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Aemond will be suffering a little while longer, but soon, they will find comfort in one another (behind Boris's back!)

A Vow of Blood - 37

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 37: The Image of a Son

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The process of preparing for a wedding proved to be more taxing than Daenera had ever envisioned. It consumed her days, leaving her physically drained and weary as the sun dipped below the horizon.

Much to her surprise, the Queen extended a helpful hand in the preparations, and for once there was an amiable truce between them. Together, they navigated the intricate decisions surrounding the feast, the selection of performers, the adornments, the floral arrangements–every meticulous detail. Despite the their history, Daenera couldn’t help but appreciate the assistance.

Nevertheless, a pang of longing for her own mother’s presence lingered beneath the surface, wishing that it was her mother who helped her with the preparations instead.

Daenera found herself perched upon a modest dias, encircled by an array of mirrors, where two diligent tailors meticulously put the finishing touches on her wedding dress. Her feet ached, mirroring the relentless pounding in her head, while her hips and knees protested each shift. She had been standing in the same spot since early morning, reduced to a living dummy.

Though the physical discomfort weighed heavily, there were small mercies to be found. Joyce intermittently provided her with morsels of food and a soothing cup of tea. In the midst of this dress-related ordeal, Joyce broke the seal of a letter she had received.

“I’ve received a missive from our Northern acquaintance,” she informed Daenera, handing over the letter.

Daenera held it gingerly, mindful not to disturb the tailors’ work as one of them moved around her, focusing on the fabric along the right side of her ribcage.

I regret to report that there’s no progress on the investigation of the attack.

Regarding your future husband, I have established a good rapport with his men, and have been invited to the next hunt. However, I must inform you that when he is not hunting, he visits the brothels of Flea Bottom where he indulges in drink and fat women. If this troubles you, I believe myself capable of arranging an humiliating accident, or if you prefer, I am willing to be by your bedside in his place.

Daenera couldn’t help but respond to Finan’s insolence with a playful roll of her eyes, finding it amusing rather than offensive.

During the exhaustive preparations, Boris had been present, but his attention seemed perpetually fixed on the matters related to hunting, rather than forging a deeper connection with her.

Surprisingly, this state of affairs didn’t particularly trouble her. In fact, she found a degree of solace in it. If Boris was inclined to dissipate his vitality on hunting and his affections on the women in Flea Bottom, she’d be granted the much-desired solitude she secretly craved.

I should also inform you of Prince Aegon’s ventures into the city. He spends his time gambling in fighting pits or fucking whores. He seems predisposed for younger women, and prefers virgins. As for Aemond, I have no news.

From now on, I will not contact you unless it is urgent.

Your loyal and obedient servant.

Daenera carefully folded the letter, a shroud of secrecy in every fold, before passing it to Joyce. She watched her read over the letters contents, her reaction marked by a somewhat amused huff before she promptly consigned the parchment to the crackling flames of the hearth. The letter had been penned in a code, a safeguard against prying eyes. Caution was paramount.

“I think it’s time for my blue shawl to get some fresh air, Joyce,” Daenera remarked casually. “Would you mind hanging it out on the balcony?”

Joyce nodded, her understanding implicit. As she lifted the elegant blue shawl, it served as an unspoken signal to Finan – a request for him to refrain from further communication unless it was absolutely indispensable.

Daenera couldn’t help but be vexed by the lack of resolution surrounding the recent attack, though the absence of closure hardly surprised her. She harbored strong suspicions that the Hightowers were behind it, their aversion to her presence in King’s Landing and her impending marriage to Baratheon far from a secret.

As the doors swung open, Daenera’s reflection in the mirrors caught a glimpse of pale locks and dark skin. Moments later, she heard the exuberant exclamation of her name, and her half-sister, Baela and Rhaena, entered the room.

A sudden, unexpected jab at her side made Daenera yelp, her gaze swiftly shifting downward to the apologetic tailor responsible for the mishap. She then turned her attention back to her step-sisters, her previous irritation giving way to a warm smile at the sight of their familiar faces.

“The dress is absolutely stunning!” Baela exclaimed, her eyes gleaming with admiration as she circled around Daenera on the elevated dias, meticulously examining every intricate angle and delicate embellishment of the dress.

Daenera responded to the compliment with a gracious nod and a wide smile. Then, with a gesture, she signaled for the tailors to depart. “Thank you. Can you finish the adjustments without me wearing it?”

The skilled tailors nodded in agreement, their hands loving with precision as they carefully assisted in removing the exquisite dress. They ensured it was wrapped in layers of silk before they respectfully exited the room, leaving the princess alone with her step-sisters.

