Chapter Text
He awoke with the feel of lips on his cheek.
Shadows stirred somewhere beyond the edge of his vision, thin and distant through the blur of sleep. He ignored it, tilting his head toward the source of the kiss.
“It’s dawn, love,” a sweet voice murmured.
Aemond exhaled in a low sigh. His eye focused to discover a pair of deep brown irises hovering just above him, their lashes almost brushing his.
“We must rise,” Lucera murmured. “Part and get ready for the day.”
He groaned, bitterness coating his tongue. Part. Go off into the endless realm of duty, ceremony, and expectation instead of staying here, where the air was thick with her warmth.
“I don’t want to,” he whispered, reaching up to kiss her. Her skin was warm, soft, smelling faintly of oranges and juniper—sunlight and forest in one. A soft moan left her lips as she hooked one leg around his. “I want to stay here. With you…”
His fingers veered lower, to trail the curve of her spine through her shift. He ached to feel her bare skin on his fingertips, cup her breasts, and knead them till she sighed in pleasure and parted her legs to let him enter her warmth. One last time.
Just one last time.
“Do you?” she breathed into his mouth, the corner of her lips curling upward. “Then why did you kill her?”
The haze shattered.
His head snapped up, his single eye locking onto her. “What?”
“You wanted us to part. Forever. Elsewise…” Her smile was sly, too knowing. “…you wouldn’t have done that to my stepsister.”
He blinked—and she was gone.
She reappeared at the foot of his bed, clad in white. Her dark hair fell loose, a curtain framing her face.
“That’s not true,” he sat up so fast, the sheets tangled in his legs. “I never meant… she was the one who went after Aegon, I just—”
“—acted the dutiful son,” Lucera finished for him, her smile widening.
Blood began to pour from her mouth. Then from her nose. Her eyes wept crimson tears, the red streaking her skin. Her pale, almost translucent skin.
Stars burst in the corner of his vision.
“No, I—” he began, but she was laughing now, a wet, rattling cackle that let blood spew from her mouth.
“I’ll never forgive you for this,” she said, her voice warping, splitting into something deeper, more hollow.
He lunged, trying to reach her—only for his hand to close around nothing but air.
A burnt hand.
“You’ll pay for this, kinslayer,” rasped a voice.
The figure before him was blackened and cracked, violet eyes burning from a face charred beyond recognition. Aemond gasped.
“It’s your fault…. You came after him—”
But the figure had already leapt for his neck.
Aemond cursed, twisting away, his hand finding the hilt of the knife beneath his pillow. He drove it forward, heart racing, skin aflame—only to thrust it at a maid in red.
“My… my Prince!” The crone dropped the washbasin she’d been clutching, water and soap sloshing across the floor.
“What in the fuck are you doing? Get out!” he snarled, his skull pounding. He was in his chamber. It was daylight. Everything was fine.
He was fine.
“Forgive me, but… your mother sent me,” the woman stammered. “She… she said to get you dressed. For the… the funeral.”
He blinked.
Then, a groan tore from his throat. Of course. His father was to be consigned to the flames today. He’d… forgotten.
“I’ll dress myself,” he scoffed and shoved the blade back under the pillow.
“My Prince—”
“I said I’ll dress myself.”
The maid ducked her head and scrambled to mop the spilled water, working with far more speed than he'd thought a crone of her age possessed. Then, like a cloud of smoke, she evaporated, scurrying out of his chamber before he could bring himself to rise.
Aemond’s gaze shifted to his nightstand. The cup of sweetsleep sat empty. He’d need to ask Orwylle for something stronger. These dreams were worsening. Too many ghosts in the dark. He couldn’t afford entertaining them. Not now.
He had no reason to.
He dressed quickly, tugging on his leathers with mechanical precision. Shadows flickered at the edge of his vision—a charred outline, violet eyes watching. He ignored it. Everything was fine.
He had done the right thing.
“Lucera will never forgive you for this.”
Barging out of his chamber, he scrambled for the upper floors.
He practically burst into Helaena’s apartments, startling the maids affixing a black veil to her hair.
“Forgive me,” he cleared his throat, steadying his breath. “I should have knocked.”
Helaena’s eyes, wide in the looking glass, blinked at him. “Em? What are you doing here? I thought we were meant to meet in the yard?”
“We were… I just…” he said, ignoring the faint, acrid scent of burnt skin still clinging to his nostrils.
Her lips curved faintly. “Have you come to sit with me again? I’d love that. But Daeron is coming to escort me to Father’s funeral.” Her gaze met his in the mirror. “And you must come too. It wouldn’t be right for you not to attend, even if you wish it so. He was your father as well.”
He shook his head. “No, I… I know. And I am attending. I’ve come here to escort you myself.”
She turned to face him fully, tilting her head. “I thought Mother charged you with escorting your betrothed to the funeral?”
His teeth gritted. “I’m not in the mood for that today.”
The postponed wedding had already gotten him enough grief to last a lifetime. Apparently, a dead king and an assault on the capital counted as insufficient reasons for Lord Borros to delay the festivities.
“Mother will scold you for that,” Helaena murmured, dismissing the ladies attending her. Once the door shut behind them, her lips curved in a soft, heartbreaking smile. “And it won’t make you feel better.”
He exhaled, the breath catching in his chest. “…I know. I still can’t.”
