sunken sapphires [aemond targaryen]

for fiery futures, prologue

☆

...WHEN RHAELLA VELARYON was born all the realm delighted, for never had its' future looked so very bright. She was whispered to be perhaps one of the kindest children to ever befall the Seven Kingdoms — the very epitome of a Targaryen Princess with her silver hair and amethyst eyes.

Her very existence promised a breath of fresh air, and from the very minute she'd struggled forth from her mothers womb — Rhaenyra had known her daughter would be everything she could not, the perfect pair of shoulders upon which to balance her fated legacy. 

And as she grew, it soon became clear that she was to be one of the greatest beauties to ever bear the name Targaryen — for the Gods themselves seemed to have crafted her statuesque face, irrevocably sweet smile and spirit. She studied the histories under Grand Maester himself, absorbing that worlds bloodied secrets with an uncanny willingness, and demonstrating an eerie aptitude for diplomacy from the minute her first word stumbled, naively, from her small lips.

She was truly perfect, Rhaenyra thought.

Too perfect.

And alas, just as Rhaenyra has suspected, her absolute kindness was not quite as simple as it seemed, for the faintest trace of her father tainted her blood — diluted, yes, but strong enough to alter the very fabric of her being. She was no Velaryon, but rather a Targaryen, though her mother would never admit to it. Her silver hair had successfully thrown the nobility of her trail (alas, her brothers were not quite so blessed), but that could not change the truth. Daemon Targaryen was her father, and she detested it.

Rhaella had spent more than enough time with her pernicious kin to understand just how dangerous this was — heard her uncle's scathing jests and her parent's scandalous whispers. There was a far greater game afoot here than even she could fathom, and as her mother's heir Rhaella knew that however much she resented it, it was her duty to fight for the o' so elusive Iron Throne.

Her duty to play the game of thrones.

Rhaella's childhood had not been a happy one, but then again, none of those childrens' had. Each had been raised to hate the other, indoctrinated to serve as mindless pawns in their parents' bitter war — the unsuspecting victims of a world far too cruel for children.

She'd grown up alongside her kin, a flower in a field of thorns, and had, to put things far too simply, despised every minute of it. Whilst she loved her brothers deeply, her uncle Aegon had devoted every minute of his youth to terrorising her — and so much so that Rhaella could hardly stand in his company without shaking for fear of what he might say or, as they both grew older, do.

But then there was Aemond — whom she had never quite found the will hate. He shared her irrefutable distaste for her brother, and in some twisted way, this fact enabled a strange sense of mutual solidarity between the two — a curious friendship between the two members of what was truly an impossible pair.

They were far closer than they should've been, far closer than their parents (had they known) would've allowed — but not for long. Soon enough, tragedy befell their friendship as Laena Velaryon fell victim to fire, and Aemond made a fateful choice.

He claimed Laena's notorious mount, 'Vhagar' for himself — denying Laena's own daughters the opportunity to seat one of the fiercest creatures in existence, and costing him his left eye.

Rhaella had watched on, petrified, as Lucerys had cut him — horrified not only by her brother's actions, but also, by her own reaction. She'd felt no sorrow, no fear, for the boy whom was supposedly her friend, rather satisfaction at this dolling out of a most twisted kind of justice — she wanted him to suffer. Her father's spirit was haunting her, ever—threatening to possess her she grew older and older, and it terrified her.

You see, Rhaella had loved him (in that sense, she took after her mother), and in the years prior to that night had devoted herself to a single, consuming, purpose — finding Aemond a dragon. She'd flitted about between Dragonstone and Kings Landing for half a year, stumbling through cave after cave in search of eggs — and finally, just when she'd given up all hope, had found one, a single crimson egg born from not just any dragon — but her own, Darksmoke.

She'd begged Rhaenyra to gift it to him, and after months of tears, threats and heated arguments, Rhaenyra had obliged, she resented putting more power into the hands of the enemy, but couldn't deny her daughter anything — let alone love. And so, the egg was marked as Aemond's — a nameday gift, destined for his hands the moment in turned ten and three.

The day just after Laena Velaryon's funeral.

Regardless, her kindness mattered not to him — for he'd vowed never to speak to Rhaella again after the events of that fateful night. In his mind, he'd suffered a betrayal of almost biblical proportions at his hands. She was no friend of his, and he'd been a fucking fool to ever think so.

But his promise was in vain, for that night was the last time he'd ever truly see Rhaella Targaryen as she really was — no bravado, performance or manipulation tugged at her actions then — he knew her, truly. And, as Rhaenyra Targaryen returned her family to Dragonstone, he found himself deeply conflicted, swamped with countless, long, letters of varying magnitude that's inherent sweetness should've been enough to dissolve even the most ancient grudge, yet he had not once replied. The wound of her 'betrayal' remained too fresh, and in time, her letters ebbed away like the tide.

Perhaps she'd stopped caring — or perhaps her fathers spirit had finally crawled its' way into the deepest, darkest corners of her tarnished heart. Either way, time had changed Rhaella Targaryen. No longer was she a forgiving and benevolent little girl — but rather, a dangerous, clever woman.

Her incomprehensible beauty became notorious, and she learnt to wield it as a weapon, holding it over the Lords and Ladies of Westeros like the sharpest of knives. She was insatiably desired by every Lord to lay eyes on her, and as such, her honour of her hand became a subject of both immense value and magnitude. Men fought and killed for her, but she remained indifferent — unaffected — for she knew that the minute she dared act upon the wants and whims of her own heart, she'd be worthless. A disposable, bastard heir to be pressed against the guillotine upon the very instance of Viserys's death.

Yet soon enough, her hand was claimed as a summons to court arrived at Dragonstone, penned in the irrefutable hand of the King, and marked true by his crimson seal. Viserys wanted her for his first born son, and no one, not even Rhaenyra, could save her from that o' so bitter fate.

To Kings Landing it was, for family and fiery futures...