Chapter Text
Feeling stressed and irritable, Lucerys entered his private apartments within the Red Keep, shutting the door behind him with a loud thud. He slumped back against it, pinching the bridge of his nose and massaging lightly. Trying to ease the knot of tension there. By the gods, he had a miserable headache brewing.
It had started roughly halfway through the small council meeting. The one Lucerys had been leading, in the absence of the Hand of the Queen. The meeting had been long, tiresome, and had accomplished absolutely nothing of value. Luke had tried his best, but too many of the councillors had been determined to waste time. All of them grown men of noble birth, squabbling amongst each other like wretched fishwives.
Lucerys was young, but he’d proven himself in battle many times over, spilling more than his fair share of blood. The Dance had been long and terrible, and he’d seen the whole cursed thing through. But despite that, Luke knew he lacked the threatening aura of Daemon. As Hand, his stepfather never had any trouble keeping the small council in check. When a lord did dare speak out of turn, one hostile stare from Daemon was enough to shut them up. His temper was legendary.
Lucerys didn’t aspire to be the same, most of the time. He’d seen for himself how often Daemon’s menacing manner created as many problems as it solved. Men feared to speak the truth to him, even when he sorely needed to hear it. But as the earlier meeting had descended into childish bickering and shameless profiteering, Luke had wished for the same talent for intimidation. It might be satisfying, on occasion, to be so feared.
Not all the small council were idiots. Lucerys respected some of them a great deal. His grandfather, Lord Corlys, for one. Grand Maester Gerardys for another. Lords like Manfryd Mooton were decent enough. But there were a lot of craven fools, and Lucerys didn’t trust them. The Queen had wanted to mend the realm after the war, and in pursuit of that admirable goal, she’d appointed some of her former enemies to her council. They sat alongside the loyal lords, on a far fuller small council than was normal. It had been intended as a gesture of unity. Privately, Lucerys thought it had been a mistake.
The councillors who’d sided with the usurper hadn’t been eager to prove their loyalty. No, their preoccupations were very different – land, power, gold. That’s what they cared about. The audacity! They should’ve dropped to their knees and kissed Queen Rhaenyra’s skirts! That scheming little shit, Unwin Peake, in particular. Lucerys couldn’t stand the rat-faced bastard, and was finding it harder and harder to hide it. There was so much important work to be done. The war had left deep scars, emptying treasuries, ravaging the fields and leaving them bare. Poverty and hunger were rampant. And not everyone was happy to see the Black Queen victorious.
With a groan, Lucerys dragged himself over to a chair and sank down into it. He called for a carafe of wine. Gods, he needed a bloody drink. It wasn’t just the headache making him weary. Luke’s yearly rut had ended a week ago, and the exhaustion of the fever dogged him still.
The wine arrived, and Lucerys poured a large cupful. He fumbled with the ties holding the collar of his jerkin closed, loosening them. He took a deep breath, then a deep drink. There, that was better.
The wine was good. Slowly but surely, the headache faded. Luke closed his eyes and yawned.
Rhaenyra had reigned uncontested for more than a year now. Her enemies were all either dead or captured, with one uncertain exception. She’d won. As complete a victory as anyone could ask for, though it had come at a terrible cost. A triumph built on a mountain of corpses.
And yet, reports arrived weekly of trouble on the streets of King’s Landing. Daemon’s old mistress Mysaria, the Queen’s lady of whispers, had eyes and ears everywhere. Her reports didn’t spare the details. There was writing frequently daubed on the walls, calling Rhaenyra a whore and a tyrant. Idiots stumbling through the low streets, spewing the worst kind of treason, encouraging the people to rise up and riot.
A few of the lowborn traitors had been arrested by the gold cloaks. Their festering skulls now sat on spikes above the city gates. But the problem hadn’t gone away. Mysaria’s most recent reports had included alarming tales of mummers plays in Flea Bottom that dared to openly question the legitimacy of the Queen’s three eldest sons, including Lucerys himself.
He was the last surviving child of his mother’s marriage to Laenor Velaryon. The war had snatched away Jacaerys. The storming of the Dragonpit had taken Joffrey. That had been a dark day. Perhaps the darkest in House Targaryen’s history, since the Doom of Valyria itself. Thinking of his brothers made Luke’s heart ache. The passing of time hadn’t healed the wound. Maybe it never would. It was a terrible thing, to be the last one left. Oh, Lucerys had two more brothers, and he had his stepsisters, his mother… but he was the last one left. The last of the bastard pretenders.
