Audacter Ire

Not the blood on his hands, nor the bodies at his feet. Even if Aemond could breathe fire himself and set the whole of the Riverlands aflame, it would not be enough to quell his rage.

Only the blood of his uncle would satisfy him.

That the craven would seek to incite him to foolish action with such a claim…

It was only a claim, surely.

It had to be. Rhaenyra, vindictive as she was, would not allow Daemon to force himself upon Aella. Not when she had sworn herself that she would allow no harm to come to her half-sisters. They were innocents, she declared, not at fault for the actions of those who led them astray.

But Jaehaerys had been innocent.

Maelor had been innocent.

Jaehaera was innocent, yet she remained in hiding for fear of those who sought to claim the price Rhaenyra put on her head.

Aemond could not trust in the promises of the false queen. Nor could he trust Daemon's poisonous words. Still, they rang like bells within his head.

My spies tell me your mistress is also with child.

Daemon knew. He had spies amongst Aemond's men.

Had those spies left with Cole and been slaughtered? Or did they now remain? Had they told their master that Harrenhal was all but defenseless? The location of the Hightower army?

Was there anyone left whom Aemond could trust?

Yes. There was one.

Alys.

She could tell him the truth. Could look into her fire and know if Aella was safe, or if…

It was not true. Aemond would not believe it. Could not believe it.

But belief was not enough. He needed to know.

The guards in the hall leaped away as Aemond threw open the doors, bloodied sword still in hand. They were of the cowards whom Cole had left behind. Was it one of them? Lurking outside his door, listening to his every word? His hand tightened on his sword, but he pushed past them. If one of them were the spy, he would find out, and he would kill them, but now was not the time.

"Alys!" he called the moment the open doorway to her workshop came into sight. He could smell it even from yards away—a cloying sweetness that did nothing to mask the heady scent of herbs. "Alys!"

"A moment, my prince, a moment!" Her hands were buried to the wrist in a large bowl of some concoction, vaguely yellow and nauseatingly thick.

He did not have a moment, could she not see?

He would make her see. With a swipe of his sword, he sent the bowl and its contents crashing into the wall. She jumped back, owlish eyes wide.

Strange, Aemond had never seen her startled before.

"Aella," he said. His chest rose and fell with each heavy breath, as if he had run all the way here. Had he? He was not sure. "You saw her once. Do it again."

Alys hesitated.

"Now!"

Wiping her hands on her apron, the witch rounded the table. "As I've said before, Aemond, my visions cannot be commanded. I see only what I am meant to see."

Aemond considered raising his sword to her throat and forcing her to obey, but his eye was drawn to her hand, still stained yellow as it lay over her belly.

He could see it now, the place where his child grew. A son, according to Alys. His son.

Did Aella's belly look like that, too?

He took one deep breath.

Two.

Three.

His heart did not calm, nor did the burning fury in his veins settle. Still, he willed his voice into a quiet hiss. "Try."

Alys Rivers didn't know why Prince Aemond was so distraught; the news he received was painful, but not enough to drive him to this. She wasn't a woman who tolerated not knowing something. Nor did she usually tolerate petulant little boys shouting at her. Today, however, she allowed it, if only to spare herself from becoming the target of his ire.

Fresh blood dripped from his drawn sword—the blood of not one of his victims, but two. Every person in Harrenhal was in grave danger when the prince was like this.

Even Alys. The child in her belly could only protect her so much—especially when it came to Princess Aella.

"I'll try," she assured, taking care to sound gentle and maternal. He'd always responded well to that. "But I cannot promise it will work."

It wasn't a lie. Alys had told the prince many, many lies, but this wasn't one of them. The fire showed her only what she needed to know. Sometimes, happily, it was the same as what she wanted to know, but those times were few and far between. For now, it was best to bend to Aemond's will, even if it were false, to ensure her safety.

So, as Alys moved to the great hearth behind her worktable, she ran a hand along its edge, as if she needed it to remain steady. Ever since she had shown Aemond how to ease the weight of the babe for her, he had been more vigilant about her health. It was almost sweet. Or, it would be, if she didn't know his only true concern was the babe. Still, it meant he wouldn't look suspiciously upon her movements as she scooped fine-ground flour and salt from among the pile of ingredients on her table.

