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Daenera's nightmare was horrifying and filled with so much foreshadowing my mind hurts trying to decipher everything 🤯 Is she cursed because she saw her future or will she be able to wield curses because she actually has that power, maybe from Harwin's side? Or is she cursed until she asks the final question from the witch?

Poor Joyce!

Cole is going to be #1 on Daenera's hit list after that!

How much is she second-guessing things with Aemond because of his absence when she woke up? It would have been a bad situation no matter what tho because her guards would have had to restrain or fight him and that wouldn't have ended well either.

Daenera going to Larys for help

A Vow of Blood - 64

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you,“ the witch said….

Chapter 64: The End of a Noose

AO3 - Masterlist

Daenera found herself engulfed by the forest’s unsettling embrace, navigating silently through its depths. The crunch of fallen leaves under her feet marked her passage as twilight descended, the shadows stretching among the trees. The forest was on the cusp of nightfall, slowly descending into darkness as the last rays of light reached through branches.

A thin mist enveloped the air, ethereal and cold. It danced around her, caressing her skin with its chilly touch, leaving droplets that glistened like pearls in her hair. Clutching her skirts, she moved with hesitant steps, her breath forming clouds that melted with the mist, as if it were siphoning fragments of her essence. A shudder ran through her, an ominous premonition, as the hairs on the back of her neck bristled with apprehension.

The forest’s immensity disoriented her. Every path seemed misleading, compelling her to venture deeper into its enigmatic heart.

Daenera’s heart throbbed with unease, its rhythm echoing her growing anxiety. She sensed the forbidden nature of this place, that she wasn’t supposed to be here.

Lifting her gaze, she looked beyond the skeletal canopy of trees, stripped bare by winter’s hand. The sky stretched above in a deep shade of indigo, devoid of stars. In the absence of the stars, she felt an unsettling solitude envelop her.

As Daenera’s eyes returned to her surroundings, she noticed a solitary wagon nestled among the trees. From its roof hung an array of trinkets, chiming a melody unfamiliar to her ears. It was the first hint of human craftsmanship she had encountered in the forest–first sign of anyone. The sight of it seemed familiar, yet not. Perhaps that was what compelled her to move closer.

“Hello?” Her voice, unsteady and distant, barely seemed her own as she called out. “Is anyone there?”

In response, a voice, soft as the breeze yet clear, murmured, “Your future… I see it. Woven in shadows and light, black and green, red and blue… Woven. Weaving, it is.”

As the breeze strengthened, the chimes suspended from the wagon’s roof sang a haunting tune, each note resonating with profound sadness. Surrounding her, the bare branches of the trees creaked and groaned, their sounds eerily akin to the snapping of bones. This unnerving melody filled the twilight, the sky above growing darker, still devoid of any stars.

And in the distance, the agonized cry of a stag pierced the silence.

Startled, Daenera stumbled on the wagon’s steps, falling to her knees. More cires, distant and chilling, filled the air. She quickly regained her footing, casting a wary glance back into the dark embrace of the forest before stepping through the wagon’s door.

Instead of the wooden floor she expected, her foot met with the unexpected coldness of smooth stone.

Daenera found herself standing in the midst of the somber throne room, enveloped in darkness. Here, the oppressive shadows seemed to thrive, engulfing the weak glow of torches and resisting the illumination they offered. Despite the pale moonlight filtering through the grand windows, it could only cast a ghostly sheen over the room, the mist from the forest eerily presisting, lingering among the immense stone columns.

The silence was heavy, almost tangible, as if the very air was holding its breath in anticipation. The faint sound of Daenera’s footsteps echoed in the vast emptiness, each step resonating with a sense of foreboding.

At the room’s end stood the towering throne, it's daunting presence seeming to command the shadows themselves. Darkness clung to it, enhancing the menacing curve of the swords that formed the seat of House Targaryen, jutting up cruelly from the floor.

Above her, the obscured faces of her ancestors loomed, their features lost in the shadows, yet their unseen gazes felt intensely upon her. Daenera observed the eight figures emerging from the stone columns, standing as silent sentinels. Her gaze drifted from one to another, a frown creasing her brow as her eyes fell on the unfamiliar figure of a man with half his face completely concealed by shadows. An almost skeletal hand rested solemnly against his chest.

Her attention shifted to a figure on the opposite column, revealing an incomplete carving. It appeared as though the sculptor had abruptly halted, leaving the figure only half-emerged from the stone, an artwork frozen midway through its creation. The stone seemed scorched, black marks of soot covering the unfinished work. This unfinished statue imparted a sense of interruption, a story left untold.

A strange sort of weight settled on Daenera’s chest.

Beside the unfinished column, there was another that depicted a scene of desolation. This sculpture appeared as though it had been ravaged by destruction, its form disintegrating before it could ever be fully realized. The rough texture of the stone bore the marks of scarring, with deep fissures fracturing the artwork. Bits and pieces of stone lay strewn at the foot of the column, silent witness to the statue’s state of decay and that had eroded its once intended glory.

The last figure, almost entirely engulfed in darkness, presented a stark contrast; the only visible part was a hand, delicately holding a stone flower. This singular detail, emerging from the shadows, drew her closer.

Suddenly, something lunged from the shadows, seizing her wrist. A startled yelp escaped her lips as she felt the icy, unyielding grip.

“Beware the wings of war and the vengeance that rides on the wind,” a voice hissed. “One shall fall, many shall mourn. Kin slaying kin.”

From the embracing darkness, a weathered face emerged into the moon’s pale light. Time had carved deep lines into his visage, as if the shadows themselves had etched their mark upon him. His eyes, wide and clouded, seemed to see beyond the physical world, carrying the weight of unseen knowledge.

Daenera struggled against his grasp, a mix of fear and urgency rising in her throat.

The beggar’s grip on Daenera was unyielding, his breath crept across her face like a lingering mist, carrying the unexpected scent of marigold.

He whispered ominously, “The Stranger follows you. With knives, with poison, at your command, the Stranger shall find himself in great company.”

Abruptly, the beggar retreated into the shadows, releasing her with such a suddenness that Daenera stumbled backward, landing ungracefully on the stone floor with a thud. Her palms scraped over it, burning. Her heart pounded fiercely in her chest, and when she looked up the man had vanished, his daunting words echoing in the throne room like the distant chimes outside the wagon.

Regaining her composure, Daenera stood, her eyes scanning the room before they fixed upon the throne and the sinister crown resting upon it. Drawn by a mix of fear and fascination, she approached, the air filled with the ghostly wails of a thousand souls – the thousands that had died in the making of it.

Reaching the first step leading to the throne’s dias, a chilling thought crossed her mind: Had anyone ever been impaled by the swords jutting out from the floor?

A sharp pain suddenly interrupted her thoughts. She hissed, looking at her palm to find a fresh cut, blood flowing warmly down her fingers, each drop falling drum rhythmically onto the floor. The sting of the wound was fleeting, overshadowed by her focus on the blood’s steady drip.

Ascending the stairs, she held her hand over the throne, allowing her blood to fall onto its cold, unforgiving surface. The throne seemed to crave it—hungered for it. It was an offering, a sacrifice.

Her fingers lightly brushed against the cold steel of it.

A shiver cascaded down Daenera’s spine as she turned, her eyes landing in the witch reclining in her chair behind a table shrouded in cloth. In the center of the table rested a glass orb, a candle flickering ominously beside it. The witch’s laughter echoed through the throne room, filled with a cruel mirth.

Trials and tribulations… Tested by fire and betrayal… So many threads, so many fates… The words seemed to emanate not from the witch’s lips, but from the very shadows that filled the room, whispered, an echo of the past.

The witch’s eyes, dark and gleaming, peered out from beneath the hood that concealed most of her face, her cloak reminiscent of the Stranger’s, the fabric black, as though made from the shadows. A sly smirk played on her lips.

“The dance begins,” she announced, her voice oddly trailing the movement of her lips.

Confused, Daenera descended the steps from the stone, settling into the chair across from the witch. Perched there, her feet dangled above the floor, her small hands gripping the chair’s edge. A prick on her fingertip drew her attention momentarily, her eyes glancing down to find the skin unbroken.

“What dance?” She inquired, her voice that of a child.

“The one that brings fire from the skies,” the witch replied cryptically, tilting her head slightly, as though amused by the frown on Daenera’s face. “The one that pits kin against kin… You sense it, don’t you?”

“Sense what?” Daenera’s reply was faint, the innocence of youth evident in her tone.

“The rope.”

Daenera’s frown deepened, her understanding eluding her.

The witch watched her closely. “You will, in time.”

The throne room was suddenly filled with the haunting sounds of creaking and groaning wood. Daenera watched in awe as the threes writhed, their branches twisting skyward like gnarled fingers. Leaves rustled and skittered across the stone floor, gathering at the base of the immense columns. Lifting her gaze, she was met with the sight of the night sky stretching across the ceiling arches, a tapestry of darkness without a single star.

