Chapter 9: The Letter

Chapter Text

The Masters speak ardently with one another. Murmur and discuss which plan of action to take first. They are lively, and it takes everything in Aemond not to comment on how it only took Aegon's state to deteriorate to make them so proactive.

"Our forces in the south are becoming fatigued," Tyland interjects.

"It's all due to Prince Jacaerys' efforts. The bastard has created alliances throughout the mainland." Wylde grumbles, drinking his wine urgently.

"Speaking of bastards, the islands of Dragonstone and Driftmark are scrambling to find dragonseed." Larys warns.

"For what purpose?" Wylde rubs the bridge of his nose, Cole looking at the Master of Law with clear discontent.

Aemond scoffs, the frantic conversations happening all together and separately finally coming to a halt. They stare at their Prince Regent and swallow as he opens his mouth with a sneer.

"Ill bred or not, the blood of Old Valryia takes to the sky." He taps his thick fingers to the table, a squire immediately filling his cup with shaking hands. "My sister is scrambling to fill her arsenal."

They stare at the man. Aemond has begun to wear his hair in a loose braid, some whispering they thought the second son was beginning to grow vain. How although he was raised a prince in entirety, now as a place keeper on his brother's behalf, Aemond had been seen in finer clothes and made certain his hair was kept from his stern face. 

It was only because the stench of seared flesh, the feeling of ash, and slick sweat strands still crept into the Targaryen man's psyche. The smoke of Rook's Rest and the feeling of Aegon's shuddering breaths would make his skin grow hot and empty eye socket feel heavy, even in the mundane setting of the council room. 

"It will plunder her numbers," Cole says suddenly, taking the attention off of the prince. "The beasts do not take to just anyone. Dragonseed-- whomever, any that try to mount the feral dragons will perish from their fires."

The councilmen grunt in agreement, nodding and going back to seeing the lists of houses they'd made bend the knee already. The Dornish man looked to Aemond who gave him a small nod, his jaw tightened and breathing labored as he tries to push the sound of Aegon's cries for death out of his mind. In that small moment, he is grateful for his Hand.

With Aemond having risen to the crown, Otto tried his efforts to convince him to let him back into the council. But the talk about his night on the Street of Silk made Aemond tell his grandsire how he had no authority to override Aegon's decisions. 

"If you bring power for us through your letters with the Triarchy, I could ask my brother to let you come back as his Hand." Otto had a flicker of distaste for Aemond in the warm light of the fireplace, his single eye catching all of the regrets on the man's face.

If the Hightower had tried to tame such a beast like Aemond again, he'd be grazed by his flame just like the poor fool's on Dragonstone.

"That still leaves the traitorous houses gathering about the realm."

"Soon, word will reach us how those gathered at White Harbor are marching to Harrenhal."

"If that were to happen, King's Landing wouldn't be able to hold."

"Then we seize the Riverlands." Cole puts it simply, moving the pieces on the map laid out across the table to where Harrenhal is. Right next to the figure that represents Daemon, as though taking over the fortress will be as easy as that. 

"You forget that Lord Ormund seeks additional aid in the south-"

"It seems you forget there is already a dragon there." Aemond cuts through Lord Jasper's words coldly, twisting the base of the goblet on the table. In truth, a raven from Daeron had not yet reached the elder brother. He'd somehow convinced himself that anything the younger sent for, that's when he'd move to help him. There was much to deal with already at the Red Keep, but to abandon the throne with Sunfyre away-- Aemond understood Vhagar was the very thing keeping the Blacks from circling the castle. "If we take Harrenhal, and in the process, Daemon is killed, my cunt of a sister's claim dies alongside her consort husband."

"We would stop the usurping plague right at its core," Cole adds, suddenly enthusiastic in comparison to Aemond who imagines if his uncle will thrash angrily in the air just as Rhaenys had. If their fight would be a desperate flapping of wings and strings of flame. Criston waits for when the prince's grief will turn to anger each meeting but for the past days since they've been back, he only grows more and more irritable.

It only makes the doubt of the council-run dry with his solemn self at the head of the table, so the Hand speaks for him. "Rhaenyra is unwilling to move from her losses, the Sea Snake even dwindles at her side. If Caraxes and Daemon find us at Harrenhal- along with all the traitorous houses-"

"That would mean our Prince Regent would have to leave for war. It's too hasty." Orwyle tries. Tyland simply stares at Wylde who seems to be swallowing his words. Fearful of what Aemond might strike back at him again.

Then, the movement of the squire boy to Larys' side makes Aemond peel away from his wine, already knowing what it is his Master of Whisperers is about to relay back to him.

"Your sister wishes to have dinner with you." He nods, already aware of the late hour that Helaena takes her food inside the privacy of her chambers. Without bidding the councilmen goodbye, the man of white hair takes his leave.

