It Tastes Like Salt And Sorrow
The shores of Driftmark were cloaked in a thick fog that dulled the sunlight, as though the world itself mourned Laena Velaryon. The ceremony had been as bitter as it was mournful and ghastly, with Ser Vaemond Velaryon presiding, whose barbed words had cut deeper than the mournful air. His veiled insinuations about Rhaenyra's children had hung heavy among the Lords and Ladies who attended the affair. And amidst the grief and scorns, the court had drifted away from the somber, salt-soaked cliffs of High Tide to the Velaryon courtyard following the funeral procession, where Lady Laena's stone coffin was lowered into the sea to reside with her ancestors.
But Aemond hardly noticed the grief. His mind seemed elsewhere—focusing on something, or someone, that called to him.
For there was only the pull—indescribable, inescapable, a force as ancient as the dragons themselves. It gnawed at him, relentless, not a mere thought but something deeper, something written into the marrow of his bones. At first, he had mistaken it for longing, stirred by the sight of so many dragons gathered in one place, their presence a living reminder of what it meant to be a Targaryen. But longing did not claw at the edges of his mind, did not press upon his chest like a weight he could not lift. No, this was something else.
What had begun as the softest whisper, a breath against his skin, had swelled into a ceaseless drumbeat, pounding in time with his very heart. It rumbled through his blood, surged with every step, an unseen tether winding tighter with each passing moment. Something—someone—was calling to him, unseen but unyielding, hooking deep into his spine and pulling, pulling, pulling. And he knew, with the certainty of a man walking toward fate, that he had to answer.
I must be mad, he thought, shaking his head. Seeing and feeling things that defied the very bounds of possibility. Yet, even in his most fevered dreams, one truth remained undeniable: This was anything but ordinary.
Aemond's purple eyes scanned the area, searching for his siblings. Perhaps Aegon or Helaena could reassure him and confirm whether Aemond was merely losing his mind by clinging to some delusional hope. They, of all people, would know the truth. They had bonded with their dragons at a young age and often described the connection they had felt after bonding. If anyone could tell him whether he was losing his mind, surely it would be them.
The salty wind tugged at Aemond's cloak as he lingered near the edges of the gathering, his sharp eyes drawing him to two figures standing near the water's edge. Aegon stood a short distance away, leaning against a low stone wall with an unusual mix of seriousness and sly amusement as he spoke to Daemon Targaryen.
Daemon.
Aemond's breath hitched as he studied the man who had dominated the stories whispered in King's Landing. Because, of course, he had heard the stories—who hadn't? The Rogue Prince, the rider of Caraxes, the Blood Wyrm, a warrior of unmatched skill, and the one who wielded Dark Sister with a grace that had become the stuff of myth.
Up close, Daemon was everything Aemond had imagined—and yet nothing like he had anticipated.
He was not a large man, but there was a honed sharpness to him, something coiled and dangerous. A quiet, lethal force—like a sword half-drawn from its scabbard. His uncle carried himself with the ease of one who had never known true submission, and his authority was a thing that hummed in the air around him, a magnetic pull that made those in his presence feel as though they were caught in his orbit.
He did not laugh at Aegon's words, nor did he dismiss him with the usual arrogance of those who were bored by others' jests. Instead, he regarded the younger prince with an unyielding stare, his violet eyes like twin storms, locked and unblinking, while his arms remained crossed, not in defiance but in the stillness of some deep, internal calculation.
Aemond clenched his jaw, unable to tear his eyes away. How had he not seen it before?
His gaze shifted involuntarily toward his mother. She had noticed, too—he could see it in the way her fingers moved delicately over her nails, picking at them with an absentminded precision that betrayed her nerves. She seemed moments away from calling for Ser Criston to step in, to drag Aegon away from the man she loathed and feared in equal measure. Of course, The Queen's dislike of him was well known, and Aemond could almost hear the echo of her fears—her dread of Daemon’s capriciousness, his unpredictability, the way he would never bend, never obey the rules of those who thought they had dominion over him.
And Aemond understood it, for all that he admired the man. Daemon was not a creature bound by loyalty or honor. He was a man of impulse, quick to strike when the mood took him, and to abandon his allies when they no longer served his whims. But it was also precisely that freedom that made him so dangerous to men like Aemond, men whose fate was tied to blood and duty.
But Aemond couldn't look away.
The conversation between Aegon and Daemon was lost to the distance between them, but Aemond could read the unspoken language, the subtle dance of glances and gestures. There was a tension, yes, but it wasn’t the kind that bred violence. It was something else, something more dangerous and captivating in its quiet strength.
Aemond's keen eyes caught the smallest of shifts—Aegon's easy movement, the faint stiffness in Daemon’s shoulders when his gaze lingered just a moment too long. How his brother's grin was wide, lazy, unbothered—like a man who had never known a day's burden. And his uncle's, in contrast, spoke in softer tones, his words deliberate, yet carrying an undercurrent of something darker, something Aemond couldn't yet place.
