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zeciex · 5 months ago

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A Vow of Blood - 97

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 97: Etched in Flesh

AO3 - Masterlist

The dim glow of the hearth flickered across the stone ceiling, casting restless shadows that crept into the cracks between the old slabs. The firelight wavered and danced, its flicker barely holding against the weight of the night, while the wood in the hearth crackled faintly. Silence hung thick in the air, almost oppressive, as if the night itself pressed down on the room, broken only by the subtle shift of embers and the occasional snap of burning timber.

Sleep had been fleeting for Aemond, drifting in and out like a ghost throughout the long hours of the night. He lay stretched out on the chaise, his gaze fixed on the ceiling, tracing the familiar lines and cracks in the stone above. His mind, however, refused to settle, racing with thoughts that gnawed at him like the persistent chill in the room.

He wasn’t the only one haunted by the night’s restlessness. He had heard her–the soft, ragged breaths she struggled to control, the muffled sobs she tried to desperately suppress. The sound of her quiet grief had pierced the silence, sharp and unavoidable, as though each sob carved a new ache deep in his chest. It wasn’t just sorrow that filled the room, but her frustration as well. He had listened to her toss and turn in the darkness, her sobs giving way to agitated huffs as she shifted beneath the covers, restless and seeking peace that would not come as easily as she might’ve desired.

Now, the room was quieter, her breathing slow and steady, a soft rhythm of sleep that had finally claimed her. She had been like that for a while, and though the air felt lighter without the weight of her sorrow, Aemond found no comfort in it. Instead, he lay there, rigid, his own weariness deepening as his mind wandered further into thoughts he wished he could silence.

The ache behind the sapphire in his eye lingered–a cold, creeping pain, like a serpent coiling and writhing behind it. It was a familiar sensation, one that had haunted him since the day he lost it, growing more relentless since Storm’s End.

But there had been a brief, fleeting reprieve. For a moment, the pain had dulled to nothing when she had touched him, when her hand had grazed his face with a tenderness that betrayed the cruelty of her previous touch. He had seen something in her eyes then, something soft and fragile, teetering on the edge of love–or at least what he thought love was.

And when she had let him between her legs, when she had let him feast on her, that aching void had vanished altogether. Her body–her touch–had been his refuge, her surrender a balm to the endless torment in his mind–he always felt so dangerously close to peace when he was with her. But like all things, the moment had passed, and the ache had returned, gnawing at him once more.

The ache returned more sharply than before when she had flung the pillow at him, her voice cutting as she spat the word–Kinslayer. The accusation had cut deep, sharper than any blade, as he knelt before her, stripped of all the pride he wore like armor. He had crawled to her–humbled, desperate–and laid his heart bare, as much as a man like him could. The effort cost him. His heart, though blackened and rotting with the weight of his sins– his desires, his wants–was still hers, offered willingly, if only she would take it.

But she hadn’t.

The rejection had torn through him–still tore at him–leaving him raw and bleeding as if she had driven a blade beneath his ribs, angling it upward to pierce his heart and twist it with cruel precision. Every word, every look, felt like a fresh cut, and the festering blackness inside him–his heart, darkened by years of bitterness and resentment–seemed to weep with new wounds.

He had remained on his knees before her, his pride shattered, his desire for her consuming him like a fire that refused to die. His body burned with the unquenched ache of yearning, the need for her twisting low in his gut, making him feel hollow and desperate. The sharpness of her rejection was unbearable, it left him feeling as though he had been plunged into icy waters, his body burning white-hot with heat like iron drawn from the forge, only to be submerged into cold water. The act of it left him feeling brittle and dejected.

He had wanted to speak, to demand something–anything–that would have bridged the widening chasm between them. But the words had died in his throat, choked by the heavy weight of her disdain. All he could do then was rise from the floor and clean himself up, while his body remained burning for her, desire withering to a hollow ache under the sharp edge of her rejection.

The silence between them was suffocating, broken only by the faint crackle of the hearth. It mocked the fire that once burned between them, now reduced to ashes. His breath came shallow, his chest tight with the frustration of wanting her and the agony of knowing she did not want him in return.

The thought that she could reduce the love they shared to nothing more than a base, cardinal desire filled him with bitterness. It made the fire that still simmered low in his stomach, unfulfilled and aching, feel all the more wretched.

But it was love–it had to be. What else could this wretched weakness be but love?

Love was a weakness, and oh, how it weakened him for her. He had never wanted it, had tried to deny it. He had fought against it, tried to uproot it from within himself, but no matter how fiercely he battled, he was powerless against its hold. It had sunk its claws into him, taken root deep inside, growing around his heart like a creeping vine–slow and relentless, choking him with its presence. It was like the stubborn weeds that sprouted on the battlefield long after the bodies had been cleared, or the plants that pushed their way through the cracks in stone walls, thriving where they weren’t meant to.

It had grown, this love–whether either of them had wanted it to or not. He could feel it in the beat of his heart, in the ever present ache that gnawed at him whenever she stood just out of reach. It was in the way his instincts, so ingrained in him, bent and softened in her presence, in the way he was willing to cast aside everything that he clung to for even a moment of closeness with her.

Was this not love?

This maddening, weakening force that made him bare his soul to her, that stripped him of the armor he had spent years forging around himself, leaving him vulnerable and exposed. It was the feeling of pressing a blade into her hand, of offering his heart with it–daring her to strike, yet hoping she wouldn’t. And yet, even if she did, he would savor the cold bite of steel against his heart, revel in the pain, if only because it was hers to give. Love was both agony and ecstasy, destruction and devotion.

What was love if not a matching set of bleeding wounds? Holding onto something that had the power to wound so deeply? Or was it merely madness?

It didn’t matter how much he bled for her, how she pressed her words to his heart like a blade. As long as she haunted him, as long as she was tethered to him in some way, he could endure the pain. He welcomed it. He could never let her go.

It made him weak, weaker than he had ever imagined he could be. And he despised it–despised that she had this power over him. Yet, no matter how much he loathed the vulnerability that came with it, no matter how much he tried to sever those vines that choked his heart, they continued to grow. He was ensnared, trapped in a love that had taken root against his will.

Love had grown between them, whether they wanted it to or not. And now, it was too late to tear it out. She could deny it all she wanted–call it desire, possession, anything to diminish what had bloomed between them. But he knew it was more. And he hoped–desperately–that somewhere, deep within her, she still knew it. That she could still feel it. She had loved him once, after all.

Aemond lay there, staring up at the ceiling, the darkness pressing down on him like a heavy shroud. The soft rhythm of her breath lingered in the air, barely audible in the distance between them–a distance that seemed to nip at the tip of his fingers.

He raised his hand before his face, turning it slowly in the dim, flickering glow of the hearth. The firelight danced across his skin, casting shifting shadows over the small ridges scattered across his palm–wounds that were slowly mending. They were marks left from that day, when he had told her the truth about her brother, when he had confessed his love, when she had said she loved him too–when he had lost that love.

Those old wounds were fading now, healing in time, but new ones had joined them–shallow cuts and scrapes, freshly inflicted when he had crawled across the floor to her, desperate and aching, seeking something–acceptance, love, absolution.

His gaze settled on the scar that slashed deliberately across his palm, the faint pink line standing out against his pale skin. It was a clean, deliberate cut, not jagged like the others, but purposeful–etched with intention. A vow.

He held the memory of the night they had bound their souls together as something sacred. It was etched into him as deeply as the scar on his palm, which still seemed to burn with the weight of the memory.

He could feel it even now–the sharp sting of the dragonglass as it cut into his flesh, the warmth of her blood mingling with his as they pressed their palms together. Their vows had been spoken in whispers, sealed with the heat of their shared breath and their heart’s blood. She had given herself to him willingly, then–and he to her.

But now, as he lay in the dark, listening to her quiet breathing, the memory felt distant, as though it belonged to another life. The scar on his palm burned with a dull ache, a reminder of something he couldn't grasp anymore, no matter how hard he tried. He held onto it–the memory of her love, of her choice, of the night when she had been his completely.

He traced the surface with his eye, as though searching for something in the line–some answer, some reassurance that the bond still held despite the growing distance between them. The light shimmered and wavered, making the scars seem almost alive, as though they too remembered that night, remembered the blood that had sealed them together.

Aemond clung desperately to the faint, fleeting satisfaction that came with the scars she had left on him. It was something real, something to hold onto in the midst of the growing distance between them. This scar was proof that what had passed between them hadn’t been a dream or an illusion–it hadn’t been solely desire. It had been real. It was real. A stolen moment that shouldn’t have been, but was. Something they had shared.

