«Viserys Targaryen, first of his name, the King - many can tell you that he is the greatest, and his big heart is what makes him so; something his predecessors lacked. Yet, don't believe them - they are lying, and in this lie they are absolutely delusional. If the time shall ever come, when I am long forgotten, but these memoirs still found, and somehow, deciphered—I trust my ancestors with that—I am telling you, with no regrets or even cruelness: the Great Maesters that write about him are wrong. Viserys Targaryen, the first of his name, was a fool. And his foolishness, his kind as they say heart—for me it's not his kindness, but the lack of self-confidence that always made him rely on the Small Council as the most spineless Targaryen to ever exist—was the thing that ruined his reign. And his family as well.»

— From Drusilla Tyrell's memoirs.

•

On the second day after Drusilla and Aemond announced their marriage, Alicent warned her future daughter in law about an upcoming meeting with the King Viserys, himself; an act that clearly seemed hypocritical since he most likely didn't care about his son that much.

As Drusilla sits inside the small alcove, waiting for Viserys's arrival, she has no expectations towards all this. She wonders why he needs to come here, when he hardly breathes, not to mention walking.

In the end, the King arrives with Otto Hightower by his hand, slowly stepping closer and closer. As she should, Drusilla stands from her place, bowing deeply, eyes lowering on the floor - shy and practised.

'It is a pleasure to meet your Majesty! This one is very lucky!'

'It is the same.'

Viserys's voice is so hoarse that Drusilla assumes that it might be painful for him to speak. An unsteady figure, he plops down on the bench, sighing. Otto continues to stand on his feet, settling behind Viserys's back; mischievous eyes focused on every move.

'Drusilla Tyrell,' Viserys hums thoughtfully. 'I remember Lord Tyrell very well. He was always supporting me on my hardest longships. Therefore, I have a feeling that...'

Without finishing his sentence, he starts to cough roughly.

Drusilla can say that Otto is annoyed by this; perhaps, spending so much time with a deadly ill person is not as fun as it looks. Yet, he might as well gather the fruits of his own labour.

'Excuse me, your Majesty,' she extends her handkerchief to him, big eyes worried and nervous. 'Would that help?'

Viserys takes that, reluctantly. After a while, the coughing stops, and all of them pretend that nothing happened.

'...I have a feeling that you will be as loyal to your husband as your family was to Targaryens.'

Drusilla bites her tongue.

The Tyrells were never loyal to anyone but to themselves only. In particular, there is no loyalty towards Targaryens. They are hated and made fun of, most of the time. Not to mention that Lord Tyrell that Viserys is praising so sincerely, considers him to be the weakest king so far.

But it is not something that would ever be spoken aloud.

Instead, Drusilla smiles widely.

'Of course, your Majesty.'

'You are a very young and talented woman. Your marriage has my blessing.'

After these words, Viserys loses his last power, and ends up being carried away by maidens that were around all the time. Drusilla pretends to look devastated by what she had seen, when in reality she feels the desire to return back to chambers as soon as it is possible.

'It is surprising to see lady Tyrell in such a quiet spirit,' Otto notices, suddenly smiling at her. 'Would lady Tyrell allow me to take her to the castle?'

Talks with Otto Hightower seem to be more possibly intimidating than with the King, Drusilla thinks.

'It would be my pleasure,' she returns the gesture, but makes sure that her smile is not so perfect - a little bit strained with cracks on it; worried.

The truth is, Drusilla doesn't like Otto in the slightest. Perhaps, he is sly and smart, and, perhaps, he knows how to play the game, but it doesn't necessarily mean that he should be likeable in her eyes. Though she finds it curious how he secretly wishes Aemond to be the heir, yet, due to his impulsiveness Otto chooses the brother that is easier to control.

'Is Lady Tyrell okay? Perhaps, the strike of nerves it is, that bothers you?'

'Ah, no, no, thank you!' She awkwardly shakes her head. 'I just... I apologise, people with weak health always bring me back to my home mentally. I didn't intend to appear gloomy on such an occasion.'

Otto hums, squinted eyes examining her figure. Then, he stops, and something in him slightly shifts - his face features appear to be softer than usual, and Drusilla mentally scoffs.

'I bring my apologies as well. This one forgot about the quiet uncommon situation in the Tyrells household. Do you feel better now?'

His acting skills are not bad, but not a believable one either. He knows how to play, but he is too used to being surrounded by idiots, who trust his easy act. It is noticeable, because the change between his usual appearance, and the one he puts right now is too crude with sharp edges. Too theatrical. Yet, Drusilla is sure that most of the people fall for this.

'A little bit shaky, but already better...' She mutters.

Otto should try her method - to act all the time. It is more believable. Yet, Drusilla knows he couldn't do that; as a regular man he is too proud and has a too high opinion of himself. That is his fatal flaw.

He relies more on the fact that his usual persona is cold. And if he suddenly acts more tender with others, then it is a favour. An exception. People like to feel special, after all. She uses the same method with Criston Cole, if she is honest. So it is not that bad, but... It can work all the time.

