#daemon sees himself in aemond and is about to become a kinslayer | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

danxiex0 · 17 days ago

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That's my bad

That fateful day at Driftmark two very important things happened and only one thing changed the course of Daemons life.

The first thing that happened was Aemond, his nephew, lost his eye. Very gruesome. Very sad. Very bad. Moving on.

The second and most important thing to happen was the presentation of Rhaena, his youngest daughter, and Lucerys, his great nephew. The screams, the chaos, the anger, the fear and the bloodshed drove the two into early presentation.

Rhaena and Lucerys were Omega's. Not just any Omega's though.

Royal Omega's descended from the Targaryen and Valeryon bloodlines.

The last Omega royal in Westeros was Rhaenys Targaryen, beloved sister-wife of Aegon the conqueror.

So, when Daemon and Rhaenyra entered the hall the first thing the Alpha prime picked up on was the scent of distressed Omega's. Distressed children, their scents still had that milk and honey after tones most pups had and so he stood closer and released calming pheromones.

Not exactly something he uses a lot but if he had to do so to calm the little ones he would.

He first looked at his youngest daughter, crying and shaking but no longer hysterical within her grandmothers' arms. She smelled of Seabreeze, from her alpha mother, fire, from him, and exotic fruits. The ones that were always sweet. She glanced at him, and he gave her a nod of reassurance. She would be safe for he was here, and he would kill anyone who came close to her.

Once she looked away and had fully burrowed into her grandmother's side did, he look away and his nose led him to the second scent and oh wasn't that a surprise.

Sea salt, from Laenor, Fire, from Rhaenyra, and Citrus fruits. The boy was a Valeryon with Arryn colourings. How fitting that the Omega would take after his grandmother more than his mother.

Rhaenyra was stepping forward and talking, they were all talking, discussing the missing eye and the fight but Daemon did not care.

Could they not, see?

Could they not open their eyes and look at the two most important beings right in front of them?

Two Omega's!

Both born from Targaryen and Valeryon bloodlines! Both presented at the same time! This is what Daemon would call a sign from the God's!

Then it happened those words shot through his ears like an arrow.

"Ser Criston bring me the eye of Lucerys Valeryon!" Alicent said and before the knight could set foot near the young Prince, Daemon had drawn dark sister and run him through.

He put his sword through the man's abdomen and angled it up towards one of his lungs. As soon as it was pierced the hall fell silent and they listened to the Knights sick gurgling as he choked on his own blood.

Daemon watched the life drain from his eyes before he removed his sword. He used his shirt to remove the blood before sheathing the sword and looked up.

The hall had gone still and silent.

Alicent had gone for Viserys's dagger, and Rhaenyra, the she-dragon she was, was ready to defend her sons with her own body, Corlys had dragged Lucerys and Jacaerys behind him while the Driftmark soldiers surrounded them, Rhaenys had covered Baela and Rhaena's ears and eyes before she too was surrounded by guards.

Otto Hightower stepped forward to speak, most likely smooth over the fact that his daughter tried to hurt the heirs to the throne's son and the heir to Driftmark, but Daemon held his finger up, telling the man to hold his tongue.

He looked around him and could see the little ones peeking out from behind their protectors.

"It absolutely sickens me what is happening here," he started and as soon as Alicent went to yell at him he held his finger up to her as well.

"I feel for the boy who decided to claim a dragon, truly I do. My brother and I can attest that we have done the same bull-headed thing but what I do not sympathize with is his way of doing so. Syrax has laid another clutch, Rhaenyra had told me she wished to give one to Rhaena, my daughter was made aware. This boy took a dragon, commendable on his part, truly brave, but then he proceeded to gloat of it and call into question the legitimacy of his nephews, which could have them put to death. He spits fire and brimstone at them, and they are expected to take it. To make matters worse they fight, as all children do and when That boy, a boy of ten holds a rock over the heirs, heir prepared to bash his skull open, what did you expect to happen?!" Daemon seethed at the people around them.

It was still quiet.

He turned his attention to the youngest of his nephews.

"Who told you these vile rumours about your nephew?" Daemon asked.

His lone eye looked left to right before settling on a figure, "Aegon told me,” He said and Daemon saw Viserys grow angry.

"Aegon who told you these things and don't think of lying to me like your brother just did. I am not your father nor am I one of your guards, I will beat it out of you, I am a Prince as well."

Aegon looked around before finally meeting Daemons eyes and the older man could see the young man realizing it's not worth it.

"Mother and Grandsire told us that our nephews are bastards because of their hair and because none of them look like Ser Laenor," Aegon said and there flew the gasps and the whispers.

Daemon looked around before clearing his throat.

"Need I remind all of you that Aemma Arryn, our Good Queen who was taken too soon, had brown hair before it turned Targaryen white? Or that Rhaenys Valeryon, our Queen who never was, had her mother, Jocelyne Baratheon's brown hair before it turned Targaryen white? Both after they gave birth to their firstborns?" Daemon asked and once again the cogs were turning the dot's connecting and conclusions drawn.

"Now that it has all been cleared up, I would like to know why is it that when in danger the Princess is surrounded by the Driftmark guards, all of whom looked ready to kill should any harm come to her, and not by the Kings guard, those sworn to protect her?" That made Viserys pause before he looked around. The idea was planted.

"Now back to what I really wanted to discuss. You all stand in the presence of not one but two, newly presented royal Omega's. Rhaena and Lucerys have presented and all you can do is trade insults, spread rumours and try and kill each other. Show some decency for fuck's sake!" He yelled at them.

At least they had the decency to look ashamed.

He turned his back on them all before he held out his arms.

"Rhaena, Lucerys, come here," he beckoned them and before Lucerys left Corlys's side he nodded to the man. Telling him to ensure the Queen does not try running at Lucerys again.

The two Omega's stepped closer and Daemon scooped them up, one on each arm before he turned and faced Viserys and the rest of the court.

"Tonight, has been a long night and it has also been a tiring day. My daughters lost their mother, and my great nephews were attacked. I would like for us all to be dismissed and go back to bed so that we might continue this conversation tomorrow without having to worry about anyone running at children with swords," he did not give them time to respond, only turned around and walked out of the hall with the two Omega's in his arms and the other children following closely behind, even his nephews.

He led them to the nursery, where little Joffrey was sleeping soundly in his crib before he sat the two of them down on the blankets and pillows that were on the floor. The makeshift nest made for all the pups.

He tucked Rhaena and Luke in before he did the same to Baela, Jace, Heleana and her worm, for some reason, before he turned to Aegon.

Aemond would only be allowed to join them when the Measters were done with him but up until then he would stay within the measters chambers to recover.

Aegon looked as if he would rather be anywhere else.

Daemon approached him, he smelled of wine, he looked more sober now than ever and given tonight's events he most likely was.

He looked down on the young boy and he saw him squirm.

"You are an Alpha of house Targaryen. Younger brother to the next Queen. Pull yourself upright and start acting like it." Deamon ordered.

Aegon went to protest, all he ever did was protest, it seemed but Daemon cut him off.

"You might not realize it but these little ones behind me are your charges. As their older Uncle and brother, it is up to you to protect them and break up their fights when needed. You are their protector, and they do not need a drunk protector. They need their Uncle Aegon to be there for them."

Aegon's mouth fell open before he nodded his head and walked past Daemon towards the nest.

There were no discussions held the next morning for Laenor had "died". Daemon had no idea how it happened, but he was very certain that the corpse was not Laenor.

He and Rhaenyra married later that week, Corlys was against it at first but upon realizing that it would keep his granddaughters closer to him he insisted on officiating the wedding to ensure it was done right.

After the wedding, after Daemon and Rhaenyra bedding each other frequently it happened.

Daemon 'the rogue prince' Targaryen would be found at Dragonstone or Driftmark doing whatever Lucerys and Rhaena wanted.

If Rhaena wanted him to help her buy dresses he would do it. If Lucerys wanted him to take him flying, he would do it.

Daemon loved all the children equally and fully, but everyone agreed that the two Omega's had him wrapped around their pinkie fingers.

Most of the realm held the belief that Daemon would kill Rhaenyra's older boys to ensure his children sit the thrown but those were all snuffed out when the Princess and her brood attended a tourney in the Vale.

House Arryn were celebrating a marriage, and the entire realm was invited.

King Viserys, as weak, as tired and sick as he was, attended along with his second wife and their children.

Daemon, to the disappointment of everyone, refused to enter the tourney stating he had other things to do.

Rhaena, the sweet girl, was wrapped around her stepmothers middle the whole day and refused to let go of the Alpha woman for more than a few seconds, the Princess indulged her stepdaughter to no end and continued with her day as if nothing was amiss.

Then came the shock.

Daemon Targaryen was walking around the camps with nine name days old Lucerys, tucked safely within his arms, indulgently answering any questions the young Omega's asked him. Even going so far as to buy him whatever he wanted from the stalls.

It would be later in the tourney, the fifth day, that Deamon Targaryen would beat a Lannister Knight to death with his bare hands that the entire realm exhaled at the idea of the Rogue Prince killing any of Rhaenyra's boy's.

It is said that after consuming copious amounts of ale the Knight sat himself down next to Daemon and started talking like no other. It was only when the Knight started talking of Lucerys that the prince paid attention. The Knight spouted off and on about how the young Omega would make a good bargaining chip and that any Lord would be lucky to have his womb, then proceeded to say that the prince would have to find a good match for the boy unless he wants to be sat with a useless Omega son.

It was gruesome, to be sure, but everyone agreed then that Daemon would rather kill than sell any of Rhaenyra's boys off like cattle.