A chill enveloped her, her breath materialized more distinctly than before, her exhalation forming a visible cloud in the cold air. The witch’s voice, disembodied and echoing, resonated again, rising about the creak of the trees.

Princess of Flowers… Princess of Poison… Princess of Curses…

Daenera turned her gaze back to the witch, her heart hammering loudly within her chest, feeling fear grip her. The taste of dread was acrid on her tongue.

“It dwells within you,” the witch intoned.

“What does?” Daenera asked.

“The power, ancient and dark… coursing through your veins,” the witch answered.

The wind seemed to carry her words, whispering, Blood will play a significant role in your life, with debts made and paid in equal measure. Pain will be your constant companion as the cursed power in your blood will be wielded with the precision of poison.

“Vows of blood,” the witch continued, her gaze dropping to Daenera’s hand, now grown from its childish proportions into the hand of a young lady. Daenera opened her palm, revealing the stinging, deep red cut, nearly black in its depths. “Vows. Curses. Poison.”

The witch extended her hand, and Daenera hesitantly placed hers within it. The witch then examined the cut and the pooling blood, keeping Daenera’s fingers spread to prevent her from clenching her fist. “You feel it. You will understand. It’s in your blood. It’s your price to pay.”

Then, with a startling act, the witch dragged her tongue across Daenera’s palm, greedily consuming the blood, smearing it across her mouth and lips.

Daenera recoiled, snatching her hand back as the witch’s laughter echoed through the room, loud enough to make the windows vibrate, like thunder cackling in the sky. Snow began to drift down from the starless sky above, landing softly on the ground.

The stranger will visit you more times than you can count. He follows you and those you love. You will plead with him. You will barter with him. You will send him more company…

“Do you feel it now?” The witch cackled, her voice weaving through the air.

Strings of duty. Strings of love. Strings of fate…

Daenera rose abruptly, the chair toppling from the force of it. She felt ice course through her veins, her blood chilling as it continued to drip onto the snow-laden ground. A sense of entrapment, of being ensnared, overwhelmed her.

Poisoned Princess. Cursed Princess. Princess of Blood…

As the overwhelming sense of fear and confusion took hold, Daenera realized she had reverted to her childlike form, her stature diminutive and vulnerable, shaking and crying. In a desperate plea for safety, she called out for ser Harwin, her voice echoing with a child’s urgency. “Harwin! Father!”

Poisoned cups may be turned around on yourself, and the power of curses always comes with a price… poisoned cups… cursed blood…

Daenera bolted, her small feet plunging into the biting snow. The witch’s laughter thundered through the throne room, a sound as chilling as the winds that howled around her and the blood rushing in her ears. The room had transformed again; no trees remained, and snow descended from an endless, starless expanse above.

“You can feel it encircling your neck, can’t you?” the witch’s voice taunted.

And Daenera felt a constricting sensation around her neck. Panicked, her hands clawed at the rome that had ensnared her. With a brutal jerk, she was yanked backward, her hopes of reaching the doors dashed. Briefly glimpsing the rope, she saw it was woven from threads of hundreds of colors.

Spools of duty, honor, and loyalty. Spools of love and betrayal. Spools of blood. Weaving. Being weaved. So many spools. So many possibilities. Spools for a crown.

Suspended in the air, her feet dangled helplessly as the rope hoisted her upwards, draping over a stone arch like a noose. The pressure choked her, and she kicked wildly, struggling in vain to loosen the rope or alleviate its grip. Her body swung like a pendulum, the silent stone faces of her ancestors and the witch the only ones to witness her distress.

Approaching her, the witch posed a malevolent question: “What was it he said to you? ‘To know one's future is to tie a noose and hang oneself with it’?”

The pressure in her head grew as her lungs ached for air. The tears cascaded down her cheeks, and she briefly feared they might turn to blood as the blood vessels in her eyes burst. Her body was hoisted higher, and from the corner of her eye, she caught sight of another figure suspended from the stone arches. Initially, she saw only boots, then a glimpse of a golden cloak, and finally, hands that she remembered as kind and firm. Fireflies hovered around the hanging figure, creeping over the burned side of his face.

She was lifted higher.

As she rotated slowly, the metallic taste of blood filled her mouth, her teeth gritted as she desperately struggled against the noose.

“You should have heeded his warning,” the witch taunted with merciless glee. “And he should have heeded mine.”

Spinning, Daenera’s gaze landed on a woman clad in a red and gold dress, adorned with a lion on the bodice, hanging like a macabre ornament. Her skin was ghostly pale, her golden hair flowing over her shoulders. But it was her striking green eyes, full of scorn and disdain, that truly unnerved Daenera. This woman was a stranger to her, yet she was not alone; numerous others hung suspended, enveloped in the silent descent of snow.

Amidst this chaos, Daenera fought against the rope that bound her, emitting a strangled, horrified cry.

Then, her eyes fell upon a woman with dark hair tinged with gray, hanging limply with her back turned, blood dripping from her dress. She was closer than the others. There was something hauntingly familiar about her, a presence that resonated with Daenera in a deeply unsettling way.

As she continued to be hoisted up, she witnessed the surreal scene unfold around her; a man with a hand of gold, another with the head of a wolf crowned in iron, a woman in green silk and a poised expression on her face, a man with kohl-lined eyes and bells in his long hair, and a beautiful woman with pale silver hair, her body entwined with the figures of three dragons. There was a boy with dark curls and arrows jutting out his back, a burned body swaying back and forth, a young girl with sad eyes, a boy with half his body missing.

Around them, a myriad of individuals appeared, each distinct yet sharing a familiar fate. There were men and women with hair of silver moonlight, of spun gold, black of the deepest night, fiery red, and earthy brown. Their eyes were a mosaic of colors – dull gray, vivid blue, warm brown, and piercing green. Thousands of them, each suspended from vividly colored ropes, spinning in a macabre dance.

Feeling an unfamiliar weight on her brow, Daenera frantically tore at with one hand, ripping it off. It was a crown.

With a surge of determination, she used the crown’s sharp points to saw at the rope, even as the witch’s laughter echoed around her, louder and louder, crackling like a thunderstorm.

“You have one last question, Princess of the Blood,” the witch declared.

“I… don’t know it,” Daenera gasped, choking for air.

“You do, but you haven’t yet learned how to ask,” the witch retorted.

Finally, the rope gave way, and Daenera felt herself plummeting into an endless fall, and with her, the stars fell as well and in the distance a baby cried.

With the fall of the dragons, the long night is coming.

Choking.

Hands that grabbed her.

Rope tightening around her neck.

Hands that shook her.

Falling.

A voice drawn taut in a loud whisper.

Her eyes flew open to the feeling of someone gripping her shoulders and shaking her firmly, fingertips desperately pressing into her flesh. A voice she recognized was calling her name, its tone laced with urgency. Gasping for breath, she sat up sharply, her mind momentarily lost in the disorienting darkness that surrounded her, a residual dread clinging to her body like a shroud made of lead.

As a reflex, Daenera’s hand shot to her neck, her mind still half-convinced to find rope wrapped around it. Her fingers, trembling slightly, found nothing but her own smooth, unmarked skin–though the ghost of it wrapped around her, tight and choking, lingered like a dream at the edges of consciousness.

Her bed chamber was faintly lit by the dim glow of a torch held by a shadowy figure, its light barely piercing the enveloping gloom.

As her eyes rapidly adjusted to the sparse light, clarity gradually returned to her. She glanced to the side of the bed, her heart sinking slightly at the sight of the empty space beside her. Her hand brushed over the cool pillow, frowning deeply as she expected to find Aemond at her side.

With a lingering ache in her throat and still feeling disoriented, she turned her gaze to the figure who had awoken her, their eyes blinking back at her in the dimness.

Daenera’s voice emerged in a stammer, tinged with confusion and a trace of fear. Her heart pounded fiercely within her chest, echoing the turmoil of her abrupt awakening. Her body was taut with tension as her hand wrapped around the wrist of Joyce.

“Wha–What is it?” she asked, her voice quivering slightly. “What has happened?”

Joyce’s gaze, serious and aged by the wavering light of the torch, met Daenera’s. Her voice, though firm, carried an undercurrent of pity. “It’s the King.”

A heavy sense of foreboding settled in Daenera’s stomach. “Is he dead?”

The unspoken confirmation was evident in Joyce’s expression. Daenera felt a tightness in her chest, her mind spinning as the remnants of the nightmare faded, giving way to the stark reality that enveloped her.

In that moment, the torchlight flared erratically as Fenrick moved, his features set in a grim determination. “We must leave. Now.”

“We have to alert my mother,” Daenera insisted, even as Joyce briskly pulled the blankets away and handed her clothes with a silent command to dress quickly. The soft cotton of the hoses brushed against her skin as she hurriedly put them on. Joyce helped her into a simple servant’s dress, lacing it up with haste.

“There isn’t time to go to the rookery,” Fenrick responded, respecting the princess’s privacy by turning away as she dressed. His hand rested on his sword hilt, his gaze fixed on the door, alert and ready. “The Hightowers would have sent their men to lock it down.”

