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Chapter Text

Aemma stood and stared at the pale, bloodless hands wrapped around Blackfyre’s hilt, unable to look at Viserys’ face. Even now, laid out on a bier, his insides stuffed full of fragrant herbs, she could not look at him for fear he would rise, and her torment would begin anew.

She had not attended him the first day after his death, and it had been easy to excuse the oversight to herself with the need to console her darling daughter. Others would understand it surely as well, with the body in the care of the silent sisters.

She could not hide from it anymore once the body had been laid on its bier below the Iron Throne.

A dowager queen or a queen, it mattered little. Either was expected to attend the prayers said over the body of the king as it laid in state, and the king had ordered that it would do so for six days before it was moved to the Dragonpit to be burned on the seventh in a grand procession.

The king had spoken, and the queen had to obey, whether she wished to or not, whether she complained or not. Aemma had not. Aemma had not spoken a word against Daemon’s decree, to him or otherwise, had not dared to, and so Rhaenyra’s hand clasped in her own freezing one became Aemma’s only source of warmth during the prayers.

Through it all, Daemon stood by her side, about as warm and welcoming as the Wall.

On that first day as his wife, as his queen, in that glorious meeting of the Small Council, he had displayed affection and confidence in her, but ever since then… Daemon had never been one to read easily, but now he had become a riddle, a confusing puzzle she could not for the life of her piece together.

She had thought they would be happy. Viserys was dead, they were free to be together, and their child would be theirs, openly and without even a hint of danger.

She had been wrong, and she had not an inkling as to what had happened, where things had gone awry.

Daemon was a block of ice when in public now, softening only in Rhaenyra’s presence or behind the closed door of her bedchamber. And he did soften when alone. He softened, giving her his attention and strained smiles and then, when they retired, he held her and slept.  

It was maddening. He was maddening. He had tempted her with a glimpse of a life that could be, only to then have it cruelly torn away.

So Aemma stared at Viserys’ pale hands and grieved the life she had been fool enough to believe in. A searing drop of water rolled down her face, and she squeezed her eyes shut to prevent more from escaping, scolding herself. Her conduct during the public prayers had been flawlessly composed as befit a queen and now, during the very last session, she could not break at last. 

“Mama?” Rhaenyra’s soft question startled Aemma and shame flooded her as she blinked her eyes open, staring down into the small upturned face framed by a halo of hair glowing in the light of the setting sun, and realized her hold on her daughter’s hand had tightened. She let go. 

“Mama, are you well?”

“Of course, sweetling,” she whispered, her voice quivering, her lips unable to form the reassuring smile she wanted to give her, tears wetting her cheeks.

Rhaenyra did not look convinced, a frown forming on her face.

Aemma closed her eyes once more and took a deep breath to try and calm herself, to reassure her daughter that her mother was well.

She failed utterly when she felt warm arms wrap around her, drawing her into an even warmer embrace, and her silent tears turned into sobs as she hid her face in her husband’s chest.

“Please, don’t cry, mama. I love you.”

Rhaenyra’s desolate tone and slight tugging on her skirts had her only weeping harder, though, and Daemon’s hold on her tightened, as he whispered sweet nothings in High Valyrian into her hair. His voice was soothing, his lies were not. It was anger that had her tears stop falling, her fingers buried in his doublet curling into fists.

Her tone was cool when she was able to speak in a low, steady voice at last. “Let go.”

A puzzled frown marred Daemon’s face. “Are you-?”

“Yes,” she answered, finally giving Rheanyra a reassuring smile as she caressed her pale cheek. “I am well. I apologize for my loss of composure.”

“There is nothing to-”

“There is,” she disagreed evenly, keeping her tone low and light, not looking away from Rhaenyra’s face for even a moment. “I am a queen. Such display of emotion is below me.”

Aemma’s attention remained on her darling daughter for the rest of the prayers, stroking her hair as she pressed into her side. Her former husband had no need of her attention, and her current one did not deserve it.

As ever, the evening prayers were followed by a private supper in Aemma’s chambers, and the minute wrinkle between Daemon’s brows remained firmly in place as she chattered with Rhaenyra, and he played with his food. The wrinkle remained as they brought Rhaenyra back to the nursery and kissed her goodnight. 

She did not see the wrinkle as she strode back to her chambers, but she was certain it was there nevertheless.

“Are you…? Would you like to go see Dreamfyre?”

For a moment, Aemma was stumped. Then, she wondered whether to laugh or weep. Instead, she threw her arms into the air and plopped herself onto the bed to glare at him.

“Of course, I would like to go see Dreamfyre!”

Daemon’s head was tilted to the side, and he seemed to be examining her closely. “Would you… like to go fly? I find it… helps relieve tension.”

She let out a low growl. The only tension Aemma felt, Daemon was responsible for. 