Then came the realms horror.

Daemon raised Rhaena and Lucerys to be every bit Targaryen as they were meant to. The two Omega's were considered to be the most spoiled to ever live, and some of the Omega's in Essos were given whatever they wanted for free.

Rhaena "The Bejewelled" Targaryen-Valeryon was named that because whenever one would see her, she would have jewels on. On her fingers, around her ankles, around her wrists, up her arms, around her neck and in her hair. A seamstress from Essos had been commissioned to make her a dress made from the finest jewels for the girls fourteenth name day. She only had the most expensive and lovely perfumes gifted to her and her grandfather even went as far as commissioning a ship in her name. The Jewelled Rhaena was best known for its reflection. Corlys has asked the boat builder to put only the best and brightest jewels into the mast.

Lucerys "The Pearl of Driftmark" Valeryon was named as such for his pale skin, resembling a pearl, his dragon Arrax, smaller than Syrax but somehow more spoiled than she, and all the pearls he had. Lucerys always wore pearls within his hair. His sword, something Omega's never wore for it took away from their beauty, had a hilt of pearls. The same Seamstress from Essos commissioned to make Rhaena's dress made Lucerys's dress shirts, tunics and pants. There was one pair of pants the entire realm adored. Tight black leather pants and on the outside seams, on each side, sewn into the fabric were some of the tiny but beautiful pearls ever found. Corlys, never one for small gestures, build a ship for his grandson as well. The Pale Pearl had big and small pearls encrusted into the ships wheel.

Both The Jewelled Rhaena and The Pale Pearl could always be seen traveling the same routes together and like all in the Valeryon fleet the sailors onboard the ship always held it up like a badge of honour.

Just like the two ships you could always find Rhaena and Lucerys together. Always busy with something important.

Spoiled to no end by their families the two Omega's have never been told no. Daemon Targaryen being the biggest supporter of such rule for his two Omegan children would indulge them even into his old age.

Lucerys and Rhaena had travelled all the Seven Kingdoms, something no one could say no to when they asked, they stayed with Lords and Ladies, dined with them, traded with them and even stolen a few hearts.

Out of all the Targaryen children, all who came before them really, they were given much more freedom and leeway, and the Realm loved and hated it.

For the two Omega Royals could smile so pretty, as they set ablaze an entire castle.

#lucemond #daemon 'let's laugh at fate' targaryen raised lucerys 'pearl of the tides' valeryon #you can't convince me this wouldn't happen #daemon is an omega dad and he lives for it #omega lucerys #omega rhaena #he spoils them #daemon is the alpha of alpha's #he impregnated two alpha woman and he's recognized for it #daemon sees himself in aemond and is about to become a kinslayer #lucerys and rhaena are spoiled and they know it

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zeciex · 7 months ago

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This is such a long and lovely comment!! And I love when people highlight certain things, it makes me feel all giddy.

Daenera is just so fucking exasperated with Mertha, and with Aemond at SE she is stressed the fuck out and just anxious and prickly. And I wanna build on Daenera and Helaena's relationship, have them find solace in one another, and be each other's breathing room. I also have a feeling that Helaena knows her end or have an inkling of it, but she can't fully comprehend or convey it to others.

Ser Crispin is an incel overlord and I assume he's going to be worse in S2. I love Fabien tho. Ser Crispin, if I catch you, Ser Crispin if I catch you Ser Crispin!

As Ewan said about Aemond; his word is askew and off kilter ever since that grave injustice was done to him. It's wounded him at his core, and that wound has festered and turned to resentment and hatred. It's such a big part of him and I don't think an apology would ever be enough. And we get to see more of that duality in him; the things he tells himself to justify and rationalize it, and then that deeper thing that admits it's revenge and he's a monster, and then there's guilt and dread and horror woven between the lines--like it's obvious he feels some sort of way about it. Not necessarily remorse, but guilt, fear, dread. Killing Luke does not make him whole, instead it takes something from him--it doesn't feel like he imagined, and now, he has to face that and all the consequences that comes with it. Because we know reputation and honor and duty means something to him--we know that he wants to make something of himself, be great and famous as Daemon, be revered and respected. But by killing Luke, he becomes only one thing; Kinslayer. No matter what he does now he will only ever be seen as a monster, as 'the kinslayer.' And much like Jamie Lannister, he is like to adopt that and be like 'if that's what anyone will ever think of me, and I cant do anything about it, I might as well live up to their expectations' which is the vibe I get from S2. We will get that in this story too, but with the added layer that he's still so soft about Daenera--he accepts her scorn and hatred, he deserves it, and he will let her rage and cut him as long as she is alive and safe and by his side.

The gold band is such a little detail that I thought would be an emblem of their love. Like a wedding band. It's a weapon, a secret, poisoned (not now tho, but it can me) and he wielded it against Boris FOR her. And we see in this chapter that he has kept it ever since she had slipped it on that day they killed Boris. AND he is so distraught and just.... jarred about everything he's done that he flips it open, and wonders if it's still poisoned and then continued to prick himself. It's such a small thing, but it kind of speaks to his mental state.

And Otto Hightower is just Otto Hightower. I don't think he really cares about any of them (save Helaena). They're pawns to him.

Aemond going; 'Yeah, hello, so I killed your brother in a freak fly by accident and also, the marriage is still go, but like we're already married so obviously, but the marriage is still on. And I'm not sorry for your brother's death, but also it sucks and I'm sorry it's hurting you.'

A Vow of Blood - 80

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you,“ the witch said….

Chapter 80: The Bloody Hand of Dread

AO3 - Masterlist

TW: Self-harming tendencies/suicidal ideation.

The day was bathed in a pleasant warmth, sunlight filtering through the occasional small clouds drifting lazily across the sky. Daenera had finally managed to convince the old hag that a small stroll in the gardens would do her some good, primarily to escape the tedious needlepoint that Mertha had insisted was ‘a way to calm the mind.’ It was far from calming, the monotonous activity only heightened the agitation simmering beneath her skin, leaving her tense and ill-tempered, resulting only in a persistent headache drumming at the back of her skull. Her restlessness had only intensified since Aemond’s departure for Storm’s End the previous morning–leaving her to wait anxiously for his return.

She estimated that he would have arrived at Storm’s End by the previous evening, a thought that further tightened the anxious knot already formed in her stomach. She wondered how he might have been received and how long he would stay in the Stormlands to secure the alliance. It would likely span several days–days filled with feasting and strategic discussions for him, while she endured the monotony of waiting, her days marked by dull tasks alongside Mertha.

That morning she had bolted upright in bed, her heart racing and a prickling sensation of dread lingering at the nape of her neck. Her pillow had been damp with tears that clung to her eyelashes, a testament to the terror that had gripped her in her sleep. The only fragments she could recall from the nightmare were the deafening roar of thunder that seemed to reverberate within her chest and the sinister glint of teeth. The dream had left her disoriented and confused, its clarity slipping between her fingers like wisps of smoke.

A nagging sensation had tugged at her consciousness ever since–a feeling akin to having misplaced a vital memory, the frustrating, elusive brush with something important she couldn’t quite grasp. The intangible loss gnawed at her, leaving her with a residual sense of unease.

As she wandered through the garden, her thoughts repeatedly drifted back to that nagging irritation, to Borros Baratheon, and her certainty that he would accept the betrothal. How could he refuse? The alliance would infuse House Baratheon with more royal blood, significantly increasing their influence and power, and crucially, it would bring a dragon to their House–an offer Borros Baratheon could hardly dismiss.

Daenera considered the implications further: had she fallen pregnant with Boris’s child and provided House Baratheon with a male heir, perhaps Borros might have hesitated. Yet, even then, he would likely have consented. A marriage between one of his daughters and a prince held a far greater advantage than one between his brother and a princess. If his daughter were to bear a son, Borros would alter the line of succession to favor this child, effectively pushing aside his brother and any potential offspring of theirs. It would establish a more direct line of succession, an heir with Borros’s own blood.

It was perhaps for the best, Daenera mused, that she had not become pregnant with Boris’s child. Not only because such a child would inherit nothing, but because she was certain the childbirth would have killed her. Her death would have been for nothing.

Despite the fragility of her alliance with House Baratheon, Daenera found herself without regret over her decision to have Boris killed. After all, she knew Borros Baratheon would have preferred an alliance through marriage between his daughter and a prince, rather than maintaining the existing alliance made through his brother and a princess–who lacked the advantage of a dragon.

“Did you hear what I just said?” Lady Mertha demanded pointedly, her voice shrill and biting, which only served to grate on Daenera’s already thinning patience.

“Something riveting, I’m sure,” Daenera replied, casting a glance towards the terse woman whose face was set in a perpetual sour expression, lips pursed and eyes narrowed. She briefly wondered whether the older woman’s perpetual uptight demeanor was a result of the tight bun at the back of her head, which flattened her hair and seemed to pull at her scalp. This hairstyle only accentuated her age, hardening her features and deepening the frown lines that etched her face.

“Don’t be obtuse.”

“Why not?” Daenera challenged flatly, fully aware that her response would only further irritate the old hag.

“Because it’s not proper,” Lady Mertha retorted scornfully. “You’re a princess, and I am aware that your mother has allowed you some liberties, but she should have taught you to behave like a proper princess.”

Daenera rolled her eyes in exasperation.

“It is why the Queen Mother deemed it appropriate to assign me to you,” Lady Mertha stated, her hands folded neatly before her, her spine as straight as a wooden plank, her head held high with pride. “So that I might teach you how to behave properly.”

