Amora Targaryen, daughter of the fallen Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, the first of her name, and heir to Dragon Stone had dreamt of a life beyond the walls of Kings Landing, beyond Dragon Stone. Dreams covered in fire and ash, with a path to freedom. Bu...
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。.✦ ☾
130 a.c.
The screams of the dead filled the battlefield with flames licking their rotting flesh. Agony covered the stone ground, with blood pulling together to form a river. The deadly call of birds descended, beginning their feast of flesh. The Stepstones were bloody and filled with death.
Daemon approaches one of the tents, dressed in his black armor, his short white hair dirty and bloody. He nods to the guards, ordering them to open the flaps of the tent.
"It seems as if the tides are turning, we are slowly closing in on the lords of the free cities, so if the princess takes her dragon above the gullet, she can cut the army from its source." Corlys states. He stood at the front of a war table, dressed in the arms of House Velaryon. His army all were gathered close, equally dressed, all honoring their houses.
"And if they cut her down? We must consider the princess's safety, their scorpion spears have been advancing. What if we station her at Bloodstone instead." Tyland asks
The Lannister meets the princess's gaze. Amora rolls her eyes. "As Lord Corlys said, I will fly Morghul over the gullet, cutting General Racallio Ryndoon's army from the source. I appreciate the concern Lord Lannister, but our Lord and General believe I can handle it." Amora states, her lilac eyes hardened and trained on the golden lion.
Daemon was silent as he admired the young princess, no longer was she a timid girl in long flowy skirts but a woman hardened by battle. Her hair is no longer purely done for aesthetic, but a symbol of her victories. She was even more beautiful than she was years ago. And at her side was the prince Lucerys Velaryon. The young prince smirked, proud of his great cousin. The once young boy was now a fine young man, taller than most men in the tent, the mirror image of his late father. Lord Strong.
"It's settled then." Lucerys states
Corlys hums, nodding to his young ward and placing a black dragon on the head of the gullet.
....
"When I left, you were stuck in the corner, too afraid to stand up and speak your mind. I am proud." Daemon states as he escorts his niece to her tent.
Amora hums, her eyes flickering up at him. "You taught me well Uncle." Amora says, pushing open the flaps tent. Daemon smiles, entering from behind. The princess is greeted by a squire, who offers her a cup. "Why are you here Daemon? I would assume you would be beside Rhaenyra, I heard she's expecting." Amora states
Daemon hums, "You heard correctly, we are hoping for a girl this time around. You don't have to worry, she had even asked me to check on her ward, you know how she worries." Daemon states "I am fine Daemon. Go, be with her." Amora states, offering him a cup as well. Daemon sighs, taking the cup and making his way to a chair. A million thoughts passed his head, feelings he had not expressed even to himself. "You miss it, don't you?" Amora asks, slowly she walks beside him, taking a seat.
Daemon looks up at her, "I do, but Rhaenyra needs me at her side, training the boys." Daemon states
"Well, you are proficient at it, Lucerys is ten and five and yet he's better than most of the company. Not to mention myself. I can see why she wants you there." Amora states, slowly sipping some of her wine, crossing one leg over the other.
The rogue prince sighs, placing his wine down. "Yes, the great Rogue Prince, reduced to a teacher." Daemon says "Why don't you stay a couple more days, we can use you and Caraxes. You can fly with Lucerys, he can use more of your wisdom." Amora says. She understood the feeling. Daemon felt stuck. The Prince was meant for war, not fatherhood.
....
Amora grew accustomed to the cries of the dead, years stuck in war, it was part of its deadly beauty. What scared her was the silence, the stillness in the air, as if someone was lurking in the shadows, waiting for her.
The princess dropped her armor, now in a pair of trousers and a fitted undershirt. Her figure was now that of a woman, the wool fabric hugging her full hips and her soft breasts. She wasn't ashamed of her sex, she was proud.
But even with her pride and comfort here in the field, there were moments when she missed the normalcy of the court, the safety of its stone walls. But as quickly as those feelings came, she squashed them.
Amora sits at her desk, pulling out one of her many scrolls, letters from her family. The one she had in her hand was untouched, the seal unbroken. Aemonds letter, the only one he had ever sent. She kept it for years, unable to bring herself to see the anger and pain written in ink.
With a sigh, she breaks the seal, unrolling the paper.
Amora,
War? Instead of facing me, instead of apologizing. You rather be at war. Am I such a horrid man that you can't possibly face me? I have given you years of friendship and loyalty. Maybe if you had explained your reasoning, I might have understood, but instead, I heard about your leave from Aegon. I wish I could say I wasn't upset or hurt. I had tried to protect myself from members of our family, to not experience what I did that night....but yet, I found myself stabbed in the back by someone I least expected. My gentle and delicate Amora, you took my heart and crushed it in the palm of your hand.
All I can possibly say is....please come back to me, return to me safe and as yourself, as my Mora.
Yours,
Aemond
Amora set the letter down, her chest tight and filled with regret.
....
124 a.c.
It was a year since her father's death, a year since she moved to Kingslanding. She felt trapped and alone, always in her chambers or Helaena's. The older princess was great company, but she wasn't always there, stuck in her dreams.
Amora looked away from the window, and down at her skirts. The green felt wrong but Alicent sent the dress as a gift, along with many others. With a soft sigh, she stands. Deciding to visit Aemond, she leaves her quarters.
....
The scent of poppies assaulted the young princess's nose, causing it to wrinkle up in a grimace. Amora loved many flowers, but poppies were her least favorite, associating it with sickness.
The sight of Aemond on his bed broke her heart, his face still covered heavily with bandages, blood seeping and staining the once-white fabric. Amora sweeps her skirts to the side and she gently sits beside the boy. Aemond groans softly, gravitating to the scent of roses and honeysuckle. Amora lifts her hand and she adjusts a few rogue strands away from his face.
Amora stays silent, not wanting to disturb the injured prince's sleep. "Mora." Aemond moans in his sleep, his hand coming up and bunching around the fabric of her dress. Amora hums softly, gently caressing his sweaty head.
She understood that Lucerys was just a boy, but seeing Aemond in agony brought her pain and anger. Her young cousin didn't deserve this suffering.