He'd already been driven mad at Storm's end—a full month of the Stag feasting him, boasting at him and prattling in his ear about the might of his house, all whilst expecting him to bow and scrape after a girl he didn’t even wish to wed. It was maddening.
Hel's wide, unfocused eyes blinked once before she rose. From a box strewn open on her vanity, she plucked something small. He expected a pin—only to find her standing before him with a flower bud in her fingers.
“Hel, don’t—” he began, stepping back as she fluttered forward to affix it to his doublet.
“I insist.” Her voice was gentle, yet firm. “It's to soothe the ache in your heart.”
He grimaced, glancing down at the red bloom. It was just as absurd as he thought—red petals on oiled leather. Entirely unbecoming to him.
“Wasn’t your last flower meant to do that too? Didn’t notice much soothing.”
“That was a daisy,” she countered. “This is a camellia. Much better.”
“I don’t think either would do much. Not for what ails me.”
“I know,” she sighed, smoothing the leather beneath her fingers. “You’ve got too much ache for anything to mend.”
He tried to scoff, to put the mask back in place, but couldn’t. Not with Hel. She’d been the one to comfort him after Dragonstone, the one who told him it would get easier. The one who let him sit in the evenings with her whilst she embroidered or tended her bugs. With her, he could be just her brother— a whingeing, lovesick fool who could show all the hurt he felt freely without being judged.
Not Mother’s son. Not the dutiful attack dog who had killed—
“Come along.” Her voice pulled him from the thought as her hand extended toward him. He sighed and took it.
The courtyard was bustling when they appeared. Men-at-arms, pages, and footmen scrambled to ready carriages and see their lords and ladies to the Sept.
Naturally, because the gods hated him, the first person he saw when he descended the steps was Floris. She stood stiffly beside a gold-and-black carriage, hands clasped tightly over her silken mourning gown. Cassandra was there too, gesticulating wildly as if she were a fishwife hawking her wares.
When Floris spotted him, her cheeks pinked, and she lowered her head. Cassandra snapped her gaze to him as well, eyes pouring enough venom to choke him.
As if the sight weren’t wretched enough, Alicent appeared in his periphery, murmuring something to Lord Borros—likely persuading him not to break Aemond’s face here in the open.
When Daeron noticed Hel tucked on his arm, he let out a long sigh. “I was wondering where you’d gone off to, Hel. You weren’t in your chambers.”
“Em said he'd take me to the Sept,” his sister chirped. “He was aching today, so he thought it would be lovely for us to go together.”
Daeron squinted in his direction, but smartly made no move to comment. His gaze flicked to the Baratheon sisters instead, his face falling into weary resignation. “I suppose that means I’ll have to take them in your stead.”
“I didn’t ask you to,” he snapped. The last thing he needed was judgment from a child.
“No, but someone must. It’s terrible to desert your betrothed like that, but—”
“It’s none of your concern. I’ll manage it later.”
“You’re terrible,” Daeron deadpanned.
“What else is new?”
Still, the fool strode toward the Baratheons, to bow and scrape as though Aemond's life and future depended on it.
“When you were little, I think,” Helaena said softly.
“What?”
“You weren’t terrible then,” she smiled, as he lead her into the carriage. “You used to bring me mulch for my terrarium and read me stories in the evenings.”
His jaw tightened. “…That boy is dead.”
Slaughtered at Driftmark. Any hope of his return had burned away at Dragonstone.
“Lucera will never forgive you for this.”
Good. He didn’t need her forgiveness. He hadn’t forgiven her for Driftmark. Why should this be different?
“That’s sad, Em,” Helaena murmured, folding her hands in her lap. “I miss him terribly.”
Before he could reply, a hand caught his arm and pulled him back from the carriage. Ser Criston appeared to help Mother step inside. She did not glance at him as she passed—not once.
The Sept was empty when they arrived.
The air within was cool but stifling, heavy with the scent of incense and embalming herbs.
The moment they entered, his gaze settled on the bier at the center. Father’s body had been bundled in white. Piles of linens cocooned his flesh tightly, making him look more like some great caterpillar than a king. Herbs and incense lined the bier in abundant heaps, and yet despite fragrances, the scent of rot still lingered beneath the sweetness.
He scrunched his nose.
-To be expected.
Mother had let the old man rot for a good three days before summoning the Silent Sisters to prepare his body.
“To ensure we have everything ready,” she'd said, though Aemond had suspected it also had something to do with her own resentment.
To everyone's surprise but his, Aegon was not there.
He’d sworn to Mother that he would come early, to stand vigil over the body as custom demanded. But instead, one of his newly minted Kingsguard—a doughy man whose name Aemond half-remembered as Ser Marston—stood bent over the bier like some horseshoe, his chin dipping slightly against his chest.
He wanted to be miffed. Of course his brother would appoint an imbecile who would fall asleep at a funeral. However, his Father scarce deserved a ceremony, much less a proper wake.
With a few quick whispers, Mother sent Ser Criston to go find Aegon. To his surprise, Aegon came of his own volition, slithering not from outside but from a side door. For once, the scent of wine was not clinging to his skin—just the smell of candle wax and embalming oil.
A sickly sweet blend of grief and anger.
