RunAway Gentle Dragon|| Naerys Targaryen

IV

{A/N: The song is King city by Majid Jordan. Always loved this song and wanted to add it into one of my stories.}

It was a fine dance of life and death.

This child. Their beloved son. Made of fine silver-gold and beautiful fair skin. Lies in peaceful sleep within the cradle besides the bed while his fragile mother dances with the greedy stranger.

His father is there as well. Holding his wife's gentle hand with a similar delicacy as she fights a battle of life and death.

Blood. She's lost too much of it and he cannot help but cry in the silence of the room. Holding her hand and crying as he prays to the mother for mercy and curses the stranger for returning after so many years of health.

"I'm sorry," he speaks between silent sobs. Kissing her hand with trembling lips. Remorse. It is brief, but something within him blames Daeron whom was barely two moons old.

The thought vanishes as fast as it had come. He cannot blame the babe for this. No. This was his work. His doing. If she were to die—no she wouldn't die. She had escaped the stranger's grasp before. She had danced with the mysterious being since she was a babe struggling to breath within the cradle.

But the thought of her death hangs in the air. He cannot move it from his mind, and it chokes him. Tearing at him for days until he finally collapses from exhaustion.

"Damnit Aemon!"

He is in his own chambers when his consciousness returns with a throbbing headache at it's aid. He groans and rubs his head. Trying to soothe the pain.

"Where is Naerys," he is up on his feet but sways uneasily. His father eyebrows shot but dropped in a burning scowl. "She's fine, you on the other hand—"

"I must see her!"

Aemon is on the bed before he even realizes. His hand firmly on his stinging cheek as he blinks back the exhaustion, the tears, and the darkness fighting for dominance. His father had punched him. "You must rest you stubborn fool!" His father screams before he storms from the room. Slamming the door behind him.

Pain.

He feels it for only a moment before the exhaustion and tears take dominance and he faints upon his soft bed with tears running down his bruised cheek.

•••

"Ah!" Aemon hisses when the Maester touches his cheek. Black, purple, and swollen from his father's fist. He wants to go to Naerys. He wanted to see if she was again in good health.

The Maester examines his cheek for any broken bones and when the old man is done Aemon gives him coin and leaves. Racing through Maegor's holdfast to Naerys chambers.

She beams at his warmly when he arrives. It is weak, but she reaches for him with one delicate hand and he takes it and clasps his soft lips to her knuckles. "Thank the seven," he murmurs between tender kisses as a single tear slips from his eye.

"What happened?" She murmurs touching this bruised cheek. Aemon winces, but easily smiles. Hiding away the fact that their father had punched him.

"Nothing."

"It is clearly something," she begins, but she does not continue. She knew her husband as well as he did her. He would tell her nothing if it would do her any type of sadness.

Aemon moves to the cradle besides the bed and lifts Daeron from it's comfort and climbs into the bed. They lay as a family. Mother, father, and child until the sun dies under the horizon.

When Aemon places Daeron into the cradle he returns to the bed and smiles at Naerys, planting a kiss on her forehead.

"I love you, my gentle dragon."