“We must send word to my mother,” Daenera insisted, adjusting the unfamiliarly coarse fabric of her hastily donned dress, fingers fumbling slightly with the bodice, a stark contrast to the fine garments she was accustomed to.

Fenrick, however, was focused on a more immediate concern, his tone firm as he said, “Our priority is to get you out of the city.”

“Jelissa and Patrick have gone ahead to the ship. They’ll be waiting for us,” Joyce informed.

Daenera’s voice trembled slightly, a mix of fear and determination. “I assume the Hightowers are making their move?”

“One of the kitchen girls overheard the boy, who found the King, speak with The Queen’s handmaid. She was able to sneak us a note,” Joyce shared, her voice underscored by the gravity of the situation. “The Hand has called for a council meeting.”

Daenera felt the urge to point out that convening a council meeting wasn’t out of the ordinary following a King’s death, but her words faltered and remained unspoken as Joyce pressed on. “They’ll start rounding up the servants soon and closing the gates. We need to leave before that happens.

Daenera’s gaze drifted back to the empty side of the bed, a bitter taste forming in her mouth as she pondered the reason behind his absence. Did he know? The thought that he was actively involved in the current machinations against her and her mother, sent a shiver down her spine. The realization dawned on her that guards could be at her door at any moment.

Swallowing hard, she forced herself to set aside her personal grief and fears. The weight of the direness of the situation pressed heavily upon her, tightening her chest as thoughts raced through her mind. The King was dead and now was the opportune time to move against her mother.

With swift movements, Joyce wrapped a cloak around Daenera’s shoulders, fastening it securely at the front and drawing the hood over her head. “Keep your head down.”

Daenera, driven by a sense of urgency, rushed across her chamber to a table. She quickly grabbed the witch’s coin, deeming it essential, and tucked it into her stays for safekeeping. However, her sworn shield showed clear disapproval of the delay. He grasped her arm firmly, guiding her out of the room.

“Leave it!” He insisted, his tone sharp and focused, emphasizing the need for haste over any material possessions.

As Daenera was urged out the doors of her chambers, she was met by a small contingent of her own guards. Eddin Follard, Darvin Crooler, and Edam Varner stood watch, their hands resting uneasily on the hilts of their swords, their eyes scanning the dimly lit corridor. The tension among them was palpable as they shifted.

Darvin Crooler, his expression solemn and his voice barely above a whisper, addressed Fenrick. “Kevan and Sihtric are arranging horses for our departure.”

Fenrick responded with a nod, his expression just as serious. The brief exchange, devoid of any unnecessary words, underscored the serious nature of their undertaking. Each of them understood the stakes, and the need for swift, discrete action.

The corridor they traversed felt unnerving, a stark contrast to its usual bustle, though not entirely unexpected at this early hour of the morning. The absence of servants and guards only intensified the eerie, almost oppressive atmosphere that enveloped them. Only the distant sound of heavy footsteps offered any indication of life, a subtle reminder that they were not completely alone.

Fenrick’s grip on Daenera’s arm was firm and purposeful, as if he was silently communicating the urgency of their situation. He seemed to be propelled by a fear that loosening his hold might cause Daenera to halt in her tracks. Their own footsteps echoed distressingly loud in the deserted hall, each step reverberating off the walls and seeming to linger in the air.

To Daenera, even the flickering of the torches felt amplified, their crackles and hisses echoing in the quiet, heightening her sense of apprehension. Each sound seemed magnified, fueling her trepidation that any noise might betray their presence and intentions. The torchlight cast dancing shadows along the walls, adding a surreal quality to their cautious progress through the corridor.

“What of–” Daenera began in a loud whisper, her words ebbing out as their escape was abruptly halted at the end of the hallway by a group of guards.

Time seemed to stand still as Daenera instinctively held her breath, her eyes wide with fear. She harbored an irrational hope that if she remained perfectly still, she might somehow evade notice. Her body stiffened, every muscle taut with anticipation, as she watched one of the guards’ hands gravitate towards the hilt of his sword.

The sound of his blade being drawn from its sheath reverberated through the tense air, sending a shiver down Daenera’s spine. The sharp, metallic hiss of steel seemed to hang in the corridor, a foreboding prelude to what might come next. It was quickly followed by the collective sound of the other guards drawing their swords in unison, creating an intimidating chorus of metallic echoes.

As the tension in the corridor escalated, Daenera’s guards instinctively reacted. With swift and decisive movements, they too drew their swords, readying themselves for any confrontation. Their expressions were resolute, their stance defensive yet prepared for an offensive move if necessary.

Fenrick firmly tugged her to a safer spot behind him, positioning himself protectively between her and danger, his stance rigid and alert. With a low, determined growl, he issued a command. “Take her. Run.”

Joyce swiftly took hold of Daenera’s hand, pulling the princess along with her. Stealth was no longer their ally as the sound of their hurried footsteps echoed through the halls, their skirts and cloaks billowing with each frantic stride. Daenera’s heart seemed to throb both in her throat and in the pit of her stomach, a dual sensation of fear and adrenaline.

Descending the stairs at a breakneck pace, with Ser Edam Varner close behind, they reached the ground floor. Suddenly, Joyce came to an abrupt halt. Daenera, caught off guard, stumbled into her maid, barely managing to stay upright.

As Daenera raised her eyes, she was met with the sight of the gleaming, pale armor of a Kingsguard. The knight stepped out from the shadows of an adjacent corridor, his dark eyes exuding a cold authority.

Dread gripped her chest once again, squeezing her lungs as she panted.

“Do not run, Princess. It will do you no good,” Ser Criston Cole warned, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, yet not drawing it.

Daenera glanced over her shoulder, her eyes briefly scanning the open doors leading to Maegor’s Holdfast’s inner courtyard. The night’s darkness was gradually giving way to the early light of dawn, the sky transitioning from deep blue to a soft morning yellow. Turning back to face Ser Criston, Daenera glared at him.

The knight advanced towards them, his movements deliberate and his expression resolute, a clear intent evident in his demeanor.

Feeling the dryness of her mouth intensify, Daenera found her tongue sticking to the roof of her mouth as she managed to utter, “Am I to be their prisoner?”

“Prisoner? No,” Ser Criston responded, though his tone offered no comfort.

Daenera glared at him. “So I am free to leave?”

“No,” Ser Criston replied, his dark eyes narrowing. “We can’t have you alert your mother of the King’s passing. Return to your chambers, Princess. It is for your own safety.”

“It sounds like you are preparing to usurp my mother, the rightful heir to the Iron Throne,” Daenera sneered, her voice full of scorn.

Ser Criston Cole drew his blade, the sound of steel leaving its sheath chilling.

In that tense moment, Joyce acted decisively. Releasing Daenera’s hand, she swiftly reached up to the back of her head and removed the pin that held her long, graying hair in place. Her hair cascaded down her shoulders in waves of brown and gray. It was strange to see her with her hair down, jarring.

“Joyce,” Daenera began, her voice faltering.

But Joyce’s expression was one of unwavering determination, her eyes blazing with a resolve as fierce as any dragon’s, and with a short command, she gave Daenera a shove towards the doors. “Go.”

As Daenera turned and fled, the clamor of swords erupted behind her, a cacophony as loud as thunder in her ears. The shrill sound of metal striking metal sent a shiver down her spine, fueling her flight with the urgency of fear. A bitter surge of tears clawed at her throat and blurred her vision, but she forced them back, focusing solely on escape.

Her legs carried her forward with a frantic energy, her lungs tightening within her chest, reminding her of the breathlessness that had haunted her in her dream. The dream itself was quickly fading from her memory, leaving only the chilling sensation of rope tightening around her neck. Even in the harsh reality of her current predicament, the imagined noose seemed to scratch against her skin, a ghostly reminder.

With a grim sense of poetry, she found that her end might not be at the hands of a suffocating noose, but rather by the chilling, unforgiving kiss of steel.

I should have gone with them, she thought regretfully, nearly losing her footing as she hurried down the steps through the courtyard. Behind her, a yelp rang out, causing her to glance back over her shoulder in a moment of unthinking reaction. This momentary distraction led to her foot catching on the edge of an uneven stone slab, and she tumbled to the ground. The impact of her palms against the stone was loud and painful, sending a burning sensation up her arms. Her knees throbbed painfully as she clamored back to her feet, her heart racing wildly.

For a brief moment, she caught sight of the sky painted in vivid oranges and bleeding reds of dawn, before her gaze returned to the task ahead. Her heart sank as she saw Ser Erryk Cargyll step in front of the exit, effectively blocking her path.

Her movements faltered, and she looked at him with a desperate, pleading expression. “Please.”

Ser Erryk’s expression softened momentarily, his brows lifting in a gesture of sympathy, revealing a momentary struggle within him. It was as if he was torn between his sworn duty and the human inclination to show compassion. This internal conflict was briefly visible in the hesitation that flickered across his face.

