The Ties of Blood
Chapter 17: The Ties of Blood
The biting cold of Winterfell seeped through every stone and crevice, a constant, unrelenting force to which Aemond Targaryen had not yet acclimated. The once-pampered prince stood near the edge of the courtyard. His gloved hands were clenched tightly around the hilt of a training sword. His breath fogged the crisp air, his face appeared pale and drawn from weeks of discomfort and unaccustomed labor.
Winterfell was not kind to those who refused to adapt. Here, even a prince was expected to pull his weight. The Starks had made that clear the moment he arrived.
“You want to sit by the fire?” Lord Stark had said with a grim smile on his first night. “Then you’d best earn it.”
Aemond had scoffed at the words then, but now, weeks later, he understood their meaning. His southern upbringing had not prepared him for the harsh realities of the North. He was used to silk-lined cloaks, polished floors, and feasts served on silver platters. Here, the furs itched, the halls were drafty, and meals were often plain but hearty—sustenance for survival, not luxury.
The Starks observed him from a distance, their judgment silent but ever-present. It grated on him. He could feel their disapproval in the way they spoke to him, curt and practical, as though he were a burden. It was clear they thought him soft, and worse, entitled.
One cold morning, after yet another grueling session in the training yard, Aemond found himself in the company of Lord Stark’s baseborn sister, Sara Snow. She was overseeing the workers at one of the glasshouses—a massive structure of heated glass designed to grow crops even during the harshest winters.
“You’re staring,” she said bluntly, catching him watching the workers as they tended to rows of strange, leafy plants. “Something confusing you, Prince Aemond?”
He straightened, brushing off the snow from his cloak. “I was merely wondering at the ingenuity of it all. Glasshouses are not common in King’s Landing.”
“They weren’t common here either,” she replied, a trace of pride in her voice. “Not until Princess Rhaenyra’s people brought the designs. And Laena Velaryon—Prince Daemon’s wife—she connected us with traders from Essos and Yi Ti for seeds that grow quickly and bear more fruit.”
Aemond frowned, the mention of Rhaenyra and her allies twisting his stomach. “So, the traitors have been meddling in the North as well.”
Sara raised an eyebrow, her expression cool. “Traitors? They’ve ensured our people won’t starve during the long winters. If that’s treachery, we could use more of it.”
Aemond said nothing, his jaw tightening. Over the weeks, he had heard similar praise from others. It seemed everywhere he turned, there was some reminder of the Blacks’ influence, of their efforts to aid the North. It irked him. Surely, Rhaenyra did this to curry favor—not out of true care for the realm.
And yet… the glasshouses were undeniably effective. He could not ignore the logic of them.
Later, as he trudged back toward the Great Hall, his thoughts churned. For the first time, he began to question the nature of rule. His mother, Alicent, had always told him that ruling was about order, discipline, and maintaining power. But here, in the North, the Starks showed him something different. Ruling was about survival—about ensuring your people had what they needed to thrive, even in the harshest of times.
Still, Aemond could not bring himself to see Rhaenyra as fit to rule. Her gender was only part of it. She was impulsive, too driven by emotion, and far too reliant on Daemon, whose influence he saw as a poison. Aegon, of course, was an embarrassment—unworthy in every sense. That left only him.
“It should be me,” he muttered to himself as he entered the hall, shaking off the snow. “The realm needs someone strong, someone who understands what it takes to lead.”
That night, he joined the Starks for supper. The head of a large, roasted elk was the centerpiece, surrounded by bowls of root vegetables and dense, black bread. The Stark bannermen and women sat among them, including the Mormonts, whose leader, a stern-faced woman named Maegelle, spoke with a voice that carried authority.
Aemond couldn’t help but sneer inwardly. Northern women were a curiosity to him—so unlike the southern ladies who knew their place. Yet here, they spoke as equals, giving orders and commanding respect. It was unnatural.
“You’ve been quiet tonight, Prince Aemond,” Maegelle observed, her sharp eyes on him. “No comments on the food? The company?”
Aemond smirked coldly. “I was simply marveling at the Northern way of things. So… unconventional.”
Maegelle’s lips twitched, but not into a smile. “Unconventional, perhaps. But we endure, while others falter.”
The room fell silent, the tension palpable. Aemond knew he was being tested, and his pride burned at the slight.
“I wonder,” he said, his tone cutting, “if such endurance is enough to make up for a lack of… refinement.”
Lord Stark’s booming laugh broke the tension. “Refinement won’t feed your people when the snows come, Prince. But hard work and ingenuity will.”
