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The storm is a beast, roaring its wroth over Dragonstone. Black skies, black sea, wind that howls and weeps and moans and screams as it whips through the parapets of the castle. Shafts of lightning spear the world with intermittent white, illuminating frothing waves and rain that falls in sheets. Thunderclaps follow, rolling across the clouds like the rage-filled shouts of a god far older than the Seven. The Storm God, the Drowned God, or whatever followed the dragons from the wreck of Old Valyria. In brief lulls of silence, and barely visible through the downpour, Vhagar bellows her own vengeful song.
Aemond huddles in the corner of his room, as far away from the window as possible. There are no shutters, and with the wind blowing straight through it the bars do precious little to stop the rain. In the little room, the wind gusts and screeches, reaching for him with eager fingers.
Of all the nights, it had to be tonight. A new moon. His best chance. Certainly, he won’t sleep tonight; even just closing his eyes cracks a door in his mind for an unwanted visitor. A different storm, a different night, a hate that had much longer to fester. Little Lord Strong on his pup of a dragon, darting through the clouds like a fowl trying to outfly a falcon —
Daor. Dohaerās, Vhagar. The surge of her under him, flames bursting in a rain-greyed world —
An almighty clap of thunder makes Aemond flinch, reminding him exactly which storm he’s in. He can’t afford to get lost in the past.
Any hope of hearing the sept bells is quashed by the howling wind and dancing rain; he’ll have to trust what little sense of internal timekeeping he has managed to cling to in the last six moons.
Six moons. Aemond curls an arm around his swelling stomach, pulling his paltry blankets as far over his body as they’ll go. He needs to cover as much of his clothing as he can for his plan to work, but just because the blanket has a practical use doesn’t mean he doesn’t wish it would keep the cold at bay. Six moons for the babe inside him to grow. His moon-blood stopped the same stormy night the war began, and for a while he wondered whether proving himself with bloodshed was enough to make the gods relent and reverse their mistake. Instead it seems they were merely waiting to prove him wrong. To catch him in sin: war makes men animals, dragons. Now he can’t tell when he got the babe, only that it’s big enough to start rearranging his innards to its liking. Nor can he be sure who. Not Alys, that much is obvious. Not Aegon, too scorched to stand, let alone fuck. It could be —
Once . It was once. Even the Rogue Prince won’t make that mistake twice, and Aemond will make him pay far more than he’s ever paid a whore. He’s had six moons to winnow his hate into a sharp, terrible thing.
He closes his eye and grips the knife. A guard’s eating knife, no more; it has been in his cell for a moon’s turn, but he missed his last chance for a fever and wracking cough that kept him curled in his corner for days. It will serve its purpose. As will the dresses the guards keep bringing as a jape, the harder it gets for him to tie his breeches around his stomach: they have become a mockery of riding clothes that will, Seven willing, get him through the storm.
The guard’s step is heavy enough on the stair to be audible below the storm. Aemond takes a breath and lies still, with his eye still closed.
Jangling keys. The door creaking. Booted footsteps.
“Dinner, Prince Aemond,” the guard grunts; a soft noise as he sets the bowl and cup down. It’s the gruff, burly Stormlander guard, by the sound of his voice. Not ideal. At least they find him too much an object of ridicule to bother coming up in pairs anymore.
Aemond doesn’t move.
“Come on. You know I’ll take it away again, ungrateful little bitch.”
He clenches his fists. Not a muscle. Not even a breath. Spent air burns his lungs.
“Prince Aemond?” Now the guard sounds unsure. Steps coming closer. Aemond tries to make himself limp.
“Seven fucking hells,” the guard curses. His voice is coming from above Aemond now. “Come on. Get up. Don’t make me hit you.”
Aemond exhales as slowly as he can, hoping his chest doesn’t move. He freezes when a pair of fingers rests lightly on his neck, searching for his pulse.
It happens as thunder peals through the sky. Aemond grabs the guard’s wrist with his left hand, pulling the man down on top of him, and stabs with his right. He opens his eyes just in time to see the knife find the man’s throat.