But it was the way they held themselves that made Aemond's attention sharpen, pulling his focus in a way he couldn't ignore.
So alike. And yet, so utterly different.
Aegon, straight-backed and assured, moved with the kind of confidence that only the privileged ever truly knew, as though the weight of the world’s expectations had never so much as touched his shoulders.
Daemon, on the other hand, was something else entirely. His smirk was a perfect blend of amusement and menace, a quiet reminder of the danger he carried effortlessly in his bones. His very presence was a challenge—one that Aemond recognized, felt, and yet could not fully comprehend. It was as though Daemon existed in the space between power and madness, and perhaps—just perhaps—he was the only one who knew how to walk it.
Aegon departed shortly after to offer his condolences to Lord Corlys and Princess Rhaenys, bringing Helaena to meet with Lady Baela and Rhaena. Despite her many discomforts, Aegon could not find a more compassionate soul than his sister. Perhaps it was this very quality that endeared her so deeply to the smallfolk of King's Landing.
It was their mother who ensured food was distributed to the smallfolk whenever she visited the sept, but it was Helaena who made the effort to seek out the orphaned and the destitute, listening to their pleas and tending to their needs with quiet diligence. Every three moons, without fail, she went among them, speaking little but hearing much. She had always been fond of children, though at times, when she returned from such visits, there was a shadow in her eyes—a distant, haunted look, as if she had glimpsed something beyond what others could see.
Aemond had considered accompanying them, but words had never been his strength, and the Velaryons were strangers to him despite their familial ties to Rhaenyra. Instead, he stood at the far end of the courtyard with his mother and the Kingsguard, watching the waves crash against the cliffs below, his thoughts restless.
His mother's touch broke his reverie as she lightly wrapped her fingers around his wrist, perhaps having observed his growing unease, ever since his conversation with their uncle Daemon. "Is something troubling you, my dear?" the Green Queen asked.
Aemond swallowed, glancing down at his mother's hand, her touch as cool and careful as her words. "No, Mother," he said, but even to his own ears, the words rang hollow. He could not explain it, not in a way she would understand. How could he? His conversation with his uncle and Aegon only gave him more questions than answers, leaving him restless, uncertain. Daemon had spoken of dragons as if they had wills of their own, as if it was they who chose their riders and not the other way around. And Aegon agreed.
Aemond had been raised to believe in strength, in will, in the right to take what was his. Fate is for the weak, his grandsire said, for those who lack the courage to forge their own path. Aemond never thought himself at the mercy of any will but his own. And yet… I think Vhagar calls to me, Mother.And as the tide bends to the will of the moon, so too do I wish to answer. But he did not say it.
Instead, he met her gaze, his expression schooled, and said, "I was wondering where Aegon and Helaena were is all."
"I belive they are just over by that corner near the entryway, my prince," Ser Rickard answers. Aemond turns to look at the man and then at the direction he points. He offered the knight a perfunctory nod and another to his mother as he walked away, as briskly as his legs would carry him without making his anxiety obvious.
It was easy to spot his siblings when no courtiers loomed in the way. Aegon sat on the ground beside Helaena, who was absorbed in watching a spider crawl across her hand. Despite his position, Aegon still managed to look every bit the prince, his posture and attire radiating a kind of careless regality. From the glances Helaena's ladies cast Aegon's way, Aemond knew they noticed it too. Perhaps that was why their grandsire never seemed to direct his usual disapproving glares at Aegon for such behavior. A prince sitting on the ground might be seen as disgraceful in their grandfather's eyes, but Aegon had a way of making it seem as though it were his right—something Aemond knew would never extend to him if he were in his brother's place.
Something that annoyed him greatly, time and time again. But it was hard to stay angry at Aegon—Aemond had learned that lesson early on.
Aegon seemed to have no real faults, excelling at everything a Targaryen prince was expected to master. Swordsmanship came naturally to him, politics bent in his favor, and even academic pursuits, though they barely held his attention for long, were handled with ease. Tutors were content with his effortless grasp of their lessons, and he earned three links at the Citadel in just a year. It all came so easily to Aegon, so effortlessly, which only deepened Aemond's frustration. He, who had to toil relentlessly for every small victory, could never match his brother, who seemed to be everything a prince should be.
Aegon was what others expected the heir to the Iron Throne to be—what Aemond himself was often told he should become. His elder brother embodied that image without thought, as if it were not merely his by name, but by nature.
And it was his birthright.
It mattered little whom their father had named his heir. The truth was as clear as it had always been. It was Aegon's birthright, not just the title or the throne, but everything that came with it—an inheritance woven into his very soul.
And while it was maddening, how could Aemond be angry at a brother who had helped him speak his first words, who had shown him how to properly wield a sword, who had taken him on dragonback for the first time? Aegon had been more than just a careless prince; he had been Aemond's guide through the world, his shield in childhood, the one who had shown him the thrill of flight and the first taste of freedom in the vast skies. For all the world seemed to bend to Aegon’s whims, for all the ease with which his brother navigated his royal life, Aegon had been there for him in the ways that truly mattered. He had been a brother, not just a prince. And how could Aemond resent him for giving him those rare, cherished moments of brotherhood—those fleeting moments when Aegon was more than the heir and Aemond was more than the second son?
