𐬿𐬾✽༄𐬾༅☽𐬾𐬿

𝖈𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝖙𝖜𝖔
—𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖔𝖓𝖊-𝖊𝖞𝖊𝖉 𝖐𝖎𝖓𝖘𝖑𝖆𝖞𝖊𝖗

𐬿𐬾☽༅𐬾༄✽𐬿𐬾

—𝕬 𝖜𝖊𝖊𝖐 𝖍𝖆𝖉 𝖈𝖔𝖒𝖊 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖌𝖔𝖓𝖊 𝖘𝖎𝖓𝖈𝖊 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝕲𝖗𝖊𝖊𝖓 Star fell.

𝔚ith soft morning light spilling over her ethereal features, Daerys strolls through the terrace garden, lost in the depths of her mind. Her thoughts plagued with worry for her beloved brothers, who have been so distressed.

𝔖he's hardly seen them in the days since the star's fall. For many an hour, they circle the Bone Mountains whilst calling out to something. What this something is, nobody knew, not even their mother or sister.

ℑt all pains her heart. She misses their melodic songs and the hours they spend together basking beneath the sun or dancing above the Painted Mountains.

𝔇aerys expels a soft breath, deciding not to dwell on those thoughts. They will return, they always do.

𝔗he Dothraki named it Shierak Dahaan, the Green Star. Another fallen star, but not the Bleeding Star that fell the night of her and her brothers' birth.

𝔗yrion thought it meant something symbolic. Like the Hightower beacon glowing green when Oldtown calls its banners to war.

"It seems Westeros is eager to have us." He said to her. 'Twas a joke, but she didn't laugh. To her father's people, war may be nothing but sport, but she knew 'twas no trivial matter.

𝔏ord Varys believes it to be the Asshai'i meddling, as Shierak Dahaan was last spotted falling east into the Jade Sea near the Shadow Lands. The sailors whom saw it sink beneath the waves swore the sea rippled with a pulse before the night fell still once again.

𝔇aerys didn't truly know what to make of it, nor did her mother. They both felt a strange... connection to the star, but 'twas just a feeling.

𝔅ut the Green Star wasn't the only thing filling her thoughts. The fleet that will carry the Dragon Queen's great army is nearly ready. Daerys suspects in another week they will leave for Westeros–her mother's homeland.

𝔇aerys sighs, twisting and turning the rings around her fingers. The thought tingles her belly with nerves that has her knees trembling.

ℑf Westeros truly is eager to have them, what will it mean for her family? She never hears anything good come from the land across the Narrow Sea.

𝔄nother sigh falls from her lips.

"Princess?" Comes the voice of Missandei from behind her. Daerys turns to her friend, lips curving with a soft smile. "Yes?"

𝔐issandei's perfectly curved brows crease with concern, "Are you alright?"

   𝔗he young princess' shoulders rise with an intake of breath, "As..." She expels it, "... well as I can be. What is it?"

"Your presence is required in the Hall. A Red Priestess from Asshai has come with a guest."

𝔄 line forms between her brows as confusion swirls within her at Missandei's words, wondering who this guest is.

𝔇aerys walks alongside her mother's most trusted advisor down a broad marble stairwell to the Dragon Queen's splendorous audience chamber. The audience chamber is an echoing, high-ceilinged room with tiles and walls of purple marble. Tall candles burn amongst the purple marble pillars, and leather-clad Unsullied stand with their backs to the pillars.

𝔄waiting them, is the Queen, Lord Tyrion and Lord Varys, Daario Naharis, and Torgo Nudho with the Red Priestess and a hooded man beside her.

   𝔗he Princess ascends the steps to take her place at her mother's side, who sits on the plain ebony bench that she had made her throne. Daenerys Targaryen preferred to hold court from her polished bench, smooth and simple. She has always despised thrones, having broken up the previous throne of gilded wood carved in the shape of a harpy for firewood years ago.