Blood spurts when Aemond pulls it out. The Stormlander gasps, gutters, eyes wide and pupils blown. He tries to heave backwards, but topples instead, slumping in a kneeling position with his torso on Aemond’s cot. Red froth comes out of his mouth instead of speech.
Rolling him over, Aemond unbuckles his cloak and plucks the ring of keys from his belt. On second thoughts, he leaves the eating knife amongst the blankets and takes the guard’s roundel dagger instead.
The man left his torch in a bracket outside the cell, but the risk of discovery is too great to justify taking it. Aemond buckles the cloak around his own shoulders, arranging it so it somewhat hides his stomach, and makes for the door.
After six moons, his first step out of the cell. Caring will take too much time.
He makes his way down the staircase as quickly as he can. It’s a gallingly simple plan: get out of the Dungeon Tower, get across the outer bailey, get to Vhagar. This isn’t his first attempt, despite the months he wasted vomiting his brains out over the babe — but it’s the babe that makes progress difficult. He pants, heartbeat hammering in his ears, one hand on the wall to steady himself. Fuck this. Fuck everything. The torch might have been useful, his one eye poorly suited to judging the distance between steps. Perhaps the Seven haven’t totally forsaken him, for he manages not to slip and break his neck.
Another clap of thunder rolls overhead, not quite managing to drown out Vhagar’s song; the sound is molten fire pouring through Aemond’s limbs, spurring him on.
The door at the bottom of the staircase opens to the guard’s key; in fact, the wind throws it so forcefully Aemond only just manages to jump back before it smacks him in the face. A sheet of ice-cold rain rushes in, drenching him before he even has the chance to step outside.
Just get to Vhagar. Just get to Vhagar . Never mind that she’s chained to the cliff; Aemond can feel her rage like he can feel the babe writhing. If he gets to her, they’ll be safe.
He can barely run. More an ungainly lurching movement that makes his lungs burn. Rain blurs his vision, hair plastering his face; the wind grabs his stolen cloak and tries to whip it away. His scar aches from the sheer cold of it, the handle of the roundel dagger like ice in his hand. He coughs, and the ache beneath his sternum reminds him he hasn’t fully shaken last moon’s illness.
With the other hand still cradling his belly, he sticks close to the castle wall, hurrying towards the grey shape of Vhagar. Her song takes on a keening note, come and find me, come and find me. It rings through his bones like a sept bell, but he keeps having to pause, listening for anything that sounds like approaching guards. Perhaps a storm night was a good choice, for each time he stops, the outer bailey is sullenly deserted.
It’s only when he’s close enough to see Vhagar’s great, glowing amber eye that the figure steps out in front of him.
A man. The man.
“You’ve chosen a strange night for a walk, nephew,” Daemon says, his own silver hair plastered, soaking, to his head. Dark Sister flashes at his side as another shaft of lightning rends the sky.
Aemond’s throat goes tight. The hand on his stomach instinctively draws the cloak tight, shielding it.
“Let me guess, you aren’t just stretching your legs,” Daemon’s grin might be pleasant if it didn’t look so like a hound about to fall on a piece of meat.
“I’ll fucking kill you,” Aemond growls. He tries to level the dagger at Daemon, but the words catch in his throat and he doubles over, coughing, instead.
Daemon laughs.
“I’d like to see you try.” He hasn’t even drawn Dark Sister; Aemond, panting, wants to rush forward and rip his throat out. Vhagar bellows, a furious echo.
“I will open every vein in your body and watch your blood pump into the dirt,” Aemond rasps, raising the dagger. You. You did this to me. Your debt is even greater than the Strong whelp’s . “You’ve lived too fucking long, uncle.”
To that, Daemon merely inclines his head.
“You’ve been so good these past six moons,” he says, stepping closer. Reaching out, almost close enough to touch. “If you come like a good pup, I won’t hurt you.”
“Don’t fucking touch me!” Aemond keeps the dagger firmly aimed at Daemon’s throat.
“ Ah . I don’t think you’re in the position to be giving orders, taoba ,” Daemon grins. The wind dumps more rain on them, as if to remind Aemond what drowned world the word comes from. “If I knew that whelp in your belly was a son, I would say it’s time for you to pay back a debt.”