"So there I was," Aegon's voice cut through the air as Aemond approached the two. "Desperately trying to explain the basics of riding a dragon to our little brother for the first time, all so he doesn't fall to his death. That bloody fool decided he wanted to see just how high he could go, convinced he needed to confirm whether we were really inside the eye of a blue whale or something equally ridiculous he thought he heard from a or something equally ridiculous he heard from our senile old great-grandmother in Oldtown. I mean, you wouldn't believe it—I literally felt my heart leap into my throat when I saw him soaring through skies without abandon—"
"Aegon," Helaena interrupted softly, her eyes darting nervously to the eight-legged creature nearby. "I don't like falling," she says.
Aemond didn't quite understand what she meant. Surely, no one enjoyed the thought of plummeting to their deaths. Targaryens belonged in the sky with their dragons, and Helaena had always loved flying more than anything else. Yet as she gazed at Aegon, a mix of sadness and hope in her eyes, Aemond found himself at a loss. He had a thousand questions but not a single word of comfort to offer at that very moment. He doubted Aegon had truly grasped her feelings either, but his brother studied Helaena intently, his gaze fixed on her for what felt like an eternity before Aegon finally nodded.
"I will not let you fall, sweet one," Aegon said at last, his hands gently squeezing her arms before he leaned down to place a soft kiss on the back of her free palm. Aemond had never seen his brother look at anyone that way before, and he had always imagined that if it ever happened, it would be directed at him—like that moment in the meadow when Aegon made his promise to always avenge him.
But it wasn't, and for some reason, it hurt Aemond to see him look at Helaena like that. He didn't understand why; she wasn't Jace or Luke—she was his sister, Aegon's betrothed. Perhaps it was the way Aegon's gaze softened, the tenderness that seemed to eclipse everything else. Aemond felt a pang of something he couldn't quite name, a sense of displacement as he watched their connection deepen in a way that felt almost unfamiliar. "Do you trust me?" Aegon asked, his tone tender as if the world around them had faded away, leaving just him and Helaena in their own little world.
Helaena nods with a small smile and turns her concentration back to the spider resting in her pale palms, seemingly reassured. Yet Aemond could see the trepidation that settled into his older brother's cold, marble-like face. The faint light in Aegon's pale lilac eyes had dimmed, replaced by a tumultuous storm of emotion swirling just beneath the surface.
For a moment, it was all too clear—the vulnerability, the turmoil—but then he blinked, and it was gone. Like a lock clicking shut, Aegon masked his emotions once more. His gaze swept over the thinning crowd in the open courtyard, observing if anyone had caught the brief slip of his mask before they eventually settled on Aemond. A ghost of a smile softened the eldest prince's features as he extended a hand to his youngest brother.
"Aemond," he called to him softly. Without hesitation, Aemond moved toward him, his hand instinctively reaching out to grasp Aegon's. It felt as natural as breathing. He crouched down on one knee, settling in the space between Aegon and Helaena.
Aegon gave his hand a brief squeeze — a quiet reassurance, before his palms moved up to rest against Aemond's shoulders, then slid gently to cup his neck. His touch was steady, almost protective. "And mother?"
"She's with the knights," Aemond replied evenly.
Aegon nodded, his sharp gaze flickering across Aemond's face, reading him like a book. "Is everything alright? You don't look well, brother."
Aemond hesitates, his gaze flickering to the hand still resting on his shoulder, its weight a grounding force. He forces himself to meet Aegon's eyes, now calm but unshakably intense, as though searching for something beneath the surface. "I am fine," he declares as his violet eyes flicker from Helaena to Aegon. Surely, his troubles could wait for another day. They had only just reunited, and Aemond had no desire to burden Aegon just yet. And Aegon in a way had already answered the question. "I was merely bored and miserable being huddled among the knights all day today."
Aegon's fingers tighten briefly, a fleeting gesture of doubt or concern, before releasing. "Is that so," Aegon says, his tone light but carrying an undercurrent of something unspoken. "You know you can rely on me, don't you?" He doesn't say the words aloud, but the sentiment is written plainly in his brothers' gaze.
"Wine, my princes and princess," A servant approached, appearing at just the right moment. Her arrival breaks the spell, and Aegon's hand falls to his side as if reluctant to let go. Surely, he noticed Aemond's hesitance, but he was not one to probe about it in public. Such matters were better reserved for the quiet of their chambers once the night swallowed the day.
"No, thank you," Aegon replies, dismissing her politely before turning to Aemond with a faint smirk. "You haven't taken to drinking in my absence, have you, Aemond?"