   "My Queen, this one is Kinvara, High Priestess of the Red Temple of Volantis, the Flame of Truth, the Light of Wisdom, the First Servant of the Lord of Light." Missandei introduces.

   𝔎invara, her long mahogany hair contrasting with her pale green eyes as the jewel in her Asshai'i necklace glimmers under the pale sunlight dripping through the narrow windows, smirks with her hands clasped.

   "Queen Daenerys Stormborn and Princess Daerys the She-Dragon. It is an honor to stand in the presence of the Lord's chosen."

   𝔇aenerys gifts the woman with a smile that surpasses the beauty of the sun itself. "The Red Priests helped bring peace to Meereen. You are very welcome here, my friend. Now, who have you brought before us?"

   𝔄t this moment, the silent shadow lifts his hand and removes his hood.

𝔄ll within the hall loose their breath at the man's silver hair, like dripped starlight, and his purple eye as the Princess' heart stutters in her chest.

ℑt all comes back to her then, crashing into her like waves on the beach. The silver man astride the black stallion... and the kiss. The rosy skin of her lips tingle at the memory, and she licks them, ignoring the fluttering in her belly.

𝔗he man of her dream stands before her, in the flesh.

ℌe were beautiful, inhumanely, ethereally, so, with his chiseled features and the jagged scar bisecting his left eye down to his cheek. A Targaryen's beauty.

𝔅ut that made no sense, the last Targaryens in the world were Daenerys Stormborn and her daughter, Daerys.

𝔚ith pride beaming in her emerald irises that saw across centuries, a grin quirks Kinvara's lips, "Do you recognize him, my Queen?"

𝔗ilting her head, Daenerys' dark brows crease as her violet eyes observe the Targaryen man, "I never did receive a formal education growing up. But my brother often spoke of our great ancestors. You have brought before us... 'Prince One-Eye' Aemond Targaryen."

𝔗he one the histories refer to as the One-Eyed Kinslayer, the Terror of the Trident.

ℑt was all rather bewildering to the young Queen. She has been witness to many magic in this world. The 𝐦𝐚𝐞𝐠𝐢, the warlocks of Qarth, her own, among others. But to bring back the ancient dead, itself, 'tis not something she would've ever thought possible.

𝔇aenerys was only ever accustomed to seeing her blood in the mirror and in her daughter. For her own ancestor to stand before her, 'tis... mystifying, to say the least.

𝔅ut the good Queen does not forget her manners. "Though this is rather unexpected, I welcome you into our lifetime, Prince Aemond. I will see to it that you are provided with proper protection and a comfortable station. Any necessities you may need, I will provide for you."

𝔗he Targaryen of history in flesh bows his head in a light nod. "Thank you." His voice sent a shiver down Daerys' spine, whose wide eyes hadn't yet strayed from the prince, her ancestor, tracing his every move no matter how small.

𝔖ilence fell over the hall. All within still processing the impossible sight before them. A living ancestor.

𝔗he Shierak Dahaan, Daerys realizes. Aemond Targaryen is the green star that fell from the sky.

𝔇aenerys looks to her advisers. "I believe some introductions are in favor." She grins, breaking the silence.

𝔏ovely Missandei straightens her shoulders with a rising smirk, interlocking her hands before her stomach, "You stand in the presence of Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, Rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, Rightful Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Queen of Meereen, the Mother of Dragons, the Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, the Unburnt, the Breaker of Chains. Her daughter, Princess Daerys the She-Dragon of House Targaryen, the Heir to the Iron Throne, Khalakki of the Great Grass Sea, of the Blood of Old Valyria and the Seed of Vaes Dothrak, the Sister of Dragons, the Mare Who Mounts the World, only daughter of the Great Khal and the Dragonmother."

𝔗he ancient Targaryen's eye flits between his descendants–not direct, though, he knows they descend from Rhaenyra and Daemon's line.