Jace’s death had made Luke the Queen’s eldest son. Her eldest alpha child. He was the heir now. Prince of Dragonstone. One day, the Iron Throne would be his, gods willing - even if Lucerys fervently hoped that day was a long way off still. But if the smallfolk thought him a bastard, without any legitimate right to rule them, and worse, if they felt able to speak it openly, and without fear of the consequences…
Lucerys wasn’t stupid. He knew there were plenty of lords who thought Aegon should be Rhaenyra’s heir instead. Luke had long ago made his peace with the rumours that had dogged him and his brothers since childhood. He’d had to make his peace with them, because the older he’d grown, the more impossible it’d become to deny the plain truth - Laenor Velaryon hadn’t sired him. Luke’s sire had been Harwin Strong.
The rumours had grown louder and bolder as Luke had grown taller and broader. As his youthful features had settled into something else. As he’d turned from a boy into a man. He knew people thought he looked like Ser Harwin. That the resemblance between them was said to be unmistakable. For a long time, Lucerys had been angry with his mother about it. He’d resented her for putting an unfair burden on his shoulders. Luke hadn’t asked to be a bastard! It was so unjust. And then the resentment had become guilt. He’d convinced himself he didn’t deserve to be her heir, just as he’d once convinced himself he didn’t deserve the Driftwood Throne. He was a bastard pretender. He hadn’t started the lie, but he’d become the lie all the same.
And then, as the blood-soaked war had raged on, Lucerys had changed his mind again. He’d decided that he didn’t care. So what if he was illegitimate? So what if Harwin Strong had sired him? Who was going to sit on the Iron Throne, once the war was over? The winner, that was who. Blood didn’t matter. Legitimacy didn’t matter. The rites of inheritance didn’t matter. Winning mattered. By what right did Aegon the Conqueror take Westeros for his own? None! He’d no real claim. What he had, were dragons.
Lucerys was the Queen’s eldest son. He was an alpha. And he wanted to be king. He’d fought in the war, not Aegon or Viserys. He’d risked his life to win the throne, not his brothers. He wanted it, so he’d take it. Just like Aegon the Conqueror had.
Unfortunately, that didn’t make any of his current problems go away. Lucerys itched to do something about it. To silence the rumours forever.
The first step was obvious. He needed to marry. To bind his blood to the son or daughter of some great House. A little wife or husband to give Lucerys his own heirs. And with them, a stable line of succession. A future the people could put their faith in. A political marriage had other uses as well. Lucerys could win his mother a new ally. Or reward one of her most loyal supporters with one of the greatest prizes any noble could hope for – a grandchild on the Iron Throne one day. Many lords and ladies deserved a reward like that. They’d lost a great deal, fighting for Queen Rhaenyra.
But Lucerys couldn’t do any of that. Because he was already married. He’d been married for years. To a man he hadn’t set eyes on since they’d faced off in the halls of Borros Baratheon. A terrible storm had raged, the last time he’d seen his husband. A grim harbinger of everything to come.
…
In many respects, Lucerys and Aemond’s wedding had been nothing less than a total farce.
They must’ve made for a comically ridiculous sight. The tall omega towering over the little alpha. Facing each other in the Red Keep’s sept, a blue cloak hanging about Aemond’s stiff shoulders. Both reciting vows they didn’t mean. Lying through their teeth with every word.
What a joke it had been. Prince Aemond, the young swordsman, pretending to submit himself to a boy just barely come into his manhood. Lucerys had been presented less than a single turn of the moon when he’d been married off to his uncle. The gods alone knew what the assembled lords had made of it all. Aemond had glared at Luke the entire time, hatred burning in his one remaining eye. He’d probably been fantasising about ending the ceremony by cutting out one of his new husband’s eyes, and declaring it a fine wedding gift.
He'd smelled of nothing. It’d been unsettling, even to an alpha as newly presented as Lucerys. Omegas smelled sweet and alluring, and Lucerys loved being near them. But not even the fresh scent of a beta had hung about Aemond. He had falsely presented as a beta, before unexpectedly falling into a heat two years later. Rumour had it that Aemond detested his heats so much, he drank an expensive potion imported from Essos, distilled by sorcerers from poison. Even if that was so, Lucerys hadn’t expected his uncle to smell of nothing at all. It wasn’t natural. Only unpresented children smelled like that.
Their families had watched the ceremony with stony expressions. Both Queen Alicent and Princess Rhaenyra, as she’d still been then, had begged King Viserys not to go through with it. Each had been desperate to save their own son from being shackled to the other. But nothing would sway the dying king, not even the pleading of his beloved first-born. Viserys had really believed the marriage would heal the deep divide in House Targaryen. That all would magically be well, once his son and grandson were unhappily bound together.
To make it even more of a joke, Viserys hadn’t even attended thedamned wedding. The whole debacle was his idea, and the man hadn’t been there. The king had been too weak, ravaged by the wasting disease that was slowly killing him. He’d been tucked away in his sickbed, lost in poppy dreams, whilst Lucerys and Aemond were forced to bend to his will. Luke had heard rumours afterwards, that Aemond had flatly refused to leave his chambers the morning of the wedding. That it had taken his grandsire, Otto Hightower, to drag him out.
