her voice low and soothing, "Stronger than the curse, stronger than the fear that grips you."

Vaemyra meets her gaze, searching for any sign of deceit, but all she finds is a quiet, unwavering certainty. Alys is offering her something, something that Vaemyra cannot quite grasp, but she knows that it is important, that it could change everything.

"What do you want from me?" Vaemyra asks, her voice barely more than a whisper, the words laced with both fear and hope.

Alys's smile returns, but this time it is different, softer, more genuine, "The Iron Throne is not meant for you, Vaemyra. It is a seat of power, yes, but also of death and destruction. It will bring you nothing but sorrow, and in the end, it will consume you, just as it has consumed all who have sought to claim it."

Vaemyra's heart pounds in her chest, her blood boiling with anger at Alys's words. How dare she say such things, how dare she tell her that the throne is not hers to claim? Vaemyra is a dragon, born to rule, destined to sit upon the Iron Throne and bring the Seven Kingdoms to heel. She will not be denied her birthright, not by anyone, not even by this so-called witch.

"You're wrong," Vaemyra snaps, her voice filled with fury, "The throne is mine by right, and I will take it, no matter the cost."

Alys doesn't flinch, doesn't waver, her expression calm and unyielding.

"The throne will bring you death," She says simply, as if stating an undeniable truth, "And those you love will pay the price for your ambition."

Vaemyra's hand tightens around the hilt of her dagger, her anger surging to the surface.

"You dare to threaten me?" She hisses, her voice low and dangerous.

Alys shakes her head, her dark eyes filled with a strange sadness, "I do not threaten. I only warn."

Vaemyra's grip on the dagger tightens further, her knuckles turning white, but before she can draw the blade, Alys steps closer, her voice dropping to a whisper that sends a shiver down Vaemyra's spine.

"You can try to take the throne," Alys murmurs, her breath warm against Vaemyra's ear, "But it will be your undoing."

The words hang in the air, heavy and foreboding, and for a moment, Vaemyra is frozen in place, unable to move, unable to breathe. Alys steps back, her dark eyes locked onto Vaemyra's, a knowing smile playing on her lips.

Vaemyra's heart races, her mind a whirlwind of fear and fury, but deep down, a part of her knows that Alys is right, that the path she is on will lead to nothing but ruin. But she cannot turn back now. She has come too far, sacrificed too much, to abandon her quest for the throne. She must press on, no matter the cost, no matter the danger.

"You're wrong," Vaemyra whispers, her voice trembling with a mix of anger and fear, "I will take the throne, and I will make the Seven Kingdoms mine."

Alys's smile widens, a glimmer of something dark and ancient in her eyes.

"We shall see," She says softly, her voice carrying the weight of centuries, of prophecy and fate.

And with that, she turns and walks away, leaving Vaemyra standing alone before the weirwood, the weight of her words pressing down on her like a heavy cloak. Vaemyra watches her go, her heart pounding in her chest, the dread that has haunted her since she arrived at Harrenhal now heavier than ever.

And in the depths of her heart, beneath the layers of anger and defiance, a seed of doubt takes root, growing slowly, steadily, in the darkness.

Vaemyra paces restlessly, her heart ensnared by a creeping dread. The walls of the cursed castle seem to press inward, encroaching upon her space, suffocating her with their ancient, oppressive weight. The air is thick with the tang of old stone and the smoldering remnants of forgotten magic, swirling around her, seeping into her pores, disorienting her senses.

Each step she takes resonates with a hollow echo, the sound bouncing off the walls and returning to her like whispers from the past. She stops momentarily, her gaze darting around the dimly lit room, half-expecting the shadows to coalesce into forms both feared and familiar. Her breathing grows erratic, a fine sheen of sweat glistening on her brow as the heavy air of Harrenhal stifles her.

Suddenly, the heavy wooden door creaks open, a sliver of light cutting through the darkness, heralding an apparition that makes Vaemyra's heart skip a beat. Laena Velaryon, her first and most profound love, steps through the threshold, her presence as radiant and ethereal as the moonlight that seems to follow her.

Laena's silver hair cascades down her shoulders like a waterfall of light. She wears a simple gown, the fabric shimmering with every movement, enhancing her ethereal beauty.

"Laena..." Vaemyra breathes out the name like a sacred incantation, her voice trembling with a cocktail of disbelief and longing.

Her rational mind screams that this cannot be real, that Laena is gone, lost to the cruel twists of fate, and buried beneath the weight of her royal obligations. But the heart wants what it wants, and in this moment, her heart overrules her mind with an iron fist.

Laena smiles, a soft, tender expression that melts Vaemyra's reservations. She steps closer, and the scent of sea and summer flowers envelops Vaemyra, a sensory echo of days long passed. Her eyes fill with tears, unbidden, as she reaches out to touch Laena, half-expecting her hand to pass through an illusion.

But it doesn't. Her fingers meet warm skin, the familiar softness of Laena's cheek beneath her touch. It's real. It has to be.

"Is it truly you?" Vaemyra whispers, her voice thick with emotion.

Laena's nod, gentle and reassuring, prompts Vaemyra to pull her closer, their bodies meeting with an electric shock of familiarity and desire.

Without a word, they kiss, a desperate, clinging kiss that seeks to bridge the years of separation, to heal the wounds of loss and regret. Laena's lips are just as Vaemyra remembers—soft, insistent, tasting of salt and sweetness.

The dream, for it must be a dream, unfolds with the vividness of reality. Clothes are shed in a silent agreement, dropped to the floor with an urgency born of a hunger long denied. They find themselves in bed, the sheets cool against their heated skin, each touch, each kiss reigniting the passion that had never truly died.

Laena's hands are gentle yet confident as they explore Vaemyra's body, reacquainting themselves with curves and contours that had once been as familiar as her own. Vaemyra reciprocates, her hands tracing patterns of desire on Laena's skin, relearning her every sigh and shiver.

As they move together, the world outside fades away, leaving only the immediacy of their love, a love that transcends time and reality. Vaemyra loses herself in the sensation, in the profound rightness of being with Laena once more. It's as if no time has passed, as if they are still those young lovers stealing moments in hidden corners, dreaming of a future they could never have.

In the throes of passion, Vaemyra clings to the dream, to the illusion of a life where Laena is still hers, where they can be together without the shadows of duty and death looming over them. The pleasure is sharp, a poignant reminder of what she has lost, but also of what she has, for these fleeting moments, regained.

The night deepens, and they lie together in the afterglow, Laena's head resting on Vaemyra's shoulder, their fingers intertwined. Vaemyra's heart beats a steady, comforting rhythm, a counterpoint to the chaos that usually reigns within her. Here, in this dream, she finds peace, a sanctuary from the madness that threatens to consume her.

Because in the end, when all is said and done, it is our memories, our dreams, that define us, that sustain us through the darkest of times. And Vaemyra, with her heart full of love and her mind teetering on the brink of madness, needs this dream more than she has ever needed anything in her life.

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