It's past dusk when the distant bellow of Vhagar's return from Storm's End echoes behind the hill of Rhaenys. The long, quiet journey was only a blip in Aemond's mind. It would seem a miraculous feat to touch ground again when he hardly remembered navigating the way back home. Mayhaps the she-dragon intuited her way without his guidance. Mayhaps that's all he did, gently careening the giant beast home following the jagged lines of the coast in some automated fashion. But he, however, had been absent. Tangled in an endless memory of watching remnants plunging into the clouds.
He barely remembers making it to the Red Keep from the Dragonpit. Still damp after flying through storms or perhaps it's the chill of sweat trapped underneath his riding leathers. Feeling swampy and disgusting and the infernal desire to simply rip everything off and tear it apart. Trudging deeper into the keep, crossing the dry moat to the Holdfast.
I need to speak to my mother. He barely recalls saying. Someone can show him the way. Footmen pulling open door after door. Even as the last of them pull open, depositing him in the company of his mother. Aemond still feels as he's in a dreamβa waking nightmare. It looms emptily over his shoulder upon eager eyes and prayers of good news they have secured at least one more formidable ally.
"Lord Borros has sworn his fealty to King Aegon." The prince composes calmly, every ounce of him funneled into the eye of a storm of what he needs to stay. To fulfill the end of his designated duty with dignity. As envoy for his brother-king, to secure the hand of one of Borros Baratheon's daughters, they had gained the might of the Stormlands. They would now need them.
When he finally does look his mother in the eye, it's weary of the way she can pierce through him like he's onion paper. The sweat on his neck grows cold as the briefest of unease flickers across his composition.
"The Prince Lucerys is dead. Our dragons met above the storm."
These words grow sharper; not exactly wracked with guilt, not proud either. Lucerys was an obstacle, a necessity needed to be removed. What happened was nothing more than a fly that daftly flew into his mouth and met its end. Aemond's eye drops away as if to avoid hers out of politeness. He'd said it, he's done, it's out of his hands now.
Alicent disallows any dragon to cast its shadow over the Red Keep while Aemond is absent. Although it kills some part of her for Helaena to grow characteristically quiet and to see her face fall when she gently discourages her from taking to Dreamfyre's back, she's all the calmer for it. She doesn't wish to miss his return. She doesn't wish for it to go unseen and unreported. Vhagar's shadow may be unlike any other's, but Alicent, for all of her study, never studied the dragons. She never wanted to. Despite glancing out the window numerous times over the course of the days that pass, she misses when Vhagar returns.
Other than the sept, her chambers is the only room where she's truly left alone. That's where Aemond finds her. She doesn't have the opportunity to find him first, even though that's how she imagined it playing out: His dragon would return, she'd be the first informed, Aegon the second, and she would sweep along the corridors and meet him in the courtyard when he returned on horseback, and she'd feel the pride she hadn't felt at Aegon's coronation.
She feels some semblance of it now as she watches Aemond. But she feels dread, too. It coils heavily in her gut. She intentionally stops herself from pressing her palms to her belly in an attempt to quell it.
The shadows fall across his face; they both soften and harden the sharp line of his jaw. Alicent furrows her brows as she watches him. She hadn't been expecting him at this hour. She hadn't been expecting he'd carry this news.
Borros is agreeable. Lucerys isβ¦
Alicent clasps her hands in front of her and twists them as she lets her gaze drop and trail over him. His silver hair is slightly curled, but it remains silver without a smidgeon of blood. His black leathers seem to be without dark patches or fraying threads suggesting any struggle. Does she know what to look for? Of course not. It's not like Viserys ever gave a shit to tell her anything about dragons.
After a brief moment, Alicent lifts her gaze to his. "Are you hurt?"
She knows nothing of dragons but what he's told her. Viserys never cared to; Aemond cared too much to. She should've listened.
Negotiation of Aegon's claim stands to become more difficult. Many witnesses in the hall speak of their disagreement and account for the malice. None witnessed the deed done, the veil of the storm assured that. Would his nephew's body ever be found? Do they hold a shard of plausible deniability?
No, they shouldn't deny it. Rhaenyra should fear them, fear him. Whatever remnants are fished from the sea may offer a warning to heed. Should she pursue this foolish claim, more of her young dragonlings will fall from the sky. Be smart for once, concede over the blood of your kin. The question is, will they own the responsibility immediately or lay their silence until another secret is found?
Aemond's eye meets his mothers again; a little less weary, a little more convicted. A part of him wants to balk at the idea that he is even slightly hurt by such encounters. Perhaps she only looks for a shred of culpability, justice for his actions. He has none to give her.