The marriage hadn’t mended a damned thing. Of course it hadn’t! It’d been madness to think otherwise! War had come anyway! The bloodshed had happened anyway! The deaths of so many of their kin, the deaths of their dragons… it had all happened anyway.
Lucerys hadn’t known his grandsire well. King Viserys had been a remote figure, and then he’d been far away across Blackwater Bay. But Luke did know that his mother had loved her father dearly. He knew Daemon had loved his brother too, despite all the times Viserys had banished him into exile. The old king must’ve been a good man, to have earned their love. But Luke still resented him. There were so many other things he could’ve done to ensure a peaceful succession! But instead, Viserys had wrapped a heavy chain around Lucerys’ neck. A chain he was still dragging around with him, all these years later.
There was one small mercy, at least. He and Aemond hadn’t bonded. A marriage could be undone. A mating could not.
Rhaenyra hadn’t been able to talk her sire out of the wedding, but she had successfully persuaded him that Luke was too young for a bedding. The king had agreed to postpone the consummation. Luke had been relieved beyond words. Just the idea of trying to bed Aemond had been terrifying. He would probably have violently smothered Lucerys with the pillows of their marriage bed, just for trying. There’d surely been no chance of him – the older and stronger one – submitting to the bite.
Many years and an entire civil war had passed since their wedding day, but the marriage could still be undone. The dreaded consummation had never taken place, and there were no children or insulted families to worry about. And yet, despite the immense pressure Queen Rhaenyra had piled on them, the septons refused to even consider it. The old bastards claimed there were no grounds for an annulment. That a royal marriage wasn’t easily put aside, especially between an alpha and an omega.
Bullshit and lies! Of course a royal marriage could be put aside! There was no bite to seal this one in stone! It’d been done before, and Lucerys was damned sure it would be done again. The septons’ real motivation was obvious. It wasn’t morality, it was lingering loyalty to the dead usurper and his pious mother, Dowager Queen Alicent. That was the truth of it. The old men were filthy liars. Well, sooner or later they’d have to give way.
Until then, Lucerys was stuck. He couldn’t take another spouse, and he couldn’t sire legitimate children. Occasionally, he’d have a whore brought to his chambers from the Street of Silk. He liked omegas a great deal. He liked the ones with fire in them. He’d never had much of a taste for quiet submissiveness. Where was the battle to have them? To please them? Surely that was half the allure? The expensive brothels had quickly learned his tastes. Lucerys had bedded some hot-blooded omegas, male and female, who’d made him dizzy with lust.
But, as satisfying as those encounters were, what he really wanted was a mate. Somebody to dote over. To love. Luke yearned quietly for it.
Frustratingly, the obstacle to his desires was almost certainly dead anyway. There’d been no sign of Aemond, since Vhagar and Caraxes had plunged to their deaths above the Gods Eye. Daemon’s broken, but miraculously still living body had been dragged from the water. After several days, good swimmers with strong lungs had dived deep enough into the murky waters to discover Vhagar’s enormous corpse. They’d reported that the saddle had been empty, the chains loose.
So what? That meant nothing! Perhaps Aemond’s body had come free when the ancient she-dragon had hit the water? Probably it now lay mouldering somewhere among the lakebed’s weeds. The trouble was proving it. If Aemond was dead, then Lucerys was free to marry again. So many of their kinfolk had been killed, and he wasn’t eager to add another corpse to the pile, but proof of Aemond’s death would’ve been a blessing.
Daemon had spies out there, searching the realm. If Aemond was alive, it wasn’t totally inconceivable he’d be found one day. But then what? Male omegas had been sent to the Wall before. Forced to take their chances among the Night’s Watch, who - despite their vows to sire no children - were doubtless eager to welcome a poor, friendless omega into their midst. But it was a scandalous thing to do to anyone, let alone a prince.
It would end the marriage though.
Maybe the Queen would lock her last remaining sibling away for the rest of his life. Seal him up within the walls of the Red Keep. Or pack him off to some lonely holding, to be the captive of some cruel lord. Then they’d wait the septons out. Or else there was the simplest solution of all – execute Aemond as a traitor. Yes, that’s what Luke’s mother would do. That’s what Aemond would deserve.
It didn’t really matter. Aemond was dead at the bottom of the Gods Eye. Nothing but bones in the water now, picked clean by the fishes.
A soft knock at the door startled Lucerys out of his dark thoughts. He glanced down at his cup, and was surprised to find he’d drunk it dry. He’d been too busy brooding to notice. At least his head felt better.
“Come in,” he called out wearily. Gods, he’d really wanted an afternoon alone.
A servant entered. “My lord,” he said, bowing. “The Queen requests that you join her.”
