#aemond

"I want what any envoy wants," you say, setting the cup down untasted. "A pact that benefits both our peoples. Your dragons are powerful, but they're dwindling. My people command the seas, but we're vulnerable from the sky." You lean forward slightly. "I want an exchange. Knowledge for knowledge. Strength for strength.” 

"And if the crown is...divided on what strength looks like?" 

"Then I'll speak to whichever head of the dragon will hear me.” 

She studies you a long moment, then nods, as if confirming something to herself. "Very well. You'll address the small council this afternoon. My father will want to interrogate your proposals. Prepare yourself.” She rises, signaling the audience is over. 

Later, you find Myro in your chambers, boots propped on the windowsill, staring out at the bay. "So? What did the Queen want?” 

"To size me up." You close the door behind you. "Small council meets this afternoon. We need to decide what we're actually offering them." You buy yourself a moment to arrange your thoughts. You pace to the window. "All of it," you say, swallowing. “Military alliance. The rest of our ships can blockade any port in the Seven Kingdoms. Our warriors are trained from childhood for sea and land combat. There are fewer of us, but they won't find better in Essos or here.” 

Myro raises an eyebrow. "And what do we ask in return?” 

"Dragon knowledge," you say, turning from the window. “If we must fight, we ask for dragons. Or at least some eggs, if we’re successful.” Sit sit down at a desk and start writing. “We need to know the old bloodlines, the bonding rituals, the commands, the language, the songs that call them. Our people have forgotten what the merlings taught the Valyrians about dragons. The Targaryens have the living beasts, but they've also forgotten how to begin and strengthen the bond, how the dragons choose, how to hatch more eggs. I don’t think it has to do with the blood. I think it’s whoever holds the knowledge.” 

"And trade routes." Myro leans forward, changing the direction slightly. "You want to offer them a path to our shores.” 

Your gaze meets his skeptical one. "And a path to theirs. Open waters between our lands. No tariffs, no restrictions. Ships free to sail both directions. If our people need protection from the sky, we give them as many reasons as possible to want us alive.” 

Myro studies you for a long breath. Then he smiles. "You've been thinking about this since we left the Stepstones.” 

"Since before that. Since we first heard of the Targaryens in Yi Ti two years ago.” A beat. "The council meets this afternoon. I need to know what you want people to say when they remember your name." 

"That they remember I stood beside you.” 

When you stand and turn back, Myro's expression has softened. He holds your gaze for a long moment, then rises from the window ledge, crossing to stand before you. His hands land on your hips, and your arms settle around his neck. "You're asking what I want," he says quietly. "Not what our people need. Not what the council wants to hear. What I want.” 

You nod, “I don’t want to go in there and tell them everything, only to later find out that you disagree. I don’t want to make this decision alone.” 

He reaches out, fingers brushing a strand of hair from your cheek. The gesture is familiar. A habit of years spent reading each other's silences. "I want to go home," he says. "When this is done. When we've mapped their politics and their dragons and their petty feuds. I want to sail west with you beside me and never look back at these foreign lands and its giant snakes. I want to retire and live by the sea with you and try to have children again.” 

You give him a cheeky smile. “In fairness, we never stopped.” 

He kisses you, then his hand drops to his side. "But I also want you to have this.” 

You look at him, confused. 

“You’ve been here days and even I can feel something there. With him. It’s like lighting.” He pauses, thinking. “Whatever this is… The prince's attention, the Queen's wariness, the game you've already started playing." He tilts his head. "You're better at it than you admit. I've seen you charm warlords and assassins in the same breath. You'll do fine at their council." He steps toward you again. "So tell them everything. Military alliance, trade routes, dragon secrets. Lay it all out and see which pieces they bite." A sharp grin. "And if they try to cage us, the merfolk won’t be happy. We’ll sink their ships and burn their harbor on the way out." 

"And if they don't bite?” 

The question cuts through the bravado. Myro's grin fades slowly. "Then we've learned something valuable." He picks up his sheathed belt knife from the table, straps it on with practiced ease. "We know they're not interested in peace. We know they'd rather hoard their dragons than share their knowledge. And we know exactly how far their hospitality extends.” He meets your eyes. "Either way, we leave this city with information. Maps. Alliances we've already made with the Stepstones." He pauses. "And a prince who's shown more interest in you than is strictly political. That's a card we can play, if we need to. I hear his interest in you is unusual for him. He is temperamental and unforgiving. He doesn’t have any friends. Most people are scared of him.” 

"Aemond." 

"Aemond." Myro shrugs. "You look past the bravado and see a man. He's not the heir.” He reminds you. You were originally supposed to approach Rhaenyra, but doing so without seeing the king would be disrespectful. Then Myro suggested one of you seduce Aegon. The idea of you seducing Prince Aegon was laughable now. “But Aemond rides the largest dragon in the world, and he's got more ambition than his brother ever will. If the Greens make a play for the throne, he'll be their sword.” 

You consider that. The image of Aemond standing alone against Vhagar. His voice low and serious. "He asked me to hear him out," you say. "When the tide turns.” 