“Your husband must be thrilled that you’ve been assigned to me,” Daenera drawled snidely. “It frees him from your company, and more importantly, from the marriage bed. That is, assuming you are married. Have you been a lady-in-waiting all these years?”

“Now you’re being rude,” Lady Mertha snapped. “I am married if you must know.”

“Hmm, I pity your husband, having such a dusty old shrew for a wife–”

Before she could finish, Mertha’s hand clamped around the flesh of Daenera’s arm. Her gnarled, bony fingers dug into her skin with bruising, punitive force. She gripped her like one might an ill-tempered child throwing a tantrum, stopping her in her tracks and forcing her to face the consequences of her impertinence. “I will have you dragged back to your chambers if you continue this insolence.”

Daenera stared at her blankly, head tilting in challenge. “And cause a scene right here in the gardens?”

The gardens were alive with others enjoying the sunny day as well. Ladies sipped iced tea under the shade of the pavilions, while others strolled leisurely along the garden paths. Mertha glanced around warily before prying her fingers from Daenera’s arm, her eyes burning with reproach.

A petty smile curled at the corners of Daenera’s lips in response.

Out of the corner of her eye, Daenera caught a glimpse of pale silver that instinctively drew her gaze. Helaena was sitting beneath the shadow of a tall tree, leaning against its trunk. Her pale blue eyes were fixed intently on her hands, an absorbed expression on her face as her fingers danced through the air, seemingly lost in a world of her own.

Ignoring Mertha, Daenera charged forward, gathering up her skirts and stepping briskly over the flowerbed onto the grass. She had only managed a few steps before Mertha’s shrill voice rose again, filled with reproach.

“Where are you going?” Mertha chirped sharply. “Get back here! This is improper! You cannot just wander off; there’s a path!”

Daenera turned to see Mertha towing the edge of the flowerbed, her hands clutching her skirts tightly, her face contorted with a deep scowl. Nearby, the guard who had followed them stood awkwardly half-way between the gravel path and the grass, one foot planted on each side of the flowerbed. He shifted uneasily under Mertha’s scolding glare, seemingly unsure how to respond to Daenera’s blatant disregard for taking the conventional path and Mertha’s insistence on it.

“You may take the path laid before you, Lady Mertha,” Daenera retorted with a notable edge of insolence in her voice. “I will make my own.”

Turning her back on Mertha, Daenera walked determinedly towards Helaena. Behind her, she heard Mertha grumble to the guard,” Get back here Oliver. We’ll take the path.”

With a long, almost theatrical sigh, Daenera gracefully sank to her knees and then let herself flop onto the grass, resting her head in Helaena’s lap as they had done countless times before. Helaena offered only a small smile in response, her attention hardly shifting from her hands as the small ladybug crawled over her fingers. The moment held a gentle intimacy, marked by their comfortable silence, and Daenera inhaled deeply, her eyes fluttering open to gaze up at the canopy above. The green leaves swayed gently in the breeze, filtering streaks and rays of golden sunlight that danced with the soft shadows they cast.

The grass tickled against her palm as she swept her hand over its surface, finding solace in the light touch.

“Your Grace,” Mertha greeted Helaena with a nod, her tone courteous yet unable to mask the tightness of reproach as her eyes drifted towards Daenera. “Get up, Princess, we’re returning to your chambers.”

“No. I wish to stay,” Daenera replied, her eyes closing in defiance.

“No?” Mertha repeated, her voice rising in disbelief. “This is not–”

“Lower your voice,” Daenera interjected, her eyes snapping open to give the older woman a scornful glare. She gestured towards the lightly babbling Maelor, who was preoccupied with sucking on a silver rattle, his little feet kicking while he rested in his basket. “With your shrill voice, you’ll leave the baby in tears.”

“Princess…” Mertha began again, her voice low and warning.

“I wish to stay here. It’s such a nice day after all, why not enjoy it?” Daenera stated, fixing Mertha with a steady, calm gaze that met the older woman’s muddled gray eyes. “Give us some privacy, will you?”

Mertha gritted her teeth, her grip on her own hands tightening with anger. She took a step back, then another, as if that small distance was enough to offer them semblance of privacy. Yet her shadow still touched Daenera, she was still too close for comfort.

“You’re still too close, move further back,” Daenera commanded firmly. When Mertha stubbornly refused to move an inch, Daenera decided to invoke higher authority. “The Queen will agree with me that there's no need for you to be so close.”

The subtle smile on Helaena’s face widened just a touch, a small change meant only for Daenera to notice–and notice she did. She seemed to find a quiet amusement in Daenera’s defiance. The tightness in Mertha’s face intensified, her lips pursing as if she had tasted something incredibly sour.

“You may step away, Lady Mertha. Thank you,” Helaena added softly, her voice gentle yet dismissive, effectively releasing the older woman from her duties for the moment.

“Perhaps you can wait for me down by the path. I believe there are benches for your to sit on–for your knees, of course,” Daenera called out as Mertha turned and began to head towards the path she had come from. At Daenera’s words, Mertha paused and turned back to glare at her, her jaw clenched tightly, before continuing on, finally giving them some space.

“Must you provoke her ire?” Helaena inquired, her head tilting slightly as her eyes followed the bug darting over her finger, letting it pass from one hand to another.

“Yes,” Daenera responded petulantly, closing her eyes against the rays of sunlight piercing through the canopy of the tree. “If I am to endure her company, I will ensure she suffers mine in return, and it’s the only entertainment I am allowed. I am sick and tired of needlepoint. If I see another stitch, I might just sew my eyes shut.”

Daenera rubbed her eyes with the heel of her palms, letting out a frustrated exclamation, “She won’t even let me touch a flower! Every time I reach for one, she slaps my hand away. They keep me from the gardens, confining me to the path. If Mertha had her way, I’d be confined to only visit the Sept.”

“They fear you’ll poison someone.”

“How much harm could I possibly do with a single flower?” Daenera retorted, her voice thing with exasperation.

“I imagine a lot,” Helaena murmured as she watched the small, red bug crawl across her skin, seemingly amused by Daenera’s misery.

“Do you have any idea how many flowers I’d need to gather to concoct something that causes more than just a stomach ache? Sure, I could pick a bunch of hydrangea, but poisoning someone isn’t as simple as just mixing flowers into someone’s meal–and with those, you’d only get very familiar with the chamber pot,” Daenera continued on, rambling as Helaena chuckled.

“Like you did with Aegon?”

Offering a wide grin, Daenera hummed with feigned innocence. “I have no idea what you’re insinuating. Your brother must’ve caught something in Flea Bottom.”

“Mhmm…” Helaena responded, her tone rich with amusement.

“Most flowers aren’t potent enough to be deadly–and those that are, you can’t very well hide away into someone’s food…” Daenera continued musing, her fingers absentmindedly playing with the ruffles of her dress. “But to truly kill someone, I’d need access to the herbal garden at the very least. Which, of course, I don’t have.” She let out a weary breath, then continued, “I could theoretically use apple seeds to make poison, but do you realize how many apples I’d have to consume just to gather enough seeds? If an apple has five to ten seeds, I’d need about two hundred apples to collect a lethal dose. Then I’d need to crush the seeds into a fine powder, and imagine the volume of that–it would hardly be inconspicuous. If I had my tools, I could refine it into a more potent form, just a few drops would suffice.” Daenera turned her head to look up at Helaena, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “Of course, there are other seeds that are poisonous as well…”

Daenera knew that even cherry seeds or peach pits contained a certain amount of poison, yet the task of gathering and crushing enough of them posed its own challenges. If she were inclined to poison someone, she would prefer a quicker and less laborious method–perhaps using a few berries from one of the bushes in the herbal garden or the root of some of the flowers. However, such options were beyond her reach, as she was kept under strict observation at all times. Even now, Mertha sat at the edge of the clearing, her gaze fixed pointedly on Daenera, and the guard, Olliver, stood just behind a nearby tree, ever watchful. Helaena, now that she was Queen, also had her own entourage keeping close watch. Two ladies-in-waiting were positioned at a nearby table, attentive yet discreet, and a member of the Kingsguard stood steadfast by their side, ensuring the queen’s safety with vigilant eyes.

Daenera thought he must’ve been cooking inside his armor.

“Sounds like you’ve given this some thought,” Helaena chuckled softly. “This is why they keep you away from the gardens.”

“Well, they give me plenty of time to think about it when they have me stuck doing needlepoint all day,” Daenera grumbled, releasing an indignant huff and scowling even with her eyes closed. “I have never encountered anyone as infuriating as that old hag.”

“Not even Aegon?” Helaena challenged lightly, her tone playful as if she were teasing a child.

Daenera opened her mouth, poised with a sharp retort, but paused, her words catching as she actually considered the comparison. She drew in a deep breath, pondering, then replied, “No, not even Aegon. At least Aegon isn’t as dull as her. He’s a drunken fool, but at least he isn’t dull.”

The amused smile on Helaena’s face widened slightly, adding a mildly wry expression to her features. Helaena let her vent.

“I mean, truly, I pity her husband. He’s married to a right old cunt–dry, I’m sure, and filled with dust,” Daenera continued with a sharp edge to her voice. “I would rather sit silently in a room with your grandfather than be forced to endure more needlepoint in her company. If this continues, I will surely go mad and pull all my hair out!”

“Don’t pull your hair out,” Helaena advised with a chuckle. “You wouldn’t look good with tufts of hair missing. You’d just look…well… insane…”

Daenera laughed in response, a genuine, light sound that felt almost foreign to her ears. It had been days since she had truly laughed–days since he had found anything to genuinely laugh about. She blinked against the sunlight to look up at Helaena, noticing how the fine strands of her silver hair gleamed in the light, the faint blush of amusement coloring her cheeks, her pale blue eyes bright and present, even as they remained fixed on the bug.