'Departure from your household must hurt. When Alicent left to live here as I wasn't able to follow her the first time, I was worried. My heart missed my sweet daughter all the time,' Otto puts a hand on her shoulder, squeezing it. 'Lady Tyrell shouldn't shy away to ask for help or seek company if she feels lonely. I am not your father, of course, he never could be replaced, but you can trust me. If anything bothers you, you know where to find me.'

Ha!

So, Otto thinks that playing the role of father for a naive young girl is something that can help him this time.

Well, he can try to fool his daughter with that, then.

'T-thank you!' Drusilla beams, blinking a little bit too fast as if fighting her tears. 'You are much nicer than others told me...'

'Ha,' he claps on her shoulder, 'not for everyone.'

And Drusilla thinks that is the cheapest act she had ever witnessed in her life.

(Augustus will laugh his ass off when he hears about this.)

•

'Well, thanks to Gods, he left soon,' Irellea complains, sitting in front of a big mirror, slowly unlacing ties from her hair. 'I understand that he is the king, but it is a torture, you know?'

'I want us to get married in Valyrian traditions.'

As these words leave Aemond's lips, he stops. Irellea, too, turns to his side, absolutely lost.

'What?'

He knows it is too sudden, and he knows mother would probably decline this offer, but he always wanted to perform a Valyrian-like marriage with Irellea. She is here, and they are getting married, but this marriage is not the same as the one he imagined to have. This marriage would be filled with too many people they don't personally know, and too many useless acts and talks.

'You heard me from the first time.'

'I am not... It is the ritual between your family members. I am not the one. And I am not even the Tyrell,' she frowns a little bit, musical fingers playing with hairbrush. 'You can't turn the ritual about saving the pureness of blood into–'

'Do you care about it?' Aemond asks genuinely.

Because if for some reason, Irellea is suddenly fond of Targaryens' traditions, if there is any logical explanation why they shouldn't do whatever they want, then, fine. Aemond will not push it.

'...We will not even have Septons. Your family–'

'It can be just us.'

Irellea stares at him, and from the way she does, Aemond can already guess - she will not refuse. She wants it as well, no matter how unusual and strange it will be. Or how they will be punished if anyone knows.

'Aemond, do you really mean that?' Her voice grows quieter, yet, somehow, more powerful than before.

'I do,' he answers without hesitation.

Because if not sharing such a moment with her, then he will not share it with no one.

'Then, let's do it today.'

•

'What's bothering Lady Tyrells mind?' Criston asks carefully, slowly following her, ten steps between them - a common rule.

'Ah,' she mutters a little bit lost. 'Because of that infant bitch, my day before marriage is going to be a mess...'

It is the first time Criston hears her swearing so openly, and so, he raises his brow:

'What happened, Lady Tyrell?'

She stops, slowly, and so does he. Then, Drusilla turns to face him, and after examining their surroundings quickly, she explains:

'Do you know about Vaemond Velaryon, Ser Cole?' He nods. 'Well, he had heard that princess Rhaenyra and her family will attend the marriage, so, he plans to make a court the day before marriage. About basta... I mean, one of her boy's legacy.'

Oh.

He understands why it happens, and he absolutely supports Ser Velaryon's decision, but he also understands why Drusilla is so frustrated.

'I... I don't understand! Why the days that were meant to be mine, the days when I will finally get my feelings returned, should be doomed by this useless, stupid drama! It is not my fault that they couldn't have legal kids!' She hisses in frustration, pursing her lips almost in disgust.

On another day... Criston Cole would be happy to witness how Rhaenyra Targaryen is getting humiliated in front of many others. But this time... Well, this time he is more focused on Drusilla's well-being.

After Larys Strong's death, after he finally returned his debt to the Queen, freeing and saving her, all thanks to attentiveness of Lady Tyrell, Criston promised himself—and Alicent asked him to do that as well—to protect Drusilla's happiness at all cost.

He knows that this woman can be dangerous, yet it doesn't necessarily mean she can protect herself.

'You are right,' he says. 'I would take care of this matter.'

Drusilla blinks, surprised. Then unsurely shrugs.

'How would you, Ser Cole?' She rubs her face with hands desperately. 'That is fine. I knew that becoming Targaryen would mean getting used to Rhaenyra being the centre of attention. But... My wedding...'

He carefully tugs her wrists, so she could stop hurting her skin, and repeats with more force in his voice:

'I am going to take care of it.'

Her blue eyes widened.

'Oh, Gods, no, no, please... You will get in trouble because of me, and you are my only true friend here, please!'

He almost smiles.

It is funny how arrogant Drusilla appears when they are walking together—she always hisses at other people, rolling her eyes, and comments on every person, who disrespects Aemond—but yet, considers him, a dornish man, to be her friend.

She can be sweet, just not in the way others see her.

'Don't worry, Lady Tyrell. I am going to be careful.'

She opens her mouth and closes it back. After a while, Drusilla sighs, pursing her lips worriedly.

'...Please, don't get in trouble, Ser Cole.'

'I wouldn't dare.'

•

'One flesh...' Aemond murmurs softly, mixing their blood, unblinking gaze fixated on her.