Daenera embraced Baela and Rhaena, hugging them tightly, relieved to have their support. “And what of Corlys?”

“Corlys is still aboard the ship overseeing the crew, but he’ll be arriving soon,” Rhaena assured her, tossing a cascade of lustrous locks over her shoulders, the style only serving to soften her features.

Daenera couldn’t help but feel a pang of the old envy that had once consumed her in the presence of the twins. How much easier life would have been if she had inherited similar coloring. Somewhere deep down, the envy still lingered, longing to grow into something horrendous.

Her voice grew hesitant as she posed her next question, trying to temper her hopes. “And Rhaenys?”

The twins exchanged a knowing glance, their voices dropping to a soft, confidential tone as they replied.

“She’s in the Godswood,” Rhaena informed Daenera, her voice carrying a note of reassurance.

“Corlys managed to persuade her to join us,” Baela chimed in after her sister, her gaze fixed on Daenera’s reaction.

A surge of elation mixed with apprehension surged through Daenera upon hearing the news. Baela, understanding the turmoil within her, reached out and gently clasped Daenera’s hand. “Let’s assist you with your dress first. Afterward, you can go and personally welcome her while we settle in.”

Daenera felt a profound sense of gratitude for the comforting presence of her step-sisters, their support serving as a reassuring balm. She needed them, more than she could ever express.

Stepping into the serene enclave of the Godswood, Daenera felt a flicker of unease in the pit of her stomach. Her fingers fidgeted with the delicate ends of the red shawl draped around her shoulders. She spotted Rhaenys, standing with her back turned, her gaze drawn to the white weirwood tree adorned with the crown of blood-red leaves. The setting sun painted the sky above in a mesmerizing palette of deep orange hues, slowly darkening as the sun slipped from the sky.

Summoning her courage, Daenera ventured closer, her voice gentle as she addressed the older woman.

“You came.” She stopped her approach, eyes seeking the evidence of Rhaenys hearing her. “I’m glad you’re here.”

Rhaenys seemed to draw in a deep breath, and Daenera could almost envision her closing her eyes, as if steeling herself for what lay ahead. When she finally spoke, her words cut through the air like a blade, and Daenera’s heart sank with each syllable.

“I didn’t come for you,” Rhaenys replied, her voice distant and laden with weariness, the words landing with a devastating impact. “It was Corlys’s relentless insistence, along with Baela’s persuasion, that compelled me to come. I couldn’t refuse them.”

Despite bracing herself for the biting words, Daenera couldn’t help but wince, a reflexive action that made her bite down on her trembling lip. Her fingers continued to fiddle restlessly with the strings of her shawl, a nervous habit she couldn’t seem to shake. The pain, unwelcome and sharp, bloomed within her chest, settling in as a heavy ache.

She understood Rhaenys’ sentiment, but that didn’t diminish the searing sting of her rejection. Ever since the death of her father, Rhaenys had distanced herself from Daenera and her siblings. She had cast the blame upon Rhaenyra for the loss of her son, and even went as far as to accuse her of the murder.

Over the years, Daenera had penned numerous letters, each one an earnest plea for her grandmother’s love, yet none had garnered a response.

And now, here she stood in the tranquil embrace of the Godswood, once again beseeching for that elusive affection.

“I am happy nonetheless,” Daenera managed to say, summoning a fragile smile, despite the lingering ache in her heart.

“I cannot fathom why,” Rhaenys murmured, her tone laced with icy dismissal and a hint of exasperation.

Daenera’s heart sank, her desperation palpable even to herself. She felt like the little child who had once stumbled upon her father’s unrecognizable, charred remains, and Rhaenys’ piercing screams of anguish. For a brief, fleeting moment, in the throes of that pain, Rhaenys had enveloped the little girl in her arms, clinging to her as if seeking something substantial. It had been a mere moment that had soon been replaced with rejection, the arms withdrawing from her to leave her cold and alone. Everything had abruptly changed. And since then she’d been denied her grandmother's love.

Love that she so fervently yearned for.

Facing her grandmother now, Daenera could see the transformation in Rhaenys’ expression, her face now etched with coldness and a jaded weariness.

“I cannot provide you with what you desire, Daenera,” she declared, her words a stark and painful truth.

“Why?” Daenera’s voice quivered, her words laden with vulnerability as a lump formed in her throat, an insurmountable weight that felt like a stone slowly expanding within her. Tears welled up, threatening to spill from her eyes, and she fought to blink them away.

The response she revived was equally heavy.