And she bore the same scar on her palm. No matter how much she tried to deny him now, she could never erase that. The bond they had forged was marked upon her flesh, just as it was on his, an indelible reminder of what they had shared. She could try to distance herself, speak coldly, reject him–but that scar told the truth she refused to acknowledge. It was as much a part of her as it was of him.

Aemond found it strange, almost unsettling, that he took comfort in this scar, in bearing something so raw and undeniable upon his skin. It was another wound, another brand, yet it grounded him. This, at least, could not be taken away, could not be denied or removed, no matter how much time passed or how distant she became. It was more than just a scar–it was proof of what they had been to each other, a bond sealed in blood and flesh.

As his fingers traced the faint pink line, he realized how bitterly he clung to it. All the words, the rejections, the coldness between them–they couldn’t erase this. The scar was as permanent as the love that had taken root inside him, both a comfort and a reminder of the pain that came with it.

Yet, even in the agony of her denial, he knew she could never undo what they had done. It was branded into them both.

He flexed his hand, spreading his fingers wide as he felt the pull of his skin stretching over the shallow wounds. The fresh cuts tugged tightly, struggling to hold themselves together, and the scar across his palm grew taut with the motion. The faint ache of healing flesh sent a dull throb through his hand the longer he kept it flexed.

The faint scent of herbs lingered on his skin from the salve he had dabbed onto the wounds earlier. It was a simple, familiar smell–soothing, meant to heal–but it only made his heart ache. The scent brought back memories of her hands on him, once gentle, once caring. Now, all that remained of that tenderness was the salve she had made long ago.

He had kept it tucked away in the drawer of his desk, a quiet relic of better days, and had brought it with him when he moved into their shared chambers. It was one of the few personal items he had chosen to bring.

Slowly, he curled his fingers, letting the skin stretch and draw tight over his knuckles before he flexed his hand once more, stretching his fingers, watching the way the muscles shifted beneath the pale surface, the faint tug of pain accompanying each movement. The flickering orange glow of the hearth cast shadows across his hand, the light dancing over his scars, painting them in soft, fleeting patterns.

Aemond lowered his hand, his gaze shifting towards the bed. The weight of his actions–and the cost–bore down on him, the memory of the boy he had killed creeping into his mind like a cold draft slipping between the stones of the room.

The chill deepened as the familiar, haunting apparition appeared at her side–Lucerys. He lingered there, a ghostly presence at the edges of Aemond’s consciousness, clinging to him like an unwelcome shadow. No matter how hard he tried, the boy remained with him.

His jaw tightened as he stared at him. Lucerys stood there, milky eyes staring blankly back at him, his pale skin gleaming sickly in the dim firelight. His dark curls, soaked and matted, clung to his head, his clothes drenched and dripping onto the stone floor with a steady, maddening drip, each drop seeming to echo in the silence. Water pooled beneath the boy’s feet, spreading like an accusation.

The apparition came and went, slipping in and out of existence throughout the night, as real in Aemond’s waking hours as in his nightmares. He had tried to will the boy away, to banish the specter from his mind, but Lucerys lingered, silent and spiteful.

Aemond gritted his teeth, forcing himself to ignore the apparition, even as the cold, insistent ache in his skull flared sharply–slithering and writhing behind the sapphire like a serpent. The pain intensified, as it always did in the boy’s presence, a cruel reminder of what he could never escape. Lucerys, it seemed, would not let him forget, as though Aemond needed any reminder. The memory of that night was forever branded into him, and now, it seemed, so was the boy he had come to kill.

He pressed the heel of his hand against his brow, on the unscarred side of his face, trying to quell the sharp pain that radiated through his skull. It was a cold, biting sensation that made him wish, for a fleeting moment, that he could kill Lucerys all over again. Had the boy not taken enough from him? Was he doomed to be haunted, tormented by this ghost for the rest of his life? The constant ache, the searing guilt–had he not paid enough?

His gaze flicked to her sleeping form, soft and peaceful in the dim light, just beyond his reach. All he wanted was to rise from the chaise, crawl into bed beside her, and bury his face in the crook of her neck, to let her warmth chase away the pain, even if Lucerys still stood there, watching with those milky eyes. Somehow, he believed her presence, her touch, could ease the torment, could quiet the relentless pounding in his head–after all, it had done so before.

Restlessness prickled beneath his skin and with a weary exhale, he pushed himself up from the chaise. The chill of the stone immediately sank into his feet as they touched the floor. His body felt heavy, weighed down by sleeplessness and the ache that never truly left him, but he could no longer remain still.

The familiar leather creaked softly as Aemond reached for his boots, slipping his feet into them with practiced ease. The quiet sound felt oddly grounding in the stillness of the room. He fastened the laces methodically, his fingers moving more out of habit than deliberate effort, his gaze lifting to cast a glance towards the window. The sky was still a deep share of pre-dawn blue, the horizon just beginning to show the faintest light as night slowly receded.

Aemond rose slowly from the chaise, his body protesting the movement as stiffness clung to his limbs, a dull ache spreading through his muscles. The position he had laid in was far from comfortable, and every joint seemed to remind him of that fact. He stretched, feeling the tightness in his shoulders and neck before turning his gaze to the dying hearth. His steps were heavy, each one weighed with the exhaustion that had plagued him for days–what sleep he had managed brought little relief to the weariness that now seemed a part of him.

The sharp crackle of glass splintering under his boots shattered the stillness of the room, a jarring intrusion that seemed to reverberate in the silence. The remnants of the broken glasses lay scattered like the wreckage of a memory. The shards caught what little light remained, reflecting it in jagged gleams that danced on the cold stone floor. Each step he took was deliberate, carefully paced, his footfalls softened as much as possible to avoid disturbing Daenera.

A lingering chill clung to the room, persistent and uncomfortable despite the faint warmth that clung to the dying embers in the hearth. The heat they offered was weak and fading as the fire burned itself out.The embers pulsed weakly, like the final heartbeat of something fading, struggling to hold on.

Crouching, he picked up a few logs and added them to the embers, watching as the heat slowly seeped into the wood, blackening the edges. The logs began to crackle softly, the glowing embers clinging to them, devouring them inch by inch until the first flicker of flame emerged. He watched the orange tongues of fire lick at the air, growing stronger, feeding off the fresh wood with a quiet but insistent hunger.

The heat began to radiate off the hearth, curling towards him, warming his skin in gentle waves. It lingered for a moment, a brief comfort. Aemond rose to his feet, the warmth fading almost as quickly as it had come, and cast a glance back towards the bed. The room would be warm by the time she stirred from her sleep.

Aemond turned from the hearth, his footsteps soft and measured as he moved through the room. He came to stand where Lucerys had once stood, at her side in his ghostly torment. But now, there was no pool of water on the floor, no trace of the boy’s presence–no reason there should be. Lucerys had never truly been there, nothing more than a cruel figment of his imagination, a haunting fragment that clung to him like a shadow.

His gaze found Daenera–as it always did. She rested peacefully on her side, her dark curls fanned out over the pillow, spilling across the crook of her shoulder and neck. A few wild strands fell into her face, brushing against her cheek. The sight of her stirred something deep within him–a tightening in his chest, that terrible, creeping vine of love twisting itself tighter around his heart. It was an awful, wretched feeling, the kind that both comforted and suffocated him at once.

Her dark lashes fluttered delicately against her cheeks, her lips parted slightly in the soft rhythm of sleep. He watched her in silence, his gaze lingering on the rise and fall of her breath.

There was a peacefulness to her face as she slept, a softness that seemed so elusive when she was awake. In sleep, her features mellowed, free of the tension and coldness that she wore so well around him. She looked impossibly soft, and Aemond felt a deep, aching longing to climb into bed beside her. He yearned to wrap his arms around her as he once had, to feel her wrath seep into him, to lose himself in her presence and find, if only for a moment, a fleeting sense of peace. Perhaps then, the relentless cold ache behind his sapphire eye would ease, as it had in the past when he held her close.

The sight of her should have brought him peace, but instead, it only deepened the ache inside him, that unbearable longing for something just out of reach. She seemed so close, yet impossibly distant, her warmth lying just beyond his grasp.

As he stood there, gazing down at her, he thought of the gaping wound she had left on his heart. She had cut him open in a way no blade ever could, leaving him exposed and vulnerable, a man brought to his knees by a love that unravel him. It was a love that made him beg–beg for her, for the closeness he craved, even though it went against everything he was, everything he had been taught to be.

Love was a blade. And oh, how deeply he had cut himself on it. He wondered if he would ever truly feel whole again.