The words struck Aemond harder than he cared to admit. He remained silent for the rest of the meal, retreating to his chambers with thoughts swirling in his mind. Winterfell was reshaping his perspective, begrudgingly forcing him to confront truths he had long ignored. But even as he gained a grudging respect for the North and its people, one belief remained unshaken.
Rhaenyra could never sit the Iron Throne. If anyone deserved that seat, it was him—and him alone.
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The familiar clamor of King’s Landing welcomed Daemon Targaryen as he strode through the streets, his dark cloak billowing behind him. The Gold Cloaks parted as he passed, seeing their commander returned. Daemon wasted no time reacquainting himself with the city. There was much to do, and he intended to make his presence known once more.
The Red Keep was stifling as ever when he arrived, the heavy air tinged with incense and the faint scent of decay that seemed to cling to Viserys these days. He found his brother in his chambers, surrounded by maesters and attendants. Viserys sat slouched on his throne-like chair, his once-vigorous frame reduced to frailty, though his eyes still carried a flicker of the fire that once defined him.
Daemon dismissed the attendants with a sharp wave of his hand, and they scurried out, leaving the brothers alone.
“You’ve come back,” Viserys rasped, his voice weaker than Daemon remembered. “How is Jacaerys?”
“Healing,” Daemon replied, his tone curt. “Rhaenyra and the healers have seen to it. He will carry scars, but he’ll live.”
Viserys exhaled deeply, relief softening his expression. “Good. He is strong, like his mother.”
Daemon’s eyes narrowed. “And unlike some of the other spawn you’ve sired.”
Viserys stiffened, but Daemon pressed on, stepping closer with a dangerous glint in his eyes. “Your Hightower brats are a menace, Viserys. They are weak, spoiled, and reckless. Aegon, your eldest son, nearly killed your eldest grandson. And Aemond—he skulked about, eyeing every shadow for a chance to grasp power he hasn’t earned. Let us not forget the incident with Lucerys that caused your daughter to flee to Dragonstone for the safety of her children.”
“You think I do not see their flaws?” Viserys retorted, his voice rising with a flicker of the king he once was. “They are my blood, Daemon. What would you have me do?”
“See them for what they are,” Daemon growled. “Your Hightower wife and her brood will bring ruin to this house. They are a poison, creeping through the veins of the Targaryen dynasty. You’ve let Otto’s ambition take root, and now we reap the consequences.”
Viserys slumped back, weariness overtaking him. “You’ve always been quick to point out the flaws in others, Daemon. But what solutions do you offer?”
Daemon leaned in, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “You want a solution, brother? Remove the poison before it kills the host.”
Viserys stared at him, his face unreadable. After a long silence, Daemon straightened and turned on his heel, his dark mood trailing him as he left the chamber.
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The Dragonpit loomed against the night sky, its hulking silhouette bathed in moonlight. Daemon’s steps were silent as he approached, the weight of his intent settling heavily on his shoulders. The keepers gave him wary glances but did not stop him; they knew better than to interfere with a prince who bore the blood of dragons.
Inside, the air was thick with the musky scent of dragons and the faint crackle of their distant breaths. Daemon moved with purpose, his path lit by the faint glow of torches lining the stone walls. He paused before the cavernous entrance to Dreamfyre’s lair.
She was there, her silvery-blue scales shimmering faintly in the dim light. Her massive head turned as he entered, her eyes narrowing with a mixture of recognition and wariness.
Daemon began to hum, his voice low and melodic, the ancient words of the dragon song filling the space. Dreamfyre tilted her head, the tension in her body easing as she listened. The song wove through the cavern, a bond formed through shared lineage and ancient magic.
He stepped closer, his movements deliberate and unthreatening. Dreamfyre allowed him to approach, her massive tail curling around her body as she observed him. Hours passed as he continued his song, his voice never faltering. When the time was right, he moved quickly, his hands deft as he worked.
By the time Daemon emerged from the Dragonpit, the first light of dawn was breaking over the horizon. He carried a large, shrouded bundle in his arms, his expression unreadable. The keepers exchanged uneasy glances but said nothing, their gazes dropping as Daemon passed.
The bundle shifted slightly, and for a fleeting moment, the faintest flicker of light seemed to escape from within the folds of the fabric. Daemon tightened his grip, his mind already turning to what came next.
The dance had begun, and he intended to make his next move count.