"I am not." He would not see himself twice maimed by a child. He proceeds onward, deflecting her attention back to the tasks at hand. "Nor did I encounter any others. It would seem my half-sister has sent out her retinue just as we have to curry support. I expect to find other traitors should I fly to treat with the rest of our undeclared seats."
Let him pick them off one by one. Not that she holds the seat of power to make decisions any longer, he should hold his council until the morning when there may be an announcement official. It doesn't stop him from stating his opinion.
Edited (i was missing a word) 2025-03-02 14:28 (UTC)
The last time Alicent had reason to worry about Aemond, half his face was split wide open. Now, it's half-covered by black leather. Despite that, she still believes she can read him. He'd held his head so high when he was a boy. Had he ever lowered it?
Although her eyes glide over him like dragon's wings, she doesn't approach him to take hold of him. He doesn't need it. Aemond has never needed her since Driftmark. She twists her clasped fingers instead.
"No."
But he does need some sense. Sometimes the Targaryens can't see beyond their noses. Viserys lacked the foresight of the ripple effect his choices and inaction would have upon the sea of Westeros. Alicent can see it now. Her pride isn't as hurt as Aemond's at this moment.
"You'll do no such thing, not now. You need to be seen as mourning the loss of your king and father. Some of the undeclared Houses respond best to that."
Emotion. If Rhaenyra and her kin are seen desperately currying favour without a drop of emotion spent for the late King Viserys I, she knows it'll work against them. Viserys was beloved by those who didn't know him. The Realm's Delight has her opportunity to show her love for her father, and sending her children to seek support could be her undoing.
So she wants to assume, especially now with this news in the mix. To her credit, Alicent doesn't allow it to fluster her yet.
Let him go. Let him put an end to this before it can begin. It's the most optimal time to strike knowing their enemy has spread themselves thin and she fool enough to send dragonriders instead of ravens. It's not a conventional way of making war, the lords and ladies of the Realm might decry him as cruel as Maegor, but that is a cost he is willing to make. When the alternative is their heads laid upon a pretty row before Syrax or Caraxes if they were not taken by the swiftest blade for her treasons.
Aemond's fists clutch in immediate protest. The gloom of concern furrows his brow as he wavers in place, needing her to see reason. She has decided to put Aegon on the throne, this war was never to end in the favor of lords made by scratched quills. He has spilled first blood and it will not be the last.
"What good is sitting on our hands now? When the news makes it out of the Stormlands, we will be at war."
Doesn't she see? Has it yet to sink in? He steps towards her, similar to how he would the slow approach of a skittish animal or a young dragon. He doesn't fear her but mayhaps for her judgement of him. Her wroth he has seen unleashed upon his brother over a dozen times, but she has yet to strike him. Perhaps because he'd yet to give her reason to.
There's sense in moving now, and she wants to, but sense and desire are two opposing things. She can't allow him to act on emotion or any lingering adrenaline and self-righteousness.
"The longer we wait, the weaker she will appear."
He was too young to remember Driftmark when Alicent allowed her emotions and fury to override all sense. That's what she relies upon with Rhaenyra now, the overwhelming surge of emotions to make her appear weak. When she looks back on that night, Alicent holds no regrets, but Viserys had. He'd spoken for her, declaring she was regretful, that she was lostβlike caring about her son's eye was a weakness rather than a strength. (How many times had she told him Aemond needed a dragon?) All the regret belongs to Viserys, and it will weigh upon him even when he's ash under dragon fire.
Aemond's already weighted, even though he'll declare he's not.
His hands curl, and she mirrors him.
"How do you think the Realm will see you if you march upon her now after her son's death, Aemond?" she asks, keeping her voice low, like she's speaking to one of her children's precious yet irritable dragons. "How do you think they will see you when you attack her and her sons, but not mourn for your beloved father?"
The Realm's beloved Viserys.
Sometimes she blames herself for his inability to appear soft when needed. She should've taught him better. She should've been an example, even though Alicent has no idea how to hold herself with softness anymore. She's always been an overlooked blade.
Beloved. His eye immediately rolls, trying to smother the irritation as it comes to surface. His attention settles off to the side of her, biding his tongue from speaking true how he should feel about the mourning of his father. She is not meant for indelicate words nor would she settle for the slandering, no matter how rightfully deserved, as to why that suggestion is absolutely ridiculous to him. She should already know, she was there with a blade in her hand, defending the honor his father would not lift a finger for.
"How do you think they will see me once Luc fails to return home? When the whispers from Lord Borros' court travels north?"
It's already done, he's already damned. He has already become the worst thing in the eyes of the Realm: a kinslayer. Vicious as Maegor who too drew the blood of his nephew. He's had hours of flying home, cold with rain, to reconcile this truth. It shouldn't bother him what the Realm should think of him anymore and it doesn't concern her how he should truly feel about it. If it eats away inside him at all. It doesn't exist if he chooses not to see it.