"And will you?” 

The question is simple. It deserves an honest answer. "I said I would.” 

Myro nods slowly. "Then we've got our contingency. Make your offer to the council. If they take it, we negotiate. If they don't..." He heads for the door. "We've got other options." 

He pauses and looks back. "Either way, I'll be there. Watching.” 

“I’d expect nothing less.” 

The council chamber won't fill for another hour. The small council door is unguarded. You push it open. The room is empty. Long table, high-backed chairs, a map of Westeros. Windows look out over the city. You cross to the window. 

They arrive piecemeal. First, Grand Maester Orwyle. He nods at you, curious but guarded, then busies himself with papers. 

Then Lord Tyland Lannister, the Master of Ships. Golden-haired. He glances at you, offers a smile, and says nothing. 

Ser Criston Cole enters next. His eyes find you immediately, scan you head to toe, and dismiss you just as fast. He takes his place beside the empty Hand's seat. 

Jasper Wylde is next, then Queen Alicent. 

Otto Hightower comes last, the door closing behind him with a soft thud. He pauses at the head of the table, studying you with the patient assessment of a man who has spent decades reading people. “My Lady. Early.” 

"Lord Hand." You incline your head. "I wanted to see the room before it filled

with voices.” 

A flicker of something crosses his face before he settles into his chair. "Wise. Many don't. They enter blind, and the chamber eats them alive." He folds his hands on the table. "Shall we begin?” He gestures to the seat across from him. 

"Alive is better than blind. Thank you for the advice.” You take the seat, your hands visible on the table's surface. 

Otto watches you with the patience of a man who has spent a long time waiting for others to reveal themselves. “You've had a few days to rest and observe. What impressions have you formed of King's Landing?” 

The question is bait. He’s testing your diplomacy, your discretion, and your willingness to speak truth or flattery. "It's a city of whispers and sharp edges.

I feel at home.” 

"Then you'll find the Red Keep familiar territory. We specialize in both. The Stepstones," Otto continues. "Our Master of Ships tells me you made port there before arriving here. You dealt with the Triarchy.” 

"I dealt with Sharako Lohar, yes." You keep your voice even. "We came to an understanding. The Stepstones are useful for ships that need to pass without interference.” 

Tyland Lannister leans forward. "And what understanding was that, exactly?" 

"That my ships pass freely. That their ships leave mine alone. That we share information." You meet his gaze. "I didn't promise them the throne, Lord Lannister. Just safe passage.” 

The table absorbs that. Otto's fingers drum once against the table. ”You speak of trade routes and safe passage as if you've already mapped them." Otto's eyes are sharp. "Tell me, My Lady, what does the west have that Westeros lacks?” 

He's not asking for a list of goods. He’s asking you to reveal your hand. 

"Resources you've never seen. Metals, spices, creatures and other lands beyond your maps.” 

"And you've come to trade these wonders?" 

"I've come to offer first access. My people have dealt with Essosi merchants for years. They take our goods east, mark them up threefold, and sell them back to Westerosi lords who never know the origin. I'm offering to cut out the middlemen.” 

Tyland speaks before Otto can. "And what do you want in return?” 

The question lands exactly where you wanted it. "Three things.” You say. “One, open ports for my ships in every major harbour of the Seven Kingdoms. Two, a formal military alliance. Your dragons guard our skies, our larger fleet can guard your shores.” You interlace your fingers over the table. “Third, access to your dragonlore. The old texts, the breeding records, the songs, the language.” You pause. "We have knowledge too. Knowledge your maesters have never found, about the bond between dragon and rider. About the deep magic that first bound them to dragonrider bloodlines." 

The library in the Red Keep is larger than you expected. You run your fingers along the spines of books as you walk. Histories. Lineages. Scrolls. Maps. A whole section devoted to the Conquest, the reigns that followed, the dragons that shaped them. You pull a heavy volume titled The Dragons of House Targaryen: A Breeding Record and carry it to a reading table. Diagrams of eggs, descriptions of hatchlings, notes on temperament and colouring. The entries are clinical, written by maesters who observed but never bonded. They describe Vhagar as “ill-tempered” Meraxes is noted for her “unusual attachment to Rhaenys.” Nothing about how the bond forms. Nothing about what makes a dragon choose. 

You turn another page and find a marginal note in a different hand. Valyrian. You only know enough to get by in Astapor. Astaporian Valyrian is a little different. ‘The bond is not in the blood. It is in the willingness to burn together.’ You read it a few more times before you close the breeding record. The hand that wrote it knew something the maesters didn't. You want to find more of that hand. 

You rise and move deeper into the stacks, scanning shelves for anything written in High Valyrian. Most of the library's contents are in the Common Tongue. Near the back you find a section of older texts. The titles in faded script you can barely read. You pull a volume titled Perzys se Embar Hen (‘Flame of the Sea’). The pages are brittle, the ink barely legible. You open it carefully. 