Helaena drew in a measured breath, her head tilting slightly. “Mmm, I don’t think you’ll go mad yet…”

“Yet,” Daenera repeated, a bemused smile tugging at her lips.

“Do you think you know when you’ve gone mad?” Helaena asked, her tone light yet tight, as though it were a genuine concern for her.

Blinking up at Helaena, Daenera looked at her in puzzlement. “I think it depends on what kind of madness you have.”

“Is it madness, or is it grief?” Helaena mused, her voice humming with curiosity. “Could madness be just another form of grief?”

Concern nibbled at Daenera’s fingertips, but she remained silent, allowing Helaena to ponder as her eyes tracked the tiny creature scampering from one palm to the other. Just then, Maelor emitted an unsatisfied grunt, the chime of his rattle hanging precariously in the air as he kicked and twisted, his face reddening with discontent. Daenera sat up, gently lifting the baby from the basket and cradling him against her chest before lying back down again. Maelor’s head rested against her sternum, his chubby little fingers clutching the fabric of her bodice as he nestled into her, visibly soothed by the contact. Her head then fell back into Helaena’s lap, finding comfort in the familiar and reassuring presence.

“He misses you,” Helaena murmured softly, her voice barely above a whisper. Daenera’s gaze instinctively drifted down to Maelor’s head, observing his pale wisps and delicate curls. He nuzzled against her, his chubby little hands playing with the soft fabric of her dress. She could feel his weight against her and found an unexpected comfort in it.

“I don’t think he’s capable of missing anyone yet,” Daenera responded, her palm resting on his back, her thumb gently soothing him.

Helaena hummed lightly in response, a knowing tone in her voice. “You miss him too…”

Daenera looked up at Helaena, confusion furrowing her brow. “The baby?”

Helaena’s lips quirked at the misinterpretation. “No, Aemond.”

“Ah,” Daenera exhaled, her voice trailing off as she fell into a pensive silence, a new weight settling in her heart. Around them, the garden continued its gentle melody; leaves rustled softly above, the warm breeze caressed her skin, carrying with it the sweet fragrance of flowers and a hint of salt from the sea. Bees buzzed busily among the blooms, and butterflies languished in the warm sunlight.

Daenera’s voice emerged again, small and almost fraile, “It’s not as easy as that… Missing him, I mean. I should hate him…”

She wished she could muster hatred for him. Hatred would simplify everything, an easy path to clarity, she thought. If he were merely her enemy, all would be straightforward. But emotions were tangled, and her heart seemed to rebel against such simplicity.

Helaena’s gentle smile faded, her expression becoming distant as the ladybug spread its wings and flew away. “You will…” Her hands remained in the air, fingers twitching a little as though prickling to catch some invisible string in the air. “There’s two kinds of hatred, I think. One, a frigid flame, pure and desolate, offering nothing but cold…” Her hands fell to her lap. “The other, a fierce counterpart to love, both seated as equals, dining at the same table of passion. A hatred that burns with fiery intensity may blaze bright, but like most wildfires, it too will eventually burn out… And what is left when hatred has turned to ash, is the nature of love and its ability to grow. Love is such a strange thing, isn’t it?”

Daenera could feel her heartbeat, hard and quick, like the wings of a bird caught in flight, and she lifted her eyes to meet Helaena’s, asking tentatively, “Is it love?”

“Is it?” Helaena echoed, leaving the question to hang between them, light and gentle. Her hand brushed through Daenera’s hair, eyes reflecting a soft blue challenge.

Shifting uncomfortably, she wrestled with the truth that clawed at her heart, demanding to be acknowledged. Suppressing the rising emotions and locking them away deep inside, refusing to acknowledge them, she murmured softly in an attempt to change the subject, “I had a nightmare.”

“Tell me about it,” Helaena responded, her voice humming with a gentle curiosity. Her hand found its way into Daenera’s hair, brushing it back and twirling strands around her fingers–a restless motion, as if she sought comfort or needed something to occupy her hands while anticipating the depths of the conversation.

“I only remember the crack of thunder and the gleam of teeth,” Daenera replied, her thoughts drifting back to the dream. She could still sense the persistent itch in the back of her mind, the nagging feeling of something forgotten, something pivotal that had yet to fall into place–the itch of having lost something. “And a cruel laugh.”

“He fed it, and now it will feed upon him…” Helaena mused, her gaze turning distant, as if lost in a mist that Daenera couldn’t quite perceive–adrift in what seemed to be the haze of dreams. “It shall feed upon you too, vengeance hungers… A curse is a beast with no master, it will heed its calling, once unleashed upon the wind and it will see the task for which it’s pinned. None may hope to bind it twice, without yielding something in sacrifice.” Her voice trailed off into silence, her mind seemingly enveloped in a fog, her eyes distant and tinged with sadness.

Drawing a deep breath, Daenera chose to set aside her questions for the moment. Instead, she decided to draw Helaena back from her distant thoughts. “We’d travel along the channels of Braavos and visit every single one of the Hundred Isles. Then we’ll meet with the Sealord of Braavos, and he will grant us a palace. Within the palace courtyard, we’ll eat supper there and watch the stars and have music played at all times.

Helaena blinked, her focus returning to Daenera, a soft smile slowly spreading across her lips. I thought we’d go to Lys.”

“We could go anywhere,” Daenera responded, her voice filled with the gentleness of a dream.

They fell into a shared silence, warding off the intrusive thoughts and unspoken concerns that threatened to invade their peace. They created a sanctuary in their secluded corner of the garden, deliberately ignoring the looming red walls of the Red Keep and the scheming minds within. In this quiet sanctuary, they allowed no shadows to darken the clear patch of grass around them.

Maelor, resting peacefully on Daenera’s chest, brought her a tranquility that the restless nights had denied her. She surrendered to the warmth of the afternoon sun, letting it lull her into a brief respite. It was only as the sunlight began to wane, casting long shadows across the garden, that she stirred from her repose. Her eyes fluttered open just as a shadow swept overhead–a tangible reminder of the larger world beyond the seclusion of their garden sanctuary–as Vhagar returned, its massive wings beating a steady rhythm, bringing them back from their journey to Storm’s End.

Daenera sat up, carefully transferring little Maelor into Helaena’s waiting arms. Helaena stood, wrapping the child snugly in a soft blanket, and tenderly kissed his cheek. A damp patch marked Daenera’s bodice, a testament to Maelor’s peaceful slumber and occasional drooling. Maelor, his chubby fingers waving, gurgled happily as Helaena carried him back towards the Keep.

Following closely beside Helaena, Daenera walked shoulder to shoulder with her, with Mertha and Oliver trailing along. Mertha muttered under her breath, a continuous stream of terse grumbles filling the air. As they walked back, the towering shadow of the Red Keep loomed ahead.

As they made their way into the courtyard, the walls appeared to close in around Daenera, and the familiar weight of unease settled back into her stomach. The restlessness returned, creeping under her skin, intensifying as she bid farewell to Helaena and Maelor with a kiss to their cheeks. The two headed back towards Maegor’s Holdfast, Helaena musing lowly to her son as they went. Daenera then climbed the steps to the Keep, positioning herself on the landing that overlooked the courtyard and the gates.

“We should get back to your chambers, Princess,” Mertha said tersely. “Edelin will have prepared supper by now.”

“I will have supper later. I wish to see Aemond,” Daenera responded firmly, her tone leaving no room for argument as she remained steadfast on the landing.

Her gaze settled on the Bronze Gate, her heart pounding anxiously as she twisted the rings on her fingers–a mix of anticipation and dread churning within her. A nagging sensation clawed at the back of her mind, persistent yet intangible, deepening her unease into a palpable dread that settled heavily in her stomach.

“Princess,” a voice called out, snapping her from her troubled reverie.

Clenching her jaw tightly, Daenera reluctantly shifted her focus away from the gates, turning to face Ser Criston Cole as he ascended the steps towards the Keep. His armor caught the golden rays of the setting son, casting a harsh gleam that seemed almost foreboding, while his dark eyes fixed on her with a chilling, steely gaze.

“Ser Criston,” Daenera acknowledged the greeting with a dry tone, taking a deep breath before fixing her gaze fully on the knight. “I suppose congratulations are in order on your rise to becoming the new Lord Commander. Though…” Her head tilted slightly as she scrutinized him. “It begs me to wonder what happened to Lord Commander Westerling. Did the same ill luck befall him as it did Lord Lyman?”

Ser Criston’s smile was cold as he reached the top of the landing, his dark eyes locking with hers. “Lord Commander Westerling was relieved of his duties due to his uncertain stance on who the true successor to the crown really is.”

“Is that so?” Daenera responded, her voice dripping with skepticism. “It seems to me that the Lord Commander’s honor is the only one that remains incorrupt.”

“And what do you know of honor, Princess?” Ser Criston challenged, his tone sharp and laden with disdain. The veiled insult hung heavily in the air between them, each word a barb.

“I know that you lack it. If you possessed any, you wouldn’t have killed a woman who had already surrendered,” Daenera retorted, her words edged with her own scorn. It was one thing to kill in battle, another entirely to kill someone who had laid down their weapon. It had been murder in cold blood–dishonorable and contemptible, and she would not forget it, could not forget it.