He had made himself pathetic and weak in its pursuit, abandoning his pride and strength just to feel her in his arms again. And yet, despite the pain it caused him, despite the way it hollowed him out and left him bleeding, he still wanted it. He still wanted her. The agony of it was almost unbearable, and yet, there he stood, helpless in his desire, willing to bear the wounds if it meant he could have even a small piece of her.

The desire to reach for her itched at his fingertips. He extended a hand towards her, letting it hover above her sleeping form for a moment, his heart tightening in his chest. The ache behind his sapphire eye flared sharply, throbbing so intensely he could feel it in his teeth. His fingers trembled slightly, twitching with the need to touch her.

Tentatively, he let his fingers brush against one of her dark curls, the softness of it tickling against his skin. The sensation was almost painful in its gentleness, a reminder of how far she felt from him even as she was right before him. But she was his–truly his. They were bound by marriage, bound by law, and nothing she could do would change that.

She was his.

The thought echoed through his mind, dark and possessive. He might not hold all of her heart, might not possess her in the way he truly longed for, but she could not escape what they had become. She was his wife, and that fact alone tethered her to him in ways she could never truly sever. He would do whatever it took to keep it that way, to keep her by his side, to protect her, to ensure her safety–no matter what it cost him.

Aemond cared little for the wounds she might inflict upon him, for the scars she’d leave behind. She could spit venom, claw and rage against him, he would endure it all–gladly, if it meant she remained his. He would bear her scorn, her fury, her resentment, so long as she remained his.

He was a monster, after all. And monsters loved monstrously.

He knew the truth of his heart–it was black, hollowed by the weight of his sins, a dark wretched thing shaped by violence and vengeance. He had never been holy, no amount of prayer would absolve him. No redemption awaited him. Yet, despite its darkness, his heart belonged to her–whether she wanted it or not. She could deny him, reject him with all the fury in her soul, but she could not disavow what was hers. He had given it to her, laid it bare before her, rotten with love, knowing full well there would be a reckoning for such vulnerability.

Aemond understood that vulnerability came with a cost. There would be consequences–she would take vengeance in rejection, a need to wound him for the pain he had caused, for the blood that stained his hands. But even as he braced himself for the inevitable sharpness of the blade in her hand, he couldn’t silence the small flicker of hope within him. Somewhere beyond the sharp edges of their reckoning, beyond the storm of anger and grief, there might be room for something else–reconciliation.

The path to reconciliation was far from easy. It was a bloody, broken trail, scarred by the pain and anger they both carried, by the wounds they had inflicted on each other–and the wounds they would inevitably inflict again. Aemond understood this. He knew their love was as much about blood as it was about passion, a bond that could not exist without the scars they shared.

His hand moved almost instinctively, the knuckle of his finger brushing softly against her cheek, the caress feather-light. He could feel the warmth of her skin seep into him, a fleeting comfort that he craved, though he would never admit it aloud–not now, not when the sting of her rejection still burned against his skin. She exhaled softly in her sleep, oblivious to the way his heart beat for her–the agony of it. She made him pathetically soft, and Aemond loathed how weak she made him feel. There was a part of him that utterly despised the vulnerability she drew out of him, hated how much power she had over his heart.

He knew he couldn’t afford to be weak–not now, with the war looming on the horizon. He needed to steel himself, to lock away the softness she stirred in him. There was more blood to be spilled, and he knew his hands would be stained by it again–would be dripping with it. And when that blood was shed, she would hate him for it, despise him even more than she already did. He could feel that future unfolding, like a shadow cast ahead of him.

He accepted her hatred–he deserved it, after all.

But despite that certainty, he couldn’t help but hope for something more. Some part of him, the pathetically soft part of him, longed for her, for her love, even after everything he had done.

He would wait for it. However long it took, he would wait for the day she might look at him and see something other than a monster. Until then, he would carry the weight of her hatred as penance, knowing it was all he could hope for–for now.

As his fingers hovered just above her, Daenera stirred, drawing in a deep breath and turning over in her sleep, rolling onto her back. His heart tightened, that familiar tension growing in the pit of his stomach–the embers of desire flared, burning low and insistent. His gaze drifted down from her serene face, lingering on her parted lips, then tracing the elegant line of her neck, down to the delicate curve of her collarbones.

His eye traveled lower, to the smooth expanse of her chest where the low-cut nightgown had slipped from her shoulder. The soft, pale curve of her breast was exposed to him, rising and falling gently with her breath. The chill of the room had caused her nipple to tighten, the small peak of flesh standing out against the cool air. The sight of her stirred something primal within him.

Aemond clenched his jaw and let his hand fall away, the burn in his lower stomach intensifying, clawing at him with a fierce ache that refused to fade. It had been with him since he had knelt before her and she had denied him. The memory of the rejection lingered, raw and tender.

Aggravation twisted within him, itching beneath his skin. The tension coiled tight in his chest as he turned away from her, pacing through their bedchamber and out into the common room. His movements were deliberate, controlled, even as frustration clawed at his insides.

As he walked, his foot knocked against one of the chests of fabric with a dull thud. He paused, body tensing, listening for any signs that he had disturbed sleep. Daenera sighed softly, her breath as calm and steady as before, undisturbed.

The shadows of the night clung to the room, heavy and thick, deepening in the corners where the light from the dying hearth couldn’t reach. The space felt suffocating, cluttered with chests and gifts scattered about–items that seemed to loom in the darkness. Aemond gritted his teeth, a simmering annoyance burning in his chest, intensified by the struggle of depth perception. He had grown accustomed to navigating his own chambers, where every item had its place and the floor remained clear. But here, even in spaces meant to be familiar, he found himself having to tread carefully, mindful of each step, each movement.

It was yet another bitter reminder of what he had lost–a consequence of Lucerys’ actions. His frustration was only exaggerated by the darkness.

The urge to curse Lucerys flared within him, a familiar anger simmering just below the surface. The boy’s death had done little to ease the resentment–it had not restored his eye. Even now, in the quiet of night, Aemond found himself haunted by what had been taken from him–by the limitations he despised, by the unevenness of his sight.

The halls of Maegor’s Holdfast were eerily quiet as he stepped out of their chambers, the heavy door closing softly behind him. Night still clung to the space, casting long, thick shadows that seemed to stretch endlessly along the stone walls. Despite the faint glow from the inner courtyard and the braziers positioned throughout the corridors, their orange flames flickering weakly, the darkness remained dominant. The sparse light did little to push back the gloom, leaving most of the hallways swathed in shadow, adding to the quiet stillness that permeated the air.

Aemond moved with purpose, his footsteps echoing against the cold stone floor, the low, flickering light casting his form into a series of shifting silhouettes as he passed from one dimly lit patch to the next. He pushed open the doors to his chambers, the familiar space offering little in the way of true comfort. The room now felt as hollow as the ache gnawing at him. He moved swiftly, heading straight to the corner where his training doublet lay–a worn, padded garment that had seen years of use. Its rough texture was familiar under his fingers as he picked it up and threw it on with practiced ease.

Irritation flickered through him as he tugged his hair free from beneath the collar. The braids had come loose, tugged askew and ruined by her hands–the reminder was a small annoyance but enough to grate on his already fraying nerves. He undid them quickly, running his fingers through his silver locks before gathering them back into the usual style, securing it tightly with a leather strap.

His movements were quick, impatient, the simple task unable to distract him from the restless energy coiling beneath his skin. Finally, he reached for his leather eye patch. The press of it against his scarred eye sent a flare of discomfort through him, his jaw clenching as the insistent ache intensified. The edges of the patch rubbed against the sensitive skin, constantly reminding him of it–reminding of what he had lost, of the pain he carried, and the vengeance he had sought.

Aemond picked up his sword, the weight of it in his hand offering a semblance of comfort–familiar, heavy and deadly–and strode out of his chambers into the dimly lit corridor. The Holdfast remained eerily quiet, with only a few servants scurrying past him, their heads bowed as they hurried along their tasks. The halls felt emptier than usual at this hour, the air thick with stillness. He surmised it was due to the lingering effects of the wedding celebration. Few were awake, and even fewer were up and about, leaving the halls desolate–even from the usual scurrying of servants preparing for the day to come.

As he made his way through the corridors and into the great hall, he descended the stairs with quick, purposeful steps, the sound of his boots echoing through the silence. The emptiness of the hall pressed in around him, heightening the sound of every movement. When he reached the bottom of the stairs, he was met by Ser Criston Cole, who emerged from the shadows of the hall. Criston’s gait was steady, coming from the direction of his mother’s chambers.