"Of course not," Aemond replies smoothly, a hint of wry humor slipping into his voice. But he did wish he could take a swallow — if only to drown out the persistent itch in the back of his mind. Perhaps the hot spiced wine could offer a fleeting reprieve, he thought, though he knew better than to act on such impulses. Especially with his brother by his side. "Though I must admit, I've indulged in quite a bit of tea at the ladies' tea parties."
Aegon chuckles, his tension melting away in the face of Aemond's rare jest. "Tea? Truly! Why, brother, you are the very picture of restraint, aren't you?" Turning back to the servant, he added, "Could you bring us some grapes, cheese, and three glasses of peach juice—if available. You still like peach, don't you?" Helaena hums, Aemond nods, and the servant acknowledges the command with, "Of course, my prince," before leaving them alone.
"So, tell me, what have I missed this past year—"
They couldn't talk for as long as Aemond would have wished. Before long, a commotion rippled through the gathered crowd, rising like a wave. Whispers filled the air—about Laenor Velaryon and Lord Corlys, some even murmuring about the King and Queen. Aemond didn't know what had happened, but Aegon was already on his feet in an instant, his movements swift and purposeful as he made his way toward the source of the disturbance. But not before pausing briefly by Aemond's side, where he placed a firm hand on his younger brother's shoulder, the silent gesture heavy with meaning—a command, unspoken but clear: Look after our sister.
Aemond met his brother's gaze for a fleeting moment, understanding passing between them. Then, as Aegon disappeared into the shifting crowd, Aemond turned his attention to Helaena, who seemed unfazed by the growing unrest around them, still engrossed in the intricate patterns of the spider now resting on her palm.
"Hand turns loom; spool of green, spool of black; dragons of flesh weaving dragons of thread," Helaena murmured softly, her voice distant as though speaking to herself—or perhaps to something only she could see. Over and over, she repeated the cryptic phrase, her words weaving an eerie rhythm into the air around them.
Aemond watched her closely, his unease growing with each repetition. Then, abruptly, she lifted her head, her pale lilac eyes locking onto his. They startled him, unblinking and brimming with a strange urgency that sent a chill down his spine.
"Where is Aegon?" she asked suddenly, her hands darting forward to grip his shoulders tightly. Her fingers pressed into his flesh, the pressure almost painful as her nails dug through the fabric of his tunic, leaving his skin flushed red beneath her grasp.
"You have to tell him," she insisted, her voice breaking into a desperate whisper. "Or you'll have to close one eye, Aemond. Tell him." Aemond opened his mouth to reply, but no words came—only silence, as if she had stolen them away with her haunting words. He could not understand what she meant, but he could only comfort her, who appeared blind with panic that, yes, "I will tell him, sister. I will tell him."
Moments later, their mother appeared, her expression tense and weary, as though the weight of whatever had transpired between her and the King threatened to break her composure. She looked both unnerved and exhausted, her usual restraint stretched thin. Perhaps that was why his Queen Mother barely acknowledged Helaena's mounting distress or Aemond's helpless expression. Instead, she issued a terse order for the servants to escort Helaena and her ladies back to their chambers for the remainder of the day before departing with her own contingent of the King'sguard.
"You have to tell him," Helaena implored again, her voice trembling as the maids gently guided her away, trailing after the Queen, who had already disappeared around the corner. Her tone grew sharper, edged with desperation. "It's clearer now. Tell Aegon. Tell him it's clear now more than ever."
Aemond watched her retreating figure, her words reverberating in his mind. "I will," he reassured softly, though doubt crept into his tone. He wasn't sure what he was meant to convey—or how—but the weight of his sister's plea hung heavy between them like a storm cloud, dark and looming, and though Aemond couldn't decipher her meaning, he resolved that Aegon might. His jaw tightened with determination as he turned to the lone Kingsguard guarding him. "Ser Rickard," Aemond began, his tone measured but carrying an edge of urgency, "have you any clue where my brother might be?" Because he couldn't find a whisp of his brother's silver hair anywhere.
"I am afraid the Lord Hand had taken him to meet with the other Lords, my prince." Ser Rickard replied, his voice calm but tinged with sympathy. "If your grandsire has his way, I doubt you'll see the prince anytime before dinner."
Aemond's jaw tightened as he resisted the urge to sigh. His frustration simmered beneath the surface, but he kept his tone measured. "And what exactly has transpired between the King and the Queen for my mother to have commanded Helaena away?" he asked, his sharp gaze shifting to the knight. Alicent Hightower is rarely one to disregard her children's discomfort, even amidst the endless weight of her duties and frustrations. She always notices the subtle signs of their unease, especially the quiet sadness that lingers in Helaena's eyes.
Ser Rickard hesitated, the pause stretching uncomfortably long, making unease trickle through Aemond like icy water. The knight's gaze met his, steady yet conflicted, as if reluctant to share the truth, and for a fleeting moment, the prince feared the man might decide to withhold whatever weighed on his conscience. "The King... mistook Queen Alicent for the late Queen Aemma when he bade his farewell."