   𝔗hose purple eyes, silver hair like starlight, and lips like berry wine... 'tis of no doubt, they are the blood of Old Valyria indeed. He had never seen anything quite so beautiful.

"I am Tyrion of House Lannister, Hand of the Queen." The dwarf says. He gestures to the beautiful young woman with tawny-brown skin who presented her Queen and Princess, "This is Missandei of Naath, handmaiden and most trusted advisor to the Queen." Then to the plump, bald man in golden -and-bronze robes patterned with damask and flowing lavender and pointed slippers of soft velvet. "This is Lord Varys, the Master of Spies." To the young man clad in black-leather armor, whose serious face borders on the edge of solemn. "And Grey Worm, the Commander of our Queen's Unsullied." And lastly, to the smooth-skinned man with curly hair dyed blue, his beard as well, with a curved sword on his left hip and a Myrish stiletto on his right hip–their golden hilts are a matched pair of naked women. "And Daario Naharis, Captain of the Second Sons."

𝔗he Lannister Hand grins politely, "All serving the last Targaryens in existence... until this day, it seems."

"'Tis true, then. Our house is doomed; there is no one left but you."

𝔄 frown drags Daerys' lips down at the veiled anguish swirling in the Prince's one eye only she seems to have noticed.

"No." Daenerys argues. "My daughter, my sole heir, is the future of our house. It is not doomed so long as she lives." She looks to the Red Priestess, "Why have you brought him before us?"

"I have been witness to the greatest reign in history. The Lord of Light favors the dragons, and that of their blood. He sent the Prince to bring before you."

𝔗he warrior of the Greens, but all are thinking the same thing, why the Kinslayer?

𝔗he One-Eye certainly weren't worse than Maegor the Cruel nor the Mad King, himself, but he wasn't Jaehaerys the Wise nor Aegon the Conqueror, why this Targaryen out of all whom came before and well after him?

𝔑onetheless, he is of her blood, Daenerys thinks to herself, her family, no matter who he fought against in the centuries before them. "Thank you, Kinvara." She returns her gaze to her ancestor. "I will have a chamber prepared for you, a bath drawn and supper sent to your room. Do you require anything else, my ancestor?"

𝔗he One-Eyed Kinslayer meets the Stormborn's soft gaze. "No. Thank you, Your Grace."

𝔇aenerys Targaryen, deemed the most beautiful woman in the world, grins softly at him. "No, please. I am a descendant, refer to me by my given name. We are family, are we not?"

𝔄 smirk curves the corners of his lips, "Indeed, we are."

•꧂༅𖢻༄꧁•

     𝕳er fucking ancestor, a man she and Ser Barristan would read about in her history studies, is in the chamber down the hall.

   𝔓acing the length of the carpet beside the blazing hearth, Daerys can scarcely believe it still, even with having seen him with her own unclouded eyes.

   𝔄nd she knows, he, Aemond fucking Targaryen, is the silver man she saw in her dream.

𝔗he butterflies swarming her stomach had yet to settle since the realization. Her lips tingling with forbidden desire.

ℌe was a very handsome man, no doubt, even with the scar. Especially with the scar. His features were harsh and defined with an unyielding strength like the Dothraki, yet so utterly perfect–a blend of sharp angles and elegance. But his lips, they weren't sharp like the rest of him, they were soft, had looked so soft.

𝔅ut she couldn't dwell on those thoughts, not now.

𝔗he gods, or R'hllor, sent the Prince One-Eye from the Night Lands... but why? Was the question gnawing at the young princess' mind, but the hard truth? Not all questions have answers, and Daerys fears this one will not.

𝔖he could've wasted hours mulling over that one question, but 'twould pain her head too much when she already feels an approaching ache.

𝔗he knocks from the other side of the door proved a good distraction. Dispelling the thoughts, Daerys stops pacing and straightens out the creases in her dress, "Come."

𝔗he door opens, her beautiful mother. The princess' shoulders fall as the weight upon them lifts at the sight of her mother. She wastes not a second to rush into Daenerys' beckoning arms.