…
Queen Rhaenyra wasn’t in her solar, or in her study either. Lucerys found her sitting on the covered balcony, overlooking the sprawl of King’s Landing. Her silver hair was stirred by the breeze as she smiled warmly at Lucerys. He thought his mother looked tired. She looked tired most of the time, these days. There were dark circles beneath her eyes, and her complexion was very wan.
Lucerys sat down next to her. He’d hoped the end of the war would ease the burden on his mother, but it hadn’t. Ruling the realm wasn’t easy, and victory had come at a steep cost. Rhaenyra had lost two children in her fight to win the throne. Two of Luke’s brothers. He’d never dared ask her if it’d been worth it.
He feared both the possible answers.
This close, Lucerys could detect his mother’s soothing scent of fresh garden herbs. It reminded him of his childhood. Rhaenyra had never been one of those nobles who palmed their children off onto nursemaids and septas from the moment they were born. She’d raised them herself, surrounded by her scent day and night – the bright tang of lemongrass, and earthier aromas of rosemary and sage. It was an unusually strong scent for a beta.
Of course, Luke had heard the other rumours about his mother. They weren’t as widespread as the ones concerning his parentage, but they endured just as persistently. These rumours claimed Queen Rhaenyra wasn’t a beta at all. That her first presentation had been false, and her true nature had revealed itself only after she’d been wedded to Laenor Velaryon. That she was, in truth, an alpha.
It was rare, but not unheard of for an alpha or omega to falsely present as a beta first. For some reason, it was more common among those of Valyrian blood, although still unusual. It had happened to Aemond, for example. And Baela too. But in the case of Queen Rhaenyra, it was a ridiculous idea. Yes, female alphas could bear children as well as sire them. Just like male omegas could sire as well as carry their offspring. But in both cases, it was very, very difficult. One child successfully conceived in such a way was considered a gift from the gods. Two was a plain miracle.
But five? Five children? Six, if you counted Luke’s tragic little sister Visenya. No, it was an absurd notion. Besides, Daemon was an alpha. What would he desire in another alpha? Especially for his wife. Valyrian blood had strange properties. Wasn’t that why the Targaryens were so drawn to one another? Why they were able to mate with their own kin? No, her dragon blood was undoubtedly the reason for Rhaenyra’s strong scent.
“I hear the small council were difficult,” the Queen remarked sympathetically.
Lucerys grimaced. “I swear, some of them are like pigs, all competing to see who can shove his face deepest into the trough. There are good men on the council, but the idiots speak the loudest. And once they get started, they don’t stop to draw breath.”
“Sounds like politics to me,” Rhaenyra said. “That’s how it always is.”
“It’s a waste of time.”
“It’s not a waste of time,” his mother cautioned him. “We must know what these men think, even if what they think is self-serving and stupid. They might be greedy, but we have to know what they’re greedy for. You need to be good at this game, Luke. One day you’ll be king, and then you’ll have more politics than you can stomach.”
“Not for a long time yet,” Lucerys protested.
“I certainly hope so.” Rhaenyra’s dull eyes briefly twinkled. “But life isn’t kind or predictable, you know that. But I am grateful to you, for leading the small council while Daemon is away. You’ve done a good job, and I know it’s not been easy. I’m proud of you.”
Lucerys basked. His mother had never been shy of praising her children, but it was always pleasant to hear it. “When will Daemon return?” he asked, broaching a sensitive subject.
Sure enough, his mother’s face shuttered. She shrugged stiffly, fiddling with a large emerald ring on her hand. “Daemon does as he pleases. He’ll come back when his work is done.”
Lucerys was worried about his mother. Her marriage to Daemon was the bedrock of their family. And now, it had cracked. Deeply too.
It was all Daemon’s fault. Whatever of his famously scandalous appetites he’d put aside when he’d married Rhaenyra, apparently it had only been a temporary thing. During the war, he’d become smitten with another woman, the dragon-rider known as Nettles. She was a street orphan, plucked off the streets of Driftmark when, against all the odds, she’d managed to tame the dragon Sheepstealer.
Lucerys had met Nettles a handful of times. She’d been wild and fearless, and an omega too. He’d liked her, until she’d helped break his mother’s heart. He’d admired her refusal to behave in the soft, compliant manner expected of her caste. Lucerys could easily understand what Daemon had been drawn to. He’d been drawn to it as well. What he couldn’t understand or condone, was acting on it.
Nettles was gone now. She’d left Westeros behind, flying east on Sheepstealer to places unknown. Fleeing Rhaenyra’s wrath. But her presence lingered, like the spectre at the feast. At least Aegon and Viserys were blissfully unaware of it all.
It was resentment, not love, that lingered between the Queen and her consort these days. Each had something to begrudge the other. Rhaenyra deeply resented Daemon’s flagrant infidelity. And, although he was careful never to speak it aloud, it was obvious Daemon resented having to give up his lover.