“Don’t start, I beg. I didn’t forget about this farce,” Aegon mumbled to Mother as though to preempt criticism. Mother was about to seize his sleeve to hiss something at him, when the High Septon fluttered toward him with murmured blessings. Aegon brushed her aside like an annoying fly and reached for the crown Ser Criston extended. He set it on his head at a crooked angle, as though it weighed nothing, and meant less.
Then he called for the gates to open and the ceremony to start, looking about as enthused as a child forced to recite sermons.
-Pathetic.
He'd been just as jittery at his coronation. He’d squirmed and grumbled the whole time, grimacing when the High Septon had placed the Conqueror's crown on his brow. The thing was a size too big for his head, and when he'd risen to regard the smallfolk, Aemond was certain it would slip down his eyes.
He'd then proceeded to raise Blackfyre before the crowd, waving the thing about as if he were a child playing with a flagstaff.
It was egregious. He'd been afforded the greatest honor imaginable, and all the wretch could do was think about himself and his grievances. He clung to the crown, not because it was his birthright, but because it gave him the power to burn Rhaenyra and Daemon and take Jacaera for himself.
-Would you behave differently?
Aemond’s jaw flexed. He’d lost his mind when Lucera had rejected him at Dragonstone, almost flown Vhagar to war. If she had officiated their vows, let him father a child on her, before forsaking it all to flee into Rhaenyra’s waiting arms… he might have burned Dragonstone to its foundations even if it killed him.
-It’s different.
He at least would have had the sense to plan everything out to ensure a victory. Aegon had heedlessly flown to battle with no thought for his own safety or the wider implications. Worse, he'd done so on a golden pleasure pony who wasn’t good for anything other than rowdy rides.
-He's not fit.
And yet the gods had ordained he would be born first and wear the crown. It wasn’t fair.
The High Septon droned on, voice echoing against the Sept’s high arches, but the words were swallowed in the dull roar in Aemond’s ears. His leathers clung to him, the seams pressing into his skin as though they meant to bind him there.
“It will be over soon,” Hel whispered, though if she was referring to the service or his torment, he couldn’t tell.
At last, they were told to move outside. The burning would take place beyond the city walls, on the cliffs overlooking the bay, followed by a mourning feast at the Keep.
He was grateful to be out, the sun and fresh air soothing the goosepimples skating down his skin. Still, the relief lasted only until they’d mounted and started making their way across the city and toward the Gate of the Gods.
A living tide of bodies surged and pressed against the Goldcloak line, commoners straining for a glimpse of the royal procession. The air was rank with sewage, unwashed flesh, and the acrid sting of too many tallow candles burning in cramped windows. His stallion tossed his head, nearly unseating him when a pair of hands clawed at the air near his knee; burnt hands. Fingers blackened and cracked, nails gone to stubs.
“Lucera will never forgive you for this.”
He drove his heels into the horse’s sides, surging forward. The crush loosened as he broke ahead of the others, the air opening just enough for him to breathe again. This was fine.
He was fine. There was no cause for him to feel unsettled. He'd done the right thing. He had.
The fields and cliffs beyond the walls should have been a relief—a breeze drifting from the open water, a clear sky stretching above him with no tight walls rushing to close in. Still, the pressure inside his chest didn’t ease. Especially as Father's carriage ambled up the hill, and the men began transferring his body onto the set pyre.
Dreamfyre stirred at the arrival. Hel’s mount lay sprawled on a hill overlooking the cliffs, her pale blue scales glittering like seafoam in the morning sun. Sunfyre was meant to do the honors, but the little pony was too grouchy after his scuffle to be coaxed out into the open. So Aegon had relegated the burning duty to Hel.
“You were his favorite, anyways,” he'd told her the day prior, and for all his indifference, he couldn’t keep the resentment from seeping into his tone.
After the nobles were gathered, the Septon mumbled a few final words and bid the late King an easy rest. Hel didn’t even utter the command when Dreamfyre lifted her great head and loosened her fire.
Pale blue flame roared out in a blinding wave, heat searing across Aemond’s face. Father’s husk erupted, crackled, before the linens started going black. Cries rang out around them, followed by prayers.
The scent of smoke mingled with the sickly stench of rot— from the corner of his eye, he spotted grandsire lifting a bouquet of sweet herbs to his nose.
“I shall miss him,” Hel cooed beside him, her eyes glassy.
He tried to muster the same sentiment. A hint of grief, longing, pain. All he managed was to wrinkle his nose at the smell.
-He wasn’t your Father.
Just a sickly pile of rotten meat, who left naught save war and misery in his wake.
When the fire waned, the mourners drifted toward Mother to offer condolences. She stood like a marble effigy, silent behind her back veil, her eyes scarce visible. Grandsire spoke in her stead, preening at the well-wishers with all the grace of a vendor trying to peddle his wares.
Of course. Because the fucker couldn’t set politics aside even for one blasted funeral.
As if things couldn’t get worse, he saw Lord Borros lean toward Floris, to murmur in her ear. She kept her head down, hands twisting in her skirts, plainly disquieted by her father's harsh tone. Still, when Borros pushed her forward, she didn’t resist.
The air in his lungs turned to pitch. He could feel the cliffs behind him, the sea pounding below. Floris kept inching forward, a pretty little bird coming to chirp at him about duty—about what he needed to do, who he needed to be.
Shouts came from the road.
Aemond seized the excuse straight away, and strode toward them.