And in that hesitation, Daenera found a spark of hope, only to feel it snuffed out as a hand landed on his shoulder.

The flicker of doubt quickly transformed into a resigned acceptance of duty. This shift was solidified by the presence of his twin brother, Ser Arryk Cargyll. His voice was firm as he spoke, “I’m sorry, Princess, we have our orders.”

Daenera’s expression morphed into one of desperation. A sneer crossed her lips as she lunged forward, fueled by determination to break past the knights. But her efforts were quickly thwarted as Ser Erryk’s arm encircled her waist, pulling her back with such force that it knocked the wind out of her. In that instant, she let out a scream, raw and piercing, akin to the desperate cry of a cornered animal–the hiss of a fox caught in the net. She thrashed wildly in his grasp, her arms flailing, feet kicking at his legs, struggling to free herself.

Ser Erryk’s voice, tinged with pleading, was close to her ear, urging her to cease her futile resistance.

“It is no use,” he whispered. “The gates are sealed, and your men have been detained.”

His words took a moment to skin in, but as they did, Daenera’s frantic movements gradually subsided. Her nails dug into his hands, clawing at them to free herself.

“Release me,” she demanded.

“Will you stop fighting if I let go?” He asked, the uncertainty clear in his voice.

“Release me,” she repeated, her voice firm and strained.

After a brief pause, filled with hesitation, Ser Erryk loosened his hold around her waist, but he maintained a firm grip on her upper arm, not yet fully convinced of her compliance.

Daenera reluctantly acquiesced to being led away, her steps heavy and resentful as Ser Erryk guided her back through the courtyard, his brother, Ser Arryk, flanking her other side. Her heart pounded within her chest, like a bird trapped in its cage.

As Daenera was escorted through the doors, the scene that unfolded before her eyes brought a chilling halt to her feet. The grand hall of Maegor’s Holdfast, usually a bustling scene of life, was now marred by a grim sight. Ser Edam Varner lay motionless on the cold stone floor, his lifeless form surrounded by an ever-expanding pool of blood.

The sight was shocking, but it was the image of Joyce that truly caused Daenera’s heart to plummet. Ser Criston Cole had her in a vice-like grip, his hand clamped around his wrist so fiercely it seemed as though he might shatter the bone. He forced Joyce to relinquish her hairpin, which chimed against the stone floor with a mournful echo.

Ser Criston’s white cloak, once pristine, was now marred with splatters of blood. A streak of it marked his cheek, and a trickle of blood seeped from beneath his armor, evidence of a wound inflicted by either Joyce or Ser Edam.

Despite the evident pain and the bruises blooming on her face, Joyce’s expression was defiant as she glared back at Ser Criston. Her lip was split, her cheek bruised, yet there was no trace of fear in her eyes until Ser Criston’s gaze shifted to Daenera.

Time seemed to suspend as Daenera locked eyes with Ser Criston Cole. His eyes were like blots of ink, dark and unmoved. In that frozen moment, he retracted his sword and, with a chilling finality, thrust it into Joyce’s stomach. The blade mercilessly pierced through her, emerging bloodied on the other side. Daenera watched, horror-stricken, as the grim reality dawned on her – the sheer brutality of steel against the vulnerability of flesh.

A barely audible “No…” escaped Daenera’s lips, a feeble protest against the unfolding nightmare.

With a ruthless motion, Ser Criston withdrew his sword, pushing Joyce away and off his sword. She stood momentarily, swaying on her feet, her hand instinctively reaching for the gaping wound, her expression one of disbelief at the blood that flowed freely.

Daenera’s scream shattered the eerie calm, a raw expression of anguish and despair. She struggled fiercely against Ser Erryk’s hold, her fists pounding against his armor in an effort to break free. Whether he released her or she managed to wretch herself from his grasp, she didn’t know as she stumbled towards Joyce, collapsing to her knees beside her. Daenera’s hands desperately pressed against the wound, the warmth of the blood stark against her skin and warm, soo warm...

“J-Joyce!” She cried out, her voice breaking. But before she could do more, strong arms wrapped around her waist, dragging her away from the tragic scene. She fought against the grip with all her might, her legs scraping against the floor as she was forcibly pulled up the stairs. A hand clamped over her mouth, muffling her cries, while another arm constricted around her with bruising force. Tears blurred her vision, her throat constricted with grief as she continued to struggle against the inexorable pull.

Ser Criston Cole’s voice, cold and authoritative, echoed through the hall. “Post additional guards at her door.”

His command reverberated, the final decree sealing Daenera’s fate as she was dragged away.

Daenera was hurled with brute force into her chambers, the stone floor rushing up to meet her as she fell. The impact sent a sharp pain shooting through her elbow, radiating through her entire arm. Struggling to rise, the door was slammed shut with a deafening echo, a sound overpowered by Daenera’s blood roaring in her ears.

In a frenzy of desperation, she sprang to her feet, her body crashing against the wooden barrier. She frantically tugged at the handles, pounded against the door, her cries for release merging into the sounds of her futile assault on the unyielding wood. But her pleas fell of deaf ears, swallowed by the solid barrier that remained firmly shut.

Daenera’s gaze was drawn to the stark red on her trembling hands, the blood of her oldest and most cherished friend. A heart-wrenching sob forced its way out as she wiped her hands on her dress as she struggled with the turn of her stomach.

Acidic bile rose in Daenera’s throat, clawing its way up. In a state of distress, she stumbled away from the door, rushing across the room to collapse on her knees beside the empty chamber pot. The contents of her stomach spilled forth, an acidic yellow bile that matched its bitter taste. Her stomach convulsed, tears dripping from her eyelashes as she wretched loudly. Spitting to rid her mouth of the vile flair, she wiped her face with a sleeve, her body quivering uncontrollably with shock.

Daenera’s thoughts churned with anxiety, the fate of her men a gnawing uncertainty at the forefront of her mind. Had the morning’s brutal events extinguished the lives of all those she held close? Fenrick, a steadfast protector; Sweet Jelissa and little Patrick… And what of her other guards–Eddin Follard, Darvin Crooler, Kevan Mertyns, and Sithtric Greenfield? Were they to share the same grim fate as Edam Varner and Joyce, whose lives had been cruelly snuffed out in the conflict?

These thoughts swirled in a tempest of fear and sorrow, and drove her over the chamber pot again, saliva hanging from her lips as she braced for another onslaught of nausea. But when no further wave of sickness came, she gingerly wiped her mouth and pushed herself back to her feet, movements shaky and uncertain.

Driven by a profound urgency, Daenera crossed the expanse of her chambers with swift, albeit unsteady steps. Her movements were a blend of determination and trepidation as she gripped the balcony doors, and with a decisive motion, she thrust the doors wide open.

As the doors swung, the gentle embrace of dawn’s first light spilled into the chamber, along with a gentle breeze.

Below, the sprawling expanse of King’s Landing unfolded, a tableau of peace and routine untouched by the turmoil that had seized the heights of power within the Red Keep. The city, with its winding streets and bustling markets, lay serene under the early light, its people moving about their day, blissfully unaware of their King’s passing and the looming shadow of usurpation that threatened to upend the realm.

Elevating herself on the tips of her toes, she strained her eyes towards the harbor, seeking a glimpse of Meraxes amidst the veil of lingering darkness. Yet, the obscurity of night clung stubbornly to the scene with a mist, rendering the harbor little more than a vague shadow on the horizon. Despite this, Daenera’s heart held fast to a sliver of hope that Jelissa and Patrick had safely found their way onto the ship, that they had embarked and set sail without her.

As she lingered on the balcony, the grip of a chilling realization tightened around her. The prospect that Jelissa and Patrick might have been apprehended, ensnared by the same fate her other men were. The thought filled her with a profound sense of dread. Such a turn of events would ensure her mother remained unaware of the scheming taking place and the machinations against her to steal her throne.

With this alarming thought, Daenera spun from the balcony’s edge, her every movement infused with urgency as she ran back through the room. Her mind was a tempest of thoughts and plans. She had to get out of the Keep, or at the very least, get word to her mother.

Kneeling, she flung open the chest at the foot of her bed, digging through its contents, her gaze flicking through the fabric in search for the hidden dagger. Her hands sifted through the fabrics until they closed around the familiar shape of the dagger’s hilt. With a decisive grip, she secured the blade to her waist, pushing it into her belt.

Bolstered by the presence of the weapon at her side, Daenera turned her attention to preparations for her escape. She procured a small pouch, swiftly gathering a collection of coins and jewels–assets that could aid her in the uncertain days ahead and pay her way to Dragonstone. Once the pouch was secured to her belt, she approached a table where half scribbled notes lay screw across its surface.

With practiced haste, she took up a feather pen and a piece of parchment and wrote;

The King is dead. The Hightowers have imprisoned me. They are usurping you. I will attempt to get away. Shall I not succeed, worry not for me. I will survive.

Your loving daughter.

The ink from Daenera’s feather splashed onto the parchment, leaving a stain reminiscent of dark, sorrowful tears. She meticulously folded the note and secured it within the waistband of her dress for safekeeping.

