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Alicent said she wanted to go back to Oldtown shortly after Aemond was finally crowned the uncontested King. She said she’d had enough of King's Landing. Aemond knew what she really meant was she’d had enough of politics and death and her last remaining child. Aemond forbade it.
Alicent wanted to take Jaehaera to Oldtown; perhaps she’d be happier for it, as Daeron had been. Aemond did not remind her that Daeron’s upbringing had not led him to a better fate. He forbade that as well. He would not be parted from his remaining family, even though it wasn’t much—a young niece who scarcely spoke and a mother who hated him and muttered under her breath.
The following year, winter fever swept through King’s Landing, claiming the lives of nobles and peasants alike. The sparsely populated city—made so by the war that had nearly ended the Targaryen dynasty, leaving only two alive—became even emptier.
Aemond sought to visit his mother on her deathbed, but he was opposed by his council. The king must remain healthy, they insisted. Without an heir the line is fragile .
Once, he might have raged at anyone who dared command him. Now, he acknowledged the soundness of their counsel. It was too great a risk to take, just to give Alicent one last chance to scoff at her son.
After, Aemond did not know what to do with Jaehaera. The girl had been Alicent’s little shadow, but now, she floated around listlessly with nothing tethering her to the world. She was nothing like Helaena; yes, she was quiet, but she didn’t enjoy watching bugs or have any discernible interests, really. She murmured prayers to the Seven, but they were without any fervor, not like her grandmother’s had been.
Jaehaera was his only remaining family, but Aemond could not find them anywhere within her. She was especially—thankfully—nothing like her father.
Aemond sent her to Oldtown, along with his mother’s remains, just as Alicent had wished.
The council urged Aemond to marry for a long time, with many prospects discussed and little agreement.
She needed to be from a house who had sided with the greens to show the reward for loyalty, she needed to be from a house who had sided with the pretender queen to show the importance of reconciliation, she needed to be of Valyrian descent to preserve the fragile lineage, she needed to have a light complexion to ensure their babes would have Aemond’s features, she needed to be a Dornish princess so the seventh kingdom would come into the fold and Aemond’s legacy would be something other than war and death….
He’d grown weary of their incessant squabbling, and with one woman as good as another, he settled on keeping his word from before the war.
The realm was beginning to recover, with goods to trade and crops to spare, when Aemond wed Floris Baratheon in the Great Sept before a cheering crowd. He cloaked her in black and red; green hadn’t been used as a Targaryen color since the end of the war.
Floris had an easy time adjusting to life in the capital. She was gentle but knew how to carry herself in a way that didn’t mark her as weak. She was friendly, sweet, and always polite. When he was with her, Aemond felt himself perfectly balanced between excitement and infuriation and boredom—right in the middle, where Aemond felt absolutely nothing.
For years, Floris remained childless and Aemond remained heirless, though not for a lack of trying. They both knew their duty, and Aemond found that with peacetime came a distinct sense of emptiness that could only be momentarily filled by flying or fucking or fighting in the training yard. He refused to turn to drinking.
The first time, Floris told him she was with child and Aemond felt relief. It wasn’t joy, exactly, but it felt good enough. Not two months later, Floris woke to sharp pain, followed by blood on the sheets. Aemond was called from his chambers in the middle of the night. There is still hope for a child one day, the Maester assured him as Floris laid crying. We have proof she is not barren, and she’s young enough.
The second time, they hadn’t even known until there was pain and blood. Aemond dismissed his wife’s efforts to apologize and his council’s suggestions to take a second wife. He flew with Vhagar whenever he had the time, soaring through the clouds. Aemond didn’t know how much longer she had left, only that he’d be her last rider. He studied the histories and wondered if the Doom had come to their line as well.
The final time, they allowed themselves speak of what to name the child. Floris was seven moons along, round and glowing.
“Helaena, if it is a girl,” he said immediately. Considering he was a king without a son, it was perhaps odd that he offered a name for a girl first, but alas.