The riders came at a gallop, their horses whinnying in distress as they came to a halt. He was about to ask what they were doing here, but they didn’t give him the chance.
They blew past him toward Aegon, to kneel and proclaim they have received news: the Grand Maester’s ship had returned from Dragonstone.
-Fucking invisible.
He wanted to scream.
“Are they unharmed?” Otto stepped forth to stir the conversation as custom. The rider nodded, but before he could muster a reply, Aegon cut in.
“Did he see Jace?”
“Uh… no, yer Grace. The Maester said nothin’ of the Queen. Only that the Princess rejected the terms.”
Aegon gave a loud, theatrical groan.
“Who could have seen that coming?” he sneered at Otto. Grandsire would not be cowed.
“We will convene the Council to discuss—"
“Yes, we will. Call them up,” Aegon snapped.
“We still have a mourning feast to hold,” Mother groaned, but Aegon waved her off.
“And I have a pretender to kill. And a queen to retrieve. So if you don’t mind, I'd rather skip the face-stuffing and get to what matters.”
He broke away from the line then, Kingsguard in tow, scrambling toward his horse. Aemond’s feet moved to follow before his mind caught up, a thing of habit.
“No,” Aegon said, spinning on him. “Take Helaena and the little shit back to the Keep. I haven’t given you a seat at the Council.”
“I’m not their nursemaid. Neither am I your lapdog,” Aemond spat.
The wretch smiled that thin, mocking smile that made Aemond want to kick his teeth in. “Oh but you are. I’m the King now. I command, you obey.”
Heat flooded Aemond’s face.
“Quba. Gaomagon va ȳdragon naejot nyke hae bisa se kesā daor umbagon dārys syt bōsa. Ao jorrāelagon nyke.”
“Careful. Keep on speaking to me like this and you won’t stay King for long. You need me.”
“Regrettably, I do.” Aegon’s nostrils flared. “And I’ll call on you when said need arises. For now, take Helaena and the little shit to their chambers. And don’t provoke the Stag further. We still need his armies.”
Aemond almost refused again, but his brother was already turning away , and mounting his horse to leave him in the dirt.
His fists balled so hard, his nails almost broke skin.
“Mount up. We’re leaving,” he practically snarled when he marched up to Daeron, his fingers twitching.
His little brother frowned. “I don’t need an escort.”
“I don’t care,” Aemond snapped. “We’re going. Now.”
“My Prince, might we have a w—”
“No, you may not,” he tossed at Cassandra. Gods, did she have a stupid face. Wide and mannish, with a petulant little mouth that just begged to be sewn shut.
-He can’t do this to me.
He was a fucking degenerate. A little freak who only got that blasted crown because he was born first. He didn’t deserve it. Neither did he have the right to use it to lord over him. Not after he fucked himself by killing—
“Lucera will never forgive you for this.”
The cliffs loomed too large. The empty sky was not empty at all—he could see shapes in the distance, wings beating, fire blooming in the clouds. Screams of grappling dragons rang in his ears like toiling bells, louder than ever before.
-She was going to kill him.
It was the right thing to do. The sensible thing. He had no other choice.
Vaulting into his saddle, he gave the order to load Hel into her carriage and disperse the gathered. Stifled grumbles of protest greeted his proclamation, but the idiots scampered to obey all the same.
Daeron sulked the entire ride back.
He dragged his horse, then his feet like a chastised page, muttering complaints under his breath. Uncle Gwayne trailed after them, first coming to help Hel out of her carriage, then nipping at his heel as they ascended into the keep proper, pious admonitions on his lips.
“Come now nephew, these are hard times, I know, but there’s no need to be so harsh. Your siblings can manage on their own.”
Aemond did not bother with words—he turned just as he reached the door to Daeron's chamber to toss him one cold, deliberate glance. His uncle shriveled like a leaf in winter and murmured something about needing to check the garrison. Then, with a kiss to Hel's hand, he scampered off.
“How delightful,” Daeron tore himself from his grip and barged into his quarters.
“You’ll stay inside,” Aemond ordered, following him, Hel in tow, “and keep your head low. No wandering. No trouble.”
“I’m not a child,” Daeron snapped. “And I’ve never caused trouble. You’ve no reason to be wroth with me.”
“Do not talk back to me. I was charged with bringing you and Hel up here—” Aemond barked.
“And you did, so there's no need to chide me. It won’t make you any less angry,” Daeron shot back. “And it won’t fix the mess we’re in either.”
The words were scarce loosened before Aemond had him by the collar, hauling him close until their foreheads almost met— even though the little shit was a head shorter.
“You know nothing of it,” he hissed. “You weren’t there. Had I not sent Vhagar after the bitch, she’d have slain Aegon where he stood.”
Daeron narrowed his eyes, infuriatingly unbowed. “Sunfyre was twice the size of her dragon. He could have handled her.”
Aemond let out a sharp, mirthless scoff. “I’ll not stand here and be lectured by children. You’ve never even smelled combat.”
“Stop it, you’re screaming too loud,” Behind them, Helaena had begun to rock, the folds of her gown swaying.
“And I’ll not stand here while you bark at me just to soothe your guilt!” Daeron retorted, cheeks flushing.
The flash of red behind Aemond’s eye was sudden, searing. His hand moved before his mind caught up.