She cast both into the fire, careful to keep the motion obscured from the prince's view. The fire sparked and shuddered, its color deepening. It did nothing to aid her vision, of course, but it looked rather mystical to the untrained eye, such as Prince Aemond's.

"What do you see?" Aemond asked.

Fire and a hearth that is long overdue for a good scrubbing, certainly not what the prince was hoping for.

What was he hoping for? He already knew the fate of Cole's army and his tragic little nephew. Prince Daeron's death was near, but still weeks away. Princess Helaena's was not for months. What other woe could have befallen him?

Oh.

Had he somehow learned of his wife's condition? Alys had not foreseen that until his final confrontation with Daemon.

Last words spit alongside life's blood and a cruel letter in the hands of a heartbroken princess.

She certainly hoped not. It would change everything. And not to her advantage.

Alys cocked her head, sudden and harsh. An unnatural movement, as if her body was not entirely her own.

It served its purpose. Aemond flinched. "Do you see her?"

"In her rooms," Alys began. She cooed and clucked her tongue. "Poor thing isn't feeling well."

"Is she ill?" The prince's voice was harried, but hopeful. Alys suspected he would be relieved should she tell him the girl only had a fever.

He knew. Damn.

Alys muttered a short string of curses in the Old Tongue. Aemond would likely think it some kind of spell or incantation. In truth, she merely needed a moment to find a way to confirm his suspicions without endangering herself.

Or her child. She had let herself become attached to this one. That was likely a mistake.

It was not the time to linger on sentiment. No, now, she needed to mollify Aemond. "Your uncle has sent you a message."

A raven had arrived from the south not long ago. He was a rather petulant creature, turning his beak up at all but Alys' finest meats. She should've read the message before giving it to the poor page boy.

Yes, that must be it. Daemon was as meticulous in isolating Princess Aella from the rest of the world as he had been in preventing any word of her from leaving the Red Keep. Even if rumor had spread, it wouldn't have come to Harrenhal—the keep was too distant, too isolated. It had to be Daemon's wish that his nephew knew.

Alys turned to look at Aemond over her shoulder. "You already know that she is not ill."

A guess. A dangerous one.

But it was right.

"It is true?" His voice broke so badly that Alys' heart wrenched. Poor, scared, broken boy. "She is…?"

Alys nodded gravely. Her next words could very well damn her, but there was no point in hiding it now. Even she, for all her powers, could not change the future. "In seven months' time, she will bear a new son for Prince Daemon. A daughter, too."

Aemond did not know what to say.

He did not know what to think.

He did not know what to do.

He did not know how to breathe.

Something was building within him. Anger and hatred and fear and heartbreak and a thousand other things. It grew and grew like a blazing wildfire, consuming everything in its path. Consuming him. His heart and his mind and his soul. Until every part of him was aflame, and nothing in the world could stop it.

He screamed. Roaring and shouting and raging. The thing inside him ripping out of his throat like fire from a dragon's gullet.

It was not enough.

Still, that thing grew. Larger and larger. Unending.

His sword clattered to the ground as he clutched at his head, trying to hold it in. But it was useless.

He swung out with one arm, sending bowls and pitchers and vials into the wall where they shattered. Shards of clay and glass bit into his hand.

The pain was good. A wave of cool water upon the burning within him.

It was not enough.

He seized what few items had escaped his grasp and threw them into the fire. One drove the flames higher, another nearly extinguished them. A cloud of blue-tinged smoke billowed when a black bowl shattered. Nearly all of them loosed some smell of herbs, the burnt scent enough to roil Aemond's stomach.

It was not enough

He needed more.

He needed to get this horrible feeling out. But it was not enough to scream, or destroy, or burn.

He needed to make someone else feel the same pain. He needed to take out his suffering on another. He needed to make someone—make Daemon—bleed and scream and die as Aemond's heart now died within his chest.

But Daemon was hundreds of miles away.

His sword was in his hand again, though he did not remember picking it up. It was already bloodied. Good. But he needed more.