"Yes, husband,” Floris agreed. “And if it is a boy?”
He said nothing, and so she offered one herself. “Perhaps for the conqueror. Every Targaryen generation has a—”
“No,” he snarled, cutting her off before the wretched name could leave her lips.
Floris looked startled and their conversation ended there, but he needn’t worry about her ire for long. She died in childbirth a moon later, cradled by a pool of blood. Aemond held the boy in his arms, small and lifeless, and black of hair. Hardly a Targaryen prince, but his son all the same. Floris’ remains were sent back to Storm’s End. Daeron was burned in the tradition of their house.
Seeing the small body go up in flames lit something within Aemond. Targaryens were more than sickly dark haired babes—they were the blood of Old Valyria, they still had something to be proud of, and he’d been a fool to marry someone like Floris Baratheon. Aemond needed a woman who was better than any of the others; a Targaryen wife to bear Targaryen children.
He summoned Jaehaera back to court. He’d heard reports that she’d flourished in Oldtown, that she’d grown into a fine young woman, quiet like her mother but more approachable and less odd. It made sense, he supposed, that removing the girl from the place where she’d endured loss after terrible loss had done her well.
Aemond sat the Iron Throne as the procession from Oldtown arrived. He spotted Jaehaera the moment she stepped inside the throne room, her silver hair standing out amongst her gaggle of brown-haired handmaidens. She was dressed in a deep red fabric that clung to her body—the body of a woman—in all the right ways without being scandalous. It was hard to reconcile her with the small, scared girl he’d sent away all those years ago.
She was undeniably beautiful, a true Targaryen beauty with soft pale skin that was unmarred by time or a bastard’s blade or dragonfire—by all the mistakes of the past. Aemond felt an odd sense of peace looking at his niece and seeing bits of his old life carrying on in someone so young and full of life.
Jaehaera resembled Helaena the most in her face and frame, though the shape of her eyes were her grandmother’s and her courteous smile was also reminiscent of Alicent; but when one of her handmaidens leaned in to whisper something and Jaehaera smiled, brief and sharp and real, something dropped in Aemond’s stomach.
The perfunctory introductions came to an end and Jaehaera stepped forward to present herself before him.
“Uncle!” she greeted. Not overly pleased, but something bordering on fondness. It was a marked lack of decorum; Aemond was the king after all. It was willful, irreverent, infuriating—
“Your grace,” Jaehaera corrected herself smoothly. “I apologize for my behavior. It has simply been so long since we’ve seen one another.”
Jaehaera curtsied politely and declared before the whole court that she was pleased to marry Aemond and that she’d take the role of queen most seriously; showing that Oldtown was equipped to educate royalty, showing that she was mindful of the manners of fine society.
The illusion was shattered, but the memory of it remained, settling in Aemond like rot.
It was difficult to find a sense of familiarity in their strolls around the gardens and shared suppers. Both Aemond and Jaehaera could carry a polite conversation well enough, but Aemond had no use for idle chatter and Jaehaera seemed uninterested in engaging in it anyway.
This resulted in lengthy lapses of silence that were distinctly uncomfortable. A long time ago, Aemond had enjoyed sitting in silence beside Helaena as he read and she either sewed or examined her insects, but those moments had been born from an entire childhood spent together—the only good thing to come from that part of Aemond’s life.
He hadn’t fared much better in his early interactions with Floris, but there was comfort in the fact that it was supposed to be uncomfortable to spend time with a woman he didn’t know.
With Jaehaera, there was only the looming fact that they were the last of their family and yet perfect strangers. It wasn’t the same as it had been with Floris—he should know Helaena’s child, the one his gentle sister had loved above all else.
Not enough to keep her from throwing herself to her death. The thought lacked any real bitterness. That wound had been cauterized with time, same as all the other ones.
Aemond wasn’t surprised when Jaehaera asked about her mother and father one evening at supper, not when he was the only one remaining who’d truly known the late king and queen. If it were anyone else, he would’ve told them to never again ask about his siblings. Why should it matter anyway, when none of them had lived long enough to see a single wrinkle. Aemond just reached thirty, but he’s been the last one left for a very long time.