Ser Criston glanced up, the frown on his face deepening with unease as Aemond descended the final steps. His dark eyes shifted cautiously as Aemond slowed, clearly unsettled by the unexpected encounter. “My prince,” Ser Criston greeted, his voice carrying a hint of wary surprise. “You’re up early…”

Aemond simply muttered in response, “Couldn’t sleep.” His tone was clipped, and he shifted slightly on his feet, not in the mood for conversation. His gaze flickered briefly to the white cloak clutched in Ser Criston’s hand, a small detail that drew his attention more than the words exchanged. He dismissed it, thinking nothing of it.

“That makes two of us,” Ser Criston replied, shifting his stance. “I thought I’d make myself useful and take over for Ser Richard Thorn, standing guard for Her Grace.”

Aemond nodded curtly, his mind already elsewhere, the conversation doing little to distract him from the gnawing frustration that had driven him out of his chambers. He glanced towards the direction of his mother’s chambers, his grip tightening on the hilt of his sword as the weight of the night settled further on his shoulders.

He gave a noncommittal hum before turning sharply on his heel, heading down the corridor that followed the inner courtyard. The cool bite of morning air greeted him as he stepped into the open space, the chill brushing against his skin. The sky had grown lighter, though just barely–there was still some time before the sun would break over the horizon.

Pushing through the heavy doors of the Holdfast, Aemond made his way towards the tiltyard, his steps steady and purposeful. The pre-dawn quiet clung to the air, a stillness only broken by the crunch of gravel and mud beneath his boots. The walls of the Red Keep loomed around him, their stone taking on a deep, wine-red hue in the dim light, shadows stretching across them from the flickering braziers that lined the walls. Guards patrolled the battlements, their figures dark against the faint glow of the torches, some walking the perimeter in a steady, vigilant rhythm.

The world around him was quiet, but Aemond’s thoughts were far from it. The tension of the sleepless night, the restless energy that churned inside him, pushed him forward, his sword heavy at his side. The tiltyard lay ahead, and though the morning air was cold, it wasn’t enough to temper the heat that smoldered within him.

Aemond gripped the hilt of his sword tightly, his knuckles pale against the steel, before drawing it from its sheath with a sharp, ringing sound. The steel sang as it cut through the air, a familiar sound that stirred something within him. He tossed the empty sheath aside, forgotten, and immediately advanced on the wooden training dummy.

Each swing of his blade bit into the wood with a solid thunk, the force of the blows reverberating up the sword and into his hands. He felt the vibrations, but they no longer pained him–not after years of relentless training. The strikes came fast and furious, his frustrations pouring out with every hit. In his mind, the dummy became a stand-in for all of his anger: his indulgent brother, his brother’s foolish friends, his uncle, the boy who haunted his nights, and then, inevitably, the Rogue Prince himself.

The sound of wood splintering filled the air as he hacked and slashed at the dummy, each swing more aggressive than the last. His breath quickened, his body moving with brutal precision as he carved into the wood, driving his frustrations deeper with every blow. He spun his sword expertly in his hand before delivering another devastating strike, the blade slicking clean through the dummy’s arm. The severed piece fell to the ground with a dull thud, the wood jagged and splintered at the break.

Aemond’s chest heaved, his breath sharp and fast in the cold morning air, which burned in his lungs. His body was warm, slick with the excretion, but still the frustration simmered inside him. His hands tightened once more around the hilt, ready for more, as if the act of destruction alone could soothe the tempest within–as though the ache of each blow that reverberated up his arms would ease the ache in his head, in his heart.

The world around him gradually brightened, the sky above shifting from the deep blue of night to a soft, glowing hue as dawn approached. A warm spill of color began to stretch across the horizon–gold and orange bleeding into one another, deepening into a rich red before lightening once more. The early morning painted the sky in a slow, fiery sweep, the first rays of sunlight beginning to touch the stone walls of the Keep.

As the sky changed, so did the stillness within the castle. Slowly, the Keep came to life, the once-silent courtyards stirring with activity. More servants emerged, starting their day as they moved purposefully, preparing the morning tasks and services.

Some servants began the quiet task of dismantling the remnants of the wedding celebration, moving with purpose through the now-stirring Keep. Bouquets of flowers were gathered and carried away, their vibrant colors faded by the dawn light. Trays of half-eaten food were swiftly collected, remnants of the previous night’s indulgence gathered to be distributed to the orphanages of Flea Bottom. Linen tablecloths, stained from spilled wine and merriment, were stripped from the tables and carried off to be washed. The grandeur of the night before was being methodically erased, the hall slowly returning to its usual state as life resumed its unrelenting routine.

Aemond ignored the activity around him, his focus narrowing as he stepped away from the battered, splintered remains of the wooden dummy. His grip tightened around the hilt of his sword, the steel slicing through the air with a sharp, satisfying swish. He moved fluidly, going through the practiced motions–blocking, parrying, and thrusting the blade towards where his enemy’s heart would be.

Even as he moved, he could feel the weight of eyes on him, a prickling sensation that grated on his already frayed nerves. His gaze flickered briefly to the side, catching sight of Ser Wyllam Lefford and Eddard Waters leaning casually against the wall, their arms crossed as they watched him with amused expressions. The sight of their smug smiles only served to fuel the irritation simmering beneath his skin.

“A fine morning, Prince Aemond,” Ser Wyllam called out, offering a nod that was anything but deferential. “I trust your wife bears no ill will for being left so soon to her own company…”

His grip tightened on the hilt as he launched another strike, pouring the tension of the night’s torment into each movement. Each step was a study in control, every movement deliberate and exact, etched into muscle and memory by years of relentless discipline. He had no patience for conversation, especially not with one of his brother’s lickspittles. Ignoring their presence was as much a mercy for them as it was a choice for himself.

Ser Wyllam exchanged a look with Eddard, their amusement deepening as they continued their idle observation, clearly hoping for some reaction. They whispered to one another, their voices low but pointed, just loud enough to graze Aemond's awareness without fully drawing him in.

“Most men would be tangled in their sheets–or their wives–come the morning after a wedding,” Ser Wyllam remarked, his voice carrying across the courtyard with a needling, mocking edge. He chuckled as he spoke, as if his jest was too clever to keep to himself, the smirk on his face deepening as he waited for a reaction.

At his side, Ser Eddard Waters shot his friend a look of mild reproach, reaching out to clap Wyllam’s shoulder in a gesture meant to check his boldness.

“Ease off, Wyllam. Not all of us are made for dawn practice, especially not when we’re nursing last night’s wine,” he muttered, casting a wary glance toward Aemond, whose mood was all too evident in the tightness of his grip and the intensity of his stance. Even Eddard seemed to sense that this morning, Aemond’s patience was thinner than the mist rising from the cold stone.

But Wyllam only laughed, shrugging off Eddard’s caution with a lazy grin. “Oh, come now,” he replied, his tone laced with insolence, “surely the prince won’t mind a jest or two? A bit of morning mirth, to start the day?”

With a controlled, deliberate movement, Aemond turned his sword in his hand, the blade glinting faintly as he twisted it in a slow, restless arc. The edge of the steel caught the morning light, a flash of cold promise, as his gaze settled on Wyllam’s with an unwavering intensity. His stare was cold, sharp, and unamused–a silent warning, the only one he would give.

The tension in the tiltyard thickened, the quiet dawn seeming to hold its breath. His pulse thundered in his ears, his senses narrowing as if the world had shrunk to the space between him and the smirking knight before him. He could feel his muscles coiling, his body tense and poised as though preparing to strike, every nerve taut with the barely restrained desire to put an end to Wyllam’s insolence.

But he held back–just barely. His self-control, honed to an edge as sharp as his blade, kept him anchored, though every second that passed tested the limits of his restraint. With each heartbeat, each blink, Wyllam’s smug expression seemed to grow more insufferable, his very presence fueling the simmering annoyance that threatened to break through Aemond’s tightly held composure.

“I didn’t expect to find you here, of all places. Especially at such an ungodly hour.” Ser Wyllam hummed, with a slight smirk. “Well, I’m sure the princess knew who she was marrying–a man who takes his devotion to the sword quite seriously.”

The barb twisted deeper, needling at Aemond’s already fragile restraint. He felt the heat surge in his chest, his knuckles tightening around the hilt of his sword until his grip nearly ached. Had it been up to him, he would have spent the night–and day–in bed with his wife, losing himself in the feel of her body, in the warmth and closeness they should have shared. But, as with so many things in his life, that had been denied him. She had recoiled from him, rejected his touch, and refused to believe in the love he had bared so vulnerably. She didn’t believe that his heart bled for her, that he would bleed for her.