Daenera vividly remembered the widening of Joyce’s eyes, the shock and pain etched onto her face as the blade sank deep into her flesh, emerging bloodied and cruel on the other side. She recalled precisely where it had struck–directly in the stomach, a deliberately painful and slow way to die. The warmth of her blood that had touched her skin was unforgettable, as were Joyce’s quick, shallow breaths. She had watched as Joyce paled, her life ebbing away while the pool of blood around her expanded. Later, her body had hung beside Lord Caswell’s, limp and heavy, dark blood-stained dress, her eyes half-lidded, empty of life. Daenera remembered it–saw it each night as she closed her eyes.

Ser Criston’s dark eyes narrowed, his gaze as sharp as the blade he had used to end Joyce’s life–a life taken not in fair combat but in a cruel bid to wound Daenera. It had been an act of sheer cruelty. Now, as she confronted him, she noted a slight shift in his posture, a sheepish, defensive tightness that spoke of a man uncomfortable being forced to face his own dishonorable actions.

“I killed her in self-defense–”

“She had dropped the blade–”

“She had not,” Ser Criston countered firmly, his voice unwavering as he attempted to rewrite history. “Your servant woman–”

“Her name was Joyce,” Daenera interjected sharply, her voice edged with a cold precision. “You should remember the name of the woman you killed in cold blood.”

Ser Criston stepped closer, his voice lowered to a menacing whisper. “Your serving woman wouldn’t have met her end had you simply compiled and surrendered from the start. Her death is on your hands, not mine.”

“Is that what you tell yourself?” Daenera asked, feeling a surge of rage burning within her, the injustice festering like a bitter wound in her gut.

“It is the truth,” Ser Criston replied flatly, his expression unyielding.

“Is that what it is?” Daenera challenged him again, her voice raw and quivering slightly with emotion–with rage and grief. “It seems to me that you tell yourself that to believe you possess some semblance of honor. But we both know that’s a lie.”

“And what lie do you tell yourself, Princess?” Ser Criston retorted, his eyes scanning her face with a cool detachment. The way he emphasized ‘princess’ carried an insult that stung like the crack of a whip. “That you are free of dishonor?” His voice dropped to a dark timber, meant only for her ears. “That it doesn’t run through your veins? That your marriage was free of it? Do you understand what duty and sacrifice it requires?” His gaze bore into her, placing himself above her. “Honor is not innate. It’s something you earn, it is something you uphold.”

Daenera’s scowl deepened, her eyes narrowed as she responded with biting callousness, “You seem to mistake your ambition for honor.”

“I have no ambition beyond serving the King,” Ser Criston declared, holding his head high. “Something we should all strive to do.”

“Is that who you serve?” Daenera shot back, questioning his allegiance and the true nature of his so-called honor. It wasn’t truly the King that Ser Criston served, though he might believe so. In truth, it was the Queen Mother to whom his loyalty lay–and he served her not out of genuine allegiance but to cling to some semblance of honor, to uphold his own idea of what honor should be. Ser Criston’s allegiance to the Queen Mother stemmed not solely from duty but from what she represented to him and what she offered; she was a mirror, reflecting back at him the values he believed was to be right and pure. Moreover, his deep-seated hatred for her mother found a resonant echo in the Queen Mother, making her not just a ruler to serve but a companion in his disdain.

“I serve the rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms,” Ser Criston reiterated firmly, his tone leaving no room for doubt in his declaration.

“A dog cannot serve two masters,” Daenera asserted sharply, her voice laced with contempt. “And a dog as dishonorable as you should not have been made Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. It seems to be your luck that you continue to rise despite your failures.”

The Bronze Gate opened with a resounding thump, instantly capturing Daenera’s attention, even as Ser Criston fumed beside her. He sifted on his feet, leaning in close to whisper harshly, “Was it honor that had you abandon your men to be killed? Will honor be enough to save those you have left?”

His words struck her like a slap in the face, a sting she hardly had time to process before he brushed past her, his cloak sweeping against her skirts as he strode into the Keep. Daenera swallowed thickly, her gaze shifting to Aemond as he dismounted his horse and handed the reins to a stable boy. With determined strides, he approached the Keep, taking the stairs two at a time.

“Aemond…” Daenera called out, her voice faltering as he brushed past her without a glance, his expression set in a hard, unreadable mask–cold as ice and seemingly carved from it. His hair, though dry, had the slight curl characteristic of his mother’s, a departure from the usual straightness of it, which spoke of him having met rain on his journey. She frowned at his blatant disregard, a growing sense of dread tightening in the pit of her stomach, unease crawling under her skin.

Daenera turned on her heels and followed him inside, despite Mertha letting out a sharp exclamation of displeasure, urging her to stop. “What happened? Who does Storm’s End stand with?”

Her skirts whispered across the floor as she hurried after him, his pace fast and unwavering even as he began to ascend the stairs. Daenera pressed on, demanding answers to her questions, her growing anxiety fueled by his silence. Had Lord Borros Baratheon defied expectations and chosen to align himself with her mother? Had he rejected the proposed marriage alliance? Or had his demands exceeded what Aemond had to offer? Did he seek additional alliances through not only one marriage but two? Or, more grimly, had he demanded Daenera’s head?

These questions swirled within her mind, growing in the absence of his answers. The tension seemed to thicken with every step they took, and amidst her spiraling thoughts, Daenera could almost hear the ominous crack of thunder resonating in the back of her mind, mirroring her growing unease.

“Where does Storm’s End stand?” She repeated, needing to know the position her mother was in.

When he refused to answer again, Daenera reached out, her hand brushing against the leather of his sleeve as she grasped the crook of his arm, trying to halt his progress. He pulled his arm free and continued up the stairs without a backwards glance. The sting of his rejection was palpable, and Daenera’s frown deepened as she followed him.

“Stop, Aemond,” she called after him, feeling the slight strain in her lungs as she attempted to keep up with him, reaching the top of the stairs.

When he showed no signs of slowing down, she positioned herself directly in his path, effectively blocking him and forcing him to confront her. She looked up at him, noting how his jaw clenched tightly, his teeth gritted, his gaze fixed stubbornly on a point just above her head, refusing to meet her eyes or acknowledge her presence.

Something had clearly gone wrong at Storm’s End–something that rendered him either unable or unwilling to meet her gaze.

“Tell me, Aemond,” she implored, her voice soft yet insistent, almost pleading as she attempted to coax an answer from him. His jaw tensed further, muscles flexing visibly as he continued to bite down, refusing to meet her eyes. His expression was hard and cold as the steel at his hip, seemingly carved from the same iron resolve. His complexion was pale, showing no signs of the flush that might have lingered from his flight, suggesting the gravity of whatever news he carried.

There, at the collar of his leather coat, on the pale column of his neck, was a smear of dreadful red–a detail she hardly noticed at first, barely processing it as her heart thundered within her chest. Daenera’s gaze was fixed intently on his face, searching desperately for answers he was unwilling to provide.

“Please,” Daenera murmured, her voice barely audible as he brushed past her, slipping through her fingers like smoke as he made his way towards the council chambers. Her eyes tracked his every movement, watching helplessly as he opened the doors and disappeared inside, sealing away all the answers she desperately sought. Her heart throbbed painfully within her chest, a sense of dread tightening around her as she stared at the unyielding doors.

Mertha abruptly stepped into her line of sight, her face set in a perennial scowl. “Come, let’s get you back to your chambers.”

“I don’t want to go back,” Daenera protested, grimacing as Mertha’s fingers dug into her arm with the same harsh grip she had used in the gardens. She was determined to remain stationed outside the council doors, to wait for him to emerge so she could demand the answers she needed–so that she could force him to look at her.

“You’ve been quite unruly today, and I will not have you loitering outside the council chambers demanding answers for matters that are not your place to inquire about,” Mertha grumbled, shaking Daenera slightly as if she were a misbehaving child who had just thrown a tantrum. “I’ve allowed you more than enough liberties for today. Now, come.”

Daenera forcefully wrenched her arm free from Mertha’s grip. “You’ve missed your calling, Lady Mertha. You should have been a septa. You certainly have the countenance for it.”

Despite her reluctance, Daenera allowed herself to be guided back to her chambers, where she ate her supper in dreadful silence. It wasn’t long after that she sent Edelin with a message to Aemond, requesting his presence. She then spent the evening pretending to read a book by the hearth, her thoughts adrift and her patience thinning as she waited anxiously for the door to open and reveal Aemond. Mertha sat beside her, diligently mending one of Daenera’s skirts, lips pursed in concentration.

“You’ve been reading that page for a long time,” Mertha observed, her voice carrying over the rhythmic creaking of her rocking chair–a sound that only heightened Daenera’s irritation. “If you’re not going to read, you might as well work on your needlepoint. The gods know you needed the practice, and it helps keep the mind from wandering too far into restless pondering…”

Daenera glared up at Mertha, poised to retort sharply, when the doorknob turned, the door creaking open. She stood abruptly, dropping the book as she turned expectantly towards the door, only to feel a wave of disappointment wash over her when she saw that it was just Edelin. The girl’s expression was sheepish and apologetic.

“Aemond?” Daenera asked hopefully, clinging to a sliver of hope that Edelin would convey some promising news.

“I’m sorry, Princess,” Edelin replied gently. “He’s not coming tonight… I believe it’s been a long journey and he may need the rest.

Daenera nodded, managing to mask her disappointment with a soft smile for the girl. “It has been a long day for me as well. Best I get some sleep too…”

As soon as the gates creaked open, Aemond’s gaze was mercilessly captured by her presence–her figure sharply silhouetted against the bleak setting of the landing, her features twisted into a scowl. Her eyes locked in a fiery exchange with Ser Criston Cole, her cheeks flushed with a hue that spoke more of irritation than warmth. A cruel ache wedged itself between Aemond’s ribs, his heart contorting at the sight of her waiting for him.