Yet Jaehaera was not just anyone. For Jaehaera, he was an uncle first; a man who’d been formed in the same womb as her parents.
He insisted they finish supper before leading Jaehaera to a secluded room full of wooden chests. Whereas Floris’ belongings had been promptly carted back to Storm’s End or otherwise disposed of, Helaena’s had found their eternal home here, untouched by any but Aemond.
He pulled out a book of Heleana’s preserved bugs, some pressed so tightly they had yet to succumb to rot. Jaehaera eagerly flipped through the pages, delighting at her mother’s whimsy. It seemed she’d forgotten the other half of her question. It was for the best. Aemond didn’t have anything to say or show. There was nothing left.
Jaehaera spent an especially long time admiring a small, light blue beetle with golden accents. Later that week, Aemond had a necklace commissioned in its likeness, but he ordered the gold be replaced with silver.
The wedding was the grandest event the realm had seen since the rule of Viserys I. The realm had long since recovered from war and sickness, but Aemond had little patience for frivolity. Yet this day was a fresh start for the Targaryen dynasty; something to reaffirm it as solid and true, despite the numerous counts of kinslaying. He’d tried this once before with Floris Baratheon, but her blood simply hadn't been strong enough.
Aemond would have preferred a Valyrian ceremony in the tradition of their ancestors, secluded and sacred with only Vhagar and Morghul to bear witness. He’d already done the Sept wedding with his first wife, for all the good it did him. But alas, concessions needed to be made to the realm he ruled.
Aemond wed his niece in the Great Sept before a cheering crowd. Jaehaera was dignified and regal—every bit the queen Aemond hoped her to be. Though there were flashes of his mother and his sister as he looked at his new wife throughout the ceremony, Jeahaera largely remained herself.
It was as he’d thought before; there was nothing left of him. Except there was: a crown digging into his skull, a dagger burning into his thigh, and a sword pulling him down into the ground for the past fourteen years. And now, there was also the woman before him. His niece, in more ways than one.
It was all rightfully Aemond’s—the symbols of rule were his to wield as undisputed king, and he’d personally ordered for Jaehaera to return and be his wife. But even after all this time, Aemond was still being laughed at.
Jaehaera was nervous on their wedding night. The blood of the dragon, but a maiden all the same—everything a man should desire in a wife.
Her timidness excited him no more than Floris’ had, but it did give him more pause. He remembered the morning after Helaena’s wedding; how she shifted uncomfortably in a desperate attempt to sit in a way that did not hurt, how she picked at her food and kept her murmurings to herself, how she avoided his gaze and kept her rid-rimmed eyes focused on her lap.
Aemond took his time preparing Jaehaera. He pressed her slender back to his bare chest and reached around her to settle his fingers between her legs, stroking and flicking and petting until she arched her back, moaning in pleasure with perhaps a touch of relief.
When she was worn, Aemond took a moment to stand and study her. Jaehaera was lying in their marriage bed with heaving breasts and a dripping core, silver hair fanned out around her in intricate braids. She was soft and feminine. She was everything a man should desire in a wife.
Aemond reached for the dagger. It was cold metal, it was burning fire, it was all the triumphs and mistakes of the past held in his fist.
It took a moment for Jaehaera to notice, but when she did, her violet eyes widened with shock and she scrambled to sit.
Aemond hushed her, reaching over to gently undo her elaborate braids, all the while keeping the dagger within her sight. It took time given that Aemond was working with only one hand, but he could not let the dagger go. Jaehaera was of no help, but neither did she move to stop him. Aemond could be patient.
When Jaehaera’s hair finally hung long and loose, Aemond slowly raised the dagger. The first cut sent a lock of silver hair tumbling to the ground. Then another, then another. Aemond worked carefully until Jaehaera’s hair rested just above her shoulders. He stepped back to take stock before raising the dagger once more to meticulously even the ends.
