Kate-McCannon

The next time Daemon came, Aella asked him to take it away. He knew why and tried to offer her solace, assuring her that she had not been the first to venture from the marriage bed. It brought her little comfort.

The only thing that did, it seemed, was Daemon.

His mere presence was enough to soothe Aella, but he did so much more.

He read with her, both the Valyrian poetry and histories he loved and the legends and romances she preferred. Many days, he sat beside her at the desk in her rooms to help her perfect her glyphs, so she could then decode the notes he left for her whenever he had to leave. Even as the weather chilled, he frequently took her to the gardens, be it to walk hand in hand or sit beside one another on the yellowing grass. Though it shamed her, Aella found herself wanting to spend every moment with him, be it day or night.

She let him into her bed gladly, and often.

When she was in his arms, war, grief, and despair vanished. All that remained was safety and pleasure, and the singular joy of being someone's entire world, even if only for a short while. She had missed that feeling.

Aemond always made her feel that way, even before they were married. He could make her feel that way with nothing but a slight smile. Once they were married…

It was hard, at first, to banish him from her mind. It was too easy to linger on the similarities between her husband and her uncle—the silken silver hair, large hands calloused from dragonriding and swordplay, and the almost frightening intensity to their violet eyes when they looked at her.

Instead, Aella devoted herself to their differences.

Where Aemond's touch was as gentle as if she were made of glass, Daemon held her like he was afraid she would slip away if he let go. The first time she saw the marks he left on her, she had been mortified. Now, she treasured them. They were a tangible reminder of him whenever he was away.

Aemond always whispered to her as he loved her. Soft praises, gentle words, and breathless devotions. Daemon whispered nothing. He was unashamed in the sounds he made, whether they were animalistic groans, growled curses, or primal roars. Aella found it thrilling to know she drew such fervor from him.

What was most different was how they loved her. Since their hurried tryst in a corridor on their wedding night, Aemond had been much more… methodical. He would lie Aella in the middle of their marriage bed and settle between her legs, bracing his arms on either side of her. On rare occasions, he would take her while they lay on their sides or have Aella ride him, guiding her movements with his hands on her waist.

Daemon was far less restrained. It started with him taking her from behind when she was on her hands and knees. Then, he had her in his lap as they sat by the fire, then upon her dressing table. Only weeks ago, he ravished her against the wall beside a window, where anyone in the courtyard could have seen them. The discomfort Aella felt quickly faded when Daemon moaned into her ear how he could not wait another moment without being inside her.

There was a strange sort of power in that—in captivating one so wholly that their desire overrode their senses. Aella liked that power. It was the only power she had, after all.

Still, her guilt was like an ever-present stone in her belly, growing heavier and heavier each day. Some days, its weight was so great it made her ill. Yet it vanished when Daemon took her in his arms, and for Aella, that was enough.

In the Red Keep, seat of House Targaryen and capital of the Seven Kingdoms, on the nineteenth day in the fifth month in the one hundred-thirtieth year after Aegon’s Conquest…

Daemon Targaryen, King Consort of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, smiled like an idiot when he woke up in a bed that was not his own with a woman who was not his wife in his arms.

It was becoming something of a habit, one with a very real potential for trouble should Rhaenyra decide to actually care where he spent his nights. For now, she was occupied enough by the weight of the crown and burden of the Iron Throne, as well as the White Wyrm she had taken to her own bed, to pay attention to him beyond what he could offer her as an advisor and general. Much more the latter than the former. But for now, she did not complain of either the rumors of his time with Nettles in the Riverlands or the long hours spent with Aella while he was at home. Daemon was content to let it remain that way.

He was even more content to remain in Aella's bed a while longer, watching the sun rise from the far window and bathe her in the soft light of morning. Her bed was warm and soft, as was she, and he was loath to leave it behind just yet. In this room, in this bed, he could forget all that awaited him outside and revel in the joy of being a man holding a woman.

When he saw her a few short months ago, grown from the weeping child she had been on Driftmark, he had not seen her as a woman. He hardly saw her as a person. No, he saw her only as an unfortunate spawn of Alicent Hightower's womb and an obstacle to the throne. A stupid girl who followed her vexatious husband like a loyal hound.

Hells, he had not even noticed her beauty. He felt like a fool for that, but it did not matter now. Now, he spent a fair amount of time admiring Aella's beauty.