As her dear husband’s brows jumped up, she smoothed out her face, pushing herself off the bed, approaching him with a smile. “Do you know what would truly serve to relieve tension?” 

She watched his lips stretch, the corners curling up, a fire lighting in his eyes and for the first time over these long, long days, she felt warmth spark within her. But then, just as she was to reach for him, he spun around and strode toward the hidden entrance to the tunnels, her hand left grasping air.

“Aye, I do. We truly should have gone to the Dragonpit sooner, but I hoped…” Daemon cut himself off with a head shake, and Aemma was left to follow him into the darkness or be left behind.  

“What did you hope?” The curiosity was stronger than irritation.

“That dear Ser Otto was would prove a greater fool than he is,” he told her sourly, and she could picture the displeased twist to his lips well enough.

“What does… What does that mean?” she questioned, short on breath as she struggled to keep up with his long strides.

“That Caraxes will be robbed of a delicious meal.”

Aemma stopped, startled. “What?”

The sound of Daemon’s footsteps paused as well, and then he was back in front of her, frowning down into her face, warm hands on her cheeks, tilting her face this way and that.

“Is something wrong? Do you feel faint? Do need to-?”

She swatted his hands away. “No! Why would…? What is this nonsense about Otto Hightower?!”

“I presented him a bait, and he did not snatch at it. It would seem I will not get to see him burn.”

His face was tight with displeasure, his jaw clenched hard, and she would have laughed at him had her own insides not been twisted by fear. “You mean… You will let him get away with…?”

He turned away from her sharply and stalked away and then back. “Of course, not! What kind of fool do you take me for?! He will die. It will merely be far from my sight and likely far less painful than I, we, would have preferred.”

Aemma rubbed her arms. “As long as he dies.”

“He will,” he promised her, his eyes ablaze, and her heart fluttered as their gazes locked, her hand reaching for him to bring him in for a kiss that turned from hesitant to desperate in a blink of an eye.

She was lightheaded with giddiness of relief as she found herself pressed against the stone, greedy hands roving her form, questing lips blazing a trail along the column of her throat and across her bosom. She gasped for breath when teeth seized her clothed breast, her fingers tightening in Daemon’s hair. “Oh, gods.”

“Oh, gods, indeed,” he agreed once done with his torment of her poor, poor breasts, a chuckle teasing her lips before he devoured them in a searing kiss.

“Shall we return to the bed, then, husband?” she breathed into his ear when they separated for air and felt him turn rigid, his breathing still harsh and loud in her ears, growing louder as moments passed by.

“We should not delay visiting the dragons anymore, wife,” he chided her, his thumb brushing her swollen lip.

“The dragons,” she repeated blankly, still breathless.

She watched him nod resolutely. “Aye, the dragons.”

“What do you mea-”

But Daemon pushed away from her, leaving her cold, leaving her bereft. “There will be a crowd in the Dragonpit come morrow. A much larger crowd than anything they are used to, especially Dreamfyre. With the two of you only recently bonded, 'twould be for the best to prepare her.”

“Prepare her,” Aemma echoed him.

“Yes, prepare her,” Daemon said, his tone curious. “So she only lights the pyre, not the people.”

“Light the pyre?!” Aemma’s voice rose in disbelief. 

He stepped up close to her once more, his voice soft, gentle. “You are a dragonrider, and you are Viserys’ wife. It falls to you.”

“ Was Viserys’ wife,” she corrected him sullenly.

Daemon hummed agreeably, rising a hand to brush a thumb along her lower lip again. “You were.”

“Now I am not,” she told him, a hint of challenge in her voice.

“Now you are not,” he acquiesced.

“Now I am yours.”

“That you are,” he confirmed, his lips twitching.

“Then why,” Aemma hissed out, a finger jabbing into his chest viciously, “will you not take me?”

Daemon coughed and stumbled back. “Aemma-”

“Do not! Do not dare lie to me or placate me or do whatever it was you were about to do! I am done being placated and lied to and staying silent! I will not stand it! Do you hear me? I will not!”

It was mayhaps not the wisest course of action, yelling at one’s husband of all of a sennight when said husband was known far and wide for his volatile temper, but her hold on her temper was fraying and it was all his fault! It had been so much easier to manage before she had first approached him.

“We should not… We cannot be seen to be too affectionate this soon-”

“Seen?!” she waved her arms wildly around the dark, empty tunnel. “Seen by whom?! How?!”

“Aemma,” Daemon’s hands settled on her shoulders, ignoring her growl, “you should not… I did not mean to… cause upset to you. Please, calm down.”

She drew a deep breath into her lungs, wondering whether it was possible for her to breathe fire, too. Were it ever to happen, there surely would not be a more fitting moment than this.

“I do not. Need. To calm. Down!” she bit off.