It's a collection of dragon songs. Verses meant to be sung during bonding rituals, descriptions of the old ways from before the Doom. The handwriting in the margins matches the marginal note from the breeding record. You're so absorbed in the first verse that you don't hear the footsteps until they're nearly on top of you. 

"Found something?” 

You look up. Prince Aemond is at the end of the aisle. You hold the thin volume out toward him, the cracked leather spine catching the dim light. "You speak High Valyrian. Would you read this for me?” 

Aemond's eye drops to the book, then back to your face. He steps closer. He takes the volume carefully, handling it as if it might crumble in his hands. "Perzys se Embar Hen," he reads aloud. The syllables rolling off his tongue with an ease that comes from childhood fluency and many hours of practice. "Flame of the Sea." He flips a few pages, scanning. "This is a collection of bonding songs. Before the Doom. I've seen references to it, but never the text itself.” His finger traces a line of faded script. "This one is meant to be sung while the egg warms. It calls the dragon forth. Asks it to rise and remember the fire that birthed it.” He looks up at you. "Where did you find this?” 

"Tucked between histories.” You pause. “There are a notes in the breeding record. Same handwriting as the notes in this. Someone wrote…” You try to remember. “A bond isn't in the blood, but a… Willingness to burn together.” You walk to the table and hand him the breeding record. 

Aemond opens the book. “Hmm. This is Rhaenys Targaryen’s. She annotated it. Added her own observations in the margins." A pause. "She understands dragons better than any maester.” He holds the book out to you. "Keep it. She'd rather it be read by someone who asks questions than gather dust on a shelf." 

You close your fingers around the worn leather, the weight of Rhaenys Targaryen's knowledge settling into your palms. "Thank you," you say. 

Aemond inclines his head. "Read it tonight. Tomorrow, the council will want more than promises.” He turns and disappears into the stacks, leaving you alone with the book. 

The small council chamber is fuller than before. Myro stands at your side as you unroll your maps across the table. Coastlines Westerosi eyes have never seen, mountain passes, river routes, the proud spires of Urthval sketched in ink. 

Otto leans forward, studying them. 

You tap the map. "We control the straits. Any fleet that tries to approach uninvited meets our merfolk before they reach the harbor.” 

Aegon mutters from his end of the table. "Still talking about merlings." 

You let Aegon's words evaporate, unanswered, and slide your finger along the map's western edge. "Urthval commands access to three separate sea routes. The north is treacherous, but passable in summer. The southern route cuts past the burning islands." You trace both paths. "We control the central passage. Any fleet that wants to reach the interior of Casameris must answer to our harbormasters.” 

Otto is cataloging every detail for later use. "And these burning islands?” 

"Volcanic activity. The islands are uninhabited. But the sea around them is rich with strange life that glow in the dark, shells that can be ground into powder for medicines." You glance up. "Our merfolk gather them." 

Aegon mutters something under his breath that sounds like "merlings again.” 

Tyland Lannister leans forward, tapping a cluster of islands near the southern passage. "What's this? There's no label.” 

“Those aren’t mapped. They shift with seasons, tides, and currents.” 

“Shift?" 

"They move. Or appear to. One year, the islands on the map will be visble, Then the same time the next year they're submerged. Only the merfolk can predict where they will be next. We find precious gems there. Ammolite, black opal, and red beryl.” You meet his gaze. "Only our navigators know how to track them. It's one of the things I'm offering to share.” 

Silence settles around the table. 

Otto breaks the quiet. "You've given us much to consider, My Lady. Your maps are... enlightening.” The words are diplomatic. The undercurrent is not. He's learned nothing he didn't expect, and he's weighing how much of what you've shown is truth versus theater. 

You glance at Myro, lifting your chin. "Anything to add?” 

He steps forward. His hand lands on the map, fingers spanning the distance between the eastern coast Casameris and the western coast of Westeros. "Just one thing." He looks up, scanning the faces around the table. Tyland’s sharp interest, Aegon's bored sneer. "You're looking at our homeland like it's a prize to be won. Like we're peddling secrets for coin and favor." His thumb traces the coastline. "We're offering alliance. That means we fight beside you, not for you. Our fleet answers to us. Our warriors answer to us. And if the day comes when blades are drawn, we won't be standing behind your lines. We’ll be in the thick of it.” He offers a grin that doesn't reach his eyes. "Thought you should know before you decide if we're worth the trouble." 

Tyland Lannister laughs. "At least you're honest about it.” 

Otto's expression remains unreadable. "Noted, Lord Smoak." The title is deliberate. "We'll take your honesty into consideration.” 

Aegon pushes back from the table, cup in hand. "If we're done with the show, I have matters to attend to.” 

Otto clears his throat. “My Lady. We'll reconvene this evening with our response. In the meantime, the Keep is yours. Rest. Explore. We'll find you when we’re ready." 

Aegon is first out, cup still in hand. 

Otto lingers a moment, exchanging a low word with Alicent before following. 

Tyland offers you a nod and takes his leave. 

Savages Masterlist

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…