Chapter Text
Aemond woke the next morning with shame burning in his chest and a foul stickiness between his legs.
The cold water shocked him awake easily enough, but even as he scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed, there was a film of filth on him. Even long after the evidence of it was washed clean, he felt the guilt stick to him like tar.
The rest of the morning gave him little relief. Morning meetings with Maester Nymos and the lords of the island were becoming the norm, all of them packing into the small room with the biggest table. Aemond couldn’t look Gwyn in the eye, even when the lord tried to catch his gaze. News has been trickling in from the crownlands, and Nymos insists on talking over every. Single. One.
First: Daemon was charging on Harrenhal, hoping to claim the Riverlands for his queen. Aemond frowned at the news; that would be a sore loss for his brother, but Alys scoffed.
“The prince will not survive long in my family’s halls,” She assured, a dark threat lurking beneath her words. “Dragons are no match for ghosts.” Aemond wasn’t quite sure what she meant, but it gave him a glimpse of hope.
Second: Remains of Arrax and Lucerys had washed up from Shipbreaker Bay. The shame inside Aemond’s gut intensifies, but somewhere outside, he can feel Vhagar hum with pride.
“The remains, or rather, the lack thereof have people questioning.” Nymos’ voice was as grave as a tomb. “Some are bringing up that if the boy and his dragon have been brought to shore, there should be signs of our prince and Vhagar. My connections tell me it hasn’t gone past rumors, but we should keep an eye on it.”
Third, and most concerning to Aemond: his mother had confined herself to her chambers after a three-day vigil for him. According to Nymos’ sources, she had rejected all food, water, and comfort, and was inconsolable in her grief.
There was little more Aemond wanted to do at that moment than turn tail and flee back to King’s Landing, to scoop his mother into her arms and plead for her forgiveness. He had always been the pillar holding her up, and it made his eye smart and sting to think of her collapsing without him. Thankfully, the lords turned their gaze when Aemond dipped his head low, murmuring a prayer to the Mother under his breath, ignoring the wateriness pooling beneath his eyepatch.
In the end, there was little they could do but wait further. It drove Aemond half-mad, to sit there uselessly like a trap with no spring. He should be doing his duty, marrying Maris Baratheon like he promised, kneeling for Aegon, but even in his frustration he knew he was too deep in to back out now. To leave now would only raise more questions, and ruin any advantage he could gain from the North and any surprise they could have.
The recognition of his situation didn’t make the fire of his frustration simmer any lower, however, and before long he found himself marching to Vhagar’s clearing. So lost in his own head, he almost didn’t see the two figures in the treeline of the space.
One was Alys, that was certain, dressed in forest greens and dark furs, curls sweeping down her back. Holding her hand was someone much smaller, a girl no older than three-and-ten. Red hair— the same dark wine that Gwyn had, fell around her freckled face in choppy layers, looking more like an animal had attacked it rather than shears had cut it. Boiled leathers, snow-stained breeches, a small longbow, and a quiver over her shoulders; the child looked more like a wildling spawn than any proper girl of her age. Alys and she were talking quietly, both of them facing Vhagar’s slumbering bulk.
Aemond stayed quiet and paused where he walked, watching the two women. Alys looked happy, dimples denting her round face as the younger girl said something to her. She, the younger, had something deeply familiar about her face, a softer mirror of Gwyn from years past. A relative, surely, a sister or cousin or niece. Neither of them were approaching Vhagar, simply watching her as Aemond watched them.
When Aemond did approach, not to the women but to Vhagar, neither of them left. Even as Vhagar grumbled and snorted and huffed as she woke, he could see both of them staring from the corner of his eye, their faces a mix of amusem*nt and wonder.
“My prince,” Alys’ smooth voice was as musical as ever. “I hope we do not intrude.” He waved a hand over his shoulder.
“You’re not. I was simply going to fly with Vhagar, let her stretch her wings.” A few twigs crunched as Alys and the girl approached, both keeping a healthy distance from the dragon yawning in front of them.
“You fly on it?” The girl spoke finally. Crackly with youth, her clear blue eyes never left Vhagar.
“Her. I fly on her, yes, that is what Targaryens do.”
“I thought that might be a tale,” The girl shrugged, her free hand worrying the bowstring over her shoulder. “Like a grumkin.”
What in the Seven Hells is a grumkin? “Well, I assure you, Vhagar is very real.” The girl mouthed Vhagar’s name, finally looking up at Aemond.
“Did you really take my brother flying on her?” Ah, so a sister indeed. Aemond couldn’t help a good-natured chuckle.
“Yes, many times. Though, I don’t think he ever truly got comfortable with it.” If it were anyone else pestering him with questions, he would’ve stormed off long ago, but the innocent nature of the girl’s rapid-fire made him think of Jaehaerys, who would spend the whole day chattering if he could. “Most men are not meant to be up so high.
The girl's chest puffed out. “I wouldn’t be afraid.” She insisted, even as she took a half step back as Vhagar rumbled to her feet.
“Oh?” Aemond rested his hand on Vhagar’s mottled side. “Well, would you like to test that? Just a quick flight, I need the fresh air.”
The girl looked from him, to Vhagar, then to Alys, who smiled and nodded. She let go of Alys’ hand, pausing before stepping forward. She assumed a stance much like a soldier, with her chin held high and hands clasped behind her. “I’m ready.”