“ This whelp in my belly might be yours, filthy, pervert cunt,” Aemond snarls. He can’t help but shiver as the rain soaks through his cloak.
Daemon shrugs. Aemond has to clench his fist around the dagger handle to stop himself doing something stupid — but his uncle seems to consider. A ghoulish, corpse-stretched smile comes over his face as Dark Sister whispers from her scabbard.
“I’ll tell you what, Aemond. If you can make me yield, I won’t lift a finger to stop you.”
A trap. A trap as plain as if he’d tied a noose-snare in plain sight — yet something in Aemond thrills to put his neck in it anyway.
Come and find me , Vhagar screeches. Aemond slips into his best approximation of a fighting stance, and Daemon smiles as the noose slips taut.
At first they only circle each other. Muscle memory from training with Criston Cole, may the Stranger pull those arrows from his gut. Aemond’s breath sears his lungs; the sky flashes white, the Storm God watching the show. Youth and desperation against age and experience. He’s at a disadvantage in more ways than he cares to count.
Daemon lunges first. Aemond darts back, parrying with the dagger. Space, space , Criston’s voice in the back of his head. Dark Sister has more reach; getting past her will be hard.
Another attack. Valyrian steel sings off its inferior counterpart; Aemond’s arms shake under the force of Daemon’s blow. He’ll have to win quickly, if he’s going to win at all.
He lunges, trying to get past Daemon’s guard. Daemon jumps away, into Aemond’s blind side: he spins just in time to parry a slash that almost makes his knees buckle.
“You can yield at any time, nephew,” Daemon says. Seven hells, he isn’t close to breathless.
“Go choke on your own cock and die,” Aemond hisses. He darts forward again; this time he gets close enough that Daemon has to block the dagger, the whites of his eyes lit up by lightning.
“Such a filthy mouth,” he says lightly, and punches Aemond in the ribs with his free hand.
Aemond gasps, reeling. He tries to take a breath, but it won’t go deep enough; his grip on the dagger loosens as he coughs.
Before he can catch his breath, pain sears through his left leg, so sudden it buckles. He looks down to see a neat tear in his breeches, blood oozing from Dark Sister’s deep cut.
Daemon kicks his other leg from under him, sending him to his knees in the mud.
For a moment all he can do is gasp, choke and try to cradle his stomach. Then a cold, metal tongue tilts his chin up.
“Yield, taoba ,” Daemon says.
If Aemond was sensible, he would. If Vhagar hadn’t screamed, he would. If his babe hadn’t kicked, he would.
Instead, he grabs Dark Sister by the blade and wrenches her to the side. She bites into his palms, but Daemon, surprised, doesn’t manage to tighten his grip in time, and the sword falls aside.
“You little cunt,” he hisses.
“No more cunt than you,” Aemond gasps, and lunges for him.
The rain has turned the outer bailey more swamp than field; Daemon topples and they slither around in the mud, hitting each other like children. Aemond knees Daemon in the gut. Daemon grabs Aemond’s hair and yanks his head back. Aemond bites Daemon’s arm; Daemon bashes the side of his head against a rock, hard enough that Aemond tastes blood.
All the while Vhagar screeches, and he remembers how it felt. How Daemon’s hands felt, when he cared to use them. How Helaena screamed and wailed and held a knife to her unblemished throat. How Aegon smelled, death and charred flesh under the herbs the maesters hung.
Daemon punches Aemond in the stomach.
The pain is blinding at first. He curls in on himself. Vhagar bellows.
Even Daemon seems momentarily stunned, as if he forgot himself. This whelp in my belly might be yours .
Aemond takes the opportunity, slithering on top of his uncle and tightening his hands around his throat.
The bastard seems to be enjoying it. He grins, not even trying to fight back.
Aemond squeezes harder, until the first bud of alarm begins to bloom in Daemon’s eyes. He tightens his grip still further.
Like the guard, when Daemon tries to speak, no words come out.
“What was that, uncle?” Aemond says, loosening his fingers minutely.
“ I yield .”
There’s no time for Aemond’s blood to sing the way it wants to. He rolls off Daemon, panting, and staggers to his feet. Only to fall to his knees again; his leg bleeds merrily, pain dancing through it whenever he tries to put pressure on it.
