His Love |Aegon II Targaryen x Fem!Reader|

Part Thirty-Two

Author's Note: 8.6k words, and here we are! Sorry for leaving you on that cliffhanger. xD This chapter is extra long because our dear reader's life hangs in the balance. Will she survive? Who knows? (I do) You'll have to find out! Thank you so much for reading! (⁠ ⁠ꈍ⁠ᴗ⁠ꈍ⁠)

Chapter Warnings: brief discussions of assault, Aegon losing his marbles, pseudoscience (watch me act like I know anything about medical stuff.)

The beaches of Dragonstone were home to you. The brimstone wafting into your nose and the salt clinging to your skin felt pacifying, like finally engulfing you into your bed sheets after a particularly irritating day. Digging your heels into the sand and furrowing your thick brows, you concentrated as your father spoke.

"When you are at your lowest, stand back up, and spit in the face of your enemy. They will not take pity when they see your weakness. They will kill you. Do not let them get the chance."

You strode towards him with unwavering confidence, a surge of excitement coursing through your body. Without a hint of hesitation, you tightened your grip on the practice sword as he charged towards you. With ease, you deftly parried his blow. You could have easily overwhelmed him with the sheer force of your attacks, but you held back, not wanting to expend too much energy too soon. Then, you remembered a tactic your father had taught you just the day before and decided to put it into practice. It was a bold move, but you were fearless.

Despite having yet to master the finesse of a pressure glide, you executed it precisely, causing your blade to slide across his with a high-pitched screech.

Daemon took two steps back, surprised that you still had the energy to make a move. He smirked at your ambition, seeing a bit of himself in you. He thrust his blade forward to an undefended side, but you narrowly avoided it by dodging, the blade narrowly missing the metal of your breastplate by a hair's breadth.

Your father was unrelenting in his exercises, slicing, parrying, slashing, and countering every action you took until sweat dripped onto your brow and neck. This was the ritual—a song and dance that your father was the master of and you, the student. Risks were meant to be taken in training, leaps of blind faith, hoping whichever move you decided would be your opponent's last. The uncertainty made victory all the more sweet.

Daemon was on the attack, aggressively charging forward each time you advanced. Any moment you got the upper hand, he would effectively charge beat and break your stance into something new. You pulled out every defensive measure you could recall: avoidance, beat parry, counter parry, ducking, anything you could think of. You were exhausted from the prior hours of stamina and strength training, still feeling the heavy bags of sand on your shoulders.

Soon, your shields began to crumble. Your arms trembled with exertion, sweat stinging your eyes, as Daemon pressed your sword and opened you for a line of attack. He swung his blade into your left side, the force of it punching the wind from your lungs as you attempted to right yourself in the sand. Your father took your unguarded body to his advantage as he raised his arm, bringing the pommel of his practice sword onto your temple with an ear-ringing thud.

***

The prince found himself pacing in his rooms while waiting for your return. Aegon wanted to give you the time and distance he believed you desired, but guilt still weighed on his soul like a shroud, his last moments with you replaying in his mind's eye. He fretted to the bottom of his cup and repeated the act until his pitcher of Arbor Red was empty.