Clutching a candlestick tightly in her hand, she inhaled deeply, gathering her resolve. Daenera hoped against hope that the Hightowers had overlooked the existence of the castle’s secret passageways.

Pressing her palm against the concealed door, she applied gentle force, silently imploring it to yield. To her relief, it responded with a soft click, swinging open to release a gust of chilly, musty air. The smell was a mix of stagnation and the unmistakable odor of rat droppings, and she could hear the faint rustling of the rodents in the darkness.

Daenera hesitantly stepped into the shadowy passage. Although she knew the way to Aemond’s chambers by heart, her knowledge of these hidden corridors beyond was limited – a fact she now realized was a grave oversight.

For a fleeting moment, the idea of seeking out Aemond surfaced in her mind, but she quickly dismissed it, knowing he would be compelled to return her to her chambers, ensuring her captivity. The pain of this realization was sharp and cutting.

Carefully, she navigated the labyrinthine passages, mentally mapping her route as her hands slid over the cool, rough walls in search for the correct exit. The scent of blood, still clinging to her dress from her earlier ordeal, filled her nostrils, a stark reminder of the stakes. She regretted not changing her attire, realizing too late that it might hinder her efforts to remain undetected.

Daenera hesitated outside Rhaenys’ chamber, where the door had been partially sealed off with a heavy stone barrier. She exerted pressure against it, hoping it might give way, but it remained firmly in place. She then tapped softly on the wooden surface, her heart racing as she cast a wary glance down the dark passageway, the glinting eyes of rats the only response in the gloom.

Growing more anxious, she knocked again, this time with more urgency, her throat tight with apprehension. She yearned for a sign that Rhaenys was still there–was still alive.

“Hello?” A voice faintly echoed from the other side.

“Rhaenys?” Daenera responded, hope flickering within her.

“Daenera?”

“Can you open the door from your side?” Daenera asked, her discomfort growing as the rat scurried over her feet. It seemed the rat catchers had done nothing to control the pest.

The wood of the door groaned under Rhaenys’ attempt to open it from her side, but the obstruction proved immovable. The stone barrier was not something that could be easily dismantled, effectively trapping Rhaenys in her room. After a moment of trying, Rhaenys’ voice came through again, defeated. “I cannot open it. My doors have been locked, and the nobles seem to have been summoned to the throne room…”

Daenera felt a lump form in her throat, the candle flickering as she leaned wearily against the door.

“The King is dead,” she revealed, her voice barely more than a whisper, laden with the gravity of the news she delivered. She swallowed thickly, and repeated her words in a higher tone. “The King is dead.”

In the wake of the revelation, a heavy silence hung in the air, punctuated only by the distant echoes of activity.

When Rhaenys finally responded, her voice resonated with a firm, experienced resolve, the tone of someone who had faced death before and endured. “You must run, Daenera. Go to your mother, tell her what’s happening here.”

Daenera’s concern for her grandmother grew. “What about you? I can’t just leave you here with the Hightowers, they might–”

“I cannot get out,” Rhaenys interjected firmly. “I suspect they’ll keep me as a hostage, unless I swear loyalty to Aegon. They’d do the same to you. You mustn’t let them catch you; it’s not safe. Go now, Daenera.”

“But Rhaenys–”

“Go, now, before they realize you’re missing,” Rhaenys insisted, her tone underscored with urgency.

Clutching the candlestick tightly, Daenera whispered a heart-wrenching, “Goodbye, Grandmother.”

Daenera used one hand to guide herself along the wall, seeking stability as the candle’s flickering light cast unsettling, moving shadows around her. Her revulsion surged as she navigated the dark, confining passageways. Her heart thudded against her ribcage, mirroring the chaotic scurrying of rats that darted across her path, slowing her progression. She loathed the sensation–the visceral, pounding fear, the feeling of entrapment. Like the rats, she found herself trapped within a maze, desperately seeking an exit, her skin crawling at each unexpected touch of their tiny, leaping bodies against her feet.

The stale air of the passages seemed to press in on her, thick with mustiness of neglect and the sharp tang of old stone.

In an unfortunate misstep, Daenera’s foot descended upon an unsuspecting rat. Its sharp squeal shattered the silence, a fleeting protest before a sickening crunch signaled the end of its plight. She inhaled sharply as she attempted to sidestep the small corpse. Yet, fate was not on her side; her other foot snagged on an errant stone, sending her staggering forward. The candle, her sole source of light, slipped from her grasp. As it tumbled to the ground, the light flickered once–a desperate attempt to cling to life–before succumbing to the suffocating darkness, leaving her enveloped in a blanket of pitch black.

Navigating solely by the faint whispers of sound and the tentative brush of her fingertips against the walls, Daenera found herself adrift in a world stripped of sight. Her journey through the darkness was a slow dance of memory and instinct until the texture beneath her touch subtly changed, from the coarse kiss of stone to the smooth caress of aged wood.

Her questing hand, guided by a blend of hope and desperation, stumbled upon a latch–a modest sentinel guarding the threshold. A sigh of relief escaped her, mingling with the cool, stale air of the passage as she worked the latch with her finger that betrayed a hint of tremor. Gently, she nudged open a panel, stepping into a realm of light that assaulted her senses with its brilliance. Her eyes, protesting the sudden intrusion, squinted and watered as she hastened to close the panel again.

The chamber, a ghost of familiarity, whispered echoes of her brothers’ laughter, a fleeting memory of unity and warmth. Sunlight filtered through the windows, casting a gentle glow that illuminated the remnants of their presence.

Daenera afforded herself not a moment’s indulgence in the ghosts of memories that haunted the chamber. Instead, she approached the door with a purposeful stride, pressing her ear against the cool wood to discern any hint of activity beyond. Her fingers, acting on an instinct honed by necessity, clasped the hilt of her dagger, sliding it from its sheath with a silent resolve. Her heartbeat, a drum of apprehension, seemed to echo in her ears as the sound of footsteps grew nearer. She barely dared to breathe, her body tensed for any eventuality. The footsteps, however, marched past without pause, the transient threat receding into the distance and leaving behind a hushed corridor.

Quietly, Daenera ventured forth from her temporary refuge, the hood of her cloak drawn forward to shroud her identity. She tread the empty halls with a blend of caution and urgency, her senses attuned to the slightest whisper of sound. At every echo of voices or footsteps, she would meld with the darkness, slipping into a hiding spot.

Upon reaching the threshold of her destination, a flicker of hesitation stayed her hand. Drawing a deep breath to calm the storm within her chest, she eased the door open with a gentle, practiced touch, ensuring her entry went unnoticed. The room's warmth greeted, a somewhat welcome embrace after the chill of the stone corridors.

The door shut behind her, sealing her within. Daenera moved quietly, her gaze sweeping the room for any sign of danger. Yet, it was the absence that caught her attention.

The thought weighed heavily on her, a reminder how fallible this plan was, strung together by mere hope.

The room lay enveloped in a profound quietude, its stillness so tangible that it seemed to press against the very air. Daenera’s fingers, stained with the vestiges of her recent ordeals–blood darkened to a rust hue and dirt ingrained into her skin–drifted over the parchments strewn across the table. In the chaos of scattered notes, one caught her attention with an immediate pang of recognition. It was adorned with her own script detailing her departure.

Daenera receded into the room’s deeper shadows, seeking the sanctuary of concealment.

From there, she would bide her time and wait for Larys’ return.

#aemond targaryen #fic recs

43 notes · View notes

persephonerinyes · 7 hours

Text

A zombie apocalypse AU? Let's go!!! Love the vivid setup (as usual). I'm excited to see more of Chips and Rio's friendship and their team up with the Targs! Of course I'm already swooning over med school zombie killer Aemond.

I'm ashamed to say I had to look up Odessa on a map even though I'm originally from Oregon lol.

Rio's already wingmanning Chips at the end 🤣

Where Will All The Martyrs Go [Chapter 1: Welcome To A New Kind Of Tension]

Series summary: In the midst of the zombie apocalypse, both you and Aemond (and your respective travel companions) find yourselves headed for the West Coast. It’s the 2024 version of the Oregon Trail, but with less dysentery and more undead antagonists. Watch out for snakes! 😉🐍

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, med school Aemond, character deaths, nature, drinking, smoking, drugs, Adventures With Aegon, pregnancy and childbirth, the U.S. Navy, road trip vibes, Jace is here unfortunately.

Series title is a lyric from: “Letterbomb” by Green Day.

Chapter title is a lyric from: “American Idiot” by Green Day.

Word count: 5.1k

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 🥰

“What do you think, should we kill ourselves now or later?” Rio is spinning his Beretta M9 around on his index finger. This is not advisable. He doesn’t care.

Your hands are gripping the skeletal latticework of the transmission tower, steel hot enough to burn you; no electricity hums in the power lines suspended above your heads. Your eyes are on the horizon, golden June sunlight over fields no one has planted. Weeds are growing up through the earth, feral and defiantly useless, reclaiming their land just like the deer are, and the rabbits and the opossums and the turtles and the squirrels and the doves. The reign of humanity is over. Now you’re prey animals too. “Let’s wait.”