When his vision steadied, a vase lay in ruin at Daeron’s feet, the wall above his head stained red with wine.
“I have nothing to feel guilty for,” Aemond growled. “I defended my brother, as duty commands. What else was I meant to do?!”
She would have killed him—he knew it as surely as he knew his name. And yet… why had he cared?
If she had, his own life might have been better. He'd have been heir then, and free to do whatever he liked, instead of constantly playing second fiddle to everyone.
But he had acted. Been the dutiful son who shielded his brother, just as Mother had taught.
“Lucera will never forgive you for this.”
“You almost killed Joy,” Daeron's voice broke his stupor. The little shit stood frozen opposite him, pale violet eyes gaping at him as though seeing something new.
Aemond balked. “No, I didn’t. I did nothing to her. That was all Aegon’s doing. The daft fool thought chasing a little girl on a hatchling was the best strategy to scare her off. I was the one who let her go. I made certain her ship passed safely into open waters. I could have burned her, and I didn’t.”
Daeron’s gaze did not soften. “And if she’d been in Baela’s place? Would you have killed her then?”
“No,” he said at once, the word tasting like iron. “She’s a child. I’ve no cause to kill her.”
“Yes, you do,” Daeron pressed. “We’re at war. Rhaenyra will send them to fight, sooner or later.”
“She won’t. She wouldn’t dare risk their lives.”
“She will,” Daeron countered with a bitter little laugh. “She has no other dragons to match ours. She’ll have to use them.”
A beat of silence passed—passed something tight coiled around his throat, choking out his air.
Daeron's throat bobbed in a swallow. “Will you kill them then? Joy? Jacaera? Luce?”
Stars burst behind his remaining eye. The answer should have been simple—yes. The moment she’d left him, she’d given him leave to act as he’d wished. Even before that, she'd given him leave.
“Do it! Kill the whore!” she’d screamed before the altar, pawing at his hands to fix them to her throat.
He had meant to. His hands had been ready, this close to closing around her throat. And yet… he had kissed her instead. Spread her legs and claimed her for his own.
Gevie ābrazȳrys.
He would never let go.
His mouth opened to tell Daeron to still his tongue before he pulled it out, but the creak of the door stalled him.
“My prince,” a head of brown curls poked inside, and Ser Marston squinted at him. “His Grace requests your presence at council.”
Aemond threw Daeron a last withering glare. The coil in his belly twisted hard. Helaena was still rocking, still murmuring of blood and dragons dancing.
He turned on his heel and strode out.
* * *
The council chamber was a wasp’s nest.
Voices clashed the moment he stepped inside, the noise assailing his ears mercilessly. However, to Aemond’s amusement, it was just his kin arguing.
Trading barbs, whilst the rest of the councilors watched like a gaggle of dumbstruck fishwives.
“We must march!” Aegon bellowed, cutting across the end of one of grandsire’s reasoned speeches about restraint. “The Velaryons have choked the bay! We're getting no supplies through the port, and with the Casswells blockading the Rose Road, we won’t be getting them by land, either!”
“And whose doing is that?” Mother snapped. She sat to Aegon's right, still clad in her mourning attire—but her face held not even an ounce of grief.
His brother's chair scraped as he leaned forward to jab a finger at her. “Don’t you dare start. That man was a traitor. He refused to kneel or divulge his part in Jace’s escape. What else was I to do with?”
“Not kill him?” Mother retorted. “Alive, he’d have been a useful hostage. Something we could have used to negotiate this blockade.
“His daughter still lives.”
“And he doesn’t,” Alicent continued. “And his wife has thought that a sufficient cause to starve us.”
“No!” Aegon's voice raised then, as he buried his face into his palms. “You are not going to chastise me for this. Not after you dashed that Bee fucker's head into the table.”
A beat. The councilors shifted in their seats, with Lord Tyland sinking so low in his chair that he almost vanished under the table. Ser Criston, in contrast, seemed unbothered—a queer thing since the killing had been his hand’s work, after all.
“We proceed as I say, and that’s final!” his brother continued with a scoff. “And if any of you keep whingeing at me—"
“You summoned me, Your Grace?” Tired of the posturing, Aemond strode forward to lean on Maester Orwylle's backrest.
His brother jerked up in surprise but nodded all the same.
“Yes, yes, I needed you. You’re to fly Vhagar to Rosby and Stokeworth and put their castles to the torch.”
“To the torch,” he repeated.
“Yes. The fools rejected our terms—as I said they would.” His gaze flicked pointedly at grandsire. “As such, we're obligated to give them a traitors’ ends. Understood?”
Mother’s sharp exhale was louder than his reply. Lord Tyland had all but melted into his seat, gaze fixed upon the table as though the grain of the wood might save him.
“Aegon…” Alicent began, but he cut her off with a slash of his hand.
“No. I let you and grandsire waste precious time sending terms to Rhaenyra and her lickspittles, when we should have been burning her allies out of their nests! I told you she'd reject them. Worse, now she's publicly calling for my head, and branding me a liar.”
“The terms were a necessary step,” Mother's tone dropped. “After that disaster in the bay, we could not appear brutish. You took the crown legally and justly, and none needed cause to think otherwise.”
“Indeed, Your Grace,” Just then, Ironrod decided to interject, though Aemond had no notion of how he found the gumption. “What happened there was Princess Rhaenyra’s doing—an unprovoked breach of the King’s peace. The other Lords needed to see that.”