Lucerys was stuck in the middle. His sympathies lay with his mother – of course they did! He’d been furious when he’d heard about Daemon’s affair. He’d nearly flown off to confront his stepfather himself. Luke wasn’t naïve, he knew plenty of alphas wed to betas, and even some mated to omegas, kept lovers. But Daemon wasn’t married to any beta, he was married to the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. He’d humiliated Rhaenyra. Weakened her, when she’d most needed to appear strong. He’d betrayed her.
Luke had been angry with Daemon for a long time. Still was, if he was honest. But he was also painfully aware of how precarious their situation was. House Targaryen urgently needed to present a united front. No more damned feuds. But things were colder than they’d even been, between Lucerys’ parents.
“What work is Daemon doing, exactly?” Lucerys asked. It had been weeks since the man had left King’s Landing, and still nobody could give Luke a clear answer about where Daemon had gone, or why he’d gone there.
“Putting down trouble,” Rhaenyra said vaguely.
That could mean anything. Did the Queen not trust her son?
“Speaking of trouble,” Rhaenyra continued. “That’s why I summoned you here.”
“Are you talking about the unrest on the streets?”
“I wish I was. I’ve listened to Mysaria’s reports, of course. They trouble me greatly. But there’s something more serious stirring. Not in the streets, but in the high halls.”
“Conspiracy?” Lucerys said, alarmed.
“Perhaps.” Rhaenyra began twisting the ring on her finger around again, then stopped herself. She was anxious. Lucerys longed to take the burden for her, but he couldn’t. She’d won the crown, but it had turned out to be very heavy indeed.
“They’re just rumours,” Rhaenyra murmured. “But they’ve grown loud enough to reach the ears of my spies.”
“What do these rumours say?”
“That there’s a plot against me. Unknown traitors reaching out in secret, looking for allies sympathetic to their cause.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know,” Rhaenyra admitted. “I don’t have any names, and I can’t act with such little information. But I feel the truth of it in my gut. These whoresons think we’re weak, because we only have one grown dragon left.”
One dragon left. Arrax.
The Dance had claimed the lives of all the others. Either in combat, or in the terrible slaughter at the Dragonpit. Now just Luke’s old friend remained. Except Sheepstealer, disappeared across the Narrow Sea. And Silverwing, fled from battle, likely to die in a cave somewhere. Rhaena had a little dragonling she’d named Morning, but the beast was only the size of a dog.
Arrax was the last flickering ember of House Targaryen’s great ancestral power. Funny, when not so long ago, he’d been the runt. But one solitary dragon was worth more than an entire army. Even one as young as Arrax. Young, but battle tested.
“What do you think these conspirators want?” Lucerys said. His headache was starting to come back. “To put one of the usurper’s children on the throne?”
“Or seize it for themselves,” Rhaenyra mused gloomily. “Or to shatter the realm apart. But I won’t let it happen. I won’t. We have to be very careful, Luke. Careful and clever.”
Lucerys took one of his mother’s hands, squeezing it affectionately. “I’ll be both, I promise,” he vowed. “If there’s anything you need of me, you only ever have to ask.”
“My sweet boy,” Rhaenyra murmured, bringing Luke’s hand up to her mouth and kissing it. “I know that. Of course I know that.”
“I’m not a boy anymore,” Lucerys teased, trying his best to lighten the mood. “See?” He tugged playfully on the short hair of his beard. That was when the mutterings, about how like Harwin Strong he was, had become so persistent, when he’d grown in the damned beard. But Lucerys refused to shave it off. He liked it. It suited him.
Rhaenyra laughed. For a moment, the exhaustion fell away from her, and a healthy flush coloured her pallid cheeks. She cupped her son’s face, pulling gently on his short-cropped beard.
“You’ll always be a boy to me,” she said. “No matter how tall you get, how many battles you fight in, or how long a beard you grow. Even if it should reach your knees!”
They grinned at each other, troubles briefly forgotten.
…
Aemond cursed as he swallowed the last dose of the foul elixir. It made him gag, and he fought the urge to spit the stuff straight back out again. Years he’d been taking this fucking awful tonic, and it never got any less disgusting. But he forced himself to swallow every last drop. He couldn’t afford to waste any.
That was it then. That was the last of it. He’d no more asp water – for that’s what they called the potion in Essos, where it came from. Even getting his hands on this small phial had been extraordinarily difficult. And cripplingly expensive.
To afford it, Aemond had sold the enormous sapphire he’d worn in his empty eye-socket. It had been very hard to find a buyer who wouldn’t betray him. It’d been even harder – impossible, as it turned out – to find one who’d pay what the magnificent gemstone was actually worth. In the end, Aemond had been forced to let the sapphire go for a fraction of its true value. It had been a hard blow, but he’d had no choice! He’d desperately needed the gold. But gods, it had hurt. Just another painful dent in Aemond’s already shattered pride. One more thing to lose, when he’d already lost everything.