The painful stirrings of longing mingled with a gnawing sense of foreboding as he urged his horse forward, forcefully tearing his gaze from her as he dismounted with a swift motion. He handed the reins to one of the stableboys, his movements brisk and impatient. Turning to another, he issued a sharp command, “Inform the Hand and my mother that they are to meet me in the council chambers.”

“Yes, my prince!” The younger stableboy replied eagerly, dashing off to carry out the order without delay.

Aemond steeled his expression into an impassive facade, like ice over stone, effectively masking the inner chaos churning beneath his calm exterior. He marched toward the Keep, his stride purposeful and heavy, each forceful step on the gravel propelling him up the steps two at a time, narrowing the distance between him and Daenera–and the impending confrontation her presence promised.

“Aemond…” Her voice faltered as he brushed past her without pause, his gaze fixed determinedly ahead, refusing to meet her eyes. It took every ounce of self-control he possessed not to stop, not to falter, and especially not to look back at her.

“What happened?” She asked pointedly, seeking clarification. “Who does Storm’s End stand with?”

He clenched his jaw tighter, feeling the muscles work under the strain as his hands curled into tight fists. With a relentless place, he stormed up the remaining steps and pushed into the Keep, the sound of rustling skirts and quick footsteps echoing behind him. Despite his resolve, he was acutely aware of her following him, her presence as palpable as the tumultuous emotions he struggled to suppress.

Aemond pressed forward, the clatter of his boots resonating along the staircase, determined not to stop or show any signs of what had transpired at Storm’s End. Despite her persistent inquiries, he kept moving, almost reaching the top of the stairs when he felt her hand slip into the crook of his arm, an unexpected touch that sent a jolt through him. Instinctively, he wrenched his arm away, unable to allow even a moment’s pause.

“Stop, Aemond,” Daenera’s voice echoed up the stairwell, tinged with urgency and a hint of desperation. Her plea hung in the air, but Aemond hardened his resolve and continued his ascent.

Aemond felt her presence block his way as she positioned herself squarely before him, her hand firmly grasping his arm. He could feel the intensity of her gaze, probing his expression for clues, her eyes imploring him to meet hers. He maintained his focus just over her head, fearing that any direct eye contact would betray the inner turmoil he harbored–feared that she would shee the culpability that stained him, fear that she would recognize the monster he felt he had become.

He stood frozen, his heart pounding against the rigid armor of his chest, as Daenera’s voice softened to a whisper that carried a dangerous appeal. “Tell me, Aemond.”

Aemond clenched his jaw tighter, the muscles in his face straining as he fought against the urge to succumb to her plea–her tone had weaved a threat of desperation around Aemond’s heart, tugging at him, threatening to pull his gaze down towards hers. If he spoke now, if he allowed himself even a glance towards her, he feared that the truth would spill forth unbidden. He couldn’t afford to reveal everything, not here, amidst the prying eyes and ears that haunted the corridors of the Red Keep–news would reach them soon enough anyway.

“Please,” Daenera’s voice was a whisper, yet it struck him with the force of a gale, chilling his heart with its desperation.

Yet, despite the monster he had become, he wasn’t completely devoid of compassion–he would find a moment to tell her, in privacy, away from the walls that seemed to listen. With a painful effort, he swallowed the burgeoning confession, feeling it burn like acid in his gut. He moved past her with a brisk, determined stride, his path unyielding as he made his way to the sanctuary of the council chambers.

Aemond let out a deep sigh as he shut the council chamber doors behind him, the solid wood providing a temporary shield from Daenera’s probing gaze. He was almost relieved. Almost. Leaning back against the sturdy barrier, he allowed his head to rest against it briefly, thumbing it softly in a mixture of frustration and exhaustion. With his eye closed, he took a deep breath, regaining the icy composure he had meticulously pieced together on his long journey from Storm’s End.

Straightening up, he pushed away from the door, stepping deeper into the council chambers. The room was draped in shadows that stretched long and eerie as the sun sank below the horizon, casting the chamber into a dramatic scene painted with strokes of orange and red across the sky, almost mirroring the tumultuous thoughts swirling within him. The setting sun seemed to bleed forebodingly into the horizon.

Aemond’s heart thrummed uneasily against his ribs, a rhythm too forceful, too revealing of the turmoil within him. He despised the sensation–it laid bare his vulnerabilities. Tightening his hands into fists, he tried to quell the tremor that threatened to unmask his inner conflict, but the effort proved futile. The golden band encircling his finger felt constricting, a metallic grip that seemed to tighten with each beat of his heart.

Lifting his hand to catch the dwindling light of the sin, he uncurled his fingers and ran a thumb over the ring’s lever. With a soft click, a needle-like blade sprung forth, its surface catching the last rays of the setting sun, transforming into a lethal sliver of light. The ring was diminutive, almost innocuous, yet deadly–a fitting emblem of their union as much as the scar that slashed across his palm. She had trusted him with its secret–a trust that now felt both precarious and perilous as he contemplated the path that lay ahead.

The ring had become a dark emblem of her influence–a potent reminder of the poison that had, in a way, seeped into his own life.

Her poison had seeped into his being, becoming something beyond its initial form–a torment on which he became dependent, both lethal and intoxicating. It was inherently a poison, yet it had evolved into something far more consuming and intricate. It was love–a force as perilous and all-encompassing as any poison, weaving through his very essence with devastating potency, reshaping everything in its wake.

Now, Aemond grappled with the ruinous loss of that love–a love he had decimated with his own hands in the pursuit of vengeance. Part of him yearned to erase the memory of having ever known her intoxicating affection, to forget the sweetness of her poison, the comfort of her touch, and the profound connection of being truly seen.

Aemond traced the needle’s sharp point with his fingertip, careful not to press too hard. His thoughts flittered to whether any of her deadly poison lingered on its edge, even after all these months, and if, by pressing harder, he might release it into his own blood. Could such a trace be lethal, even now?

He applied more pressure, the delicate skin of his finger bowing under the strain, nearly punctureing. The needle’s tip hovered menacingly close, threatening to break the surface, and as he pondered the grim possibility, the doors of the council chambers swung open, abruptly pulling his attention from the lethal contemplation. Swiftly, he clicked the needle back into its hidden sheath within the ring and clasped his hands behind his back to compose himself.

The Hand of the King entered first, setting the pace for the others who followed closely behind. His mother, always dignified, made her way inside, accompanied by Aegon who made his way directly to the side table. The King poured himself a cup of wine with a casual indifference before taking his seat at the head of the table.

“We didn’t expect you back so soon,” Otto commented, his gaze narrowed as he took his place with a practiced grace, settling into the chair. Alicent settled beside the King, at his left, turning to look expectantly upon Aemond.

The chamber filled quickly, the air thick with tension of the impending deliberations as Aemond readied himself to reveal what had transpired at Storm’s End, his heart still beating an uneasy rhythm.

“What did the fat stag say?” Aegon asked and reclined in his chair, his gaze shifting from his brother to a marble ball he spun idly in its holder, the grating noise of it echoing slightly in the chamber–a display of restless impatience, or even childish impertinence, that grated on Aemond’s nerves. Aemond moved closer to the table, his hand finding the back of a chair for support as he declared, “Storm’s End stands with us.”

Otto Hightower leaned back, a cautious approval evident in his posture, though his expression remained shrewd and calculating. His gaze lingered on Aemond, expectant.

Aemond continued, his fingers fidgeting nervously, betraying his otherwise composed demeanor. “House Baratheon has pledged its swords and banners to us, sealed by a marriage alliance. Daeron’s bride has been chosen, one suitable and to his liking, I should think… And the dowry is agreed upon; we merely need to finalize the remaining terms.”

Otto Hightower’s voice cut sharply through the room, “You should have stayed at Storm’s End to secure the agreement. Why return prematurely?”

Maintaining his posture, Aemond faced his grandfather’s stern gaze “As we neared finalizing the agreement, an envoy from our sweet half-sister arrived. She sent one of her bastards. Lord Borros did not take kindly to being reminded of his father’s oath and sent the bastard back to his mother.”

As Aemond fretted with the skin beside his thumbnail, a tangible sense of unease churned within him, intensifying as they edged closer to the disclosures of what had occurred at Storm’s End. He tried to suppress the growing anxiety, swallowing it down hard, allowing it to fester into a more familiar sensation–resentment and bitterness that simmered beneath his calm exterior. This nervous habit of his, often unnoticed, became a visible testament to the turmoil brooding inside as they awaited his next words.

“Lucerys Velaryon is dead,” Aemond stated, his voice cutting clearly, his tone void of emotion. The impact was immediate–his mother’s face blanched, her eyes widening in shock, her lips parting as if to protest, but no words came. Even Aegon, usually indifferent, halted his fidgeting with the marble ball, his features tightening into a grimace that quickly twisted into a smirk of dark amusement.

“I offered him a chance to settle his debt, to choose an eye, which was more than he ever afforded me,” Aemond continued, his gaze icy as he recounted the encounter. “But he fled, proving himself the coward I knew him to be, unable to face his fate.”

“What did you do?” Alicent muttered, hand fluttering to her mouth as her eyes widened in horror. “What did you do, Aemond?”

“I chased after him…” He began, feeling that thing with teeth and claws within him stir, felt the bitterness coil in the festering pit of his stomach. “It was meant to be a scare, nothing more.”

Internally he finished the thought, to make him feel the terror I felt when he took my eye, but these words he kept locked within, too raw to voice aloud–too close to admitting how deep his fear had been then.