Aegon flashed Ironrod a downturned smile. “Yes, and whilst we were sending missives, those same lords were blockading us.” He shook his head again. “No, we’re breaking this now. Aemond, what say you—”
The reply rested just at the tip of his tongue, but Mother cut it off before it could take shape.
“Aemond doesn’t have a seat at this council. He has no say in these matters.”
Something slow and sour bubbled up in his belly as he snapped to look at her.
“Well, neither do you, but for some reason you’re still speaking,” Aegon fired back, and everyone seemed to stiffen at once
Silence blanketed the council chamber. Mother's eyes went wide, as she slowly straightened her spine. For a heartbeat, her regal mask slipped, and panic started carving trenches into her forehead.
Aemond nearly smiled. Almost. Because damn her, she was right. And he couldn’t let Aegon drag the moment.
“The Dowager Queen speaks sense, your Grace,” he began, keeping his voice level. His boots clicked against the floor as he strode to the great map unfurled on a board beside Aegon. The Crownlands stared back at him in strokes of green and gold, pins scattered around it like battle scars.
“With the blockade of both the Rose Road and the Gullet, the Crownlands are our primary food source now. Rosby and Stokeworth’s grain shipments account for thirty percent of our stores at present.” He jabbed two pins into the corresponding castles. “If you burn them to the ground, we will lose the last chance we have to secure sustenance for ourselves. The city will starve in weeks, and chaos will follow.”
When he turned, he found the eyes on him—some relieved, some approving. Aegon, of course, looked ready to spit.
“So you’re suggesting I let traitors reside in my neighborhood uncontested?”
“No,” he shot back before his mother’s glare could bite. “The castles must be taken—but with men. You should send ground troops to seize them and commandeer their stores.”
“We don’t have ground troops,” Aegon sneered, far too smug for someone who lacked a tenth of the wit he thought he possessed.
“I’m certain we can muster a few levies. Ser Criston?”
The knight stepped forward like an actor entering on cue. “I can muster a thousand men from the city garrison. Once the castles yield, we can force them to kneel and take their levies and supplies. Our host will grow as we advance and we will secure enough provisions to last the city at least a month—long enough for our Lord Hand’s venture to bear fruit and for the blockade to be broken.”
Silence. Then grandsire nodded. “Indeed, it should not take long. I sent a missive a few weeks ago. They just have to get here and relieve us of this threat once and for all.”
Stifled murmurs swept through the chamber. Aemond’s satisfaction soured—this plan had been discussed without him. Still, he contented himself with savoring the flex of Aegon’s jaw and the way he drummed his fingers against the table in barely concealed irritation.
“Fine,” he exclaimed at last. “But kill them all. No exceptions.”
Mother stiffened. “If they bend the knee, the rules of engagement demand you spare them. You cannot simply flaunt that because it soothes your wounded ego—"
Crack! Aegon's fist slammed the table, hard enough to make the wood cry.
The sound rippled through the chamber, and Tyland Lannister almost fell out of his chair completely.
“That’s it. You’re done,” Aegon snapped.
“Pardon?” Mother sputtered, her brows rising to almost brush the top of her veil.
“I relieve you of your seat. Get out, now.”
Silence. The gathered exchanged uneasy glances.
“Dismissed,” grandsire snapped, the vein in his forehead pulsing.
One by one, they all rose from their chairs and scampered out, mumbling your Grace under their breaths.
When the doors shut, Mother slowly pushed herself to her feet. “You cannot relieve me of my seat. I’m the Queen—”
“Dowager,” Aegon corrected. “And Dowager Queens don’t sit on Small Councils.”
“Grandson, this is rash—” Otto began, but Alicent barreled over him.
“Don’t sit on them?! I ruled this council during your father’s illness. I served the realm loyally for fifteen years and if it were not for me, you would not be wearing that crown!”
“Yes, but not any longer.” Aegon snapped with another sneer. “I'm not my father. Though gods know you wish I were given how much you scapegoat me for all the ills he's done you.”
More silence. Mother's brown eyes were so wide, they were halfway to falling from her socket.
“I will not allow your childish tantrum to—”
“Step away from my chair,” Aegon cut her lunge for his chair. He held her gaze without mercy, his nostrils flaring as if he were about to charge. “You’re free to go.”
Silence descended on the chamber
Mother blinked—once, twice—her wide eyes too large for her face. No words came. Eventually, she retreated like the tide, skirts whispering against the floor. Otto watched her go with a long exhale.
“That was unnecessary, grandson. Your mother was only trying to help. In times of strife, a tempering voice is exactly what’s needed to steer your course.”
“The time for temperance has passed,” his brother scoffed. “Now we spill blood, not ink. And lest you want me to take that blasted pin I gave you, you can fuck off as well.”
Otto seemed just as surprised as mother—but rather than indignation, his expression seemed more annoyed. He looked at Aegon, as if he were some unruly child in need of tempering. Still, he guarded his tongue and slowly retreated, slamming the door hard enough to make the hinges scream.
Aemond scoffed. “Gods, you’re a petulant cunt.”
“Do you want to get dismissed too?”
“I’m not on your council, you fool. There’s no seat to strip me of.”
“No, but you’re not in the Black Cells either. And that can be arranged.”