And now, he’d nothing left to sell. The final dose of the elixir would keep Aemond’s body in check for two or three moons, if he was lucky. And then that merciless bitch nature would arrive, unwanted but unstoppable. Aemond hadn’t suffered through a heat in years. The idea of enduring one whilst on the run made his stomach churn with dread. He couldn’t imagine anything more humiliating. He’d be so helpless.
The foul taste of the asp water lingered unpleasantly. Aemond drank some small beer to try and wash it away, but instead the weak ale caught in his throat. He began coughing. Seven Above, he needed some air.
He opened the shutters and leaned out the window, taking a deep breath. Aemond was sure nobody would see him, not in this narrow lane. The air outside wasn’t exactly fresh. A constant stink hung about the Gulltown docks. It was loud here too. Somewhere nearby, a man and a woman were screaming furiously. A baby was crying at the top of its poor little lungs. The men loading cargo bellowed curses at one another. It was a relentless barrage of noise.
Aemond couldn’t stand it. Even at night there was no fucking peace. That was when the whores plied their trade, calling out filthy things to passing sailors. Drunkards spewed their guts up, and wailed as they fell into the gutters.
Aemond had grown up in the Red Keep, where it had been quiet. There was nowhere in the world more dangerous for him now, but it still felt like home. A home he’d never see again. It’d been stolen from him, by the great whore and her bastard children.
His throat tightened painfully as violent, angry heartache seized him. Through sheer force of will, Aemond pushed the despair away. He refused to wallow in it, like some pathetic weakling. And he worried that if he started, he’d never stop. The Red Keep belonged to Rhaenyra now. She walked its passageways, sat on the throne, and doubtless slept in the lavish chambers that had once belonged to their sire.
Morosely, Aemond wondered who had his old apartments. Maybe it was Lucerys. His little husband, Lord Strong. For well over a year now, Aemond had expected to hear that their marriage had been dissolved, and that Lucerys had taken another spouse. But the news had never come. The horrible thought had occurred to him that perhaps Rhaenyra was waiting to see how Jaehaerys and Jaehaera presented, when they were older. That maybe she planned to wed one of them off to her son, thus symbolically reuniting the two divided halves of House Targaryen.
“My lord?” a voice interrupted Aemond’s brooding.
It was a local girl. The headstrong alpha daughter of a wealthy Gulltown cloth merchant. She was well-connected through her father’s business dealings, knew the city inside out, and had been very useful. Her family had secretly sympathised with Aegon’s cause, during the war.
The girl was a resentful thing though. Despite being her sire’s only alpha child, she’d recently discovered that he intended to pass his business onto her beta brother instead. Alpha women were wilful and assertive, but they were still women. In a world that prized physical strength and prowess in battle above nearly all else, they frequently lost out.
Helping Aemond was probably an act of rebellion. Her way of proving to herself that she was tough enough, no matter what her parents thought. Whatever the girl’s motivations were, Aemond wasn’t in any position to question them. She’d spent the last fortnight trying to secure him safe passage across the Narrow Sea. Ideally to Pentos, but any of the Free Cities would do. Aemond was running out of time.
He’d been moving around in secret for more than a year. It had taken a long time to recover from the terrible injuries Aemond had sustained in the battle above the Gods Eye. He’d been sheltered by secret friends, the world believing his body lay in the great lake. By the time Aemond was in any fit state to help his older brother, it was too late. Aegon was dead, and the war had been lost. There’d been nothing to do but run.
Aemond’s biggest regret was that he was abandoning both his mother and Helaena’s surviving children. They were being kept prisoner on Dragonstone, and rescue was impossible. To even attempt it would be suicide. But it ate away at Aemond. He vowed that he wouldn’t forget them. If an opportunity to free his family ever arose, he swore he’d take it.
“I’ve secured you passage on a ship,” the Gulltown girl – Lyrra, her name was – said excitedly. “I told the captain you were my cousin, running away from a forced marriage.”
“What harbour does this ship sail for?” Aemond asked, feeling his pulse quicken.
“Pentos,” the girl said. “But it leaves port within the hour. If you’re going to go, my prince, you must go now.”
Aemond hesitated. But this had always been the plan, hadn’t it? To leave suddenly? Aemond was ready to go. He’d been ready for a fortnight. Besides, what other choice did he have? None!
Smothering his anxiety, Aemond agreed to the girl’s plan. He hated the idea of being trapped aboard a merchant vessel, alongside strangers. But at least the asp water would last long enough to get him to Pentos, before his heat came on him. And besides, this rotting hovel was so unbearably filthy, how much worse could the bilges of a ship possibly be?
Aemond put on a grey cloak, taking care that the hood covered his long silver hair. Before he boarded this merchant ship, he’d need to wrap a cap about his head to hide it completely, but this would do for now. Lastly, he took up his sword belt and fastened it about his waist. The familiar weight of the blade against his hip was reassuring. Aemond didn’t like to go about unarmed.