He knew this day would come. He is the only one of them who can fit the role of the blade, executioner, savior. She cannot spare him from it no matter how hard she tries.
Out of them all, she'd expect Aemond to understand that. Surely he must. He's always come to her with an open mind and interest. He's always listened, until he stopped. Aegon's arrogance blinds him to the vulnerability that his power lies in the hands of those who look upon him and determine whether he's remembered as good or horrid in history.
Aegon is lost. Aemond still has a chance to be remembered as he should be.
It's stupid to cling to stories. Alicent keeps her hands curled tightly to stop from spiralling. Her heart won't stop ricocheting in her chest and throat.
"He's a boy who had no right to sit on the back of a dragon," she says.
Gods, one would think her a Targaryen with how she sounds. No man has a right to sit on such a beast, but she's long since given up holding onto such a belief. How can she when her sons and daughter cling to them like children do stray dogs?
She twists her fingers and remains still. Aemond isn't a boy anymore. He hardly clings to her skirts.
She wants to look away, but she watches him instead. "If they have any sense, they'll see you how I see you."
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He barely remembers making it to the Red Keep from the Dragonpit. Still damp after flying through storms or perhaps it's the chill of sweat trapped underneath his riding leathers. Feeling swampy and disgusting and the infernal desire to simply rip everything off and tear it apart. Trudging deeper into the keep, crossing the dry moat to the Holdfast.
I need to speak to my mother. He barely recalls saying. Someone can show him the way. Footmen pulling open door after door. Even as the last of them pull open, depositing him in the company of his mother. Aemond still feels as he's in a dreamβa waking nightmare. It looms emptily over his shoulder upon eager eyes and prayers of good news they have secured at least one more formidable ally.
"Lord Borros has sworn his fealty to King Aegon." The prince composes calmly, every ounce of him funneled into the eye of a storm of what he needs to stay. To fulfill the end of his designated duty with dignity. As envoy for his brother-king, to secure the hand of one of Borros Baratheon's daughters, they had gained the might of the Stormlands. They would now need them.
When he finally does look his mother in the eye, it's weary of the way she can pierce through him like he's onion paper. The sweat on his neck grows cold as the briefest of unease flickers across his composition.
"The Prince Lucerys is dead. Our dragons met above the storm."
These words grow sharper; not exactly wracked with guilt, not proud either. Lucerys was an obstacle, a necessity needed to be removed. What happened was nothing more than a fly that daftly flew into his mouth and met its end. Aemond's eye drops away as if to avoid hers out of politeness. He'd said it, he's done, it's out of his hands now.
no subject
Other than the sept, her chambers is the only room where she's truly left alone. That's where Aemond finds her. She doesn't have the opportunity to find him first, even though that's how she imagined it playing out: His dragon would return, she'd be the first informed, Aegon the second, and she would sweep along the corridors and meet him in the courtyard when he returned on horseback, and she'd feel the pride she hadn't felt at Aegon's coronation.
She feels some semblance of it now as she watches Aemond. But she feels dread, too. It coils heavily in her gut. She intentionally stops herself from pressing her palms to her belly in an attempt to quell it.
The shadows fall across his face; they both soften and harden the sharp line of his jaw. Alicent furrows her brows as she watches him. She hadn't been expecting him at this hour. She hadn't been expecting he'd carry this news.
Borros is agreeable. Lucerys isβ¦
Alicent clasps her hands in front of her and twists them as she lets her gaze drop and trail over him. His silver hair is slightly curled, but it remains silver without a smidgeon of blood. His black leathers seem to be without dark patches or fraying threads suggesting any struggle. Does she know what to look for? Of course not. It's not like Viserys ever gave a shit to tell her anything about dragons.
After a brief moment, Alicent lifts her gaze to his. "Are you hurt?"
She knows nothing of dragons but what he's told her. Viserys never cared to; Aemond cared too much to. She should've listened.
no subject
No, they shouldn't deny it. Rhaenyra should fear them, fear him. Whatever remnants are fished from the sea may offer a warning to heed. Should she pursue this foolish claim, more of her young dragonlings will fall from the sky. Be smart for once, concede over the blood of your kin. The question is, will they own the responsibility immediately or lay their silence until another secret is found?
Aemond's eye meets his mothers again; a little less weary, a little more convicted. A part of him wants to balk at the idea that he is even slightly hurt by such encounters. Perhaps she only looks for a shred of culpability, justice for his actions. He has none to give her.
"I am not." He would not see himself twice maimed by a child. He proceeds onward, deflecting her attention back to the tasks at hand. "Nor did I encounter any others. It would seem my half-sister has sent out her retinue just as we have to curry support. I expect to find other traitors should I fly to treat with the rest of our undeclared seats."