“Mother's right,” he snapped, before he could throw more hollow threats. “You’re better off taking hostages.”
“Oh, look who's advocating for restraint?”
His fists balled, but he kept his expression neutral. “Yes, because we do need to play this carefully.”
“Why?” He snapped and leaned back into his chair. “So Rhaenyra’s dogs can betray me and open the gates to let the savages overrun us?”
He grimaced. “What are you talking about?”
A brief pause, as those stupid purple eyes of his went wide.
“Oh… did I forget to mention? Cregan Stark has struck up Rhaenyra’s banner.”
A twinge of unease flared in his belly. He straightened. "Not surprising. The Starks were always pigheaded when it came to their honor. Without a marriage to Helaena, the wolf was always likely to—”
“Oh, but there was a marriage.” His lips curled into the smuggest grin he'd ever seen. “Lucera. She’s wed him. Secured his allegiance.”
The words struck like a mace to the gut.
“What?”
Aegon sighed, the sound already drifting away from Aemond’s ears. “Which is to be expected, seeing as she did go up there. But it's fucking inconvenient. The trout has refused to call his banners until we send him Helaena and Dreamfyre as assurance. And if she’s going to do him any good. All Hel can do with her is fly her across some fields—”
“Where did you hear this?” His own voice sounded strange, detached.
Cups clinked, followed by the sounds of pouring. The smell of wine drifted up his nostrils. He felt ill.
“Orwylle. He brought news.”
“Gossip. Nothing more.”
Another scoff, followed up by a deep swallow. “She told him herself. Said they’d wed in haste once she arrived—to make negotiations flow… smoother.”
The floor tilted. His hand shot out, grasping for purchase. He found nothing but air.
“Regardless, it fucks us. If the trout doesn't block them, the northern savages will carve half the realm—especially if the Arryn Bitch joins them. This is why we act now. Torch everything near us so no one can join her host, and leave a clear path for the Hightower and Lannister hosts to reach the city. Now I know denying yourself breath is easier for you than disagreeing with mother but—brother?”
But Aemond was already walking away. One foot in front of the other, scrambling for the door.
“Seven hells, I told you about this so you’d be on my side, not run off and sulk. Gods, can you stop being a twat for one moment and help—Aemond!”
The door banged shut behind him.
The corridors swayed. The air pressed in, thick and close. His chest ached, lungs refusing to draw breath. The smell of oranges and juniper clung to him—sharp, sweet, inescapable.
“Like we promised,” she had told him at the altar, her smile reaching her eyes.
Before trampling it all into the dirt.
-No, no, no.
She couldn’t have wed Stark. Wouldn’t. Not after everything.
He stopped, palm braced against the cold stone wall.
-She would. She already had.
She’d left him at Dragonstone, called him the enemy. She’d discarded his vows, spat in the face of his forgiveness. Of course, she would do this. Because he had never meant anything to her.
The thought carved its way through him, raw and jagged.
He pushed off the wall, his steps morphing into near-stumbles.
He didn’t notice the courtiers flattening themselves against the wall as he passed, their murmurs a distant, meaningless hum.
A figure flickered at the edge of his vision, a blur of motion against the dim stone of the corridor. Aemond ignored it. If he kept moving, perhaps the world behind him would dissolve. If he kept moving, perhaps there would be nothing left to turn back to.
“My prince,” a voice called, halting him.
Floris balked when he pinned her gaze, shrinking into the ruffles of her black samite gown.
-Fuck.
“What are you doing here?” he practically growled through his teeth. No—he couldn’t handle this now. Not now.
“Forgive me… I came to offer condolences.” She hesitated, blinking, the blue of her eyes as bright and clear as a summer pond.
Blue and not brown. Not her.
“What?”
“On your father’s passing. I know you were too grief-stricken to escort me to the funeral, so I thought I might come here and—”
“No, you fucking didn’t.” he hissed, shutting his remaining eye. “Your father sent you to prattle and preen, and if not for him, you would have stayed as far away from me as possible. And I would have obliged. So, if you don’t mind—”
“I do mind.” Her hand lashed out, closing around his.
He hadn’t realized he’d shaken her off until she stumbled back, eyes wide with shock. Yet still, she did not bow her head.
“I understand you’re not keen on this match. I'm not either. But that does not mean I will allow cruelty or disrespect. If you do not wish to proceed with this marriage, say so now, and I shall take my leave and return to Storm's End.”
“Your father will get his fucking marriage. Rest assured.” The bile rose in his throat, acrid and choking. “I just need to burn someone first.”
He practically kicked his chamber door open then, marching inside without another word. He could tell she meant to follow, to clarify further.
He slammed the door before her mouth could voice the words.
-Fucking cunt.
The last thing he wanted was to see her. His duty, his obligation. The thing he's chosen over his desires, and allowed to ruin his life and his sense besides.
Everything would have been different if they’d wed sooner. If he'd just taken her to Dragonstone right after he'd fucked her on Balerion's altar, they would have been fine.
-And she would have betrayed you all the same.
Fled to her Mother, just as Jacaera had. Because she was just a treacherous cunt who would never be his.
The chamber seemed to tilt, the air heavy with the scent of parchment and steel. He was going to burn it all. Scorch the fields and halls, take Vhagar north and melt the ice itself.