“You know why,” Rhaenys replied, her voice laced with a strange blend of pity and cynicism. She drew a deep breath, her lips drawn into a thin, unforgiving line, and as she approached Daenera, she extended her hand to gently grasp a lock of her hair between two fingers.

“When I look at you,” she continued, her words cutting through the air like a blade, “I see none of my son. Instead, I see a constant reminder of the affront to his memory and the disgrace it brings. It is impossible for me not to feel disappointment in what you represent and insulted by your mother’s audacious attempt to pass you off as his.”

The dagger, sharp and cruel, plunged deeper into Daenera’s chest, its painful twist causing her heart to ache. Bitterness etched across her features, its tendrils entwining around her, and she found herself ensnared in its unrelenting grip.

‘ I see nothing of my son .’ Rhaenys’ words echoed within her, each syllable a damning indictment. It was true that Daenera bore little resemblance to old Valyria or the Velaryon lineage. Her lack of silver hair was a glaring absence, one she had often lamented. If only she had inherited her mother’s distinctive silver locks, perhaps things would have been different.

With a resigned sigh, Rhaenys released the dark lock of her she had been holding, the silent confirmation that Daenera could not possibly be Laenor’s child. There was no trace of the silver hair, not a hint of the dark skin shared by Baela and Rhaena. Only the lingering stain of insult remained.

Rhaenys walked past Daenera, her departure signaling a wish to end this conversation. Daenera was not ready to let it go just yet.

“Laenor loved us,” Daenera asserted, drawing in a deep breath that felt like inhaling water, as if she were drowning. “He loved us as his own. He embraced us as his flesh and blood. He raised us, comforted us when we were unwell, and read us bedtime stories. He is our father, and his love for us was indisputable.”

Rhaenys turned her gaze back to Daenera, her expression unyielding, her tone unrelenting. “That doesn’t matter.”

“Why doesn’t it matter?” Daenera implored, her voice trembling with desperation and frustration. It should be all that mattered.

“Because he is dead,” Rhaenys retorted bitterly, her words carrying the weight of her grief. “My son is gone, and I have nothing tangible in this world to prove that he ever existed.”

Tears welled up in Daenera’s eyes as she clutched onto her grandmother’s hand, her grip desperate, almost pleading. She couldn’t understand why Rhaenys couldn’t see that they were his legacy, his cherished children. Blood may not have tied them, but he had been their father in every meaningful sense. Why did that not matter? Was it naive to hope that it would?

“We bear his name. We are the children he loved. Please… ”

Rhaenys regarded her supposed granddaughter with a touch of pity, her fingers gently brushing over Daenera’s cheek in a soft caress. “It is not sufficient.”

The weight of rejection bore down upon Daenera like an unbearable burden. It felt as if the very ground beneath her feet had given way, leaving ehr teetering on the precipice of collapse.

Yet, she summoned her inner strength, swallowing the searing pain as if it were a cascade of tiny blades slicing down her throat. With sheer determination, she corralled all that anguish into a box, clamping the lid shut even as it threatened to splinter from the pressure. She locked it away inside. She couldn’t allow it to break; she had to endure this pain for a little while longer.

“Father, he would have thought it was enough,” Daenera insisted in a murmur. “He would have believed we were enough.”

Rhaenys’ demeanor appeared softer, her head tilting slightly, her eyes bearing a mixture of gentleness and piercing insight. “Laenor is no longer with us. What he thinks does not hold weight in this world anymore.”

Daenera swallowed hard, the dry lump in her throat seemingly resistant to her attempts to quell it, and she offered a nod. “I am still deeply honored by your presence.”

Their conversation had reached an impasse. Daenera recognized that she wouldn’t find the solace she sought from this encounter. Wrapping ehr shawl tighter around her body as if it could hold the fragmented emotions together, she felt the lid of the metaphorical box jerk, the pain within threatening to overflow. With a courteous curtsy to Rhaenys, she turned and began to make her way out of the Godswood.

As she passed through the doors, she was met by the sight of Corlys, his eyes filled with a profound sadness that mirrored her own. Daenera didn’t need words to convey her grandmother's unwavering stance.

“I will speak with her,” Corlys offered quietly, his voice touched by a sense of resignation.

Daenera managed to respond. “There’s no need. It is unlikely she’ll change her mind.”

Corlys was intimately familiar with his wife’s stubbornness, and he understood the depths of Rhaenys’ resolve. His hands landed on her shoulders, dragging her into a warm hug. Daenera closed her eyes.