The thought seared through him, feeding the fire that simmered just beneath his skin. Without a word, he continued, spinning his sword with practiced grace, taking a few measured steps before pivoting sharply and swinging the blade in a clean arc. The steel sliced through the wooden dummy’s head with ease, cleaving it neatly in two. The bucket that had been perched atop the dummy’s head shattered on impact, falling to the ground with a heavy thud, splintered pieces scattering across the courtyard.

A slow, mocking clap cut through the air, punctuating the silence left by the splintered remains of Aemond’s assault on the training dummy. Ser Wyllam leaned against the wall with a lazy smirk, his hands coming together in exaggerated applause. His expression brimmed with insolence, and he took his time before speaking, letting his words drip with a mocking reverence.

“An impressive display, my prince,” Wyllam’s voice carried a lilt of amusement as he took a step forward, his eyes alight with gleeful malice. "A shame, though, if such skill failed you in… gentler pursuits.” He paused, savoring the effect of his words. "All that mastery, all that precision–spent on wood and steel, rather than on the woman you call wife. What worth has a blade so finely honed if it cannot answer the call when true need arises?”

Aemond’s jaw clenched, his fingers tightening around the hilt of his sword until his knuckles paled against the dark leather. Wyllam’s voice, laced with thinly veiled scorn, grated against him, stoking the fire simmering just beneath the surface. The knight’s words, like so many barbs, pried at Aemond’s restraint, twisting in deeper with each calculated pause and contemptuous smirk.

He said nothing, holding Wyllam’s gaze with an unblinking intensity, his single, steely eye cold and unyielding, a silent warning that the knight was testing the limits of his patience. The training yard felt smaller, the walls closing in as the tension in the air thickened. A faint breeze rustled through the yard, catching stray leaves that scattered at their feet, but even this quiet movement seemed hushed, anticipating the violence brewing in Aemond’s silence.

Wyllam, either too foolish or too emboldened by his audience, continued with a satisfied tilt to his grin. “Or perhaps,” he drawled, his voice softening with false sympathy, “the problem lies not with you, but with the lady’s own heart–”or lack thereof. Sad, truly, when a man’s blade meets only cold steel in return.”

Aemond’s gaze narrowed, his entire stance coiled with a deadly tension, ready to strike. He did not lower his sword. Instead, he let the tip rest against the ground, a deliberate move that allowed Wyllam to see he was one word away from inviting a duel that would end any notion of mercy.

His stare cut through the space between them, cold and unflinching, a gaze stripped of any pretense of amusement. His single eye held a seething intensity, a barely contained storm that lurked just beneath the surface, waiting to be unleashed. His grip on his sword was steady, the hilt held with the ease of long familiarity but bearing an implicit threat.

“Ser Wyallam,” Aemond hummed, his voice low, each syllable measured and deliberate, “do you fancy yourself a brave man?”

The question fell like a weight, heavy and sharp, slicing through the taunting air Wyllam had stirred. It lingered, taut as a drawn bowstring, the silence around them thickening, suffused with a palpable tension. The humor that had lit Wyllam’s smirk began to wither, the edge of his confidence dulling as the gravity of Aemond’s words sank in. He shifted slightly, his posture faltering as the faintest flicker of unease crept into his expression, a crack in the mask he had worn so arrogantly.

“You’d need to be brave,” He said, his voice held no trace of humor, each word laced with an icy menace that matched the cold steel resting in his grip. “Or exceptionally foolish to speak so freely to me now.”

Slowly, he raised his sword, the blade gleaming faintly in the morning light as its point aligned with Wyllam’s chest, a silent promise of consequences yet to come.

“Do you think mocking me is wise?” His words cut through the cold like a knife, each syllable sharpened with purpose–spoken with such deliberate softness it seemed to only sharpen them. He took a measured, predatory step forward, his gaze unrelenting as he closed the distance, his sword unwavering.

The air between them felt as thick as smoke, heavy with a tension that seemed to pull tighter with every passing second. The smug confidence that had shaped their expressions only moments ago now flickered, faltering under the weight of his scrutiny. The easy arrogance that had curled their lips faded, replaced by a creeping unease that neither could fully mask. Brief, uncertain glances passed between them, a silent acknowledgment of the danger they now faced.

Even Eddard Waters, who had mostly held his silence until now, shifted his stance and cast his gaze away, visibly unsettled by the prince’s icy intensity. The easy bravado that had carried their taunts felt brittle now, cracked beneath the pressure of Aemond’s unyielding scrutiny, leaving them both stripped of their earlier assurance.

“Hmm?” Aemond hummed with dark amusement, the question more taunt than inquiry. They all knew exactly who he was–what he was. The Kinslayer, the rider of Vhagar, the largest and most fearsome dragon alive. The knowledge lingered in the air like a shadow, a reminder of the power he held and the devastation he was capable of unleashing.

He let his fingers flex around the hilt of his sword, his grip tightening as he moved forward. The sharp crunch of his boots against the gravel rang out in the stillness, each step steady and deliberate, a rhythm that underscored his threat. The men before him dared not stir, but their sideways glances betrayed their unease, as if they wished they could dissolve into the shadows.

Aemond’s gaze fixed on Ser Wyllam, his lips curling in a slight sneer that conveyed both disdain and warning. His voice, when he spoke, was as sharp as the blade he held, cutting through the silence with an authority that left no room for misinterpretation.

“What became of that boldness you flaunted just moments ago?” Aemond’s voice dripped with contempt, his head tilting slightly, his single eye gleaming with an unmistakable malice. A faint, mocking smile touched his lips as he took another slow, deliberate step forward, savoring the tension that crackled in the air between them.

“You seem rather… invested in my affairs, Ser Wyllam,” he continued, his tone sharp and biting. He closed the distance further, letting the weight of his words sink in, his gaze locked unerringly on the knight’s face. “I wonder–could it be jealousy that drives your tongue?” he hummed softly, the mockery threaded through his words like venom.

He let the question linger, each syllable cutting deeper. “A man like you,” he said, his voice a low murmur of disdain, “I imagine has precious little else to occupy his time. Wagging that tongue of yours, drowning in wine, praying for the King to toss you some small scrap from his table, hoping for a position you’ll never deserve. Tell me, Ser Wyllam,” he sneered, “does it chafe, knowing you are little more than a craven, desperately clawing for relevance?”

The word ‘craven’ dropped from Aemond’s lips like a blade falling, weighted and contemptuous, and he watched the insult strike Ser Wyllam with unerring accuracy. The knight’s face darkened, his smug expression faltering as his pride took the blow. His brow knit in anger, his lips thinning to a tight line, and a wounded gleam flared in his eyes.

Wyllam pushed off the wall, fists clenching at his sides as anger contorted his face into an ugly sneer. His voice, now sharpened by the boldness found in fury, cut through the air. “Who are you calling craven, Kinslayer?”

Ser Eddard Waters stepped forward quickly, his hand coming down firmly on Wyllam’s shoulder, his voice low and urgent. “Don’t–”

“Who are you calling craven?” Wyllam barked, louder this time, shrugging off the hand that sought to restrain him. “Who are you to call anyone craven when you murdered your own nephew?”

The words tore through the crisp morning air, sharp and irreverent–a reckless challenge that left a chilling silence in its wake. Aemond’s face was a mask of cold fury, his single eye narrowing to a dangerous slit as his composure coiled like a serpent poised to strike. Slowly, with the deliberate grace of a predator, his fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword. The blade came forward in a measured arc, its cold steel tip pressing into Ser Wyllam’s chest, a touch as sharp as the threat in his gaze.

“Say it again,” he commanded.

Aemond’s voice was low, deceptively calm, but each word held the unmistakable weight of a promise–a quiet menace that carried the promise of violence barely held at bay. The gathered men froze, their breaths shallow, as if the very air had turned colder under the weight of Aemond’s presence. The silence grew thick around them, heavy with unspoken consequences, as his blade remained steady, the authority in his words settling over them like a funeral shroud.

“Say it again,” He repeated, his voice even softer this time, though the razor-sharp edge in his tone was unmistakable, as cutting as the steel pressing against Wyllam’s chest.

Aemond’s lips twisted into a mirthless smile, his face a cold mask of fury. “Call me kinslayer again,” he murmured, “and let’s see how sharp your tongue is once I cut it from your mouth.”