'One flesh.' Drusilla repeats slowly, gulping, light nervousness imprisoning her from the very beginning.

'One heart, one soul. Now and forever.'

How could she agree on this? No, how could he offer this?

Daemon Targaryen and Rhaenyra Targaryen doing an unofficial marriage - is the one thing. Both of them are rebellious spirits, not caring about rights and wrongs. But Aemond? The one that couldn't go against his family?

'One heart. One soul.'

Does he understand with whom exactly he wishes to intertwine his life? Yes, of course, she planned to return him back, to their reunite, but–

Screw it.

Screw it, because it's only fair - to have him to herself after all these years. She ached for him, she fought for him, she is the only one who deserves to actually have him! May the whole Targaryen house curse her, if they wish.

'Now and forever.'

There is a beat of silence between them as they are waiting for something or someone to punish them for this, but there comes nothing. And so, Drusilla yanks him on herself, connecting their bleeding lips, the taste of blood being bitter on the tips of their tongues.

Aemond puts both of his hands on her hips, caressing it gently, absolutely unmatched to the hungry kiss they share.

'Ābrazȳrys,' he whispers as they part away, trying to catch his breath.

'What does that mean?' Drusilla gasps, smearing blood across her lips.

Aemond smiles at her, tucking strands of hair from her face.

'Can you call me Valzȳrys, Lea?'

The old nickname makes her shiver as she sighs, catching his cut hand, gently squeezing it.

'Valziris?' Drusilla tries.

Aemond laughs, and she furrows, embarrassed.

Learning old valyrian was something she never could do, due to the lack of material or books in Highgardens, mostly. Targaryens speak beautifully in it, that—despite her hatred towards them—she admits.

Usually, if she needs to translate something urgently, she simply writes to her friend. So she doesn't worry much about missing important conversations.

'No. Valzȳrys.'

'Valzȳrys?'

Aemond closes his eye as soon as he hears that. His head falls on her shoulder, nose burying in her cheek. Drusilla carefully strokes his head with healthy hand, and repeats:

'Valzȳrys.'

'It is a husband,' he says to her after a while, voice a little bit muffled. 'You called me husband in old valyrian, and I called you wife.'

'Oh,' she grins a little bit. 'Okay, Valzȳrys.'

'You are going to be the death of me,' Aemond shakes his head, slightly detaching from her. 'You can take it off.'

Drusilla blinks, confusedly.

Her eyes travel to her own clothes, and then, to his.

'We are not going to consummate our marriage here, and especially not on illegal marriage ceremony.'

Aemond rolls his eye.

'My eyepatch. Take it off.'

He doesn't look as uncomfortable as he asked her to do the first time, when she still was Drusilla Tyrell, and only. There is no nervousness in him, but a simple trust.

Drusilla is still owed by how openly, without doubts, he does that.

After hearing and seeing how skillfully she threads lies around, after understanding how much she manipulates with others, and even with him...

Oh, Aemond is really his mother's son. Searching for comfort, for saviour, they can cling into every person, who showers them comfort. And it doesn't matter how awful they actually are. It is enough that they are good to them.

She knows that—knew for a while—yet, absolutely struck but how easily she was accepted back.

Poor Aemond.

Being a shadow in the walls of his own house... That must be rough.

Because a human cannot exist without its shadow. But what is the shadow without a human? Absolutely nothing.

'Okay,' she lets out, ignoring how broken her voice sounds suddenly. 'Okay.'

Drusilla doesn't know why she waits for something horrible to happen, but as she holds an unlaced eyepatch in her hands, there is nothing.

Nothing, except the blue sapphire in his left socket.

Aemond watches her carefully, not particularly nervous—he knows she will accept him either way, they both know it—but still, stiff.

Drusilla stares.

It is beautiful.

'Did it hurt?' She asks, because there is no way putting stone in his socket wouldn't be painful.

'It hurts,' Aemond shrugs. 'You're just getting used to it.'

Drusilla scratches down the strange possessiveness that appears in her mind as she sees sapphire. Because, it looks like her colour, and Aemond is hers. All alone.

'My beautiful prince,' she whispers gently, trying to ignore the voice in the back of her head. 'My future King.'

If she ever lost her eye, if this day were to happen, Drusilla gladly will put amethyst in hers. Because he is hers—even it was his intention when he chose the stone—and she is his completely.

'Never in my life have I been more glad that someone is as insane as I am,' Aemond chuckles. 'My wife is truly a match for me.'

A match made in the pits of seven hells, perhaps.

'I am always glad to be an equal to my husband,' Drusilla answers him with a smile, fingertips tracing a ripped skin under his left eye.

They still have a week before their wedding. Yet, Drusilla thinks it doesn't matter anymore. They are married. No one can part with them anymore.

And may the Gods be merciful to other Targaryens, because their union wouldn't be so.

A/N: Fastburn material, ig-

Otto: She has a daddy issues, I am going to play with her.

Criston: She clearly needs my help, I am going to save her.

Drusilla: I need the chaos, though :(

Aemond: Let's fuck all rules and traditions together.

Drusilla: :) He-he.