Someone was in the room with him. He could hear their breathing. The soft padding of their footsteps as they tried to flee. They would not get the chance.

They were not Daemon, but they would do for now.

Aemond lashed out, his blade ringing through the air towards—

No.

He stumbled, wrenching his body to the side to avoid striking Alys. To avoid the child she carried. His shoulder collided with the stone wall, hard enough that his sword flew from his hands, skittering to the other side of the room before Aemond collapsed to the floor.

The thing inside him dislodged, too. It was not gone, not tamed, but it no longer grew. Aemond could think again. Breathe again. The world around him was no longer a haze.

He saw Alys. She stared at him with grass green eyes full of fear, a protective hand around her belly.

Gods, he had almost killed her—killed his own child—in his rage. "I did not mean…" he stammered, gasping for air. "I did not…"

"I know," Alys said. She truly was afraid. Aemond had never seen her afraid. "You're angry. I understand."

How could she? How could anyone understand what it was to have your heart torn out?

The gods must surely hate him. It was no matter; Aemond hated them, too. For forcing him to leave Aella. For trapping him in this horrible fucking castle. For leaving him unable to rely on anyone but a bastard witch. For allowing his seed to quicken within her.

But he had none to blame but himself for losing sight of what truly mattered. Not the war. Not the throne. Not even his own pride.

All that mattered—all that ever truly mattered—was Aella.

And he had abandoned her.

No longer.

He would fix this. Make everything right. But he could not do so from Harrenhal.

Aemond dragged himself up from the floor, every muscle aching with rage and grief. But still, he stood. He dragged himself away from the hearth and its hateful flames.

"I will send funds for the babe," he croaked as he passed Alys where she cowered by the door. "It will be cared for. But I do not wish to see you ever again. Or the child. Should you ever come to me, I will turn you away."

He would never see his firstborn child. A part of his heart shriveled at that. But if it was the price he had to pay, then so be it.

Alys said nothing, so he left without another word.

Aemond did not take his sword. He did not return to his rooms to fetch his clothing. He stalked past the armory without retrieving his armor. To do so would waste precious time, and he already had too little of it.

He went directly to Vhagar.

The she-dragon was still rumbling with anger when he reached her, the ground around her scorched and smoking and littered with the unfortunate souls who had been too near to her when Aemond's rage surged. She hardly waited for him to find his seat before she stood, shaking her wings in her eagerness to fly.

"Sōvēs," Aemond whispered, leaving Harrenhal, its witch, and his firstborn behind him as he flew to rescue his Aella. Fly.

Daemon wished, more than anything, that he had drunk more wine before doing this.

Rhaenyra was very, very angry with him.

So angry, in fact, that she had dismissed all the servants and guards from the room so she could properly yell at him. She paced, her face was red, and her voice had taken on a decidedly self-righteous tone. In truth, he liked seeing her like this. But only when he was not her target.

He had phrased his news as delicately as he could, emphasizing the benefits they would both reap from Aella's pregnancy.

One-Eye will be irate, he had said. Whatever his scheme was before, he will surely abandon it now. Our armies in the Riverlands will at last have the chance to rally. Once they join with Stark's forces, we will crush the Hightower army at Tumbleton and end this war at last.

And the child? Rhaenyra asked.

We have lost many of our bloodline already, Daemon answered. The child can only strengthen us. If it is male, we can raise him to fight for us. If it is a girl… perhaps she would make a good bride for Joffrey?

She scoffed. You want my son and heir to marry your bastard?

Daemon decided not to point out the irony of such a question. He should also have decided not to say what he said next: It does not have to be a bastard. If I were to take Aella as a second wife—

That was when Rhaenyra started yelling. She had not stopped since.

"What a fool I was," she bemoaned loudly, "to ever agree to this idiotic plan! And what has come of it? Nothing! Aemond still ravages the Riverlands, Aegon is still missing, and now my own husband has betrayed me!"

Daemon finally had enough of enduring her tirade in silence. He understood her anger, but to accuse him of betrayal? That was too much. He stood from his chair, stopping Rhaenyra in her path of pacing before she wore a groove in the floor. "I have done many ill deeds to put you on the throne, but I have not betrayed you!"