A rag-tag group of knights had helped hide him over the past year. Of their number, just two remained, waiting by the door, ready to depart. They were loyal men, and it pained Aemond that he couldn’t reward them for it. The others who’d helped him were returned to their families and liege lords, having sworn a vow of silence. There was nothing they could do for Aemond now. Once he was aboard the ship, even these last two would leave him. And then he’d really be on his own, with nothing more than a scant handful of gold dragons, and the faint hope of finding sympathisers in the Free Cities.
And if he couldn’t… well, there was no point thinking about that now. Despair was weakness.
Quietly, the four of them left the squalid hovel. Lyrra led the way, moving swiftly through the Gulltown crowds. She was dressed in woollen leggings with a belted green kirtle, typical dress for a female alpha. She led them away from where the larger ships were moored, and towards the wharfs where the smaller vessels laid anchor. The afternoon was overcast, with regular short blasts of summer rain. The bad weather meant that Aemond was far from the only hooded figure on the streets. He blended in.
They passed unnoticed, until suddenly Lyrra cut left, leading the group down a narrow alleyway between two large warehouses. Aemond was only a dozen or so paces down the alley, before he began to feel uneasy. Something wasn’t right. This led away from the waterfront, not towards it. He looked back over his shoulder. There were two men blocking the mouth of the alley. They were armed.
Aemond’s hand flew to the hilt of his sword, heart hammering. There were five men in front of them now too, slipping silently out of the shadows. They were dressed like common thugs, but one glance at the way they held their weapons gave away the truth. These were well-trained men.
Gods, Aemond had walked straight into an ambush.
“I’m sorry, Prince Aemond,” Lyrra muttered wretchedly, as she slipped away. “They said they’d kill my parents. I’m sorry…”
Aemond snarled furiously at the traitorous bitch, but she was gone. He fought hard not to let the mounting panic take him, but he could feel it clawing at his throat. It increased tenfold when another figure appeared from the shadows. One Aemond knew well, but hadn’t expected to ever see again. The man walked with a pronounced limp these days, but there was no mistaking who it was.
“Hello, nephew,” Daemon Targaryen drawled. He had Dark Sister drawn, the slim, menacing blade gleaming dully. “I’ve been looking for you for a long time.”
Aemond glared, baring his teeth viciously at the alpha. He felt like a rat in a trap. The two knights with him drew close, caging Aemond protectively between them. They looked afraid too. The three of them were hopelessly outnumbered.
“I see you didn’t survive our battle unscathed,” Aemond sneered, nodding towards Daemon’s left leg. His uncle was visibly unable to rest his full weight on it.
“And now I have a chance to pay you back for it.” Daemon’s eyes were as cold as the ice beyond the Wall.
Aemond drew his own sword, blood pounding in his ears like a drum. He refused to die in some filthy alleyway. Not after everything he’d been through. He wouldn’t die here. He refused to die here!
“Kill him,” Daemon commanded. The enemy swarmed in, murder in their eyes.
The narrowness of the dark alley meant Daemon’s men couldn’t take full advantage of their numbers. It wasn’t much, but it was something. The fight was chaotic and brutal. Aemond was nearly stabbed in his gut immediately, the blade tearing his tunic instead. He’d been right, Daemon’s men were well-trained, fast and lethal. But not as fast or lethal as Aemond.
He cut down two of them in quick succession. The first man’s throat he sliced open, hot blood spraying across Aemond’s face, as it spurted violently from the jagged wound. The second man howled with fury as his friend fell, hacking wildly at Aemond, only to find himself skewered on the prince’s sword, the blade slicing clean through fat and muscle.
It was bloody anarchy. It didn’t take long before one of Aemond’s knights was killed, stabbed in the belly. Just moments later, the other was also dealt a mortal blow. The stink of blood and fear was thick in the air. Aemond nearly tripped and fell over a gurgling body. The walls closed in around him. The alley felt like a grave. There was no way out!
Then, very suddenly, a gap appeared briefly in the furious press of bodies. Desperate to save his skin, Aemond didn’t hesitate to take it.
He shoved one of the men trying to kill him out of the way, cutting the whoreson deep across the thigh for good measure. Aemond stumbled, nearly falling as hands grabbed wildly at him, snatching at his cloak. But they couldn’t hold on. Aemond staggered out of the alleyway. He got his legs under him, and took off at a flat sprint, bolting away as fast as he could. Running for his life.
“After him!” Daemon bellowed furiously.
Aemond didn’t know Gulltown at all. He was lost from the moment he tore out of the alley. He ran blindly, with no idea where he was going. He weaved through the smallfolk, trying hopelessly to lose his pursuers among them. His foot caught on a rope, and he stumbled, nearly tripping over. He dropped his sword, and it clattered away. There was no time to stop and pick it back up.