No wonder, thought Aemond, rage twisting his features.
It wasn't difficult to imagine how such a public humiliation, however unintended, might have struck Alicent. His mother had always relied on her impeccable courtly manners and unshakable poise to shield herself from the whispers and judgments of the realm. To be so openly mistaken for another—Aemma, no less, whose shadow had loomed over her since her marriage to Viserys—was a wound that even her composure could not conceal.
The second prince's fingers curled into a fist at his side, his nails biting into his palm. He had words on his tongue, sharp and unkind, but they died the moment Ser Rickard's hand settled on his shoulder—a silent gesture, steady and grounding. Aemond exhaled slowly, forcing himself to swallow the bitterness rising within him. If Viserys had been anyone else, if he had not been his father, if he had not been king, Aemond would have found it easy to loathe him. But hatred would change nothing. For there was only bitter truth: His mother was trapped in a place where she would never be seen for herself, only as the replacement of a dead woman.
"The Queen has asked that you return to your chambers, my prince," Ser Rickard said, his voice gentle yet firm, pulling Aemond from his thoughts. He gave a sharp nod, offering no protest. There was nothing for him here—only prying eyes and whispered judgments, the kind that had followed him all his life. He had been in High Tide for less than a day, and already, he felt the weight of expectation pressing down on him like a yoke. He could almost hear them, those quiet murmurs that clung to his shadow. The dragonless prince. The flawed one. The Targaryen who was not enough.
Aemond gave a sharp nod to Ser Rickard. "Very well," he said curtly, turning to follow the knight's lead. The mutterings of the crowd faded into the background as he left the gathering, his thoughts consumed by Helaena's cryptic warnings, the King's humiliating misstep, and his mother's abrupt withdrawal.
He paused briefly before the door to his quarters, turning to Ser Rickard. "Please do send word to me the moment my brother slips free from our grandsire's grasp, Ser," He instructed.
Ser Rickard bowed. "As you wish, my prince."
Unfortunately, Aemond did not get the chance to see any of his family that evening. Helaena had reportedly retired early, while his mother, grandsire, and Aegon had sequestered themselves within Lord Otto's chambers for a private dinner. The reasons were clear enough to Aemond—they likely wished to hear of Aegon's time in Oldtown firsthand and discuss his future, especially given that his return was only prompted by Lady Laena's funeral. Aegon was still bound to the Citadel, his studies anchoring him to Oldtown, even as many lords on the Small Council clamored for his return to King's Landing to prepare for the throne they believed was rightfully his.
Aemond dearly hoped Aegon would choose to return. A year away from home was more than enough, especially given how their father's health had deteriorated over the past year. The bulk of administrative duties and burdens now fell upon their mother, who chaired the Small Council meetings alongside their grandsire. This was the perfect time for Aegon to reestablish his presence at court, to remind the lords of Westeros where the true heir stood, and to ensure no one dared question it.
But truth be told, Aemond wished for his brother's return purely for his own selfish reasons. He wanted his brother back for himself. Everything felt lighter with Aegon beside him. His presence tempered the suffocating weight of duty—not just for Aemond, but for their mother and sister as well. Despite looking every inch the gallant prince of old songs, Aegon wielded a power far sharper than any blade. He was quick-witted, dangerously perceptive, and far more adept at the games of court than most would ever realize. Because Aegon was brilliant like that—cunning, wicked, and undeniably magnificent.
But beneath all that brilliance and sharp wit, Aegon Targaryen was a brother who sought to protect his siblings and a son who quietly worried over his parents. With Aegon present, Aemond never had to confront the specter of tragedy. In Aegon's shadow, the downfall of their house seemed unimaginable. Yet, that same shadow cast Aemond in an unforgiving light—making him feel small, powerless, as though he would never be enough.
Where Aegon had proven his worth time and again, Aemond was always left grasping, striving, never quite measuring up. He had to prove himself—not just to others, but to himself. And that was exactly why he had made his decision. No matter how reckless or foolish, this was his only chance to claim his own worth. Because even for a son of House Targaryen, there were dangers in approaching a dragon, especially one as old and ill-tempered as Vhagar, who had only recently lost her rider.
His father and mother would never allow it. The Blacks would never take kindly to it either if he were to do this during the day. They'd probably call him a liar. Aegon and their grandsire would likely kill him if they so much as caught a whisper of his plan. Aemond knew that well. They would forbid him from going anywhere near Vhagar, let alone attempting to claim her. But Aegon and Daemon had always said to answer when the dragon calls. And Aemond did not want to wake up the next day and find his chance gone.
Still, Aegon should have expected this. His elder brother had always said: Tell someone they can't do something, and they'll fight like hell to do it anyway.
So, of course, Aemond was simply proving him right. That was why he had ensured his family would not know—at least, not until it was too late.
Sliding out of bed during the hour of the wolf, when the castle lay cloaked in silence, Aemond crept through the halls with careful, measured steps. If he succeeded, he would emerge victorious. If he failed... well, at least he would fail trying.