Let him pick them off one by one. Not that she holds the seat of power to make decisions any longer, he should hold his council until the morning when there may be an announcement official. It doesn't stop him from stating his opinion.
no subject
Although her eyes glide over him like dragon's wings, she doesn't approach him to take hold of him. He doesn't need it. Aemond has never needed her since Driftmark. She twists her clasped fingers instead.
"No."
But he does need some sense. Sometimes the Targaryens can't see beyond their noses. Viserys lacked the foresight of the ripple effect his choices and inaction would have upon the sea of Westeros. Alicent can see it now. Her pride isn't as hurt as Aemond's at this moment.
"You'll do no such thing, not now. You need to be seen as mourning the loss of your king and father. Some of the undeclared Houses respond best to that."
Emotion. If Rhaenyra and her kin are seen desperately currying favour without a drop of emotion spent for the late King Viserys I, she knows it'll work against them. Viserys was beloved by those who didn't know him. The Realm's Delight has her opportunity to show her love for her father, and sending her children to seek support could be her undoing.
So she wants to assume, especially now with this news in the mix. To her credit, Alicent doesn't allow it to fluster her yet.
no subject
Aemond's fists clutch in immediate protest. The gloom of concern furrows his brow as he wavers in place, needing her to see reason. She has decided to put Aegon on the throne, this war was never to end in the favor of lords made by scratched quills. He has spilled first blood and it will not be the last.
"What good is sitting on our hands now? When the news makes it out of the Stormlands, we will be at war."
Doesn't she see? Has it yet to sink in? He steps towards her, similar to how he would the slow approach of a skittish animal or a young dragon. He doesn't fear her but mayhaps for her judgement of him. Her wroth he has seen unleashed upon his brother over a dozen times, but she has yet to strike him. Perhaps because he'd yet to give her reason to.
"The longer we wait, the stronger she will grow."
no subject
"The longer we wait, the weaker she will appear."
He was too young to remember Driftmark when Alicent allowed her emotions and fury to override all sense. That's what she relies upon with Rhaenyra now, the overwhelming surge of emotions to make her appear weak. When she looks back on that night, Alicent holds no regrets, but Viserys had. He'd spoken for her, declaring she was regretful, that she was lostβlike caring about her son's eye was a weakness rather than a strength. (How many times had she told him Aemond needed a dragon?) All the regret belongs to Viserys, and it will weigh upon him even when he's ash under dragon fire.
Aemond's already weighted, even though he'll declare he's not.
His hands curl, and she mirrors him.
"How do you think the Realm will see you if you march upon her now after her son's death, Aemond?" she asks, keeping her voice low, like she's speaking to one of her children's precious yet irritable dragons. "How do you think they will see you when you attack her and her sons, but not mourn for your beloved father?"
The Realm's beloved Viserys.
Sometimes she blames herself for his inability to appear soft when needed. She should've taught him better. She should've been an example, even though Alicent has no idea how to hold herself with softness anymore. She's always been an overlooked blade.
no subject
"How do you think they will see me once Luc fails to return home? When the whispers from Lord Borros' court travels north?"
It's already done, he's already damned. He has already become the worst thing in the eyes of the Realm: a kinslayer. Vicious as Maegor who too drew the blood of his nephew. He's had hours of flying home, cold with rain, to reconcile this truth. It shouldn't bother him what the Realm should think of him anymore and it doesn't concern her how he should truly feel about it. If it eats away inside him at all. It doesn't exist if he chooses not to see it.
He knew this day would come. He is the only one of them who can fit the role of the blade, executioner, savior. She cannot spare him from it no matter how hard she tries.
"It should not matter what they think."
no subject
Out of them all, she'd expect Aemond to understand that. Surely he must. He's always come to her with an open mind and interest. He's always listened, until he stopped. Aegon's arrogance blinds him to the vulnerability that his power lies in the hands of those who look upon him and determine whether he's remembered as good or horrid in history.
Aegon is lost. Aemond still has a chance to be remembered as he should be.
It's stupid to cling to stories. Alicent keeps her hands curled tightly to stop from spiralling. Her heart won't stop ricocheting in her chest and throat.
"He's a boy who had no right to sit on the back of a dragon," she says.
Gods, one would think her a Targaryen with how she sounds. No man has a right to sit on such a beast, but she's long since given up holding onto such a belief. How can she when her sons and daughter cling to them like children do stray dogs?
She twists her fingers and remains still. Aemond isn't a boy anymore. He hardly clings to her skirts.
She wants to look away, but she watches him instead. "If they have any sense, they'll see you how I see you."