This morning was no different. With a reverence he had never given any god, Daemon brushed her sleep-mussed hair aside, tucking it gently behind her ear so he could better admire her sweet face.

With her eyes closed, she was the very image of Old Valyria, though Daemon had long since stopped seeing her dark eyes as a flaw. Rather, he found he truly liked them. Just as he liked her delicate features, the soft slope of her nose, and her rosebud mouth that always hung open slightly as she slept. It made it almost impossible for him to resist kissing her awake.

So, he did not resist. With one hand resting on her cheek, he leaned in to press his lips to hers. Gently, slowly, thoroughly.

Aella kissed him back, her eyelashes fluttering as she woke, but only for a moment. Soon, she closed her eyes once more, not in sleep, but in bliss. She sighed against him, and he laughed.

"Oh dear," he teased, savoring her pouting face when he pulled back. "Yne kirēdas, ñuhus ēdrȳntus riña?" Have I woken you, sleepy girl?

"Drīvose…" Her face soured beyond a simple pout. Daemon watched as her throat worked, cheeks going pale before— Actually…

Aella turned away from him and vomited.

Daemon bolted upright, wincing at the unpleasant sounds of Aella's retching and heaving. Such vile noises coming from such a sweet thing. It seemed wrong. Still, he laid a hand on her back, rubbing what he hoped were soothing circles as she shuddered through another bout of sickness.

"Oh, raqiarzītsos," he whispered, drawing closer. "My poor girl."

"I am sorry, uncle." The words were slurred and halting, as if she was attempting to hold back yet another heave. "Avy im.. imundan."

Daemon shook his head, pushing back the long tendrils of silver hair that hung about her face. "None of that, now."

Aella only groaned and hung her head.

Though she still looked a tinge green, she had mostly stilled. Her illness was likely over, at least for now. So, Daemon reached for his linen undershirt—which had somehow found its way onto the headboard the night before—to wipe her mouth.

"What is the matter, talus?" he asked. She neither answered nor looked at him. Gods, she looked truly pitiful. Had she not just vomited, Daemon would try to kiss her into a smile. "Hmm? Last night's dinner not sitting well?"

But that could not be the case, could it? She would have been sick sooner, and he would be sick as well, for they ate the same meal. Whatever it was must be an illness of some kind, or perhaps…

Before he could finish the thought, Daemon was struck with the odd sensation of having had this conversation, or one very much like it, before. Six times, in fact. Suddenly, he was very, very eager to hear Aella's answer.

"No," she mumbled. "I have… my stomach has been unsettled of late. It must be cooler weather."

It was not. Daemon had lived through enough winters to know that illness from cold winds manifested in sniffles and coughs, perhaps a fever if one was old or weak. But not this.

No, this was something much better, something he had hoped for. Though he dared not expect it, given her history.

Aella was pregnant.

Perfect.

Daemon kissed her temple. "I will send for a maester." She tried to protest, but he shushed her. "Aōt lumȳse botigon gaoman daor. I need you well and happy, otherwise who would cheer me?" I will not allow you to be unwell.

"I cheer you?" She stopped resisting, allowing him to lower her back into bed and tuck the blankets in around her.

"Rōvēgrī," he answered. "Sīr, jorilās." She was already asleep when he slipped out the door. Greatly. Now, rest.

He did not find the maester himself, though he did instruct the guard he sent in his place to wait until he returned before examining Aella. First, Daemon had to send a message to the person who would be most interested in the happy news.

Rhaenyra would have to be told, too, of course. He would have to do so carefully, as he had not divulged this part of the plan to her. Why would he, if he was not certain it would even manifest? Yet, happily, it had.

He could do it; he did not doubt that. Rhaenyra's hatred for her half-blind half-brother was far stronger than any anger or jealousy she may feel. This hurt him, and that was enough.

The queen was absent from their chambers, he found. She was likely arguing with what remained of her council, or with her Mistress of Whispers. More and more, Daemon was excluded from such meetings. He was far more suited to the battlefield than to a room full of stuffy, boorish old men. Even if they could stand to heed his advice once in a while.

After all, he had struck a great victory today.

Daemon sat at his desk, grinning triumphantly as he dipped his pen in the night-dark ink, not caring for the splotches it left on the polished wood as he began to write.