Did she earnestly think some fucking wolf was going to shield her from him?
He lashed without thought, his arm swinging wildly. The books he'd left stacked on his dining desk clattered to the floor, the pages splaying open. It wasn’t enough. Nothing would ever be enough.
Moat Cailin—yes, that’s where he would go first. The castle served as a bridge between the North proper and the Neck. If he torched it, he’d trap the wolf and his armies, and keep him from marching South. Then he'd kill him. Turn his lands to kindling and sludge.
But he had to do it now. Right now.
He stumbled toward the dresser, intent on pulling his riding leathers out. The clothing ended up strewn over the floor instead.
Shirts, breeches, then belts. The hair brush his mother had gifted him, along with quills and ink pots. When that wasn’t enough, he upended shelves themselves, until glass crunched under his boots, the carpet a tapestry of debris. Still, it wasn’t enough.
She wasn’t his. And he loved her still.
“Will you kill them then? Joy? Jacaera? Luce?”
No, not them. Jacaera was Aegon’s to do with as he saw fit, and Joyce had to be spared on account of her youth. But Lucera? Yes, he'd kill her.
Take her out of this world, then follow her into the abyss, the misery over at last.
Turning, he rushed toward the door, intent on flying and sealing his fate.
A draft brushed the back of his neck.
When he peered behind him, he found the wall opposite him disturbed. A dark crack splitting the center of the Harrenhal mural. The secret door was open.
He blinked.
-Fuck.
He had not touched that passage since Lucera had left for Dragonstone—and last he remembered, it had been locked.
He scrambled toward it, fingers reaching to inspect the latch. The metal was jammed, as though someone had picked it open. His hand went to rest on the dagger strapped to his hip as he slipped his head through to survey the darkness of the passage. But the blackness was so absolute, even with two good eyes he would have seen nothing.
Withdrawing, he scanned the ruin of his quarters. Too much had been disturbed to tell what had been taken—if anything. But someone had been here; elsewise, that door wouldn’t have been open. No one knew about it.
He was about to move to his sleeping area for any sign of a disturbance, when something caught his eye.
A bundle lay neatly atop the writing bureau. Bound with black twine, it stood in the center of his writing bureau, stacked right atop a heap of parchment he'd been previously writing on. It was the one thing he'd missed in his rampage.
The one thing that had not been there before.
Reaching over, he carefully cut the twine, and let the contents spill forth: scrolls, folded scraps, and small trinkets—a coin, dried leaves, and…
He lifted the small clay dragon between his fingers.
“Aemond, come,” Viserys’ voice echoed in memory, warm despite the rasp. “What have you got there?”
He was small again, heart pounding as he held up the figurine. “It’s Balerion. I told the stonemasons to make one. I thought he’d fit nicely on top of your Citadel.”
Viserys had turned it in his hands with a faint smile. He'd been old then too, his face lined and withered, whatever ailment he'd had already taking root inside him. But Aemond had loved him. Wanted to impress him, make him smile—before he realized he would never be impressed. Not by him.
“Oh, he is fearsome. Your father will appreciate the gift.”
He blinked away the haze, and turned it over. Why was it here? It should have been with the Valyria model where Viserys had left it years ago.
He set it down, picking up one of the scrolls. When he unfurled it, he found a short note, scribbled in shaky Valyrian script.
“As mentioned, I’m sending you the toy he commissioned. Sweet boy he is. A lot more mellow than you were at that age.
Vis.”
No seal. No mark. But the name—Vis. His father had sent these. To whom? To Aemond's knowledge, no one called him Vis.
He picked up another scroll. The script was in Valyrian too, but the hand that had written it was neater, the letters more jagged.
“Vis, thank you for agreeing to write. I know I have no right to demand words from you, but… I must try. I love you too much not to.
Little dragon.”
Little dragon?
-What is this?
He opened another. Something slipped out—a thin ribbon binding a lock of silver hair.
His stomach twisted.
“Come here,” Viserys had said once, setting a hand on his head. Aemond remembered crying as he'd worked, despite Viserys’ assurances that he wasn’t doing anything to hurt him. His Mother later told him he'd always been afraid of haircuts as a babe—small as he’d been, he couldn’t grasp the concept that cutting hair doesn’t hurt.
“I know you said not to send anything, but I thought you might at least have this. He’s growing fast. And he looks just like you.
Vis.”
The pit in his stomach widened. The hair was soft, fine—child’s hair. His stomach twisted tighter.
He scrambled for another scroll, rushing to unfurl it.
The scream stopped him dead in his tracks.
It ripped down the corridor beyond, raw with dread and panic.
“Help!”
Aemond dropped the parchment, shoving the papers into his drawer. Later. He would have to manage this later.
Seizing the door, wrenching it open, blade already in hand. All he discovered outside was a disheveled maid, half collapsed against the wall.
“What?” His gaze shot down the corridor—empty.
“My Prince, my Prince, please! You must come, you must!” she shrieked, tears streaking her cheeks.
The blood on her hands was thick and dark. His heart hammered in his chest.
“What’s happened? Why do you have blood on you?” he demanded, turning to regard the half-opened passage. Something was terribly wrong.
“They came, they came!” she babbled. “It’s everywhere!”
“Who came? Who? Speak sense, woman!”
Her gaze fixed on him, wild, unblinking. “Death. Death."