Ser Wyllam’s face hardened, though his bravado faltered, and a flicker of fear betrayed him in his eyes. He squared his shoulders, forcing the words out even as his voice wavered. “You can’t harm me,” he managed, though the tremor in his tone was plain. “Your brother, the King, wouldn’t allow it.”

Aemond tilted his head, a cold smile curling at the edge of his lips. Without a word, he cast a slow, mocking glance around the courtyard, his expression almost amused, as though genuinely searching for his brother. The tension in the courtyard hung thick, the onlookers watching in a tense, breathless silence, eyes locked on the scene as Aemond’s disdainful gaze swept over them. The weight of his unspoken challenge settled heavily in the air, daring anyone to interfere.

His gaze returned to Ser Wyllam, sharp as a drawn blade. “I don’t see my brother here,” he said in a low, dangerous drawl. “And even if he were, I doubt he’d be foolish enough to value your miserable tongue above me… or my dragon.”

A glint of amusement flickered over Aemond’s lips, his gaze never leaving Wyllam as he tilted his head with a mocking hum. “Shall we put it to the test?” he challenged. “Or are you too much of a craven to stand by the words that spill from your tongue?”

Wyllam’s face contorted in a scowl, pride stung past the point of reason. His jaw tightened, and his eyes narrowed, anger flashing in his gaze as he shrugged off Ser Eddard Waters, who tried to pull him back.

“Let it go,” Ser Eddard murmured, voice tight with apprehension. “There’s no need for this.”

“I wonder, Ser Wyllam,” Aemond’s voice dripped with mockery, “are you truly a man, or merely another fool hiding his behind knightly armor?” His lips curled in a mocking smile. “Perhaps the court could make better use of you. You certainly have a fool's tongue, well-suited to wagging for laughs rather than wielding steel.”

Wyllam’s sneer deepened as he shoved away Ser Eddard’s restraining hand, striding off toward the weapons rack beneath the shadow of the battlements. His boots crunched against the gravel, each step bristling with anger, his posture rigid and his gaze fixed forward.

Aemond watched him with a faint, satisfied smile, a flicker of dark amusement sparking in his chest. His fingers flexed around the hilt of his sword, but he remained motionless, his stance calm, assured. There was no urgency in his demeanor, no need to chase or hurry; he knew his own skill, and he anticipated Wyllam’s next move with a serene confidence. Whatever fight the knight intended to bring, Aemond was more than prepared to end it.

He spun his sword in a fluid arc, the blade slicing through the crisp morning air with practiced precision as he moved back onto the training grounds. The tiltyard stretched around him, a space marked by years of relentless training, where he had pursued mastery with singular focus. Though the morning was cold, Aemond’s body was warm, his muscles primed from the earlier exertion, each movement flowing with effortless confidence, a subtle arrogance radiating from him as he readied himself for the clash ahead.

Opposite him, Ser Wyllam took his position, his posture stiff, shoulders lifted, his entire body wound as tightly as a drawn bowstring. There was a prideful defiance in his stance, a sharp edge born of anger, but Aemond noted the tension lurking beneath it–a sign of the fury and frustration simmering just below the surface. The grip of Wyllam’s sword was rigid, his knuckles blanching, as if he believed brute force alone would see him through the duel.

Aemond’s gaze traveled over Wyllam’s stance, absorbing every detail, a faint, confident smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he observed the knight’s strain, already understanding the weakness within it.

He stood with an almost languid ease, his sword resting casually in his hand, his posture relaxed and unhurried. A faint smirk played at the corner of his lips, the look of a predator patiently circling its prey. His confidence was not merely a match for Wyllam’s; it overpowered it entirely. He was here to show that he was not a man to be mocked but one to be feared. His heartbeat was steady and controlled, a slow, deliberate rhythm beneath his ribs, unlike the frantic pulse he imagined was pounding in Wyllam’s chest.

With a sharp intake of breath, Ser Wyllam moved first, lunging forward with a sweeping strike, his sword arcing down with all the force he could muster. But Aemond reacted with practiced fluidity, slipping easily to the side, the blow missing him by inches. His movements were seamless, every step calculated, every shift deliberate, his single eye locked onto Wyllam with unwavering focus.

The knight recovered quickly, whipping his sword around in a swift attempt to catch Aemond off guard. But once again, Aemond was faster–his blade met Ser Wyllam’s with a ringing clash that echoed off the stone walls of the tiltyard, the sharp sound of steel against steel reverberating through the crisp morning air.

Aemond allowed Wyllam to press the attack, his movements fluid and controlled, sidestepping and parrying as though he were dancing rather than dueling. Each swing from Wyllam grew harder, more desperate, yet Aemond countered every strike with effortless grace, his feet unshaken, his breathing calm and measured. He was toying with the knight, letting him believe he had a chance, and all the while a mocking smile played on Aemond’s lips, deepening with each of Wyllam’s increasingly frantic swings.

With each dodge and deflection, Aemond’s amusement only grew, the predator’s satisfaction gleaming in his eye as he watched Wyllam’s movements unravel into raw frustration.

The courtyard echoed with the relentless rhythm of clashing steel, each strike resounding off the Red Keep’s walls. The crisp morning air filled with the sharp clang of metal, a steady, discordant drumbeat of tension and fury. But Aemond’s patience began to wear thin; the frustrated growls escaping Ser Wyllam with each missed blow no longer held the same amusement. With a shift in stance, Aemond pressed forward, his strikes becoming sharp, swift, and merciless.

Ser Wyllam, still stumbling in his own frustration, struggled to keep pace, narrowly dodging Aemond’s precision strikes, his attempts to counter awkward and clumsy. Their swords met in another jarring clash, the force vibrating through the courtyard like a crack of thunder. But Wyllam, seemingly fueled by wounded pride, took a bold risk–stepping forward, he seized Aemond’s wrist in a desperate grip, his face twisted with effort as he tried to bend Aemond to his will.

For a brief moment, they were locked together, swords forgotten as Wyllam strained against him, his knuckles white with the force he exerted. His grip tightened, and he leaned into Aemond, attempting to force his arm down. Aemond’s eye flickered, a slight smirk playing on his lips as he allowed Wyllam to believe, just for an instant, that he’d gained the upper hand.

Then, without warning, Aemond’s free hand shot forward, seizing Wyllam’s shoulder in a bruising grip. Rather than pulling away, he let the knight draw him in, moving with the momentum. In one brutal, fluid motion, Aemond drove his knee up into Wyllam’s gut, the force of the blow cutting through him like a blade. Wyllam doubled over, the air leaving his lungs in a pained wheeze, his grip slackening as his face twisted in shock and agony.

Aemond’s expression remained icy and implacable, satisfaction flickering across his face as he seized the moment, twisting sharply and effortlessly throwing Wyllam to the ground.

The knight hit the ground hard, a resounding thud marking his fall. He lay sprawled, struggling to draw breath, veins bulging beneath his eyes, spit glistening on his lips–utterly defeated. The courtyard seemed to absorb the finality of his collapse, as the fight drained from him and he lay gasping, exposed and humbled at Aemond’s feet.

“Is that all you have?” Aemond drawled, tilting his head slightly, his tone laced with bored contempt. “I expected more from you, Ser Wyllam. I thought, at the very least, you’d make me work for it.”

Ser Wyllam, battered and breathless, forced himself upright with a ragged gasp, his hand gripping the hilt of his sword for balance. He wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve, smearing spit and sweat across the dark fabric, his face flushed an angry crimson. His eyes were still watery from the force of the blow that had emptied his lungs, and his stance wavered, though he managed to steady himself enough to meet Aemond’s gaze.

“You–” he spat, pausing to catch his breath, his voice strained with barely concealed fury. “You think knocking the wind out of me makes you strong? I suppose it’s the only thing you’re good for–stealing the breath of a man… or a boy.” He straightened, bitterness hardening his expression. “And little else.”

The words hung in the air, cutting and deliberate, and for a moment, even the chill of the courtyard seemed to sharpen as Wyllam met Aemond’s eyes with a defiant glare.

Ser Eddard Waters had evidently seen enough. He strode forward, placing a firm hand on Wyllam’s shoulder, his voice low and urgent. “Stop this, Wyllam,” he muttered, his concern unmistakable as he tried to pull the knight back, his grip steady yet pleading.

But Wyllam’s wounded pride proved too consuming. He shoved Eddard aside, stubbornly advancing, his sword raised, the blade trembling slightly but still leveled at him. Aemond stood a few paces away, watching with an air of detached amusement, a faint, cold smile playing on his lips as he observed the knight’s faltering resolve.