Daemon is still gasping for air. Aemond crawls over to Dark Sister and digs the point into the ground, levering himself to his feet.
It isn’t perfect. Dark Sister keeps sinking in the mud. He can’t manage a run, only a shambolic limp, the gait of a twisted, malformed creature. Rain soaks him to the skin, and the sword’s handle bites his cut hand, and each breath makes him cough and wheeze, but he doesn’t stop. Vhagar still sings, hurling her huge bulk against her chains.
“ Lykirī, Vhagar ,” Aemond calls out with one of the scant unimpeded breaths he manages to catch. His babe kicks fiercely, a relief and a nuisance.
When he reaches Vhagar, his knees tremble. A soft, weak instinct makes his eyes and throat hot with tears, but he bites the inside of his lip until they subside. Shoving Dark Sister into his belt, he turns his attention to Vhagar’s chains.
The fastenings alone are huge. Aemond’s hands, slick with blood and water, struggle to gain purchase on one. Heaving it up is like lifting Aegon, drunk and unwieldy; his whole body shudders with the effort. Come on. Come on. It’s the last thing you must do .
Thunk . Or rather, splash . Aemond drops the connecting link into a puddle and gasps for air.
In the pause, he hears shouting. Through the pall of rain, a group of men approaching. He should’ve known Daemon wouldn’t keep his promise.
“Bastard!” He screams, staggering towards the next chain. This one is even bigger; he has to roll the connecting link aside like a boulder. His stomach tightens emptily, threatening vomit.
When this one slides away, Vhagar throws back her head joyfully, loosing a plume of flame to the sky — but there are two more on her other side, and the men are getting closer.
Aemond moves like a drunkard, leaning on Dark Sister again and cradling his belly as he shuffles to Vhagar’s other side. It takes an eternity, but it gets him further from Daemon’s men.
Two more. One small, one large. He tucks the sword away and pulls.
Vhagar beats her wings, lifting her body up and making it easier for him to slide the connecting links off. His hands seem numb and burning with pain all at once; his head is beginning to swim.
As he struggles with the final one, his breath catches, and he coughs until tears spill down his cheeks. But it slides free with a groaning of metal, splatting in the mud.
Once again, a burst of flame lights the field as Aemond grabs the rope ladder leading to Vhagar’s saddle, biting his lip as the fibre rubs his cuts. One of Daemon’s men got too close, and she loosed her flame. The others have retreated; when he spares them a glance, he thinks he sees the glint of a crossbow being loaded.
Gritting his teeth and ignoring every way in which his body is screaming, Aemond begins to climb. His belly makes it unwieldy, as he can’t raise his knees high enough; his babe pummels his stomach with seeming joy. I’m doing this for you. I’m doing this for you, for my sins, so you aren’t born in a filthy, godsforsaken cell. Rung by agonising rung. Aemond’s heartbeat pumps in his ears, making everything else seem far away.
On his way up, he notices a final chain that seems to meet over Vhagar’s saddle. It’s then that the first crossbow bolt whizzes past him and bounces off her hide.
When he reaches her saddle, he’s shaking uncontrollably, almost too exhausted to sit up. The chain — he fumbles with blood-slicked hands, sucking in breaths that don’t seem to fill his lungs.
Thunder. Pain, a firework of it, this time in his right arm. A crossbow bolt. Through the fleshy part, he hopes; his vision blurs, only his left hand struggling on with the final chain. This new pain burns, but it’s almost inconsequential, when his body is a mass of it.
He doesn’t see when the final chain comes loose. He only feels it: Vhagar swelling amongst his sinews, the wind and rain beating down on him as she launches into the air. A flurry of crossbow bolts chase her, but they bounce off the thick scales of her flank. Up, up, up she goes. It has been six moons for her, too; her wings creak at first, but they gather pace, and she screams for joy into a sky that spits lightning back.
Aemond, too tired to even buckle himself in, clings to the saddle’s pommel with one hand and cradles the swell of his belly with the other.
“ Sōves , Vhagar ,” he whispers. “Go home.”
And she does.