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The solar of Harrenhal was dimly lit, a single candle flickering on the heavy oak table at its center. The sprawling fortress loomed silent around them, its charred walls casting ominous shadows. Lyonel Strong sat back in his chair, his broad shoulders hunched with the weight of his thoughts. Across from him sat his younger son, Larys, his thin frame poised and still, his cane resting against his chair.
They had just finished dinner, the remnants of roast venison and bread crumbs scattered across a silver tray on the sideboard. The atmosphere between father and son was heavy with unspoken tension.
“Is there something you’d like to discuss, Larys?” Lyonel finally asked, his voice steady but edged with suspicion.
Larys gave a thin smile, his fingers interlaced before him. “I’ve always admired your directness, Father. But no, nothing pressing. I merely thought to enjoy your company.”
The words hung awkwardly in the air.
The door to the solar opened, and Harwin Strong stepped inside, his large frame filling the doorway.
“Harwin?” Larys’s voice cracked, his disbelief evident. “I—”
“I’m alive, Brother,” Harwin interrupted, his tone firm but weary. His eyes flicked to Larys, narrowing. “Though not for lack of effort from you.”
Larys didn’t flinch under his older brother’s accusatory stare. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, his face a mask of calm disinterest.
Lyonel looked between his sons, his heart sinking. “You have not denied it so it must be true, Larys. Explain yourself!”
Harwin stepped forward, placing a vial on the table. Its contents swirled in the candlelight. “Truth serum,” he said grimly. “Given to Larys not long ago under my direction. I needed to hear the truth from his lips, and now, so will you.”
Lyonel turned to Larys, his expression pleading. “Tell me this is a misunderstanding.”
Larys sighed, his demeanor unshaken. “It is not,” he said quietly. “I acted on orders from the Queen Alicent herself. Princess Rhaenyra’s ascension threatens her children, and my role has been to ensure her safety. Harwin’s death was… deemed necessary.”
Lyonel staggered, his hand bracing the table for support. “You… you tried to kill your own brother? On the queen’s orders?” His voice cracked, disbelief and fury mingling.
“I didn’t succeed, did I?” Larys replied, his voice calm but laced with venom. “So, let us not overstate my competence.”
Harwin stepped closer, his face a mask of fury. “Why, Larys? When did you become this… this snake?”
Larys’s lips curled into a bitter smile. “Do you truly want to know, brother? Shall I recount the years of being overlooked, dismissed, treated as a burden because I walk with a limp? The jokes whispered when I entered a room, the pitying glances from servants and lords alike? My lot in life has been to endure, while you, the golden son, basked in Father’s pride.”
Larys turned his gaze to his father, the bitterness in his eyes giving way to something darker. “You loved me as much as you could love a broken thing. But love was never enough. In this world, power is survival, Father. You taught me that, even if you did not intend to.”
The room fell into silence, the weight of Larys’s words settling over them like ash. Lyonel sank back into his chair, his head in his hands.
“Larys,” Lyonel began, his voice trembling, “you are my son—”
“Your lesser son,” Larys interrupted, his gaze piercing. “Always overlooked, always dismissed. I was born with a twisted foot and have carried it like a shackle every day of my life. Harwin, the perfect soldier. You, the perfect father. And me? The shadow you rarely saw fit to acknowledge.”
Harwin’s face darkened, his fists clenching at his sides. “You tried to kill me,” he said, his voice low and venomous. “You would destroy your own blood—your own family—for what? To curry favor with Alicent Hightower?”
“Family,” Larys said, the word dripping with scorn. “Do not preach to me of family, Harwin. You know nothing of the quiet, desperate struggle to be seen. To be valued. You had everything handed to you—love, respect, purpose. I had nothing.”
Lyonel’s voice broke through, harsh and trembling. “You were never overlooked, Larys. I loved you—both of you. If you felt otherwise, it was your own doing!”
Harwin’s voice was low but steady. “You will answer for this, Larys.”
Larys inclined his head slightly. “I expect nothing less.”
Lyonel looked up, his eyes brimming with sorrow. “You were my son, Larys. I don’t know what you are now.”
Larys’s expression hardened. “I am what this world made me, Father.”
Lyonel stared at him, his shoulders sagging as the weight of Larys’s words settled over him. “I hoped,” he said quietly, “that Harwin was wrong. That my son could not betray his brother. But now, I see…” His voice broke, and he turned away, unable to face Larys any longer.
The tension in the room was suffocating as Lyonel waved Harwin away. “Take him. Let me decide what must be done.”
As Harwin placed a firm hand on Larys’s shoulder, the younger brother made no attempt to resist. He allowed himself to be led from the solar, his cane tapping softly against the stone floor.