“For what?”

“Maybe someone will save us.”

“Ain’t nobody coming, Chips!” Rio says. “We’re a hundred feet off the ground in the middle of nowhere, motherfucking Catawissa, Pennsylvania, and we haven’t run into anyone since that Amish family back in Lightstreet, and I wouldn’t count on them driving by in their horse and buggy to pick us up.”

“We’re about sixty feet off the ground.”

“Okay, Bob the Builder, why don’t you whip up a helicopter or something to get us out of here?” Rio’s M9 has one bullet left in it, yours has three, nowhere near enough. At the bottom of the tower is a swarm of fifty-four zombies; you’ve counted them twice. There are no cute euphemisms: walkers, biters, the infected. They were once people and now they’re not. They wear the vestiges of their former lives, like how those who believe in reincarnation see meaning in birthmarks: here you were stabbed, there you were kissed by your true love. They lurch and snarl and hiss in their professional attire, college t-shirts, Vans and Jordans, septum piercings, wedding rings. They decompose in a miasma of metallic blood and spoiled meat. Parker had been the last one to the transmission tower, and they grabbed him by the legs. Now they’re chewing the gristle off his bones: disconnected ligaments that swing like strands of cobwebs, scarlet threads of muscle. “Oh shit,” Rio says, looking down. “We’ve got a smart one.”

Most zombies don’t have the fine motor skills to climb, swim, or open doors, but every once in a while—just like out of every 5,000 or 10,000 or however many ordinary humans you’ll pull the lever on the genetic slot machine and get a Picasso or a kid who can score a 1600 on the SATs—you run into an overachiever. This zombie, a teenage boy with red hair and a blue plaid shirt, is slowly scaling the tower. He’s already ten feet off the ground.

Rio aims his M9, semiautomatic, packs a punch but won’t break your arm with the recoil. “Fuck off, Ed Sheeran!” He fires and misses; the bullet grazes the boy’s shoulder. He groans dramatically and asks you in defeat: “Will you take care of that, please?”

You pull your pistol out of your holster and lean away from the tower to get a better angle, holding onto the scaffolding with one hand. You feel Rio’s large fingers close around your wrist, ready to yank you back if you slip. You click off the safety with your thumb, peer through the front sight, aim and wait until you’re sure. It’s a headshot: shards of skull ricochet off steel beams, half-rotten brains spray out in a mist. The carcass plummets to the earth.

“All this horror, all this catastrophe.” Rio’s eyes, dark like a mineshaft, drift mischievously back to you. “We could…distract each other.”

He’s not serious; this is a game you play. “No thanks.”

“You don’t want to die a virgin.”

“I do if you’re the only other person up here.”

“You deny a condemned man his final wish?”

“We’re not dying,” you insist. “What about Sophie?”

“Sophie would understand given the circumstances. She would want me to be happy.”

“What if we have sex and then immediately thereafter get rescued? You’d be a cheater. You’d be consumed by guilt. You’d never be able to take me back to your parents’ doomsday prepper cult commune in bumblefuck Oregon to wait out the apocalypse in peace.”

“You’re going to appreciate those doomsday preppers when you’re eating Chef Boyardee out of a can instead of shuffling around as a reanimated corpse.”

“Yeah, I’m sure I will,” you muse. “So you agree we’re going to get off this tower somehow.”

Rio sighs and whistles a morose tune: what a shame. “You should have gone out with that Marine at Corpus Christi.”

You frown, repentant, wistful. There’s nothing on the horizon except fields and trees and black storm clouds of crows taking flight. “I was afraid of making a mistake.”

“And now look at you. About to die as pure as Pope Francis.”

“How did this happen?! We’re not idiots, we’re goddamn professionals!” You re-holster your M9. You’re still wearing your uniforms from when you went AWOL, stealing away from Saratoga Springs like rats from a sinking ship.

“I’ll tell you exactly how this happened. You let that loser Parker come with us even though I knew it was a bad idea—”

“I couldn’t just leave him there! He started crying!”

“And he had one job, which was to check the oil in the Humvee, and clearly he failed because…” Rio glances at his watch. “Approximately four hours ago, the engine started smoking and the whole thing died on us, so we had to get out and walk, like we’re pioneers or some shit, and then that hoard down there came out of nowhere, and the only place left to go was up. Freaking Parker. I could murder that guy.” An awkward pause. “I mean, the zombies beat me to it. But still.”

“He had two jobs. He was also carrying the extra ammo.”

“Don’t remind me.” Rio isn’t messing around with his M9 anymore. He’s contemplating it as the sun hovers just past noon, hot and shadowless. “How many bullets do you have left?”

“Two.”

“Good. Don’t use them.”

You look at him, this man you’ve known for over four years, this man you’ve traveled the world with. You’ve already gone so much farther than Oregon together. How is it possible that what was once a six hour flight is now a month-long journey that might kill you? “It’s not over yet, Rio.”

“Remember what you promised me.”

His hushed voice in the moonlit indigo of the Humvee the night you left Saratoga Springs: Don’t let me die alone. “We’re going to be okay. We’re going to make it to Oregon.” Then you grin, sweltering summer air breathing over you, humid, heavy, the screeching of insects in the trees. “But if it comes to that, I’d be happy to shoot you first.”

Rio smiles as the zombies below growl and claw at the steel framework of the transmission tower. Flesh peels off their fingers until you can see the gore-stained white of their bones. “Don’t miss.”

“I rarely do.”

“Do you have any more packs of Cheddar Whales in your pockets or—?” He cuts off as he spots something in the distance. His eyes go wide, his jaw drops open. “What…what is that?!”

It’s an SUV, massive, dark blue, rumbling across the field in a dust storm of displaced earth. It’s headed straight towards you. There is someone standing up through the sunroof, short dark hair that whips wildly in the wind, binoculars. You can hear the engine revving and, faintly, Kanye West’s Gold Digger. As the SUV nears the tower, Sunroof Kid ducks inside and closes the hatch.

Rio explodes into hysterical, rapturous laughter. “Oh my God, we’re saved! We’re not going to die up here! Oh, thank you, Jesus, thank you. I’m never going to jack off on Sundays again.”

The SUV, still accelerating, plows through the mob of zombies. Severed limbs go flying; bones crunch and snap. There’s a woman driving, you can see now through the slightly tinted windows. She puts the monstrous vehicle and reverse and does another pass. Zombies paw futilely at the sides of the SUV, a Chevy Tahoe, as it turns out. They smack their open, soggy palms on the windows; they gnaw and lick at the bumpers and the wheel wells. The Tahoe circles to regain speed, the engine growling, a bear, a dragon, and barrels into the remaining ambulatory zombies. The hoard is now largely incapacitated. Rio is cheering and clapping his hands.

The Tahoe’s doors open, and your rescuers appear. There are two men wielding baseball bats: one with long dark curly hair, the other tall and blonde, and there’s something wrong with his face, the left side, though you are too far away to see clearly. They move rapidly through the battlefield of felled, moaning bodies, swinging their bats and crushing skulls. There’s another blonde guy, shorter, softer, pink with sunburn, wearing plastic sunglasses and a teal polo with a popped collar. He’s spinning a golf club in his right hand. He is followed out of the Tahoe by one last blonde, spindly and swift, stalking the perimeter with a compound bow, a quiver of arrows secured to his belt. Rio is singing along to Gold Digger, drumming his fists on the steel beams.

“Now, I ain’t sayin’ you a gold digger, you got needs

You don’t want a dude to smoke, but he can’t buy weed

You go out to eat, he can’t pay, y’all can’t leave

There’s dishes in the back, he gotta roll up his sleeves…”

The driver wriggles out of the Tahoe with some difficulty; she is seven or eight months pregnant. “Stay in the car,” Madame Driver tells someone inside as she slams the door shut. She’s holding a hammer and sets about euthanizing the zombies still squirming on the ground and gnashing their cracked teeth at her.

Golf Club says: “Jace, bro, that’s so embarrassing. You’re gonna let her do that?”

Curly—or, rather, Jace—shrugs. “Exercise is good for the baby.”

All three blondes respond at once in a chorus of appalled disapproval. Interestingly, your rescuers have British accents. From within the Tahoe, someone turns off the CD player. This is wise; noise tends to attract more zombies. Madame Driver, unaffected, puts her hammer through the eye socket of a former Arby’s employee.

Jace flings back: “She likes helping! It would be sexist to tell her she’s not allowed to!”

The Scarred Man looks up at you and Rio and salutes, two fingers glanced off his forehead. You begin climbing down the scalding rungs of the transmission tower to meet them.

“Oh fuck, Aemond, you gotta deal with this,” Golf Club says. He is holding a yowling zombie at arm’s length by the straps of its overalls. It’s tiny, maybe a kindergartener. “You know I can’t kill the little kid ones.”