“Did–did your wife ask you to keep that eyepatch on?” Wyllam spat, his voice strained and breathy from the effort, each word a gamble. Despite his faltering strength, the taunt hung in the air, aimed to sting.

In an instant, Aemond’s amusement vanished, dissipating like mist under a harsh sun. His chest tightened as a spark of rage flared, igniting the carefully controlled embers of his temper. He stood utterly still, his eye narrowing into a cold gleam, now filled with a lethal warning.

“Wyllam, enough!” Ser Eddard hissed, desperation edging his voice as he stepped in once more, casting a pleading, apologetic look back at Aemond. “Forgive him, my prince. He’s had too much wine, and it’s made him foolish and insolent. He speaks without thought–”

Indeed, Aemond thought, his grip on his sword tightening, his stance shifting with the slightest inclination toward violence.

But Wyllam wasn’t finished. He tore himself from Eddard’s grip, his bitterness sharpened to a sneering edge. “I imagine she would,” he spat, his voice a labored hiss, barely concealing the resentment twisting his features. “Anything to avoid staring at that scar of yours… though keeping it hidden doesn’t help much, does it?”

Eddard made a final attempt to restrain him, but Wyllam struggled forward, his body trembling with effort. “I wonder,” he taunted, forcing the words out between heaving breaths, “if she wishes for anyone else in bed than you. Must be why you’re out here, isn’t it? She can’t stand the sight of you!”

The words hung in the air, barbed and venomous, each one more reckless than the last. Aemond’s face remained composed, but the air around him seemed to turn colder, crackling with a silence that carried the weight of imminent violence.

Wyllam’s sneer twisted further, his words biting deeper, each syllable laced with scorn as he let out a hoarse, mocking laugh. “Who would want you?” he spat. “And you call me craven? You–”

“Enough!” Eddard’s shout cut through the air, his voice trembling with desperation as he stepped firmly between them, his hands pressing hard against Wyllam’s shoulders, trying to force him back. “You need to stop this!”

His gaze darted to Aemond, alarm flickering in his eyes, fully aware of the danger Wyllam had provoked. The tension thickened, and Eddard’s hands tightened against his friend’s shoulders, as though sheer force might restrain the foolishness that now threatened to cost him dearly.

Aemond’s lips curled into a faint, mocking smile, a low hum escaping his throat. “Mmh, I wonder,” he murmured, his eye fixed on Ser Wyllam with a predator’s focus–gleaming with the promise of violence. He raised his sword, the blade catching the pale morning light as he made a subtle, deliberate gesture for Eddard to step aside. “How far that tongue of yours will carry you…” His head tilted, the cruel edge of his smile deepening. “When I am finished with you.”

A shadow of grim understanding flickered across Eddard’s face. He hesitated, his eyes shifting between Aemond and Wyllam, as if searching for any hope of retreat. But the weight of what was about to unfold pressed down like iron; there was no path left to stave off the storm gathering in Aemond’s gaze.

With a reluctant breath, Eddard stepped back, his hands falling to his sides as he accepted the futility of his efforts. His eyes held a brief, regretful glance toward Wyllam before he moved aside, understanding fully that his words had no power left to prevent what was to come.

Aemond’s gaze stayed locked on Wyllam, his single eye wide and ablaze with cold, controlled fury, a fire that burned with a deadly purpose. His chest felt taut, each breath fueling the smoldering rage coiled tightly within him. To be branded a Kinslayer in hushed tones was one thing, a whispered insult in the shadows; but to have it hurled openly at him, accompanied by jabs at his marriage–that was a slight he could neither forgive nor ignore.

His grip on his sword tightened, his knuckles whitening as he stalked forward, every step deliberate, each movement underscoring his intent. There would be no mercy, no restraint–he would make an example of Ser Wyllam, a lasting reminder of what it meant to cross him.

Aemond hummed softly, his head tilting in mock contemplation. “Or perhaps,” he mused, his tone laced with false sympathy, “you’re hoping I’ll be merciful? I have been known to hold back… on occasion.”

The lie was evident to everyone present. Aemond had never been merciful.

There was no mercy when he had demanded Lucerys carve out his own eye as payment for his, his demand cold and unforgiving. He had pursued the boy like a shadow, laughter ringing sharp and merciless through the wind. Lucerys’s terror only fueled him, each taunt slicing through the thunder as he drew closer. And there was nothing close to mercy when Vhagar’s jaw had closed around him, swallowing the boy in a single breath.

At least, that’s what they all believed. None of them knew the truth–that in that final, irreversible moment, he had lost control, that Vhagar had acted on her own, beyond his desperate command. They thought it had been his intention all along, and he had no desire to correct their beliefs. Let them think it had been his will, let the world whisper the name Kinslayer with horror.

That cursed title would follow him until his dying breath. But if they were to curse him, despise him, he would ensure they feared him above all.

Wyllam lunged first, his sword sweeping forward in a wild, desperate strike that Aemond sidestepped smoothly, the blade slicing through empty air where he had stood only moments before. Wyllam’s sword swung around again in a frantic arc, and this time, Aemond met it head-on. Their blades clashed, the sharp ring of steel echoing through the tiltyard, a brief, violent harmony that held for a heartbeat as their swords locked before breaking apart.

They traded blow after blow, the air between them alive with the hiss and scrape of metal. Aemond moved with a calm, calculated grace, each strike precise, every motion controlled. In contrast, Wyllam’s attacks were frantic and unsteady, his form crumbling beneath Aemond’s relentless composure.

Then, without warning, Aemond drove his elbow into Wyllam’s face, a brutal blow that connected with a sickening crack. The knight stumbled back, his expression contorted in shock and pain as blood poured from his shattered nose, painting his face a vivid crimson. The fight was rapidly slipping from his grasp, and the fear in his eyes betrayed the grim realization that he was utterly outmatched.

Aemond allowed the knight no chance to recover. In one fluid, merciless motion, he swung his sword with ease, disarming Wyllam in a single swipe. The knight’s blade clattered to the ground, the sound swallowed by the force of Aemond’s next move–a brutal kick to his chest that sent him sprawling backward into the dirt. Dust rose around him as he hit the ground hard, the impact driving the air from his lungs and leaving him gasping once again.

Aemond advanced, his expression cold and implacable. Without a moment’s hesitation, he raised his boot and brought it down squarely on Wyllam’s face, a sharp, sickening crack reverberating through the courtyard as the knight’s jaw snapped under the blow. Blood poured from Wyllam’s mouth, forming a dark line that dribbled from the corner of his lips, his wide, tear-filled eyes betraying the searing pain that gripped him.

Towering over the defeated knight, Aemond drove his heel into Wyllam’s chest, pinning him against the earth as the knight's hands clawed desperately at his boot, fingers scrabbling for any hold, trying in vain to pry himself free. But Aemond only pressed down harder, his heel grinding into Wyllam’s breastbone, the pressure relentless as he watched agony contort Wyllam’s bloodied face, cold satisfaction flickering in his gaze.

The sharp, labored breaths of Ser Wyllam filled the courtyard, each ragged inhale cut by pained gasps as he struggled beneath his boot. The sound was coarse, strangled–a fitting backdrop to his utter defeat. Aemond held his heel firmly against the knight’s chest, his gaze chilling and unsympathetic. Beneath his boot, he could feel Wyllam’s ribs yielding, each fragile bone straining beneath the pressure, dangerously close to cracking.

Aemond’s gaze flicked to the growing circle of onlookers gathered at a careful distance–servants clutching their skirts, guards keeping to the walls, even a few nobles peering with wide-eyed interest and thinly veiled horror. Their faces varied between revulsion and fear, unease weaving through them. But he saw more than fear in their eyes–there was judgment, an accusation simmering beneath their lowered gazes, whispers of disdain held tightly behind closed lips.

Good, he thought, his lips curving into a faint, knowing smirk.

Let them watch. Let them carry whispers back to their halls, their whispers of his cruelty and ruthlessness. None would dare voice their contempt openly, now, not as they witnessed his swift, calculated retribution. He was aware of their judgments and disgust, yet he found himself untouched by it. After all, power bred resentment, and fear was a far more enduring currency than any show of kindness.

Lowering his gaze back to Wyllam, Aemond leaned in, letting his voice fall low, each word laced with chilling clarity. “You seemed so confident in your taunts, Ser Wyllam,” he murmured, his voice a venomous whisper. “So eager to test me. Tell me, does courage fail you now?”

The knight struggled for breath, his face twisted in pain, yet defiance flared in his eyes. His trembling hand clawed weakly at Aemond's boot, each movement a pathetic attempt at resistance. Aemond only pressed down harder, feeling the bones beneath shift and yield, a subtle, ominous creak beneath his weight.