𝔇aenerys strokes the braids–adorned with little silver bells and flowers–in her daughter's silver hair. "Oh, 𝒊𝒔𝒔𝒂 𝒈𝒆𝒗𝒊𝒆 𝒕𝒂𝒍𝒂." ( my beautiful daughter )

𝔗he Dragonmother plants a delicate kiss to her sweetling's crown of silver, then gently pushes Daerys away so they stand at arms length. "This morning's events were rather... unprecedented, I believe is the proper word for it." Daerys softly sighs with a nod, holding her mother's arms. "They were. I do not understand it, 𝐌𝐚𝐢." ( mother )

"Neither do I, 𝐎𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚." The Queen tenderly speaks, tucking a stray lock behind her sweetling's ear. Dany sighs. "Nonetheless, Prince Aemond is our family.. no matter the crimes of his past life." ( daughter )

"I know. I trust Kinvara would not deliver to us an enemy."

"As do I, my daughter."

"But I find myself wondering. Of all the Targaryens who came before us, why him?"

𝔚ith another softly expelled sigh, Dany's shoulders rise and fall. She had been wondering the same. "I am afraid that is an answer well beyond us." Daerys just silently nods in solemn agreement, wishing her mother's assumption weren't truth.

𝔅ut ultimately knowing 'tis.

𝔑onetheless, her mother is right. The Prince is her family, and she will not waste the gift whomever deity it was gave to the last Targaryens. The Prince is history, itself, living and breathing, and if there is anything Daerys loves more than her family and her father's 𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐤𝐡, 'tis the histories and philosophies of this world.

𝔇aerys is curious, and wishes to get to know her uncle.

"We should invite the Prince to supper this night. It would seem rude not to, and it will grant us an opportunity to become familiar."

𝔓ride shimmers in Daenerys' lilac eyes. "A wise decision, my daughter. I will have it arranged." Dany leaves her daughter with a sweet kiss to her hair and the princess soon found herself midst the terrace garden.

ℑt's lush and oh so colorful depths shimmer with a pale golden warmth, the scent of flowers and fruit wafting through her nose, as a cool breeze caresses her cheeks, drifting through her silvery locks woven with victory braids.

𝔏ost within the tumultuous thoughts invading her mind, Daerys does not notice the tall figure, cloaked in the finest black leathers, until she bumps into a rather hard chest. With a grunt, she hastily attempts to regain her footing only for strong hands to grip her elbows and steady her.

𝔖traightening out the creases in her pink dress of Qartheen silk, the Princess begins, "My most sincere apologies, I wasn–..." Only for her voice to falter when she looks into a single eye mirroring violet skies with indigo stars. "Prince Aemond."

   𝔐other of Mountains, she did not even reach his collarbones.

   𝔄emond's one eye roams across his niece's features. She were most likely only few years younger than he–he were not counting he were truly centuries older than her.

   𝔗he She-Dragon, he remembers the Lady of Naath calling her, is beautiful. Her youthful face certainly more pleasing than his Alys' had ever been. With her porcelain skin, gleaming under the light of the sun, that looks softer than the most expensive silk. The tips of his fingers twitch, wanting to caress it, but he crosses his arms behind his back to control himself. And ivory-silver hair with delicate waves she wore in braids, the silver bells woven within ringing softly whenever she moves.

   𝔅ut 'tis the Princess' eyes that captivate the Prince like a flame drawn to its sun. Onyx black, almond-shaped eyes speckled with flecks of bright lavender. Hers were unlike anything Aemond had ever seen, not even the sapphire he once adorned could match her glittering irises for beauty.

   𝔄emond blinks, quelling his thoughts filled with the Dragon Princess whom twists and turns her golden rings–a nervous tick he remembers his half-sister having, something she inherited it seems. Though, the most intriguing piece of her jewelry is the silver band wrapped around her bicep with the hair of a horse's mane attached to it.

