PHOENIX RISING, aemond targaryen

INTRODUCTION

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Longing.

It was a dangerously soft word for such a ravenous feeling, for an empty holiness of broken promises, the likes of which no one could ever truly understand in the depths of its separation, of its merciless nature, of its divine destruction. Longing had ensnared it's way into the realm of beasts and man alike to make its home, seeping into wounds like saltwater rushing to the surface to choke you on its devastation, to pull you beneath the waves and drown you. And it was longing that maimed you, that twisted you, that filled you with hope that destiny conspired to crush because it simply could...longing was merely a wish disguised in silk and grief.

And for all of Maelyrra's miserable life, she had simply longed in a parched desperation for peace from a body that had been cursed with agony and all consuming fire until her mouth tasted like ash and disappointment...because the moment she was born into the realm drenched in blood and lungs full of howling dread, it seemed as though the gods had taken one look upon her frail corpse and abandoned her to fates golden amusement, frayed open like a flower in bloom with her bleeding petals wilted and rotted from disease and heartless monstrosity.

Because to be a child of a Targaryen, even without their blood running through your veins was to be lonely, to be constantly straddling the line of insanity and greatness, all consuming and burning with the burden of godhood...but to be their crippled ward was nothing short of a curse. The bubbling in her gut at the fire of her own whispered rage rising above her, tempting out any semblance of mortality as she burned brightly, all consuming and beautiful in a way divinity could never hope to be as the years passed her by and she didn't succumb to cruel fate, toeing the line between saving the world and destroying it in her agonising hatred, in her longing for death.

She had prayed to the gods every night in the hopes of their salvation, had begged upon bended knee with her sinful flesh aching with the burden of her cursed ruination. To be more than the humiliation of skin and bone, of wasted breath, of her bloodied sickness that was so sweet it ached, lacing her every vein, making it hard to walk, to speak, to live...sometimes she was left to wonder if her lady had known how worthless the child she had found that terrible night, that she had plucked from the abyss of flame and death, if she had known how it would sully the gift of her Targaryen love, would she of even dared?

Madness and rage was nothing more than a sickness that had spread it's way through her like a disease, festering it's way inside her mind to maim and twist it to match her mortal corpse, her god of damnation hooking her upon the sweetness of his hatred until she craved the darkness within, craved the torment that came with breathing. The cruel whispering of the stars, of fire, burned into nothing more than a desire to be seen as something more than an insignificant divinity of the masses, the desires she scratched upon her bloody floorboards lost in the horror inside of herself, where decaying gravestones grew and mourned and died.

And yet...it was years later on a storming night that her bloodied longing changed, that the prophecy of blood and fire that had once been whispered by a decaying crone took claim when Maelyrra was plunged from the heavens to drown beneath the waves below but did not sink, leaving the skies full of terror and fear and bloodied ruin, all for the sake of love, all for a need for vengeance...when the dance of dragons finally began, when dragons that had blessed the realm for centuries fought and died in the flames and teeth that had once commanded them.

And through their ashes, they had left all but one to rise from their own damnation, from the darkness that had plagued them, that they had succumbed and suffered too in their greed for power...but in the end, the last dragon was no dragon, not even a little, not even at all...it was a Phoneix.

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"I MISS THE GIRL YOU ONCE WERE."

"MANY WILL, MY QUEEN...SHE WAS FAR EASIER TO KILL."

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Dedications;
-dehishouse ichorborn -firestar -hanlonss goldencomplex thorsbimbo rcgulusblack padmehoe bxtterflxs -giorno And to whoever else reads this fic! So, I couldn't help myself, shocker, but who doesn't love when women have no choice but to go feral? Who have insanity running through their veins? Who become the monster the rest of the world fears because they would rather see the world burn than have their family torn apart? Y'all are really in for a wild fucking ride with the story and you have absolutely no idea and I'm so excited lmao.

(Also, I truly do hate to be that person...but this story is not incestuous in the slightest because Mae isn't Velaryon nor is she Targaryen, though in a sense, Rhaenyra does technically see Mae as her daughter and Jace and Luke see her as their sister. But yeah, I just wanted to clarity that because incest is a big no no for me and I'd rather not be crucified by anyone on this hellsite lmao.)