In the end, he was pleased with his work. He’d never done such a thing before, but Jaehaera’s hair now beautifully framed her face. It was much wavier than the weight of her long hair had previously allowed. It wasn’t traditional, but she looked like his queen. She looked like—
“Husband?” Jaehaera asked in confusion as she reached up to feel his handiwork.
He shook his head. Floris had called him husband. Any woman he took as his second wife would have called him husband. Jaehaera was not any woman.
"Uncle,” he corrected her.
“Uncle,” she agreed. “Why did you do that?”
Aemond absently studied the silver hair scattering the floor like gentle wisps of smoke.
“Because it pleases me.”
He was king; his word was law. They said nothing more. She laid back and he buried his face in her short silver hair as he buried himself inside her sweet cunt.
Jaehaera proposed they go flying together.
She’d asked before, but Aemond always said no. There were good reasons: Vhagar was too tired to mingle with a young dragon, and Aemond too greatly cherished his otherwise difficult to find moments of peaceful solitude in the sky. And there were other reasons as well.
Aemond said yes.
Perhaps she’d worn him enough to finally break his resolve. Or perhaps a part of him yearned to once again share this experience with his kin—an experience that was one of the few things they had in common, the thing they shared with each other and with no one else in the realm.
Morghul was a lot smaller and more agile, swooping and diving as Vhagar flew steady. It was the happiest Aemond had seen Jaehaera, carefree and soaring through the clouds.
After a particularly sharp swerve from Morghul that nearly cut Aemond off, Jaehaera turned back to grin at him, and Aemond was suddenly plummeting to the ground, bathed in Vhagar’s flames and burning with his sins.
The moment passed when Vhagar groaned, deep and loud. Aemond was still seated upon her back, firmly strapped to the saddle. Jaehaera had flown ahead, leaving him alone with the old she-dragon. She’d lived a much longer life than him, but many of her battles were ones shared with him. Each time they flew, Aemond was reminded that those memories lived within her as clearly as they did in him.
He could barely make out Jaehaera in the distance, and so he watched her young dragon instead. Morghul carried his rider with a familiarity that indicated regular flight. He was a beautiful beast, darker than the sky on nights when clouds covered the moon and not a shred of light remained.
Aemond tilted his head upwards and squinted at the golden sun, allowing its rays to envelop his face and wash over him like dragonfire.
They were seated in his quarters speaking of some mundane nonsense when inevitably, Jaehaera asked again. Except this time, Aemond could not show Helaena’s belongings in response; Jaehaera hadn’t asked about her mother.
Aemond sighed and handed her a glass of wine, telling her to drink. Jaehaera took a few small sips then looked at him questioningly. He commanded her to drink more, and when she did, some of it must have gone down too fast because she began to cough.
At the first rattle, Aemond almost expected her to start choking—for blood to spurt from her lips and for her to stare at him in accusatory silence as the life faded from her eyes, but no such thing occurred.
That was a thing of the past. Aemond had merely stood and watched it happen, gripping the glass of wine he’d snatched from trembling fingers before it could clatter to the floor, with no intention of bringing such substance near his lips.
Aemond and his niece were now seated in the very same quarters, but Aemond had had all the furniture replaced and walls scrubbed until not a trace of the past remained. The wine in front of them now was pure. Aemond poured himself the rest of the pitcher and snapped at the servants to bring more, which they promptly did. He ensured Jaehaera’s cup was full before downing his own, gesturing for her to follow suit.
The sight of her usually dignified uncle-husband gulping cup after cup of wine must have shocked Jaehaera into forgetting everything else, for her confusion quickly faded into giddiness as she struggled to match his pace, giggling when she misjudged where her lips were and sloshed some drink on her dress.
The sound grated Aemond’s very bones, awakening an anger deep in his chest that he hadn’t felt in a long time. He kept plying Jaehaera with more wine just to keep hearing it.
After a while, Jaehaera’s laughter quieted as she settled into a drunken lull.