The Scarred Man, Aemond, turns to him. He’s wearing a maroon Harvard University t-shirt. “You have to learn how to do things yourself. I might not always be around.”

Golf Club scoffs. “As if I’d outlive you.”

“Go on. You can do it,” Aemond says. Behind him, more people are emerging from the Chevy Tahoe: Binoculars Buddy, a slight girl with shifting, watchful eyes, a blonde woman in a billowing sundress and with a burlap messenger bag slung over one shoulder.

Golf Club is still struggling. “Aw, Aemond, man, he’s got light-up sneakers!”

Jace strides over irritably. “Aegon, you’re so fucking useless…” He kicks the miniature zombie to the dirt, raises his bloodied baseball bat, and brings it down on a skull that disintegrates like an overripe Halloween pumpkin. “You’re welcome.”

“Get bit, you poodle.”

Rio hits the ground first, his boots thumping against untamed earth. Aemond sets his baseball bat aside and reaches out to offer assistance as you dangle from a white-hot steel beam. “No,” Rio tells him roughly. “Back up.”

Aemond shows his palms and complies, retreating several paces. Rio helps you down. Now you can see Aemond’s face perfectly. There’s a relatively fresh wound running down the left half of his face, the violent red of burgeoning scar tissue, clear stitches; his eye has been sutured shut. But that’s not why you’re staring at him. His other eye is a focused, hypnotic blue, his short blonde hair disheveled. He keeps touching his chin, a nervous tick. Immediately, there’s something you like about him. He gives you the impression of someone who has gotten very good at hiding how afraid he is. Aemond looks away from your gaze, thinking you’re horrified by his injury. Then, reluctantly, he comes back. There’s forbidden temptation the lines of his ravaged face, a curiosity, a hesitation.

“Thank you for saving us,” you say to your rescuers, tearing your attention from Aemond. It’s not easy. “That was really, really cool of you, and we know you didn’t have to do it. So thanks.”

“Yeah,” Rio adds. “Sorry your Tahoe is covered in guts now.”

Aemond turns to confer silently with his companions, then asks you: “Where are you headed?”

“Odessa, Oregon.”

He nods. “We’re going to California.”

“NorCal,” Jace says, holding his baseball bat across his shoulders. “Bay Area.”

“Are you two together?” Aegon asks.

“Yeah,” Rio says, misunderstanding the question.

“Not like that,” you clarify. “He has a wife and baby, that’s what’s in Oregon.”

“So you’re single,” Aegon says, grinning toothily. His fellow travelers—family? friends? classmates? a combination thereof?—grumble and roll their eyes.

“Um, I mean, yeah, technically…?”

“Aemond’s also single,” Madame Driver informs you, relishing the chaos.

“He’s single but deformed and traumatized,” Aegon says. “I am mentally uninjured.”

You chuckle awkwardly. Your eyes, by their own volition, flick back to Aemond. He peers down at the ground then up at you again, smiling, a little sheepish, a little wicked.

Aegon groans, swinging his golf club around. “Man, come on.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Aemond replies.

“No, it’s just right there, all over your fucked up face.”

Madame Driver feigns a sympathetic frown at Aegon. “How sad. Guess you won’t have anyone to give your syphilis to.”

“I don’t have syphilis,” Aegon tells you. Then, to the others: “I can’t be the only single guy! It’s pathetic!”

“I’m single,” Archery Team says brightly.

“You’re like twelve. You don’t count.”

“I’m seventeen!”

“Are you Army?” Aemond asks you and Rio.

“Navy,” Rio replies. “We were stationed at Saratoga Springs in upstate New York.”

Aemond is fascinated. “You’re deserters?”

“What are you gonna do about it, Brit Boy?” Rio says. Aemond blinks at him. Aegon cackles, drawing huge circles in the air with his golf club.

“Everyone’s deserting,” you explain diplomatically.

“They were going to evacuate the base and send everyone left into New York City,” Rio says. “Fuck that, we’d heard things, we weren’t about to go on some suicide mission. We weren’t even in a combat unit for Christ’s sake, we’re Seabees.”

“You’re what?” Aemond asks, puzzled.

“We do construction. That’s why we were still at the base. If they’re putting us on the front lines, the situation is truly desperate. I’m not going in the meatgrinder. I’m not gonna be like those Hitler Youth kids sent to Russia.”

Aegon is squinting behind his sunglasses, truly lost. “Huh?”

“We should go west together,” Aemond suggests. He’s attempting to sound casual.

“I thought we didn’t want to travel with strangers, Aemond,” Jace says pointedly, mocking him. “I thought they couldn’t be trusted, Aemond. I thought they might slit our throats and steal our Tahoe in the dead of night, Aemond.”

“We’re useful!” Rio bargains. “We can shoot things!”

Aegon is very confused. “I thought you did construction.”

“Everyone has to go through basic training,” Aemond tells him impatiently, watching you.

“She got the Marksmanship Medal,” Rio says, grinning, proud.

“A lot of people get that,” you demur immediately.

“We can give you guys weapons training,” Rio continues. “You seem…like you probably don’t know about guns. Like you read a lot of books.” He gestures to Aegon. “Except that one.”

Aegon snickers, unoffended, still swinging his golf club around. “I don’t read books. I read maps.”

“Okay, lets do it,” Aemond says. “We’ll stick together across the Midwest and split up before we get to the Pacific. That puts us at ten people, and there’s safety in numbers.”

“Why do you get to make all the decisions?!” Jace demands. “Who signed that fucking contract? I didn’t consent to those terms.”

“Because that’s what Criston told us the last time the phones worked,” Aegon replies smugly. “He said Aemond’s in charge. So he is. If you want to find your way to California on your own, you’re welcome to try.”

“Who’s Criston?” you ask.

“Our fake dad,” Aegon says.

“Oh, your stepdad?”

“No, our mom is still married to our dad, he just sucks.”

“He does suck,” Archery Team confirms.

Rio tells you: “Hey, Chips, you’re standing in a torso.”

“Am I?” You look down. Your boots are buried to the ankles in the rotting gore of a bare midsection with only one limp arm still attached. You step out of it and shake off the bits of decomposing organs. “Gnarly. Thanks.” You spot Parker’s backpack containing the extra ammunition, pick it up out of the dirt, and throw it over your shoulders.

“Chips?” Aemond says. “Like…chocolate chips?”

“No, like woodchips. I’m a carpenter. I mean, I was a carpenter, I guess. That’s what I did in the Navy. Some people call the carpenters Chips.”

“I was an electrician,” Rio says. “So clearly, now that all the power is down, that turned out to be a fantastic career path.” Then he formally introduces himself. “Hi everyone, I’m Rio.”

Aegon perks up. “Oh, like the Rio Grande.”

Rio pretends to be scandalized. “Wow, racist.”

“So racist,” you agree.

Aegon’s chubby pink face fills with horror. “No, wait, I didn’t…um…”

Rio laughs and taps the nametag on his chest, black letters stitched over green camouflage: Osorio.

“His first name’s Bryan,” you say. “But no one calls him that.”

“My mom calls me Bryan. Sophie calls me Bryan.”

Aemond points at his companions, one after the other. “That’s my brother Aegon and my sister Helaena. Jace and Luke are our cousins. Then Baela and Rhaena are their girlfriends. Well, Baela…she’s kind of a fiancée. But there’s no official ring yet.”

Jace says: “Unfortunately, all the jewelry stores were looted on account of the apocalypse.”

“And I’m Daeron,” Archery Team says buoyantly, waving. Then he shields his eyes as he notices something at the edge of the field. “Oh, guys…?”

There are zombies approaching with clumsy, staggering strides, only a few now, but more will follow. That’s the thing; they are in seemingly endless supply. It’s easy to get too comfortable with them, to think of them as slow and mindless, even comical, even pitiful. But they can surprise you. And it only takes one bite to become just like them.

“Time to return to the Tahoe,” Baela announces, waddling towards the driver’s seat. Rhaena climbs in the passenger’s side. The rest of you pile into the back. The SUV has nine seats; Aegon crouches on the floor without being asked to. He’s unfolding a map he pulled from the pocket of his salmon-colored shorts and laying it flat across Rio’s knees so everyone can see. Baela turns the key in the ignition and the Tahoe rumbles to life. You spot a few red gas cans under the seats. If you can’t find more when that runs out—siphoning it out of other vehicles, stumbling across a gas station that is miraculously not drained dry—you’ll be walking, biking, or skateboarding to the West Coast. Or embracing the Amish lifestyle with a horse and buggy.

“We were planning to swing by Fort Indiantown Gap,” you tell Aemond. He twists around in his seat to look at you, that absorbed crystalline blue gaze. “That’s where we were headed before our Humvee broke down. It’s a National Guard Training Center. It’s probably cleaned out like everywhere else, but if it’s not…we might be able to find some guns and ammo there.”

“Where is it?”

“An hour south of here, just outside of Harrisburg.”

Baela is watching Aemond in the rearview mirror. He gives her a nod. “How do I get there?” Baela asks you.