It was a gamble he was willing to take.
If you want something so desperately, Aemond, Otto Hightower's voice spoke in the back of his head, then you must always be prepared to sacrifice something of equal value.
The shores of Driftmark stretched wide and dark beneath the silver glow of the moon as he made his descent toward the place where Vhagar had claimed her temporary lair. The salty wind whipped through his hair, carrying the distant crash of waves and the briny tang of the sea. His heart pounded fiercely in his chest—not with fear of the dragon's wrath, but with the sharper dread of being caught, to be hauled back to his chambers in disgrace before even glimpsing the mighty beast.
Soon, in the faint light of the moon, he could see the outline of Vhagar's massive form, her scales glinting faintly like tarnished bronze under the moonlight, a relic of a bygone age. She was older than any living Targaryen, older than the Seven Kingdoms as they now stood. A creature of legend, she was as much a part of the world's history as the Black Dread himself. And yet, Aemond approached her not with reverence but with determination. Because if he wanted to claim something as grand and untamable as Vhagar, the young prince knew he'd have to give up more than just his fear—he might have to give up everything.
Vhagar was colossal. That was Aemond's first clear thought as he drew close enough to feel the rumble of her breath reverberate through the ground beneath his feet. When the dragon shifted, her enormous body rustling against the sands, Aemond decided that she was big enough to ride a horse down its gullet. Looking at it so closely, he could almost accept that if Balerion was as big as the reports of Maesters say, its wing would be vast enough to swallow up a village in its shadow.
He swallowed hard, his throat dry as Vhagar lifted her massive head. Standing before her open jaws, it felt as though he were staring into the face of the Stranger himself. And for a fleeting moment, he questioned everything—his bravery, his plan, his very right to stand here. Vhagar's ancient eyes bored into him, gleaming with an intelligence both fearsome and unfathomable. Then, to his surprise, she turned her gaze away, dismissing him entirely. The release of tension made him exhale sharply, his chest heaving as he dared to inch closer to hold on to the saddle around her neck. The moment his fingers brushed it, Vhagar turned back sharply, her golden eyes blazing with fury.
Aemond froze as the dragon's mouth opened wide, revealing rows of razor-sharp teeth and the searing glow of fire gathering in her throat, pulsing with the raw power of her ancient fury. The oppressive heat from the dragon's breath pressed against his skin, drying his lips and making every breath a labor. For the first time in his life, Aemond Targaryen truly believed his end had come.
Aemond, you certainly have the stubbornness to write your own history, Aegon had once said, ruffling his hair in fondness.
But for a moment Aemond thinks, there would be nothing. There would be no glorious rise, no claiming of Vhagar to cement his legacy.
Only ash.
He had never known such a sentiment before—an unrelenting storm that churned within him, each wave a new and foreign sensation. Fear, sharp and suffocating, clutched at his chest. Desperation, raw and clawing, pressed against his ribs as though it would tear him apart. Apprehension lingered like a shadow at the edges of his thoughts, whispering doubts he had never entertained. And then there was longing—deep, aching, and inexplicable. It wasn't the yearning for power or glory he knew so well, but something far more profound, something nameless yet all-consuming. He couldn't define it, but he could feel it—the chaotic tumult inside him, the trembling of his soul as it braced against the force of so much unfamiliar emotion. It was as if the very core of his being had been laid bare, shivering under the weight of an experience it had never before endured.
But Aemond could not falter. He did not dare to step back. He did not yield. Because Targaryen's should never accept denial. He would not start now. And whatever it was he felt, he would face it.
For a dragon does not take a rider who cannot match her strength, her fire, her will.
So he stared into the maw of death itself, his voice steady though his body trembled. "Dohaeras," he commanded, "Dohaeras, Vhagar! Lykiri!" The words were loud, defiant, as he lifted his trembling palms outward in a gesture that seemed absurdly small against the enormity of the dragon before him. Foolish, perhaps, to believe his hands could ward off her flames. Yet still, he stood his ground. "Lykiri!"
And Aemond braced himself for the worst, expecting to be engulfed by the fire in her throat. But the flames did not come. Instead, Vhagar's growl softened into a low rumble, her ancient gaze narrowing as though she were reconsidering the boy before her. Aemond exhaled shakily, his legs nearly giving way beneath him and his heart hammering as he stood back firm when he saw the very faintest possibility of hope. "Lykiri," he whispered again, quieter this time but no less resolute.
And then, the great she-dragon lowered her head ever so slightly, her golden eyes never leaving his. It was not submission—not yet. You could call it madness, fortune, the will of the gods, or simply the whims of dragons. Whatever it might have been, Aemond chose to take it as an acknowledgment. For his gamble had not yet burned him alive. So without a second's pause, he moved with determination, climbing into the saddle and onto Vhagar's massive back, just as he had done with Sunfyre countless times before.