Aemond was drunk as well, and suddenly Jaehaera was no longer Jaehaera and Aemond was fourteen years younger.
“I miss my brother.”
There was a beat of silence. Aemond’s chest constricted.
“Jaehaerys, of course.”
Of course. Air came rushing back. Jaehaera was still speaking, her words slurred but intelligent enough. “I don’t really remember Maelor, he was only a babe. But Jaehaerys… Jaehaerys was my other half.”
Tears welled in Jaehaera’s eyes, and soon enough, sobs wracked her entire body. Aemond could only stare, transfixed, until his eyelid grew heavy and he slumped forward in his seat.
Aemond summoned Jaehaera to his bed late one evening and explained that they were going to try something different—something that would not result in a child.
Jaehaera gazed at him curiously. “But you need a child, uncle. An heir. A son. Let me give you one.”
He hummed. “Soon enough. But not all…relations…need end in a child.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Sometimes, it’s only for pleasure,” Aemond said.
Jaehaera eyed him warily. Surely she was just confused about his wording. After all, there was always pleasure for both of them. Aemond made sure of that.
“It is a different kind of pleasure,” he explained. “Different and perhaps better. One that I’ve never… one that I wanted us to try together.”
After a moment’s pause, Jaehaera finally agreed.
Aemond searched her smooth face, looking for a hedonistic spark of interest, for a desire to feel pleasure for pleasure’s sake. He found nothing. It was disappointing, but it was too late to stop. There wasn’t any other way, not since Jaehaera presented herself before his court and smiled.
He should have left her to rot in Oldtown and found himself another bride, perhaps a Lyseni with enough Valyrian blood to satisfy his desire. He should have prepared another, smaller drought that day, just enough for a child of six years, and presented it to Jaehaera in her final moments of being a living king’s daughter.
She would have been spared from him and he would have been spared from this, but alas.
Aemond made Jaehaera turn around on her hands and knees, unwilling to look at her face and see Alicent and Helaena peering back. He prepared her carefully and entered her slowly. It felt exactly as he’d always imagined, in the shameful moments when he closed his eye and allowed himself to picture what never was. What never would be; Aemond had seen to that fourteen years ago.
His resolve to be gentle lasted only so long. He gripped Jaehaera’s hair and pounded into her with wild abandon, scraping his nails down her back and grasping her hips hard enough to bruise.
Pained cries rang through the chamber and it was good—it was the sound of submission and deference, it was everything Aemond had ever wanted. He received those things each time he sat the Iron Throne, but one face was always missing from the bowing masses. With Jaehaera turned away from him, just a head of short, wavy silver hair swaying with each brutal thrust, it was almost perfect. Aemond was king, but never before had he felt like a god.
After, Jaehaera laid by him in silence. He could feel her staring at him, but he refused to look, gaze focused on the ceiling.
“I don’t want to do that again,” Jaehaera finally said. It was the boldest she’d ever been, and it was to push him away.
From then on, they only engaged in relations that could result in a child, and it wasn’t long before Jaehaera was heavy with one.
Other than their dutiful couplings or efforts to maintain appearances before the court, they spent little time together. When they did, Jeaheara was distant in a way she hadn’t been since before being sent to Oldtown. Aemond did not know if she’d merely had enough of his oddities or if she sensed something else.
It suited him well enough. A Targaryen wife to bear Targaryen children—that was all he’d needed, and here she was, round and glowing, silver hair once again long enough to fix in braids befitting a Targaryen queen.
For the second time in his life, Aemond sat beside his wife and spoke of what to name their child.
“Helaena, if it is a girl,” he said immediately.
“Yes, husband,” Jaehaera agreed. “And if it is a boy?”
Aemond felt the name on the tip of his tongue, choking him, dousing him in dragonfire and dripping like poison down his throat.
“Jaehaerys,” Jaehaera decided for them, likely taking his silence for indifference. “I’ve always wanted to honor my brother.”
Aemond could only nod.