   𝔄 Dothraki custom, perhaps? They were relatively hard to miss in the halls of the glorious Great Pyramid.

   𝔇espite the tension, Daerys greets him with a smile, clasping her hands on her stomach.

   "Princess." He breaks the silence.

   "Enjoying the garden, were we?"

   ℌer ancestor only "hm"s in acknowledgment, hands still held behind his straightened back, his dark purple eye roaming her entire frame.

   𝔏ike a predator observing his prey.

   𝔅ut Daerys the She-Dragon is the Blood of Old Valyria and the Seed of Vaes Dothrak, daughter of the Great Khal Drogo and the Dragon Queen Daenerys Stormborn. She has never been the prey.

   𝔄nd thus, she meets his stare with her own unblinking strength. She swears his eye gleams with something akin to pride, seeing something he approves of–a fire to dance with his own–and a smirk curves his soft lips.

   "We were, it seems." Every word spoken in his masculine yet gentle voice sent shivers trickling down her spine.

   𝔄emond Targaryen is like the night sky, the Princess thought to herself. His clothes it's starry blackness, his hair dripped with moonlight, and his eye like stars, burning with a mighty purple fire.

   "Might I ask you something, Princess?"

   𝔇aerys blinks out of her thoughts, then smirks, "You just did, but yes." He scoffs in amusement beneath his breath. "Are you and your mother truly the last Targaryens?"

   𝔄 line forms between her dark brows as she holds her wrist, rubbing the smooth skin of her arm and nibbling at her bottom lip. She is oblivious to the feeling the latter stirs awake within the Prince.

   "I often wondered this myself in my youth. Because surely there was someone else out there with my blood? Ser Jorah told me of a forgotten Targaryen in the far North, an old man who lived at the Wall. Castle Black's maester, Aemon. He would've been my great-uncle." Her shoulders rise with a breath she sharply expels. "I regret to say I never met him."

   𝔗he She-Dragon looks into the One-Eye's dark violet iris. "But it seems to me now.. my mother, brothers, and I are not the last dragons."

   𝔄t her words, Aemond's brows crease, eye narrowing in confusion, "Brothers?"

   𝔇aerys only lifts a brow with a lopsided smirk and, upon realizing, he scoffs in amusement, "Ah, the Sister of Dragons." She "mm"s, glancing to the side with a grin as she twists the bracelet around her wrist, then into his eye once again as he asks, "Might I request something, Princess?"

   𝔖he nods. "You need only ask."

   "I lack the knowledge of the events that have transpired these past hundred years, might you show me to the Great Pyramid's library?"

   𝔗he young girl's features, ethereal like a Valyrian goddess, seem to brighten like the sun emerging from behind a bout of clouds as a smile blooms on her lips. She eagerly nods, and her silver bells softly ring. "Follow me, Prince."

   𝔇aerys leads the Prince down several flights of marble stairwells and through pale-bricked halls 'til they reach the library a young Daerys spent many an hour within.

   𝔗he Great Pyramid's library is beautiful, Aemond notes, nothing like the Red Keep's dreadfully dull room of written knowledge.

   '𝔗were a high-ceilinged room with candles burning within purple pillars. A hearth on the opposite wall of the entry emits orange -and-yellow heat. As if Essos' humid climate did not heat the blood and bones enough. Hundreds of purple marble shelves were evenly spread midst the spacious room, home to numerous books of history, philosophy, and fantasy. And from the ceiling, dangled the skeleton of, what Aemond nearly did not recognize as, a six-legged Basilisk.

   𝔗he creatures that spawn from the Basilisks Isles, hence their namesake.

   ℑn sync it seems, the young Targaryens drink in the scent of worn pages and ink and release the breath of content. Sharing a glance, Daerys shyly grins.