His glance shifted towards Aegon, whose expression mixed surprise with dark delight, the kind of amusement that comes in witnessing another's misfortune, relieved to be free from the weight of judgment for once.

“Things spiraled out of control when Arrax attacked Vhagar,” Aemond continued, his tone faltering, a rare crack in his armored facade, one he quickly repaired with the straightening of his spine, his weary muscles protesting the movement. “It was never supposed to end like this, but I…” I lost control, Aemond wanted to say, but stifled the admittance, though the next words were just as heavy on his tongue, “Vhagar reacted. She killed the bastard–devoured him whole.”

Alicent’s response was a whisper, a prayer of disbelief and dread mingling in the air.

“Mother have mercy on us all,” she murmured, her hands rising to cover her face, fingers threading through her hair in a gesture of despair. Her body seemed to fold inward, embodying the shock and grief that Aemond’s actions had wrought upon them.

“You only lost one eye,” Otto muttered, his voice laced with exasperation and his gaze sharp and unforgiving. “How could you be so blind?”

The accusation cut deep, sending a sharp pang through Aemond’s head. He clenched his jaw, forcefully swallowing the sharp bite of his pain as it ebbed away almost as swiftly as it had surged.

“Do you grasp the magnitude of your actions?” Alicent’s voice trembled as she lifted her head, her expression etched with despair. She shook her head slowly, her eyes locked onto her son with a mixture of disbelief and sorrow–a dejected look that almost seemed as though she didn’t recognize him. “There will be no negotiations now–no surrender. This means war.”

“War was inevitable,” Aemond stated, repeating the words that had become all too familiar, as if using it as a shield against his mother’s reproach. He was convinced of it, certain that conflict would have erupted whether Lucerys had lived or died. In his view, his actions had merely accelerated the inevitable.

“We may have been able to avoid war had you not–” Alicent interjected, her words trailing off as she shook her head more vigorously, her lips pressed tightly together in frustration. She glanced upward, as if seeking guidance from the gods, her expression one of exasperation.

Aegon reclined in his chair, absently swirling his goblet of wine. He watched the liquid dance within the glass before speaking nonchalantly, “I fail to see the cause for such uproar. The best kind of bastard is a dead one–and now we have one fewer to worry about.”

Alicent turned sharply towards him, her voice sharp with urgency, “Rhaenyra will not be swayed by reason now; she will seek vengeance for the son he slew. And she will seek your crown with the same kind of fervor. There will be no peace now, Aegon, no compromise.”

Dragging his gaze from the crimson swirls in his goblet, Aegon lifted his eyes to meet his mothers, musing, “Good. I want them attained, I want them arrested and I want them dead.”

Alicent sighed deeply, her gaze flickering back to Aemond with a mixture of frustration and concern. “No sin weighs more heavily than that of kinslaying. And no man is so accused as the kinslayer.”

He watched his mother’s hands twist together in an agonized plea, her knuckles white as she seemed to silently implore the gods for clemency on his behalf. Yet, in his heart, Aemond felt a disconnect; he was convinced that any divine favor had long since abandoned him–years ago, when they seemed to have punished him for claiming what was his to claim.

“Kinslayer,” Otto repeated, his voice cutting through the tense air as he fixed his cold gaze on Aemond. “It is better to be a kinslayer than a boy who cannot control his dragon.”

Alicent’s eyes snapped up, gaze narrowing at her father, “You cannot mean that.”

He returned her gaze, exhaling slowly, “Soon, the realm will hear of Lucerys’ death,” he turned his eyes to Aemond, “And your role in it. Whether it was your intention or a mishap, you will bear the title of kinslayer.”

Aemond bit the inside of his cheek to the point that the metallic taste of copper spilled onto his tongue, the new epithet searing into his identity as fiercely as ‘Aemond One-Eye’ once had. Now, he would also be known as ‘Aemond the Kinslayer.’ In the eyes of the realm, Aemond was now marked as a kinslayer, reduced to a single, damning term that would overshadow all else. The intricacies of his motives, whether his encounter had been seeking justice for what had been done to him or a lapse into vengeance, were immaterial to those who would judge him–and all would judge him.

“We cannot afford word to get out that we cannot control our dragons. How can the people have faith that we will protect them, if we cannot control our beasts? They will believe Rhaenyra and her bastards are more capable than us.”

“We must prevent any rumors that we cannot manage our dragons,” Otto continued, his words almost an indictment against Aemond. “How can the people trust us to protect them if we appear unable to control our own beasts? This would only lend credibility to Rhaenyra and her bastards should it get out, and it would cast a pall over our legitimacy to rule.”

His gaze was icy as it locked onto Aemond’s. “You made a choice, Aemond. It was no accident. You must own this act, for now you have not only committed kinslaying but you have started this war.”

Silence engulfed the room as the full weight of the situation descended upon them, the sky outside transitioning into a deep twilight, the fiery hues of sunset extinguished. The chamber was shrouded in a gathering gloom, each figure lost in contemplation.

Otto leaned back, his demeanor outwardly calm but a finger rhythmically tapping the armrest betraying his inner turmoil–or perhaps it was the restlessness of a mind at work. Alicent, overwhelmed, buried her face in her hands, elbows propped on the table, her posture one of defeat. Aegon, on the other hand, grimaced as he peered into his empty wine goblet, his brows arched in a mixture of frustration and resignation, tipping the goblet to watch the last few drops swirl, evidently displeased it offered no more solace.

Aemond maintained his composure, suppressing any internal chaos beneath an impenetrable facade of stoicism, like entombing turmoil deep within a crypt, sealed in a casket of stone. He pushed down his emotions, ignoring their desperate clawing from within their confinement, threatening to break free.

“Daenera will seek vengeance for this.” Alicent raised her head, her hands falling heavily onto the table with a thud that echoed her resignation. Her eyes, weary and filled with a somber realization, met Aemond’s as she spoke, “The marriage cannot go through now–”

“Who else would have him? No respectable lord would marry his daughter to a kinslayer.” He paused, his gaze piercing as he continued, “The marriage must proceed as arranged for now.”

Aemond traced the rough texture of his cheek with his tongue, feeling the sting where his teeth had bitten into the flesh, the copper taste of blood mingling with his bitterness. His hand slipped from the chair’s back to rest at his side, toying discreetly with the hidden lever of his ring’s needle. A painful twist clenched at his heart, and he pressed down harder, forcing the lid of the coffin of his emotions to remain shut–pressed down on the lever, letting the needle spring forth.

“But she will kill him!” Alicent exclaimed, her voice sharp with frustration, almost bordering on desperation. “Once she learns he’s responsible for her brother’s death, there’s no doubt she’ll seek vengeance. She will kill him.”

Aemond barely registered his mother’s voice echoing through the chamber, lost as he was in the sharp, oddly comforting sensation of the needle puncturing his skin. He gently pressed the pad of his finger against the fine point, increasing the pressure gradually. His skin yielded to the sharpness, and as the needle sunk deeper, he noted the sting, familiar and curiously distant. The pain was not immediate, rather it crept slowly, a nagging throb that was almost soothing in its presence. As the needle embedded itself further, a fleeting thought crossed his mind–how potent would any remaining poison be, and how quickly might it act, if at all?

Otto remained undisturbed by his daughter’s concerns, and remarked coolly, “We still hold her men in our dungeons.”

“Daenera won’t be swayed by threats against her men or even herself; she will stop at nothing to avenge her brother’s death,” Alicent said, her voice trembling with urgency.

Returning his focus to Aemond, Otto spoke with calculated firmness, “This is your responsibility. You will tell her of her brother’s demise, and you will make it clear that the marriage is still set to proceed. Make sure she understands the full implications of any rash actions against you.”

Aemond responded with a terse nod, withdrawing his fingers from the needle’s sharp embrace. A bead of blood welled up at the puncture site, staining his skin as he clenched his fist tightly, the crimson trace marring his pale flesh.

“Come morning, the realm will have been altered to the vents at Storm’s End,” Otto continued with a grave, weary tone. “Lucerys Velaryon’s demise will create a divide. Your longstanding animosity with the boy will frame this as an act of vengeance. However, we must assert it as a legitimate conflict, one in which you emerged victorious. The name ‘kinslayer’ will be attached to your name, regardless. We must brace ourselves for the backlash, and prepare for Rhaenyra and Daemon’s retaliation.”

Aegon expelled a theatrical sigh, heaving himself from his seat. “All this talk of kinslaying and marriage is moot! We should be celebrating, brother. I shall host a grand feast in honor of your victory!”

“You will do no such thing,” Alicent countered, her voice laden with sharp disapproval. “Celebrating your brother with a feast for the demise of your nephew would be seen as a grave insult. It would be viewed as callus and vile, an act of sheer cruelty. Rhaenyra will perceive it as nothing less than further provocation!”

Otto added his own thoughts on the matter, “I would strongly advise against such an action–”

“My brother won a great victory, did he not?” Aegon interjected, his voice rising in challenge against his grandfather and mother. “I desire to honor my brother for slaying the bastard who maimed him. Aemond faced our enemy and triumphed; he is as much a hero as he is a kinslayer. It’s one less bastard to worry about.”

Aemond was torn between gratitude and dread at his brother’s show of support. Aegon approached him, clapping a hand on his shoulder with a firm squeeze.

“Well done, brother,” he said, his voice carrying a mix of pride and challenge. Aemond felt the weight of the gesture, knowing it tied him even closer to the actions that had transpired at Storm’s End.

Otto rose from his chair, his voice carrying an authoritative undertone as he announced, “I will notify the council and summon them for a meeting at dawn.”

