Chapter One: The Price of Vengeance

The air was thick with the scent of blood and fear, mingling with the acrid smoke rising from the torched remains of House Velaryon’s once-proud banners. In the darkened heart of Dragonstone, shadows danced ominously against the stone walls, whispering tales of betrayal and fury. Arianwyn stood amidst the ruins, a creature of vengeance cloaked in Ellery, her delicate 11-year-old frame draped in a blood-soaked gown once gleaming white, now marred by the crimson splatters of her own making. Her sharp features—eyes bright and wild—betrayed the tempest raging within. She had watched Luke Velaryon's innocence smothered as completely as the life slowly draining from his small body. The boy had come in jest, clutching a wooden sword and wearing a crooked crown, pretending to slay dragons that day beneath the fading light of the sun. He thought himself brave, a knight in shining armor, his spirit undimmed even by the latest tragedy that had struck their houses. But Arianwyn saw through the charade; she saw the weakling beneath the veneer of childhood. It made her fury burn harder. With a swift movement, she lunged at him, her hand grasping the dagger, its blade already stained with the blood of betrayal from her own kin. He had barely time to register the danger before she struck. The sharp tip pierced the tender flesh of his throat, blood gushing forth like a burst dam, cascading down his neck in slick rivulets. “Let’s play a different game, shall we?” she hissed with a gleam of manic joy in her eye. The shock in Luke's expression morphed into confusion, and then sheer horror as he clutched at the wound, a gurgling cry escaping his lips. Arianwyn thrust her other hand into the depths of the chaos, her fingers clasping his head with a feral grip. The dagger gleamed as the moonlight caught its edge, a ghastly symbol of what was to follow. With one savage motion, she twisted and pulled, her strength fueled by the rage she harbored for Aemond’s loss—his eye, his spirit, now tethered by their twisted bond. The blade sank deeper, and she yanked, releasing her grip on both his neck and his senses as Luke's shrieks faded into a sobering silence. She held aloft the now lifeless remains of his once bright and innocent self, his eyes—the color of twilight—still glistening with the remnants of disbelief. Arianwyn saw the very core of him: his essence; the last flicker of life that dared defy her. In grim pain, she tore them from his head, each removal accompanied by a sickening squelch, the ichor slick on her small hands. The act made her laugh, a terrifying sound echoing into the night and ringing in the goblet of hearts of those who dared betray the Targaryens. She then placed the prize, those delicate orbs of blue, in a small pouch at her waist, a gift now unwrapping itself in the darkness as she prepared to present them to Aemond. Once she was sure there were none to witness her reverence for vengeance, she took Arrax, the boy’s loyal dragon, into her custody. The creature’s wails echoed like a haunted melody after the breaking of its bond with Luke, its magnificent wings unfurling as they took to the sky in their shared sorrow. She had lost a piece of herself in this abhorrent act, declaring war against the delicate remnants of childhood. Aemond would be pleased—for now, it was not just blood that flowed but the power of revenge that would bind them together in an unholy union far beyond the innocent love of mere cousins. She returned to the citadel, the promise of their twisted future lingering in the air—Aemond, the fiend of Harrenhal, her heart beating only for him, as she envisioned the day they would wed. The boy had been but a pawn in her game, his small heart no challenge to crush in her grand scheme of securing her vengeance. As dawn broke over Dragonstone, the twisted shadows settled into a deep silence, proclaiming the birth of a new legacy forged in blood.