Aemond lowered the sword with precise, measured intent, letting its tip hover just above Ser Wyllam’s cheek, the steel catching a glint of morning light. The blade's cold edge grazed the knight’s skin, biting just enough to make Wyllam flinch, his face twitching involuntarily as he twisted to pull away–but there was nowhere to turn. The steel kissed his flesh with a chilling promise, its weight pressing closer, a hair’s breadth from slicing through skin.

Aemond’s voice dropped to a murmur, each word chillingly calm, laced with an edge sharper than his blade. “Mock my scar all you want, Ser Wyllam,” he drawled, his tone deceptively soft, each syllable deliberate. “But let’s see how well you wear yours when I’m done carving it into that smug face of yours.”

He pressed the blade harder, letting it prick the skin, a bead of blood forming where the steel grazed. Wyllam's eyes widened in terror, his pride and bravado obliterated in a single, desperate breath. His voice came out broken, slurred by his swollen jaw and stained with fresh blood.

“Please… I–I’m sorry,” he stammered, the words thick and garbled, desperation choking his voice. “I–I didn’t mean–”

Aemond remained unmoved, his gaze icy and devoid of even a trace of the mercy Wyllam sought. His single eye held a frigid focus, as if he were regarding something no more significant than an insect. “You dared to suggest my wife finds me repulsive,” he murmured, each word slow and deliberate, his voice barely above a whisper. “That I cannot satisfy her.”

In one swift, calculated motion, he pressed the sword into the tender flesh of Wyllam’s cheek, the blade sinking just enough to draw a line of crimson. The knight’s body jerked in response, a strangled noise forcing its way from his throat–a twisted mix of a groan and a scream, raw and guttural, born of fear as much as pain. His fingers clawed desperately at Aemond’s boot, gripping weakly, their tremor a testament to his helplessness. His legs thrashed in the dirt, kicking up a feeble cloud of dust, each movement more pitiful than the last.

Aemond leaned in, voice soft but merciless, his tone laced with contempt. “You’ll be fortunate if anyone can stand the sight of you after this,” he murmured, a dark promise laced in his words.

His blade moved with ruthless precision, slicing across Ser Wyllam’s cheek in one smooth, measured stroke. The initial cut was shallow, a thin red line blooming across the knight’s face, but as the blade traced toward the corner of Wyllam’s mouth, Aemond pressed harder, and the flesh split under the pressure, jagged and deep. Blood welled from the gash, spilling into Wyllam’s mouth, coating his teeth and staining his lips as it smeared across his face in thick, crimson rivulets.

He raised his blade, his single eye fixed on the fresh, bleeding gash he'd carved across Ser Wyllam’s face. The cut stretched up in a grotesque arc, turning the knight’s mouth into a twisted, eternal smile that dripped with blood. Satisfaction settled coldly within him as he studied his work, his gaze unwavering, savoring the fear that flickered in Wyllam’s eyes.

A faint smirk touched Aemond’s lips, devoid of humor, his tone sharp with mockery. “You enjoyed smirking at me, didn’t you, Ser Wyllam?” he said, tilting his head in cold assessment. The silence that hung between them was thick with menace. “Seems a shame to leave your grin only half-done.”

Without a hint of hesitation, Aemond pressed the blade to the opposite corner of Wyllam’s mouth. The knight’s face contorted as he tried to pull away, but Aemond kept him pinned, holding him in place. He drew the blade slowly, savoring each agonized twist of Wyllam’s body, the metal slicing easily through flesh. The jagged curve extended upward, the cruel arc mirrored on the other side of the knight’s mouth, leaving his face frozen in a grotesque, bloody smile.

“There,” Aemond murmured, stepping back to admire his work. His voice was chillingly soft, his satisfaction almost serene. “Now you'll always wear that grin.”

Wyllam’s screams echoed through the courtyard, shrill and desperate, each one weaker than the last as the reality of his mutilation sank in. Blood streamed from his face, staining his mouth and chin in dark rivulets that seeped into the dirt beneath him.

Aemond observed him without so much as a flicker of sympathy. His heel remained firmly planted on Wyllam’s chest, holding him pinned, a man utterly defeated and trapped beneath his boot. Wyllam’s breath came in frantic, wheezing gasps, his face twisted in agony and humiliation as he dared not move, his broken hands twitching helplessly in the dirt beside him.

“Were it not for the demands of war,” Aemond murmured, his voice low and cold as steel, “I’d slice that insolent tongue from your throat and leave you bleeding in the mud like the wretched dog you are.” He pressed down harder with his heel, emphasizing his words, a barely restrained satisfaction in the cold fire of his gaze. “Consider this mercy,” he continued, his tone dripping with disdain. “Your feeble sword might yet have some worth to the crown.”

He lifted the blade from Wyllam’s cheek with deliberate slowness, savoring the silent gasp of relief in the man’s shuddering breath. The blade glistened with blood, catching the faint light as Aemond held it steady at his side, its edge still fresh with evidence of his authority. His gaze lingered on the knight, unyielding and frigid, allowing Wyllam to feel every ounce of his scorn.

“Mock me again,” Aemond said softly, his voice laced with a quiet menace. “And see what happens when I no longer hold back.”

He held his heel firmly on Wyllam’s chest for a moment longer, savoring the knight’s helpless gasps and the weight of his dominance pressing down. Only then did he ease his stance, lifting his boot with deliberate slowness, as though releasing Wyllam was a reluctant concession rather than an act of mercy.

Wyllam wheezed as his lungs filled, his body convulsing slightly with each painful inhale. He lay sprawled in the dirt, the strength drained from his limbs, his hands first clutching his chest as he steadied himself, then rising shakily to his face, fingers brushing tentatively over the bloody gash Aemond had carved into his cheek. A raw groan escaped his lips, a sound thick with pain and humiliation.

The knight’s face twisted further, the wound leaving his expression a grotesque mask of pain and fear. He trembled, unable to muster any retort, the weight of Aemond’s threat sinking into him like a brand. His groans filled the still morning air, blending with the low, uneasy murmur from the onlookers who had gathered along the edges of the training grounds. They stood at a careful distance, eyes wide with a mixture of horror and awe as they watched the prince in the aftermath of his brutal display.

Without another glance or a word, Aemond turned on his heel. His boots crunched against the muddy gravel as he strode away, leaving the training yard in a silence broken only by Wyllam’s ragged breaths. The onlookers quickly moved aside, parting to clear his path, their eyes lingering warily on him as he passed. A few averted their gazes altogether, unwilling to meet the steely gaze of a prince who had just demonstrated the depth of his ruthlessness.

He didn’t pause or look back as he headed toward Maegor’s Holdfast, his stride measured–almost lazy. Behind him, the broken knight lay sprawled in the dirt, awaiting the Maesters who would soon arrive to tend to his wounds. But Aemond knew well that healing herbs or stitches could erase the scar he had left–a mark that would long outlast the physical pain, a reminder etched permanently onto Wyllam’s face of his own insolence.

Aemond knew, better than most, that scars lingered far beyond the flesh. They became silent declarations, visible proofs of power and consequence, bound to a person’s very skin. The morning light sharpened as he made his way back into the Keep, his expression hard, his mind already settled into the cold satisfaction of knowing that his warning would not be easily forgotten.

Aemond knew his hands would be drenched in blood by the end of this war. He did not shy away from the thought–he welcomed it. There was no escaping the inevitable; his hands were already stained, and more blood would flow before it was over. The thought didn’t unsettle him. His name was already tarnished and it could never be cleansed, not after the sins he had committed–the boy he had killed. He accepted this, knowing there was no redemption for someone like him. Perhaps his fate had been sealed long before, on the day he lost his eye, or maybe even earlier.

He would not be remembered kindly. History would brand him as the kinslayer, a cursed name that would echo through time, whispered with contempt. But Aemond had long since accepted that fate. If he was to be the villain, then so be it. He would bear the weight of every life he took, every drop of blood spilled in the name of his family. He would carve his name into history with steel and flame, ensuring their victory at any cost.

The burden of it didn’t frighten him; in some twisted way, it even comforted him. If he could carry all the blood on his hands, if he could bear the darkest part of this war, then perhaps it would be worth it. He would see this war to its brutal end, no matter how many bodies he had to walk over, no matter how deeply his name would be cursed. As long as they won, as long as the crown remained on his family’s head, he would make the sacrifices–make sure the weight of it all rested squarely on his shoulders.

Because, in the end, there was only victory or death, and Aemond had already chosen his path.

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