“Leave the bow and quiver with your good-sister, we don’t want them falling off in flight. Then come stand by Vhagar’s shoulder, my lady…”
“Wynafryd.” Alys chimed in, gingerly taking the bow and quiver offered to her before moving to sit on a large rock nearby.
“Winnie.” Wynafryd— Winnie corrected, skipping to stand where Aemond pointed. “Don’t call me lady.”
To Winnie’s credit, she took to the dragon-saddle better than Daeron did at her age; and he didn’t even need to clamber a rope ladder. Winnie scaled it with an ease that spoke to years of climbing trees and keep walls, and Aemond couldn’t quite shake his smile as he helped Winnie fasten to the saddle. The impulsiveness of children, however reckless, always brought him some bittersweet joy, knowing that freedom would soon be lost.
“You can only be a good dragon-rider as long as you are alive; it is essential to always remember your chains and fastens,” Aemond explained, making sure everything was secure and steady. “My brother once forgot his and fell from his dragon before they even took wing, and broke his arm for the trouble. And his mount wasn’t even half Vhagar’s size.” Of course, he declined to mention that said brother had also been uproariously drunk, and that was the second most stupid thing to do while dragon-riding. Winnie nodded along attentively.
Even with the dredges of sleep clinging to Vhagar, she was eager to lumber around the clearing once Aemond was securely fastened behind Winnie, searching for the right angle to take off. Once she tilted her head in the way Aemond knew she was prepared, he murmured to the girl before him. “Sōvēs means fly. When you are ready, tell that to Vhagar.”
Winnie swallowed but leaned in the saddle. “Soh-ves, Vhagar!” Her accent was understandably abysmal, but so was Aemond’s when he first learned, so he neglected to mention it and simply urged Vhagar forward.
The tops of the trees bent back with the force of Vhagar’s wings, Winnie shrieking in delight and surprise. Two wingbeats carried them well above the tree line, and Aemond nearly recoiled at how much brighter it was. The dense forest was almost a keep in and of itself, sheltering from the sun. Winnie leaned forward in the saddle like one might do with a galloping horse, and Aemond laughed with her. There was no delight like flight, he could fly with Vhagar a thousand more times and never lose the novelty. Vhagar bellowed, and far, far below, Aemond could barely make out the people of Mormont Keep and its surrounding town looking up in amazement.
After a few minutes of flying, Aemond felt more settled in his skin than ever, even with the cold lashing his cheeks. His hair, which without the heated combs of King’s Landing had returned to its natural tangled and curly state, whipped about his face in a cream torrent. “Winnie,” he called over the wind, the girl twisting to face him. “You want to try something?”
Winnie nodded ecstatically, and Aemond gripped the reins tighter, urging Vhagar up, up, up. Just like that day, years and years ago, taking Gwyn high above King’s Landing. Finally, when Bear Isle was barely more than a speck on the ground and the stark line of the Wall could be seen marching off in the distance, he yelled for Winnie to hold on tight and let go of the reins.
Vhagar must have done this move a million times over, her massive bulk moving with fluid precision as her wings tucked and began to plummet. Aemond wondered if Laena had done this trick with her, or his grandfather Baelon, or even Visenya before all of them. Winnie screeched with the drop, instinctively leaning back, thus forcing Aemond to do the same, and the black waters of the Bay of Ice crept closer and closer. Just when Aemond could count the spots on the backs of some swimming seals; Vhagar opened her wings with a massive whomp, the resulting gust creating a great wave across the bay. Somewhere along the way, Winnie’s screams became laughter.
Dancing along the cold breezes of the bay, the sun beat down on the three of them, wasting away the better part of the afternoon as Vhagar dipped to snatch up seals and strange black-and-white whales. The resulting seaspray would surely ruin Aemond’s hair even more so than it was already, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.
They ended up flying well into the afternoon, best for all parties involved. Vhagar was able to stretch her wings and catch some quick snacks, Winnie hadn’t stopped smiling since they left the ground, and, if only for a few hours, Aemond was able to put every thought of the throne and his family aside.
Naturally, any semblance of peace was shattered the second Vhagar landed back in the clearing.
While descending, Aemond could see Alys on the rock where they left her, and two figures beside her; Maester Nymos and the Lord of Bear Isle himself. Gwyn was pacing around and around Alys’ makeshift seat, Nymos wringing his hands, and as Vhagar landed with a rattling thud, Aemond could see Alys twisting one of her rings anxiously. Aemond swallowed hard. Nothing good could be happening.
Winnie seemed to notice the tension quickly, only giving her brother a brief hug before scampering off once Aemond helped her down. “What’s happened?” Aemond asked, any comfort he found while flying melting away like the frost in the sun. Gwyn wouldn’t look him in the eye, just kept pacing.
“My prince,” Nymos began, then stopped. His watery brown eyes met Aemond’s, and they held nothing but awkward sorrow. “We’ve recieved a missive from- from the Red Keep. Eager delivery, from last night—”
“Nymos.” His voice sounds strained, even to himself. “What happened?”
“Aemond,” Gwyn finally stopped his pacing, catching Aemond’s gaze. The sight of his red-rimmed eyes is like a cold bucket of water over Aemond’s head, filling him with dread. In more than a decade of friendship with Gwyn, he’s only seen him cry once, and apparently is now witness to the second. “The prince Jaehaerys is dead.”