She scoffed. "You have brought my sister into our bed!"

"No! Never in our bed." There were many people who could rightly scold him for infidelity, but his wife was not one of them. That she now dared to do so was laughable. "You and your White Wyrm have already claimed that."

Rhaenyra stilled, though she ducked her chin just slightly and her lips pursed only a bit. Daemon knew that look well. He had seen it on her when she was only a child of three, swearing that she had not stolen any cakes from the kitchen despite the sugar still around her lips. He saw it again when he had first snuck her into the city, and he asked if any man had caught her eye. He knew when he saw it now that her next words would be false.

"Do not try me, husband," she said with less venom than Daemon knew she intended. "Your disloyalty has no bearing on my own conduct."

"Then does it not follow, wife," he said with exactly the amount of venom he intended, "that the same holds true for my own affairs?"

"No!"

"Why?" Daemon drew close, too close. "In all the years we have been married, you have never held any of my lovers against me. Not Mysaria, not Cassella, and not Nettles. Why is Aella different?"

"She—" Rhaenyra groaned, turning away to raise her clawed hands in frustration. Her voice was stilted, her jaw tight. "Mysaria is… known to me. The others came and went so often, I could dismiss them as flights of fancy. Playthings! Like your dragonseed in the Riverlands."

The assessment was not entirely wrong. In fact, it was quite apt. Still, hearing it spoken aloud made him feel almost sheepish. "Aella is no plaything."

"Exactly! You are not asking me to permit you to simply take a mistress, but to give my leave for you to marry her!"

He most definitely should not have said that.

"The Faith already scorns me," the queen said, for she was far more queen than wife or niece in this moment. "The High Septon refuses to annoint me as queen, yet you would have me start a war with them?"

"It would be a war easily won," Daemon replied.

"Not when we are already fighting one! Both outside our walls and within, I remind you. I will not waste men nor dragons on an unnecessary crusade simply to sate your insatiable appetite for… for—"

"For my niece," he finished. "A young woman of our own blood. That is running low at present, you may recall. Aella gives us the chance to restore what we lost." He had been fumbling for a reason Rhaenyra would accept, and it seemed he finally found it. There was a glimmer in her eyes. Hope. "It is as I promised you, 'a son for a son.'"

Rhaenyra flinched, but when he put his hands around her waist and pulled her closer, she allowed it.

"Aella's babes will never replace Jace, or Luke," Daemon swallowed the sadness that threatened to choke him, "or Viserys. But they will bring new life to our family. A new joy we sorely need. New sons and daughters to carry on our line."

"Your line," she corrected. It was weak, softened by her mother's heart. A heart drowning in grief. "And hers."

Daemon cradled her cheek gently, speaking to her in their language. The tongue in which they could conceal themselves from the rest of the world. "Īlvon. Hāri īlōnda hae mērē kesoty, hae ērintī istis. Zaldrīzes bartossa hāri ēza." Ours. The three of us will be as one, as the conquerors were. The dragon has three heads.

Rhaenyra pulled away, but not out of reach. "Dāria sagon zijot sīlū?" You would make her queen?

"Dāria daor," he assured. "Ziry aōha belmor kesos. Hae iksan." Not queen. She will be a consort. The same as me.

He approached once more."Aōha dārie iksā. Aōha jentys. Aōha korzī se sombi iksan. Egrot dārion amīsagon sīlā. Aella īlva mandāvī se tepille kessa. Drāmmenka ondos gierȳndo raqno se pāsābaro ērinagon." You are our queen. Our ruler. I am your sword and shield. The blade you wield to protect the realm. Aella will be our kindness and compassion. A benevolent hand to win the people's love and loyalty.

At first, she said nothing.

He had her. Rhaenyra was desperate to reclaim not only the true power of the Iron Throne, but the admiration she once enjoyed as 'the Realm's Delight.' Now, he promised her both.

It was not a true victory, however. Not entirely. Rhaenyra assented, but upon one condition. "Aōt ziry dīnagon gaominna, vīlībāzma ērinakson toliot." You may marry her, after the war is won.