The council chamber began to empty, with Otto exiting first, his steps resolute. Alicent followed, her face etched with weariness and concern, casting a lingering glance back at her sons.

Aegon lingered beside Aemond, pausing until the heavy doors clanged shut behind their mother. He leaned in slightly, his voice a low rumble.

“The bastard had it coming,” he offered. “It was justice.”

Aemond remained silent, his eye searching his brother’s face for his intent.

“It was bound to lead to war soon or late,” Aegon added with a shrug, his tone pragmatic. “We struck first blood, and we’ll be the ones to strike the last.”

With another pat on his shoulders, Aegon turned and strode out of the room, leaving Aemond alone with his thoughts. He stood motionless, his gaze fixed through the window overlooking the sprawling cityscape with Blackwater Bay shimmering along one edge. Below, the city lay in innocent ignorance of the grim shadow cast by his actions. They were still on the precipice, the full reality of war not yet upon them. To them, he was still Aemond ‘One-Eye,’ the moniker of ‘Kinslayer’ not yet whispered through the corridors or shouted in the streets. Yet, the damning title was already branded deep within him, scorched into the very essence of who he was as indelibly as the scar that marred his face.

Aemond left the council chambers, the heavy doors closing with a thud that echoed down the deserted corridors. He half expected to find Daenera standing outside, refusing to move before she’d gotten the answers she was looking for. The quiet of the Red Keep enveloped him, a stark contrast to the earlier tension. The evening’s chill seeped through the stonework as he walked towards Maegor’s Holdfast, the twilight shadows casting long, dark figures against the ancient walls.

The silence persisted, heavy and expectant, as if the castle itself held its breath, unaware of the storm brewing in its halls. He ascended the grand staircase of the Holdfast, his footsteps resounding with a solemnity that matched his mood, reaching the corridor leading to his own chambers when a hesitant voice broke through his contemplation.

“The princess wishes to see you, my prince. She insists,” a young servant girl said, her voice a whisper against the stillness. Aemond paused, turning to face her. Her eyes darted nervously under his gaze, her stance uneasy as she waited for his response.

Aemond’s gaze wandered down the dimly lit corridor, his heart constricting with the dread of the news he carried to Daenera. The mere thought of the anguish that would cloud her features as he spoke chilled him to the marrow. He swallowed hard, the weight of his steps heavy as he approached her chambers. Pausing just outside her door, his hand lingered over he handle, hesitating.

Inside, Daenera remained ignorant to his actions–her world was still whole, her brother still alive in her mind. She would greet him with those gentle blue eyes, still untainted by the shadows of grief. The thought of shattering that peace held him frozen at the threshold. Not yet, he thought. He couldn’t bear to tear away her bliss just yet.

Aemond retreated from Daenera’s door, the act of turning the knob and facing her too daunting. He considered it a small act of kindness–to spare her the crushing weight of the truth for just a little longer. He would grant her one more night of innocence, one final evening of peace before the storm of grief struck–before he would have to confront her inevitable fury, before he would witness the light within her eyes dim with the realization of his cruelty. Aemond knew the time would come when he must face Daenera and see the trust they had nurtured crumble into dust. This dread settled heavily in his chest, a prelude to the storm of accusation and pain that would soon sweep through her, extinguishing whatever warmth had once flickered between them.

With a heavy heart, he turned and made his way back down the corridor towards his own quarters. Behind him, the voice of the servant girl hesitated, her tone tinged with confusion and concern, “My Prince? The–the princess…”

Her voice trailed off as he continued walking, lost in his own tumultuous thoughts, leaving the echoes of what was yet unsaid hanging in the cool air of the hallway.

Aemond didn’t halt his stride until he was safely inside his own chambers. With a deep sigh, he shut the door behind him, the sound echoing slightly in the quiet of the room. Methodically, he began to shed his attire; first, his coat, then the sword and belt which he laid carefully across a chair. Finally, he removed his leather doublet, letting it fall with a soft thud onto the same chair. Left in only his billowing white tunic, he felt the fabric’s coolness against his skin.

Aemond poured himself a cup of wine, desperate to wash away the bitter, metallic taste that clung to his tongue. He stared at the cup, the wine swirling within, contemplating the temptation to drown his unease as Aegon often did–finding comfort in the bottom of his cups. His throat tightened, his mouth parched by the thought, yet he forced himself to swallow the wine. It was a vain attempt to wash away the acrid taste that seemed to permeate his senses. The wine almost burned down his throat and settled heavily in his stomach. Setting the cup down with a decisive clunk, he moved towards the water basin.

He tossed his eyepatch onto the table beside the basin, the leather landing with a soft thud. Leaning over, he scooped up handfuls of cold water and splashed it against his face, trying to cleanse away the day’s grime and the weight of his deeds.

The water ran in rivulets down his scarred cheek, each droplet stinging his skin like fire. Ever since the moment Vhagar had closed her jaws around Lucerys and Arrax, his scar throbbed incessantly–a relentless reminder of the horror he had wrought. The pain seemed to seep deeper with each heartbeat, as if the dragon’s fire still lingered beneath his flesh, a smoldering ember that refused to be extinguished.

Exhausted, he leaned heavily against the edge of the table, his gaze lifting to meet his own reflection in the mirror mounted above. He stared into his own eyes, confronting the harsh line of the scar that cruelly slashed across his face–through muscle and bone–a visible mark of brutality. He studied the jagged scarring that framed his sapphire eye, catching the icy gleam within.

Lucerys had branded him a monster long before; was it any wonder, then, that he acted as one?

Aemond tried to convince himself that it had been justice, what he had done. He had offered Lucerys the opportunity to atone, to rectify the past, to repay the debt of pain. If only the bastard had possessed the courage to accept the consequences of his actions, to suffer as Aemond had, then none of this would have been necessary.

He wouldn’t have had to pursue him, wouldn’t have had to exact the justice that had been denied to him for so long–if only his father had possessed the fortitude to administer justice when it mattered, then perhaps the gnawing sense of injustice wouldn’t have fermented into a dark, vengeful force with claws and teeth, a beast birthed from years of pain and humiliation–a monster with a taste for cruelty.

Lucerys Velaryon had made him into this. First, with a dagger that left him permanently scarred, and now, with his death.

Aemond consoled himself with the thought that had Arrax not provoked Vhagar by attacking her, Lucerys would still be alive. In his mind, it was Lucerys’s own actions that had sealed his fate, not Aemond’s. This rationalization served as a cold comfort–not a comfort at all–a way to swift the burden of guilt from his own shoulders.

Vhagar had delivered the justice he had been too restrained to claim for himself. There was no room for regret over the act itself in his mind, yet the repercussions it would have on Daenera haunted him.

His gaze dropped to his hand, noticing the smear of blood, not diluted by water, where the needle had pierced his skin, leaving a mark resembling a bruise. He was still alive–not poisoned then. With deliberate pressure, he pressed his thumb against the small wound, breaking the skin anew. A fresh drop of blood emerged, which he methodically smeared across his finger.

The inevitability of losing her was almost too much to bear. He dreaded the moment she would look upon him and see the monster he had become. Those beautiful blue eyes that had once gazed at him with warmth, that had seen past the blood on his hands and the scar on his face, would turn cold and dim. These were the eyes that had sparkled with amusement in lighter moments, that had flashed with fiery challenge during their spares. Now, he feared, they would only reflect back his monstrous deeds.

His heart contorted with pain, as if invisible claws were tearing into the soft tissue, shredding every fiber with ruthless precision. The chilling dread of Daenera turning away from him, seeing him as only a monster, was nearly unbearable. He clung to the slim consolation he could provide–one more night where, in her world, her brother was still alive.

It was the only mercy he could afford her now, and even that felt like a coward’s gift.

He was a kinslayer, marked not just by the world, but by his own damning reflection.

The stone coffin of Aemond’s suppressed emotions cracked, unleashing a tempest of chaos and pain that felt like poison coursing through his veins. Resentment ignited within his chest, and fear and despair coiled tightly around his lungs, constricting his breath.

Blinding pain erupted behind the sapphire, beginning as a vicious scratch within his skull before it transformed into an explosive force than nearly crippled him–it reminded him of the pain he felt when they had reopened the wound to remove the festering eyelid and limit the scar tissue, scraping at the inside of his socket to clean it out.

Overwhelmed by this onslaught of agony and frustration, Aemond lashed out in a fit of fury. His arm swept across the table in a violent arc, colliding with the basin with such force that it crashed to the floor, sending water splashing across the stone.

Aemond clutched the edges of the table, his knuckles whitening as he resisted the surge of pain that throbbed through his head, vivid enough to make the wine in his stomach churn. With a grunt, he pushed away, staggering towards the cupboard. He fling its doors open, his movements frantic as he searched the shelves. His fingers finally close around the cold glass of a small bottle.

Returning to the table, Aemond poured another cup of wine, his hands unsteady. He then carefully added a few drops from the green bottle into the dark liquid. The relief he once found in Daenera’s touch was a distant memory, replaced by this bitter necessity.

He knocked back the wine, wincing at its newly acquired earthy bitterness, reminiscent of wet leaves rotting on the forest floor. Setting the cup down with a clatter, Aemond massaged his brow with the heel of his hand, the other hand bracing against the table.

He walked slowly back to his bedchamber, each step a battle against the pain. Collapsing onto the mattress, he lay back, eye staring at the canopy above as he willed the pain relief to drag him into a deep, dreamless slumber, far from the reality that awaited him in the morning.

#a vow of blood #vow of blood comments

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