The hot blood rushing through Aemond’s ears got louder and louder, until it threatened to drown out everything else. A stabbing pain was growing steadily worse in his side, like a knife slipped between his ribs. Like Daemon, Aemond’s fall from the sky had come at a steep cost. He’d broken three of his ribs plunging into the Gods Eye, and dislocated his shoulder too. The crippling agony had been so intense, he’d nearly drowned, finding it impossible to swim. Aemond had nightmares about it, sometimes, the deep water, and how close it had come to taking him.
Healing had been slow. An infection had set in, nearly killing Aemond all over again. But he was whole again now, more or less. It seemed his ribs couldn’t yet withstand the strain of Aemond running full tilt, as fast as his legs could carry him. He tried his best to ignore the rapidly mounting pain, as he sprinted out of the filthy docklands and into the wealthier quarters of the city. The streets widened, and the dirt underfoot gave way to cobblestones. A solemn bell tolled nearby.
One of Daemon’s men got close enough to grab Aemond’s cloak. He tried to yank him backwards, but only succeeded in making himself trip. The rough wool slipped free from the bastard’s grasp, but the hood fell to Aemond’s shoulders. His hair came free, tangling around his face as he ran. Gods, they were nearly on him. Aemond was faltering, the pain in his ribcage becoming unbearable.
Realising that his body was going to give up any second, Aemond looked around in frantic desperation. He needed something – anything – to save him. The gods had forsaken him a long time ago, but Aemond prayed to them now. Pleading for a miracle.
That bell tolled again, and he instinctively turned towards the sound. There was a large sept to his right, the doors open. Without stopping to think about it, Aemond lurched towards the seven-sided building. He was certain a faithless cur like Daemon Targaryen wouldn’t respect the sanctuary of holy ground, but Aemond was out of other options. It was this, or get slaughtered in the street, his blood left to run in the gutter.
He'd expected to find the sept nearly empty at this time of day, and got a shock when he staggered in to find it full of people. A whole congregation, in fact. Probably there for a funeral or a wedding. Statues of the gods stared down impassively from the walls. Not so the men and women on the benches, who stared at Aemond in disbelief. Many of them got to their feet. The septon faltered in the middle of his sermon.
A second later, there was a fresh commotion, as the men chasing Aemond burst through the sept’s doors, bloodstained swords still drawn. Several people screamed.
“This is holy ground!” a hysterical septa shrieked. “Spill no blood here, or the gods will punish you!”
“Aemond!” Daemon’s voice roared. The man himself appeared, marching into the sept, despite the hitch in his gait. Aemond backed away, still fighting to catch his breath. The pain in his side wasn’t fading. It throbbed mercilessly every time he inhaled. Aemond clutched his ribs as Daemon advanced, until just a few feet separated them.
By this time, half the congregation were trying to get a better look at what was going on, whilst the other half were trying to scramble away. Daemon looked angry to see the crowd, a muscle in his jaw twitching, as he ground his teeth in frustration.
A rush of exhausted relief threatened to buckle Aemond’s knees out from under him. Daemon was thwarted. There were too many people! They’d surely been recognised, even all the way out here, in the Vale of Arryn. Their pale hair and Aemond’s eyepatch were both highly distinctive, even to men and women who’d never laid eyes on either of them before.
Gods, Daemon had even called out Aemond’s name.
The congregation wasn’t made up of the smallfolk either. Now that Aemond looked at them properly, he noticed their clothes were made from embroidered cloth and silk. These were wealthy merchants and traders. And then there were the septons and septas. Educated men and women, who knew their letters. The sort of people whose testimony couldn’t be ignored.
If Daemon killed Aemond here, he’d make himself a kinslayer of the worst sort. The kind that spilled blood on holy ground, with his quarry outnumbered four to one. A blasphemer and a coward? Even a famous scoundrel like Daemon Targaryen couldn’t shrug those charges off. The story would spread across the whole realm like wildfire.
“Prince Daemon,” Aemond announced, pushing through the pain to speak so loudly that his voice carried to every corner of the sept. “Uncle. In the name of the Seven Above, I – Prince Aemond Targaryen – throw myself upon your mercy.”
Daemon’s lip curled and his eyes narrowed. He was furious. Aemond’s uncle smelled like woodsmoke and bitter spices. It was an aggressively alpha scent. It made a small, heavily suppressed part of Aemond, a part of himself that he loathed, want to bow his head in submission. Or worse, bare his neck. Instead, he forced himself to keep his gaze steady. It should’ve been humiliating, asking Daemon for mercy. But it felt like victory.
The two Targaryen princes stared at each other in tense silence, the crowd of strangers hushing around them. The older alpha glowering furiously at the young omega, who flatly refused to drop his eye or show any sign of meek submission.
“Take him alive,” Daemon ground out at last, sliding Dark Sister back into its scabbard. “We’ll take the whoreson to King’s Landing. The Queen will decide what to do with him.”