“You do,” the fool retorted. “We need to think of the babe-”

An inhuman sound tore out of her throat and she was left staring at her suddenly aching knuckles. “My hand hurts,” she told him, puzzled.

“You hit me,” he grumbled at her.

She stared at her hand some more. Her wrist was hurting as well. “Are you wearing armor?” 

“No,” Daemon let out a snort of disgust, “you merely don’t know how to hit. Or where, for that matter.”

“Why would I…” Her words failed her, her throat closing up as she remembered why and burst into tears.

“Aemma, please, don’t-”

She shook him off as he tried to wrap her in his arms, to trap her. “Don’t touch me! Don’t you dare touch me! Don’t you dare… ! Oh, gods… Oh, dear, merciful gods… How can you… The babe is all I think about! I wish I could stop thinking about each and every babe I ever carried!”

“Aemma-” Daemon’s voice broke and this time, she let him envelop her in a hug, let him lay his cheek on top of her head, let him speak, because there was little strength left to her. “I am sorry. I am so, so sorry.”

“This babe will be different,” she told him, trying to convince herself. “This babe is different, because you are different, because I will be different. I will not do any of the things they made me do before. None. I will not drink foul smelling medicines. I will not eat stomach-turning meals. I will not shut myself away in my bedchamber. I will be a queen and a mother, and I will be a wife, with all that it entails.” 

 “That is…” Daemon coughed and Aemma was coming to resent the sound. “We should certainly speak to a… a… midwife about this… I think.”

“I shall not be forced into a bed again,” she insisted.

“I promise not to force you into a bed. You seem comfortable enough against the wall.” He wheezed out a laugh as her fist planted itself in his stomach. “That one was better.”

“This is not a jape,” she ground out through gritted teeth. “This is my life. My babe’s life.”

“ Our babe’s,” he corrected her gently, and as much as she wanted to keep being angry at him, she could not. She was just… tired.

“Let us… Let us just go to sleep,” she pleaded.

Daemon sighed and kissed her hair. “I was quite serious. We do need to see to the dragons. Unless you wish for Dreamfyre to remain in her cave and Syrax to burn-”

“No!” she retorted sharply. “Not Syrax!” Not Rhaenyra, rather. “I will do it.”

It would be good for her, besides, to excise this part of her life, to ensure there was truly no going back. It would be… cleansing, she assured herself. All of her disappointments, all of her failures, all of her pain, she would watch burn away to nothing but ashes of her own making.

Daemon waited at the entrance, not stepping into the dark enclosure whence Dreamfyre rested. Aemma did not want him to join her anyway, not this time, not as she pressed herself against her dragon’s side, running her fingers over the pearlescent scales, and whispered all of her woes to her in broken High Valyrian, in a broken voice.  

This was meant to be a new beginning for them both, for Aemma and Dreamfyre, and somehow, it felt hopeless once more. She squeezed her eyes shut against the thought and focused on the black egg instead, speaking of it to Dreamfyre, of her hopes, of them all flying together in a clear blue sky some time not too far in the future.

None of her babes had an egg this early. None of her babes had an egg before they had been even born, not even her beloved Rhaenyra. Surely, that meant something. A dragon for Aemma and the dragon’s egg for Aemma’s babe. Surely, the gods intended them for each other.

“All will be well,” she whispered to Dreamfyre as she rubbed her cold hands against the warm, warm scales. “We shall burn away the past and all shall be well. All manner of things shall be well, now that we have each other.”

“I wish to go flying after all,” she called to her husband eventually.

“Let us go to Caraxes, then, and let us be on our way.”

“No,” she declared, not looking away from Dreamfyre, not pausing in her stroking. “I am a dragonrider, you said. Let me be a dragonrider.”

“She is not saddled,” he informed her, as if she could not see well enough herself.

Aemma hummed in agreement. “I noticed.”

“She has not been saddled in decades,” Daemon clarified, and despite the gaping void in Aemma’s chest, her lips twitched.

“I know.”

“You cannot go flying without a saddle. You will get yourself killed.”

“I suppose that is true enough,” Aemma acknowledged. “We will have to find one, then, will we not?”

“We,” Daemon repeated sourly, and the petty part of her rejoiced. “I will, you mean.”

She hummed again, “I do.”

“Do you have to be like this?”

“I do,” she confirmed easily, caressing Dreamfyre’s silvery crest lovingly.

Daemon hesitated before speaking once more, and her lips curled maliciously. “Should I be concerned for my safety as I saddle her?”

Aemma’s smile stretched, and she shrugged her shoulders, seemingly without care. “We will see.”

He huffed out a laugh before she could hear him move away, the sound of his laughter echoing over his receding footsteps.

It would be glorious to fly, to leave the ground, and all that pressed down on her, behind. 

Oh, how sweet it would be. To be weightless, to be careless, to be free.

To lose oneself.

To forget.

To breathe.