“South on Route 42. Did you see the signs on your way in…?”

“Yup. Got it.” Baela steers the Tahoe across the field, kicking up a vortex of parched soil. She intentionally runs down four zombies before swerving left onto a two-lane road. Then she turns up the volume on the CD player: War Pigs by Black Sabbath. “It’s a mixtape,” she informs you.

Aegon points to southcentral Pennsylvania on a map of the United States of America, highway arteries and local route veins. “We’re here,” he says, sliding around on the floor of the Tahoe as Baela drives. His index finger traces the path; it’s a precarious balance between avoiding the most heavily populated areas and still having access to the necessary trappings of civilization: supplies to scavenge, roads to follow, buildings to take shelter in. “We’ll stop by Fort Indiantown Gap and then head northwest, thread the needle between Pittsburgh and Cleveland, stay south of Detroit and Chicago, cut across Iowa, Nebraska, Wyoming, that top part of Utah, then go our separate ways in Nevada. Oh my God, it’s just like the Oregon Trail! Do you guys remember that game?! Fording rivers, getting dysentery, hunting bison to extinction?” He starts humming the theme song.

Jace smirks, chomping on a Twizzler. “Hope you don’t die of a snakebite or something. That’d be awful.”

Aegon ignores him and refolds the map. “Rio! Fuck, marry, kill. The last three first ladies before Biden.”

Rhaena says, exasperated: “Aegon, you have to stop asking people that. It’s inappropriate.”

“Oh, easy,” Rio replies. “I’m fucking Laura Bush.”

“That’s what I’m saying!” Aegon gives him a high five.

“And then I have to marry Michelle.”

“You gotta.”

“Which means Melania gets the grape Flavor Aid.”

“It’s the only logical answer.”

“I’d fuck Melania,” Jace says.

“Of course you would, you sick, sick man,” Aegon mutters, rolling down a window and sticking his head out like a golden retriever, his sunglasses still on, his blonde hair flapping in the wind. There’s a tattoo in black ink on his forearm, you notice for the first time: It’s not over ‘til you’re underground.

~~~~~~~~~~

Fort Indiantown Gap is a ghost town like a gold seam emptied, an oil well run dry, a collapsed coal mine. There’s no central armory but instead a series of arms rooms, one for each unit. Every single scrap of lethal metal is gone: no pistols, no rifles, no grenade launchers or machine guns, no ammo, not even pocketknives, although you do find clean PT uniforms for you and Rio to change into, t-shirts and running shorts and sneakers. Clothes are surprisingly difficult to acquire now. Most stores have either been looted or overrun by zombies, and Amazon is tragically no longer delivering. You can break into houses that seem abandoned, but then you have to hope the people who lived there just so happened to be your size and also aren’t waiting inside to eat you. It’s not usually a wise gamble.

You study Aemond and his companions as you move through the base clearing buildings, you and Rio with loaded M9s in your holsters and clutching borrowed baseball bats; gunshots are best avoided if possible so as not to attract unwanted attention. Aemond and Jace take point, almost always; Aegon hovers on Aemond’s blind left side, wagging his golf club around, occasionally slapping Aemond’s shoulder to remind him he’s there. Daeron prowls at the back and on the periphery. Baela pretends she isn’t struggling to keep up. Luke and Rhaena are the lookouts. Helaena fills her burlap messenger bag with small treasures you don’t even notice her accumulating: bottles of Advil, batteries, lighters, pens, tweezers, Band-Aids, Uno cards. You encounter only three zombies, easily decommissioned. Fort Indiantown Gap must have been evacuated weeks ago. You wonder what pointless battles her soldiers died in. Everyone knows the dead have won.

What the abandoned base lacks in weaponry it makes up for in food. You find a chow hall with an untouched kitchen, a wealth of shelf-stable delicacies: chili, saltine crackers, applesauce, fruit cocktail with bright red gems of cherries, peanut butter, strawberry jelly, green beans, carrots, peas, beets, tuna fish, chicken noodle soup. You feast—a Thanksgiving, a Last Supper—then settle into the barracks next door as the sun begins to set. There are plenty of bunkbeds and a closet full of pillows and sheets. Someone always has to be up to keep watch; Daeron and Jace immediately go to sleep so they can get some rest before they are shaken awake sometime around 2 or 3 a.m. Baela says she’s going to lie down for a minute and almost immediately begins snoring. Helaena makes silent amendments in her notebook; she keeps an inventory of everything the group has, needs, or wants.

Outside, Rio and Aegon are engaged in a spirited game of Uno. Luke is sitting cross-legged on the roof of the Tahoe with his binoculars. Rhaena is beside him softly reading a book out loud: The Hunger Games. Aemond is on a wooden bench on the front porch of the barracks, watching the sun sink into the west. When he notices you, he seems pleased. “Hi.”

“Hi. I’m sorry we wasted your gas to come here.”

“No, it was a good idea. It was worth a shot. And now we have a safe place to sleep tonight.” His eye drops lower, his scarred brow crinkles in concern. “What happened to your hands?”

“My hands?” In the haze of the adrenaline, you didn’t even notice. Your palms are blistered, swollen and stinging. “Oh. It was the transmission tower. The steel beams got really hot while we were up there. I’ll be okay.”

“Let me bandage them. You don’t want to get an infection.”

“Really, I’m fine, I shouldn’t inconvenience—”

“Sit down,” Aemond insists. You take a seat on the bench while he goes to the Tahoe to fetch a black nylon bag about the size of a briefcase. Rio casts you a furtive, crafty grin. It’s nothing, you mouth back, more to convince yourself than him. Your pulse is thudding in your ears; your cheeks are warm. You haven’t felt like this since you almost agreed to go on a date with that Marine you met at Corpus Christi, where your battalion had been dispatched to build a series of new airplane hangars. Aemond returns to the bench and begins wiping down your palms with antiseptic. “Sorry if this stings.”

It does, but you’re grateful for the distraction. “It isn’t too bad.”

“You’re not from Oregon.” He’s noticed your accent.

“Kentucky,” you confess.

“You aren’t making a stop at home before traveling west?”

“Why would I want to go back there?”

Aemond looks at you uncertainly; he can’t tell if you’re joking. You like the way his voice goes quiet when it’s just the two of you. You like the way he barely shows his teeth when he talks, like he’s keeping secrets.

After a moment, as the sky begins to turn to orange and pink and lilac, you continue. “People join the Army for a paycheck and a place to sleep, free college, health insurance. People join the Marines to prove they’re the best. People join the Air Force because they want to be in the military but think they’re too smart for grunt work. And people join the Navy to get away from home. I wanted to get far, far, far away.”

Aemond smiles. “Are you far enough yet?” He doesn’t mean by miles. He means the fact that the world will never be the same. Now he’s coating your hands in a thick white ointment, cool and blissful.

“I was afraid of so many things, and now none of them matter.”

“We all have brand new things to be afraid of.” He gets a roll of gauze and begins to wrap your palms, careful to keep your fingers and thumbs unencumbered.

“Aemond?”

“Yeah.”

“What happened to your face?”

He shrugs. He’s trying not to be resentful about it; he can’t change it anyway. “We were scavenging supplies from a Home Depot. We had to board up the house and wait until things…got quieter and it was safe to travel out of Boston.” And by got quieter, he means that the initial wave passed, the zombies began to wander out of the cities and disperse, the survivors were hunkered down and not participating in gunfights or Vikings-style pillaging in the streets. “A piece of sheet metal fell on me from the top shelf. Aegon and Jace dragged me home, they thought I was dying.”

“I’m glad you weren’t. Who treated it?”

“I did.”

You can’t disguise your shock. “You…you stitched up your own face?”

He smirks, finishing the bandages on your hands. “I was in medical school before all this.”

“You’re a doctor?”

“I was an intern. So definitely not a doctor, but the closest thing to one I had access to. And I had taken some things from the hospital when everything went to hell. So I got a little mirror, and I lidocained myself very generously, and I started suturing.”

You don’t know what to say. His eye?? He stitched his eye shut?? “I mean…you did a great job.”

“I’m aware I look like Frankenstein, but I guess it’s better than not being here at all.”

“No, seriously. You look amazing, Aemond.”

He stares at you, bewildered. You realize how bizarre it must sound. You both start laughing as Aemond packs his supplies back into his medical kit. He touches his fingertips to his chin a few times—restless, meditative—then stands to return inside the barracks. “I’m…going to go check on Helaena.”

“Yeah. Cool. See ya.” You don’t watch him leave. This takes intentional effort.

Seconds pass anonymously: no time you need to be anywhere, nothing late, nothing early, no television premiers, no football games, no State Of The Unions, no time zones to do mental math over. You aren’t even sure what day it is. The earth has erased your invisible prisons. Now all that remain are the real ones: weather, terrain, disease, predators.

There is the creaking of weight on the porch steps. You warn him: “I’m not interested in your commentary.”

Rio winks as he says: “Maybe you won’t die a virgin after all.”

#aemond targaryen #fic recs

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