   "Before Lord Tyrion oversaw my studies, Ser Barristan and I would spend many an hour within these four walls." Her so bright and lively eyes fade into a river of sorrow as she frowns. "𝐌𝐞 𝐝𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐚𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐬 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐡𝐚𝐞𝐬𝐡𝐢 𝐀𝐣𝐣𝐚𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐢 𝐚𝐲𝐲𝐞𝐲𝐚𝐚𝐧." ( may he ride through the night lands forever )

   𝔄emond's brows crease at the unfamiliar words that sounded rough on the tongue–a harsh language for a harsh people–wondering what the young princess spoke. But Daerys blinks away the sorrow and shoves the traces of grief away, forcing her frowning lips into a smile. As soon as 'twere there, it was gone. Interlocking her hands on her stomach, she looks up at Aemond. "What do you wish to read?"

   𝔗he Prince's one eye merely observes her for a moment, before he responds, "The history tomes of the last hundred years since the Dance of Dragons."

𝔖he nods, then, bade the Prince sit himself at one of the study tables. "You sit, Prince. I shall retrieve them." He goes to argue, like a proper gentleman, but Daerys merely giggles and waves her hand dismissively.

"'Tis alright, Prince. This is my home, you are my guest." She smirks. "And I do believe I know my way around better than yourself." He huffs an amused breath, relenting with a soft bow of his head.

𝔇rumming his fingers on the smooth surface of the ebony table, Aemond delves into his thoughts as the Princess disappears midst the marble shelves.

𝔗houghts filled with the Dragon Queen and her She-Dragon daughter, of the world he knew was the same to the one he's always known yet felt so different, so foreign.

𝔗he Targaryens were once a mighty house whose name invoked fear in the hearts of men, no power in the world could stand against them, and dragons flew in the sky without number. Now, 'twas only Daenerys and her daughter with their three dragons.

ℌe supposes all were not lost, though. Queen Daenerys has risen their family from the ashes of their doom and has liberated Slaver's Bay with it. She has only used the name Targaryen for good things.

𝔗o make a good world.

𝔗o mend the mistakes of his haunted past.

𝔄 sudden wave of guilt threatens to consume him, memories of the night above Shipbreaker Bay invading his mind. Mayhaps this is why the gods sent him to this time. To witness what his dire mistake has wrought, to mend the broken world alongside the last of the Targaryens.

ℌe sighs beneath his breath. He never meant to kill Lucerys, never meant for many things to happen as they did.

𝔅ut he could not change the past, so Aemond reconciles himself, in this moment, to aiding his kin in rebuilding the world into something good, something meaningful, to right the wrongs of his past.

'𝔗is strange to him. To everyone else in this aeon, the Dance of Dragons is nothing but history. But to him? It all comes back clearly.

𝔗he beautiful princess whom made him feel such an unfamiliar way returns with a stack of books, dropping them unto the table with an echoing thud. He startles out of his thoughts, lashes fluttering as his blinks.

𝔇aerys huffs a breath, straightening out the creases in her silk dress. "These should suffice. Please, feel free to take any of these, or any other tomes that catch your interest, back to your chambers."

"Thank you, Princess."

𝔄s her lips twitch with a grin, Daerys nods, looking into his violet eye. She becomes lost within the depths of the amethyst iris, an eye that saw years of events that 'tis her history but his life.

𝔜ears of misery, hate, deceit, and war, but also... prosperity and peace, more than Westeros has known in centuries. She wonders what those times before the Dance of Dragons, a war that tore the realm apart, were like.

𝔚as Westeros ever truly happy?

𝔚hat was it like to ride a Conqueror's dragon?

𝔚hat was it like to know more than just your mother? To have a large family.

𝔅ut Daerys blinks out of her gaze with a soft clearing of her throat. "I'll leave you to it. Until supper, Prince."

"Until then, Princess."

𝔗he Princess takes her swift leave of the library. And closing the oak door behind her, both of the young Targaryens on either side expel a breath.

________꧂༅𖢻༄꧁________

Aemmy boy is here! This is gonna be so much fun to write, 🤩.