Within the godswood, King Viserys I, having just finished speaking, suddenly broke into a violent coughing fit, his whole body trembling with it.
Alicent hurriedly patted his back, but the king waved her off, forcing himself to say the final words: "I declare… you wed."
Applause rose from the assembled nobles of the Red Keep.
Aemond lowered his head and kissed Helaena.
When he lifted it again, Helaena's face was flushed red, yet her violet eyes shone with a quiet light.
The High Septon stepped forward at this moment, a smile upon his face.
"Under the blessing of the Seven, may the Father grant you justice, the Mother grant you mercy, the Maiden grant you purity, the Warrior grant you courage…"
He recited the customary wedding blessings, but it was clear Aemond and Helaena were not listening.
Their hands were still clasped together, the blood already dried, binding their hands into one.
When the blessing ended, the High Septon took out a vial of holy oil, preparing to mark their foreheads with the seven-pointed star.
Aemond lifted a hand, his voice cold.
"That will not be necessary."
"This is a Targaryen marriage."
"The Seven are witnesses—not those who officiate for me."
The atmosphere froze at once.
The High Septon's hand hung stiff in the air, the smile on his face completely locked.
"Septon," Viserys said weakly, "stand down."
The High Septon took a deep breath, forcing a strained smile. He bowed slightly to the king and withdrew into the crowd.
Aemond paid him no further attention. Without hesitation, he bit into the middle finger of his right hand, drawing blood.
Then, with that bloodied finger, he traced an ancient symbol upon Helaena's forehead—Old Valyrian script, meaning "Fire."
Helaena followed, biting her own finger, and drew another symbol upon Aemond's forehead—"Blood."
Then the two pressed their foreheads together, their blood mingling.
A moment later, they turned as one to face Viserys.
At that instant, every witness felt an inexplicable chill.
As though this was not the beauty of love, but a bond of blood and fire—something near to the unnatural.
No wonder the old Valyrian texts said these dragonlord families were mad. Perhaps only madmen could master dragons.
"Now…" Viserys's voice had grown so faint it was barely audible, "the wedding is complete. May… may you…"
The last words died in his throat.
The king's head sagged, and he slipped once more into a half-conscious state.
"His Grace is weary," Alicent said, lifting her head to address the crowd.
"The ceremony is concluded."
"Thank you all for bearing witness."
The nobles began to stir, murmuring quietly as they prepared to depart.
Yet many eyes still lingered on Aemond and Helaena—on the blood sigils upon their foreheads, not yet dry.
A wedding in blood.
A Targaryen marriage.
...
Morning in King's Landing always carried the briny scent of Blackwater Bay, but within the royal chambers of Maegor's Holdfast in the Red Keep, the air was filled with the fragrance of roses and lavender.
Sunlight streamed through the great stained-glass windows of the balcony, casting the seven-colored symbols of the Seven upon the floor—the Warrior's sword, the Father's scales, the Maiden's gentle smile.
When Helaena awoke, she found herself curled within a warm embrace.
She raised her head slightly and looked at the sleeping face of Aemond—the man she had wed only yesterday.
Morning light laid a pale golden sheen upon his pallid skin, his violet eyes closed.
Helaena did not move, only watched him quietly.
It was a rare moment—one where she could observe Aemond at such close range while he slept.
Awake, he was like a drawn blade—sharp, wary, always ready to strike.
But asleep, he looked like nothing more than a sixteen-year-old boy.
Even… somewhat fragile.
Her gaze fell to his left hand.
The wound carved during the wedding had already scabbed over, the dark red crust stark in the morning light.
She instinctively looked at her own hand.
The same wound.
The same scab.
She reached out, her fingertips hovering above it—but in the end, she did not touch.
She was afraid of waking him.
But Aemond woke anyway.
Those violet eyes opened, without the confusion of one just roused—clear in an instant.
He turned to look at her.
"Morning." His voice was rough with sleep.
"Morning." Helaena smiled, her silver hair spread across the pillow like flowing light.
"Did I wake you?"
"No." Aemond lifted a hand, brushing her cheek with the back of his fingers—an uncharacteristically gentle gesture.
"At this hour, I would have risen anyway."
He made as if to get up—but did not move, only continued looking at her.
Helaena's face was pleasing in the morning light.
She did not have Rhaenyra's breathtaking beauty, nor her mother Alicent's youthful brilliance.
But she had something else—
A quiet stillness, untouched by strife.
Like the water of a deep pool—clear enough to see the bottom, yet capable of reflecting one's entire self.
"What are you looking at?" Helaena asked, smiling.
"You," Aemond said plainly, twining a strand of her hair around his finger. "My fire."
Helaena flushed, the color spreading from her cheeks to the tips of her ears.
She pulled the silk covers up to hide half her face, leaving only her eyes visible.
"Why are you speaking like this today…"
"Honestly?" Aemond finished for her, a genuine smile curving his lips. "Because I had a dream last night."
"What did you dream of?"
"A great many things." His gaze drifted for a moment. "My childhood."
"Aegon… Jacaerys, Lucerys… pushing me into the mud."
His voice was calm, but Helaena could feel the cold weight beneath it.
"I still remember that Pink Dread…"
"Saying I wasn't worthy of a dragon. That I was fit to ride a pig."
Aemond paused.
"They humiliated me."
"How dare they… how dare they."
Helaena tightened her grip on his hand.
She remembered those days.
Remembered Aemond crying alone in his chamber.
Remembered the anger and humiliation in his eyes.
Remembered running to tell their mother—Queen Alicent punishing Aegon, yet in the end, only lightly rebuking those Velaryon boys for Rhaenyra's sake.
"That day, I hid in my chamber and cried my heart out," Aemond continued, his tone as calm as if speaking of another's story.
"But I still remember—it was you who comforted me. You who stood up for me."
"You were the only one… who never looked down on me."
He turned to her, something complex churning in those violet eyes.
"Do not worry," he said suddenly, a cold smile touching his lips.
"Those Strongs are dead."
"That debt is paid."
"As for Aegon…" he paused, "he is my brother."
"I will not hate him for that."
"Not like those three bastards."
Helaena shivered.
She remembered the slaughter over Blackwater Bay—Joffrey torn apart by Lothorne, Jacaerys publicly beheaded upon the walls of King's Landing, Lucerys falling into the sea, fate unknown.
And those two severed heads still hung above the gates of the Red Keep, rotting in the wind.
Aemond noticed her trembling at once.
"I'm sorry," he said, pulling her into his arms.
"I should not have spoken of it."
"No." Helaena pressed her face to his chest, listening to his heartbeat.
"You do not need to apologize to me."
"I only… only wish you would suffer less."
"Every time you return with new wounds, I…"
She did not finish, but Aemond understood.
"There are things only I can do," he murmured into her ear, the words heavy as an oath.
"If I do not do them, no one will."
"Targaryen… needs a hand to grip the sword. Even if that hand is drenched in blood."
He cupped her face, forcing her to meet his gaze.
"Let them curse me. Let them spit upon my name—I will still do it."
"But I promise you, I will do everything in my power to return alive. Every time."
"You swear?" Helaena asked softly, her eyes shimmering with tears.
"I swear it on my blood," Aemond said.
"Let the blood between us bear witness."
Helaena held him tightly.
She could smell the faint scent of blood on him—not the scent of fresh wounds, but something deeper, something ingrained in his very being.
Once, that scent unsettled her.
Now, it was a kind of comfort.
This was Aemond's scent.
Real. Powerful. Dangerous.
And for her—the only place of peace.
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