𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐞𝐚 𝐏𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬𝐬 || Aemond Targaryen

Chapter Three

Opening my eyes, I braced for the embrace of the afterlife, yet it never came. Instead, I found myself standing amid flames, unscathed, the inferno that should have claimed me licking harmlessly at my skin. A bewildered gasp escaped me as I stepped out of the fire, my gown miraculously intact, untouched by the flame's voracious appetite. The realization dawned upon me, staggering in its implications—I might be a true dragon, immune to fire's deadly kiss.

As I lifted my gaze to the night sky, Vhagar's silhouette cut a majestic path across the stars, her presence both awe-inspiring and foreboding. My heart, a tumult of emotions, was set aflame with a newfound resolve. Clutching my dagger, retrieved from the cool embrace of the sand, I turned back towards the castle, a single, dark purpose crystalizing in my mind: retribution.

The chaos unfolded before me, a violent dance of fury and desperation. Luke's voice, strained with effort, pierced the night, "My father's still alive," he cried, struggling against Aemond's iron grip.

"He doesn't know, does he, Lord Strong?" Aemond's taunt was a venomous sneer, his attention riveted on Jace, oblivious to the truth of his brother's knowledge.

The skirmish escalated in the blink of an eye—Jace's desperate ploy, a handful of sand flung into Aemond's eye, followed by Luke's swift retaliation, a blade slashing across the prince's face. A grim smile tugged at my lips, a silent approval of their courage, yet my heart yearned for more than just a scar as a token of his suffering.

Cloaked in shadows, I emerged, dagger poised for the kill, a lethal dance taught by Daemon himself. He had honed my skill, instilling in me the art of a swift, silent death, a secret pact sealed away from the eyes of family and kin.

My advance was swift, driven by a cold, unyielding intent. Yet, before I could deliver the fatal strike, a shout shattered the night. "Seize her!" Ser Harold's command rang out, a clarion call that halted my vengeance in its tracks.

Ser Criston Cole was upon me in an instant, his grasp iron-tight, wrenching the dagger from my hand. I struggled against his hold, desperation fueling my efforts as I sought to reach my nieces, to ensure their safety amidst the turmoil. But Ser Criston, unyielding, held me fast, a barrier between me and the justice I sought to dispense.

In that moment, trapped in his grasp, I realized the depth of the game we were all pawns within—a dance of dragons, where even the fiercest of flames could be smothered by the will of those who command power. Yet, within me, a fire raged on, undimmed and unyielding, a testament to the dragon's blood that coursed through my veins.

The tension in the air was palpable as the door swung open, revealing Lord Corlys and Princess Rhaenys descending the stairs, their expressions etched with concern and urgency. "What in the Seven Kingdoms has happened here?" Lord Corlys's voice boomed, his gaze sweeping over the gathered assembly in search of answers.

"Baela, Rhaena, Lyanna! Speak, children, what transpired?" Princess Rhaenys pleaded, her eyes darting anxiously among the faces of her family.

Wrenching myself free from Ser Criston Cole's grasp, I rushed to my father, seeking solace in his embrace. He enveloped me protectively, his eyes widening at the sight of the unmistakable burn marks adorning my gown—a silent testament to the night's harrowing events.

"Who is responsible for this?" Princess Rhaenys demanded, her voice a mixture of fury and fear, as she took in the chaotic scene before her.

Amidst the cacophony of accusations flying from one child to the next, the truth struggled to surface.

"They attacked me!"

"He attacked Baela!"

"He broke Luke's nose!"