His hands shook ever so slightly as he adjusted his grip, but there was no turning back now. Aemond had made his choice, and there was no room for fear. He had already crossed the line. Vhagar's muscles rippled beneath him as she shifted her weight, her powerful form an unyielding force of nature. Her eyes were locked onto him, searching for something he wasn't sure he could offer. "Soves Vhagar!" Aemond enunciated the word he had always dreamed of saying to his own dragon. With that, the dragon roared, lurched to her feet, shaking the sand off violently... and with another roar, Vhagar flew.
And that nagging hollow at the center of himself where he always felt something was most certainly missing had become whole again.
And just like that, Aemond Targaryen became a dragonrider.
Aemond couldn't breathe as his face beheld the wild joy, the unchecked exhilaration. It was everything he dreamed of, everything he thought it would be. He falls in love. Something more than love, if possible. Though he doesn't think he knows any words that could accurately describe the feeling that filled every corner of his soul. Almost as if Aemond was alive for the first time, like finally breathing after drowning in silence for years.
He feels powerful—strong, untouchable, invincible.
Laughter spilled from him, wild and unrestrained, a sound that probably echoed across the heavens. It didn't matter if he sounded like a madman—who could judge him now? With a shout, he urged Vhagar higher, and she responded with a roar of her own, flapping her wings to take him higher without hesitation. They both soared above High Tide, her massive wings cutting through the clouds and air with powerful beats, and released a thunderous roar that seemed capable of shaking the very foundations of the castle walls.
At that moment, Aemond was not just a rider—he was one with the sky, the dragon, and the freedom he'd long craved.
And when he finally descended from his flight, the laughter died down. It hadn't been his family that was waiting for him but Daemon's daughters and Rhaenyra's sons that stood before him. Their faces were a mix of fury and disbelief.
"It's him," one of the twins said, her voice sharp and accusing, finger raised as if pointing at a thief caught in the act.
"Vhagar was my mother's dragon!" the other twin cried out, her voice trembling, thick with grief. She turned to the two dark-haired boys beside her as if seeking support in her indignation. The Strong boys exchanged glances, their eyes narrowing as they looked back at Aemond.
But he stood tall, refusing to cower, even as his chest tightened under their relentless scrutiny. He had faced Vhagar and claimed her—what were four children compared to that? Yet, the weight of their fury bore down on him, stirring something within that he could not entirely suppress.
The exhilaration that had consumed him moments ago was now gone, replaced by a swirling storm of emotions—pride, defiance, unease, and the faintest whisper of doubt. Yet he refused to let it show. He masked the turmoil behind a practiced smirk, one that dared them to challenge him, to question the victory he had rightfully earned.
"Yes, it's me," Aemond said, his voice steady and laced with pride. A deadly, vicious calm settled in his veins, a stark contrast to the storm of emotions swirling in the children before him. He straightened his posture, letting the weight of his triumph radiate from every inch of his being.
Gone were the days when even the bastards could mock him for being dragonless. Gone were the days he had to endure the humiliation of their taunts, their petty pranks meant to belittle him. He was no longer the boy left behind while they soared. He was a rider now—the rider of Vhagar, the mightiest of all dragons.
"And Vhagar has a new rider now," he said coldly, his words cutting like a blade. His single eye flicked toward Daemon's daughters, their grief raw and unguarded. "Your mother's dead."
The words hung heavy in the air, cruel and final.
Let them rage, he thought. Let them weep. Their anger, their sorrow—it meant nothing. Vhagar was his now, bound to him by fire and blood, and nothing they said or did could ever change that.
"She was mine to claim!" Rhaena's voice cracked as she stepped forward, her fists clenched at her sides, trembling with the injustice of it all.
Aemond met her glare without flinching, his calm unraveling into something sharper, something cruel. "Then you should've claimed her!" he snapped, his words striking like a whip.
Baela moved closer to her sister, her face dark with fury. Jacaerys and Lucerys flanked them, their expressions hardening as the tension thickened.
Aemond sneered, his lips curling into a smirk that oozed disdain. "Maybe your cousins can find you a pig to ride," he said, his voice dripping with mockery. "It would suit you."
Rhaena lunged at him, her anger boiling over into action at his insult, but all it took was a push from Aemond to send her tumbling into the ground, making her shriek in surprise. Her cry spurred Baela into action. Without hesitation, she launched herself at Aemond, fists swinging with all the force her smaller frame could muster. One punch landed squarely on his nose, and he grunted in pain, the sharp sting briefly disorienting him. Reacting on instinct, Aemond lashed out, his hand catching her cheek in a hard slap. Baela stumbled back, clutching her face, a startled cry breaking free.
"Come at me again, and I'll feed you to my dragon."
That was all the provocation Jacaerys and Lucerys needed. The two boys charged at Aemond, their shouts of anger rising over the crash of the waves when they saw their cousin's condition. Jacaerys reached him first, his fist landing hard against Aemond's jaw. Aemond staggered back, but his years of training kicked in, steadying him. With a calculated movement, he swept his leg out, knocking Jace to the ground before spinning to face Lucerys. But the smaller boy barely had time to raise his fists before Aemond struck, his punch landing squarely on the boy's face. Luke stumbled back, dazed, as Aemond smirked, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.