Within the melted walls of Harrenhal on the twenty-first day in the fifth month in the one hundred-thirtieth year after Aegon’s Conquest…

Harrenhal was all but empty.

Cole had taken nearly all the men with him, even the fucking trench-diggers. He'd left only a single company of seventy men with Aemond for his protection. Most of those fled after word of the massacre had reached Harrenhal. The few who remained were those too cowardly to leave the protection of Harrenhal's walls.

Those cowards were now all that remained of Aemond's once mighty army.

The rest were dead.

Criston Cole was dead.

Aemond felt as if he would cry. He wanted to cry. But no matter how badly he wanted it, he could not. All he had been able to do since that gods-damned raven arrived was stare at his sword.

I told you, Aemond thought at the bloodied steel on the table in front of him, laid across all the marks he had made with his dagger in the months since they took the keep. Cole had given him that sword. He had commissioned it himself with his own wages, rather than the crown's funds, as an expression of pride for Aemond's prowess. You did not listen. Why could you not listen?

The sword offered no answer. No consolation.

Another question crept into his thoughts: Why did I not listen?

If he had, Vhagar would have burned every one of the wretches who fought in his half-sister's name—northern savage or river scum alike—to ash before they could draw their swords. Instead, his men were butchered while Aemond stayed behind, staid and stagnant in his cursed ruin, while others fought and died for the cause he was meant to be leading.

Gods-damned Cole had been right. Aemond was afraid. But he had good reason to be, did he not? In Alys' visions, he had forewarning of the death, disaster, and ruin that would fall upon him and his family should he stray from the path she laid for him: The realm destroyed. A bastard on the throne. Aella dead.

He could not let that happen.

But how could he have let this happen?

Only days after the news of Cole's death, a second raven arrived bearing word of another tragedy.

Prince Maelor Targaryen, last remaining son of King Aegon II and Queen Helaena, was dead.

Aemond was now his brother's heir. Next in line to sit the Iron Throne.

Though it was something he had long desired in secret, he did not want it like this. Never like this. He had given up his foolish dream the moment the twins were born, for he knew the moment he first saw them—squirming, crying little things—that he would never and could never wish them ill. That feeling, that devotion to his family, had only grown stronger after Maelor's birth.

Sweet, fat little Maelor, who never wanted to fall asleep and loved nothing more than strawberry pie. Quiet but happy Maelor, who mirrored every smile he saw, even those in Aella's childhood drawings. Helpless, innocent Maelor, who did not deserve to die.

Aemond felt as though he had killed the boy himself.

Not even Alys was enough to banish that feeling. In truth, he had not sought her out. He had simply driven his sword through the soft belly of the servant boy who brought him the message, then fell into his hard stone chair. There he remained for he did not know how long, trapped in the bitter cold of the same hall where he had last seen Cole, staring at the bloody sword the man had given him.

He wanted Aella.

He needed Aella.

He could not have her.

That had been Alys' most dire warning: Daemon would kill Aella if Aemond left Harrenhal.

It was why he had not turned the army back to King's Landing when they discovered King's Landing had been taken. It was why he remained in the gods-forsaken keep instead of joining with Daeron and the Hightower host. It was why he refused to go with Cole to rescue his family—to rescue Aella.

What chance did he have of rescuing her now?

He needed to do something, but did not know what. How could he even think when everything was falling apart around him?

A vision was his only option. Alys was his only option.

"My prince?" The trembling, white-faced servant was already in the doorway when Aemond stood. His mud-colored eyes dashed between the prince and the corpse on the floor. They had likely been friends. Family, even. Aemond did not care. The boy had a small scroll in his hands.

Another fucking raven.

"Give it to me," he commanded.

The parchment was slightly damp from the perpetual mist that surrounded Harrenhal, but Aemond hardly noticed. It was sealed with red wax—a very specific red. One which matched the scales of the dragon depicted within the seal.

Caraxes, the Blood Wyrm.

Daemon and his whore wife had not sent a single missive since Aemond took Harrenhal. No demands, no parleys, no ransoms. Why would they, when they held the capital? When they had a larger army, more dragons, his mother, sister, niece, and wife as their captives? Why negotiate when they held every advantage?

Why wait this long?

There was only one way of knowing.

Aemond tore the seal away and read:

Nephew, I do hope you continue to find Harrenhal pleasant…