Corlys released her and with a sigh ventured deeper into the embrace of the Godswood, while Daenera retraced her steps back into the castle. Her vision blurred with unshed tears, and she felt the pain begin to spill out the box as it began to splinter and fray. Her feet carried her swiftly across the stone floor, the echoes of each step resonating through the seemingly empty corridors. Every beat of her heart seemed to thunder in her ears, drowning out all other sounds.

“Princess,” a familiar, deep voice called out to her, the words barely audible above the thunderous thrum of her own heartbeat. Unwavering, she maintained her pace, not yielding to the summons. The voice persisted, however, and after a moment, it spoke up once more. “ Daenera .”

Startled, Daenera came to an abrupt halt, her gaze swinging around in confusion. She hadn’t even registered Aemond’s presence when he had passed her moments ago, and his voice barely registered through the fog of her inner turmoil. Her eyes, previously fixed on the floor, now stared at him as if she couldn’t quite comprehend his sudden appearance, as if his presence itself felt strangely out of place.

“Do you finally realize that you are to marry Boffus Baratheon, I mean, Boris Baratheon?” Aemond taunted, his words laced with a snideness, seemingly entertained by the devastation upon her face. “I assume that is why you’re crying.”

Despite her best efforts, Daenera couldn’t help but fire back at his mockery. Her voice defensive as she swiped away the telltale traces of her tears with her hand. “I am not crying.”

Aemond’s smirk widened at her response, his eye gleaming with a sharp, spiteful glint. “It certainly looks like you’re crying.”

He was being childish and it only served to infuriate her more. The sadness she had been trying to contain spilled over into a fiery anger. Was it too much to ask for a moment of solitude in which to grieve? She didnøt need this right now, she didnøt need his taunting words, the perpetual smirk on his lips, and the cruel need to mock her when she was at her lowest.

“I am not!” Her exclamation echoed loudly in the otherwise quiet corridor. Frustration prompted her to lower her voice into a sneer. “And if I were, it would be none of your concern.”

Aemond’s response was laced with malice, his satisfaction evident in the way he relished in her distress. “Mm… It may be none of my concern, but I do delight in your tears.”

Of course, he reveled in her suffering. She was on the verge of launching another scathing retort when he suddenly snatched her wrist, pulling her into a nearby alcove. In the dimly lit space, shadows enveloped them, shrouding their forms in secrecy. With a defiant yank, she wretched her wrist free from his grip, her glare directed squarely at him.

“Why are you crying?” His voice remained steady, an enigmatic mask obscuring his feathers as half of his face remained hidden beneath the eyepatch.

“Why does it matter?” Daenera’s response was laced with a biting sarcasm. She was acutely aware of the futility of sharing her true feelings with him, but an inexplicable urge welled within her, tempting her to confine in him about the pain of Rhaenys’ rejection. Yet, she couldn’t bring herself to do it.

Daenera released a breath that teetered between a sardonic chuckle and a disdainful scoff. “I can’t tell you because you’d only use it against me.”

She sensed his unrelenting scrutiny, his single eye dissecting her stubborn countenance–the slight crook of her mouth as she bit the inside of her cheek, her shoulders squared, her fists clenched in silent resolve. How he managed to pierce the darkness of the alcove and read her expression remained a mystery to her. For she could not read his face, the shadows seemingly a veil between them.

“Just as you can’t tell me who was behind the attack,” she continued, her words tinged with bitterness.

They couldn’t afford to share these secrets with one another, for doing so would be a betrayal of their respective allegiances. They were firmly entrenched on opposing sides. If Daenera were to divulge the discussion that had taken place in the Godswood with Rhaenys, Aemond would undoubtedly be obligated to report it to his mother.

To think otherwise was sheer folly.

“Am I…” Daenera paused, wetting her lips as she averted her gaze. “Should I be concerned about the possibility of another attack? Soon, I mean.”

Her eyes found his face again. She knew what she was asking, but she needed to know–needed the solace if there was some to be had.

“No,” Aemond responded with a short shake of his head. It wasn’t an admission of any involvement, nor did it acknowledge who was behind the attack. But it did serve to ease her nerves.

Daenera nodded, looking down at her hands before drawing in a deep breath, locking her gaze back onto him. “Stop appearing out of nowhere; it’s annoying.”

They had to sever whatever semblance of intimacy that had developed between them. Such weaknesses were dangerous. But it seemed that the roots had taken hold, and for a brief moment, she felt an irrational urge to confide in him, no matter how careless it might be. Yet, she resisted.

She had to uproot those feelings.

Daenera left Aemond standing in the shadows.

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