But the respite was short-lived. All four children surged back to their feet, their anger fueling them like wildfire. They descended on Aemond with the force of demons, catching him off guard. He hit the ground hard, his arms coming up to shield his face as fists and feet rained down on him in a chaotic flurry. With a frustrated cry, Aemond lashed out, his leg connecting with Jacaerys and sending the boy sprawling. The momentary space allowed him to regain some control. His hand shot out, grabbing Lucerys by the neck and hauling him up as he scrambled to his feet.
Lucerys kicked wildly, his legs flailing as Aemond's grip tightened around his throat. With his free hand, Aemond reached down, his fingers curling around a jagged stone on the ground.
He stood above the other three children, his face a mask of blood and fury, the rock raised threateningly in his hand. Lucerys's choking gasps filled the tense air as Aemond's eye burned with a dangerous light. "Enough!" he roared, his voice cutting through the chaos like a blade. The others froze, their breaths ragged, their expressions a mix of fear and defiance. Aemond stood tall, a predator with his prey, his grip unyielding and his dominance unquestionable.
"How dare you," Aemond spat through gritted teeth, his chest heaving as a sharp pain shot through his ribs where Lucerys had pressed his knees moments ago. His voice was ragged but laced with venom. "You will die screaming in flames, just as your father did." He sneered the word dripping with contempt. "Bastards."
"My father's still alive," Lucerys choked out through his tears, his voice trembling. Blood dripped from his nose and smeared his mouth, his small frame shaking as he struggled to speak.
Aemond's sneer deepened. He slowly lowered the stone in his hand, a cruel smirk spreading across his bloodied face. His voice dropped to a chilling whisper, deliberate and mocking. "He doesn't know, does he, Lord Strong?"
Lucerys's tear-filled eyes widened in shock, and his mouth moved silently as if searching for words that wouldn't come. Jacaerys, however, didn't hesitate. His hand darted to his belt, pulling free the small dagger from its sheath. "Jace!" one of the twins cried out, her voice trembling with horror as her wide eyes fixed on her cousin.
But Aemond wasn't surprised. He wasn't afraid. This was what his grandfather had always warned him about—the threat Rhaenyra and her sons posed to their family. This was what his mother's faith preached about bastards, he thought bitterly. They were the shadows lurking in the corners of noble bloodlines, ready to strike at the hearts of those who stood in their way. Only Aegon could ever turn a blind eye to these monsters he called his family.
Aegon and their father spoke of peace and unity, of finding ways to coexist. But Aemond saw the truth.
And now that he had claimed Vhagar, the greatest of dragons, he would use it—not just for himself, but for his family.
He would protect his brother, even from the dangers Aegon was too blind to see.
Aemond stood taller, his grip tightening on the rock as he met Jace's furious gaze. His chest still ached, his face stung, but his resolve was unshakable. "You think you can challenge me, bastard?" Aemond growled, his voice low and steady, the weight of his conviction pressing down on all of them. "Come, then. Show me what you're made of." Show me, why you and your mother deserve the throne more than mine own brother.
Jace lunged at him, the knife in his hand aimed for Aemond's throat, but Aemond was faster. He was better. With swift precision, he shoved his flailing brother directly into Jace, using the moment of distraction to sidestep the strike. Jace swung blindly, the knife slicing through empty air, and Aemond's foot connected with it, sending the blade skittering across the ground.
For a moment, time seemed to freeze as Aemond looked down at Jace. He could see the fear flickering in the other boy's eyes, the realization that they had lost control of the situation. The twins' expressions mirrored Jace's—wide-eyed and stricken as they watched Lucerys, bloodied and battered, crawl away, his movements desperate and shaky as he attempted to escape.
Aemond stood tall, towering above Jace, his knuckles tight around the jagged rock in his hand. The cold, righteous fury surged through him, settling like ice in his veins. If they wanted to brand him the villain, so be it. He would wear that title with pride. He would be the shield standing between his family and the destruction that loomed, no matter the cost.
But before Aemond could take another step, Jacaerys, with a final burst of defiance, hurled a fistful of sand into the air. The grains struck Aemond's eye, blinding him momentarily. And in the next instant, Lucerys came from his left and swiped at Aemond's left eye.
Then the pain came.
Pain as clear as light. Enervating and crippling.
It sent him staggering backward, clutching his face, howling in agony.
He fell to the ground, his hands clutching at his eyes, desperately trying to rid himself of the searing pain. His breath came in sharp gasps, his body trembling with a mixture of shock and fury. He had underestimated them—underestimated Lucerys' last, desperate act of defiance.
From a distance, he could hear an adult's voice - Ser Rickard - getting closer, and suddenly, there was a crack in the air and someone was beside him, a familiar scent filling his nose.
Aegon.