Daemon had expected nothing less; it was why he had included it in the letter he sent his troublesome nephew. Still, he smiled gratefully at his wife—his first wife. "Issa, ñuhys dārȳs. Kirimvose." Of course, my queen. Thank you.

Aella knelt at the feet of the Mother, as she had each morning for the past week. Still, no words of prayer passed her lips.

What could she pray for?

Gratitude that her womb had finally quickened? Mercy for betraying the holy oath she had made upon her marriage? Some sign of assurance that the child was a blessing, rather than punishment for her infidelity?

None of it seemed right, yet still she knelt.

She had tried to seek guidance from the people she trusted, but they had all given her an answer she would not abide. Septon Eustace had found her the first day Daemon brought her to the Sept. She hoped he would provide her comfort, as he had all her life, but he offered only judgment and reproach. He had been kind in it, as much as one could be amidst a condemnation, but it did little to soothe her uncertain mind. Maester Geradys had offered his aid in the form of a steaming pot of tansy tea, delivered only after Daemon had once more gone from the keep. Aella had stared at it for several hours, then poured it into her chamberpot. Desperate, she had even asked one of her usually silent servants. The woman had offered only to fetch more tea.

Aella knew she should listen to them. It was a great sin and shame to bear a bastard, as it was to break the bounds of her marriage. If her folly became known, the consequences would be… unthinkable.

But she wanted this child. More than almost anything.

The babe was proof that she could bear children. That she was not barren or broken. That her grandfather's concerns and schemes were unfounded. That there was no reason Aemond had to—

Thinking of Aemond always seemed to make her feel sick, now. Gerardys had given her a jar of candied ginger as a remedy, but she could not stand the taste. Still, it happened frequently enough that she could now banish the feeling herself. Most of the time, at least.

She shut her eyes tight, trying to block out all light as she took deep, measured breaths. Inhale through the nose, hold, exhale through the mouth. One, two, three, four—

"Lo avy kesīr jiōrtan," a familiar but tired voice said, "joreptagon inditā pāstā. When I brought you here, it was my understanding that you meant to pray.

"Sylutan," she answered. I have tried.

Daemon's steps echoed as he approached. He did not kneel with her; he never did. But he stood by her side and petted her head gently. "Skorion avy jenis, raqiarzītsos? What is wrong, little darling?

Aella sighed, leaning into his touch until she could press her head against his leg. "Luriot jorepagon gīmion daor." I do not know what to pray for.

"I see." He threaded his hands through her hair for a moment, as if he was doing so on instinct to soothe himself. "I am afraid there is little counsel I can offer on the matter. I have never been one for prayer."

That, Aella could not understand. She knew that Daemon had no love for the Faith, but surely he must believe in something? The alternative seemed unbearably lonely. "What do you do?"

"I do many things, talus. You must be more specific." She could hear the smirk in his voice. He was trying to play. Niece.

Aella did not have the energy to play. She was too exhausted by her worries, and the illness the child within her wrought. "When you do not know what to do," she clarified. "How do you… choose what is right?"

Daemon was silent for a long while, his hand still in her hair.

Then, he knelt. He did not face the statue before them, but her. "I trust in myself to know, and I have found that I am almost always correct." His teasing smile faded when she did not return it. "But I truly do not know… I trust someone else. Not just anyone, though. Someone I know, without a doubt, that I can rely on."

"Who?"

"Well, there are few, I admit. For many years, it was only my brother. And my father and mother before. Then Laena, but she…" he shrugged, Dark Sister's scabbard dragging along the stone floor. Now, I suppose it is only Rhaenyra."

Something stung inside Aella's chest at her exclusion, but she brushed it aside to consider those she could rely on.

Once, she thought she could trust her grandfather, but Daemon had revealed how Otto had secretly betrayed her. Aegon and Helaena she loved, but 'reliable' was not a word she would use to describe them—for vastly different reasons. There were some servants and lady's maids she might include, but she had not seen them for many months now. She nearly thought of Daemon, but there was still a part of her that saw an enemy in him, though it grew smaller each day.

And Aemond…

No. She could no longer trust in him. She did not know if she ever could again.

That only left one person.

Aella grabbed Daemon's hand, bringing it to her lips. "Kepus, may I see my mother?"