Whenever he comes to see his older sister and Jaehaera, they are sat at the table already, but unwilling to begin eating their food. Not until Aemond has come do the paid at least pick at it, even if he does not-- simply allowing the silence of company. The girl has begun to regress. So battered inside her mind that she is practically conjoined to Helaena's side, unwilling to speak. In order to let her mother know she wants to eat, the child pulls on the fabric of her dress or rubs her head into Helaena's upper arm.

"You look well." Aemond comments quietly, Helaena nodding as she brings the mashed potatoes to her daughter's mouth. He's never been too observant of animals, but he knows the two resemble that of a bird and its babe. So fragile. Like prey.

"And you do not eat." He sighs, straightening in his chair, grimacing at the pork on the plate. The simply glazed ham reminds him of too much. Of childhood. Of Aegon. Luke. And especially, the way human flesh burning smelled almost a bit of the dish.

"I am not hungry," Aemond says simply. She does not pry. As Helaena knows well what it is like to be so disturbed by the war that it leaves no room for appetite. "Have you gone to see..."

Jaehaera stirs beside her mother, whining into her side at the slight inclination of her father's state. Helaena simply beckons the girl to go and play, Aemond's single eye watching the little creature toddle over to the hearth. Still, she is taken with the stone dragon from Viserys' Old Valryia. 

"I have not." Helaena swirls the wine in her goblet, entranced with the way it swirls and coats the sides of the cool metal. 

"It cannot take flight," Aemond replies back, his answer completely unregarding the topic at hand, and yet Helaena understands at once. She turns to Jaehaera and her toy dragon, the wings of it cracked off from how roughly the girl has clomped it around. So unaware of how the beast actually moves, she still mistakes it for a normal steed.

"Jaehaera should visit the Dragonpit. A dragonrider should begin training even at her age-"

"For what purpose?" Helaena's voice is sharp, her trance with the maroon liquid in her hands broken, violet eyes strained and steadied on her younger brother. He taps his fingers on the table, realizing no good will come from this exchange.

"I just feel it would do her well. It would do both of you good to go elsewhere than these four walls." Helaena softens, turning toward the fire and staring at the blinding flames. Going somewhere deep into her mind that lets Aemond know his sister does not need her feet to travel to faraway lands.

He felt that in Aegon's downfall, Helaena's sanity began to build back up in her own way.

"If you cut a dragon's wings, it still has claws and fire." She says monotonously, playing with the ends of her long hair with her eyes still trained on the fire. Aemond only nods, convincing himself he understands. He doesn't.

The sharp sound of a knock makes Jaehaera snap her head up, shuffling closer to the hearth as the door opens. The scent of the heads on pikes outside still disturbs her deeply. But it is only the real reason for their late-night dinners, Alicent and Otto walking in. Larys gives a courteous nod toward Aemond before shutting the door, regardless of the fact that every night he does not return it back. 

Every night they join together to eat in Helaena's quarters. Every night, the council is aware of how the Greens come together but cannot ultimately overstep, as the family can easily voice how they are grieving. In their way, they are.

"Aemond, you have not eaten." His mother is quick to notice, the man looking away from her begrudgingly, already feeling suffocated by the atmosphere. His mind cannot escape the unpleasantries of his family, for it is now Otto taking a seat right in front of his view beside Helaena, glowering at Aemond. He is still incredibly scorned over his position.

"I am not hungry." He explains for the second time in the night. None try to convince anything else out of him. Helaena only gets up from the table silently and takes to her daughter, whispering a promise of bedtime and stories. His grandsire looks at the pair with softness in his eyes, but once the brown flit to meet Aemond's single eye, it is full of contempt again.

"What do they speak of in the council, dear Prince Regent?" Aemond sighs, roving his attention back to the fireplace, the flames dwindling out by now. The dragon without wings gives a large shadow on the floor despite its small size.

"Taking Harrenhal," He forces his voice out, finally pulling his fingers to pour a bit of wine for himself despite Alicent's crinkling eyes. "We speak of plans to kill Rhaenyra's cause at its root. Daemon-"

"Aemond." His mother's tone is hard, her hands coming to touch his own cold ones. Aemond has been so distanced from her hold that he no longer knows if it is genuine or calculated. To soothe him, herself, or rather to halt him from pouring any more wine into the goblet.

"You mustn't. You cannot think of fighting your- that-"

"Brute." Otto finishes, boring a hole into the healthy eye Aemond still has. Like he is tempted to take the other and render the boy who no longer plays to his tunes helpless. Instead of adding anything more, his grandsire moves to take the liquor from in front of the prince, cheering it mockingly before sipping. Alicent grimaces, the fingers still brushing against the top of her child's hand twitching. She turns away from the sight of her father before he can anger her beyond reasoning.

"Aemond, look at me." He does so with the same distaste her father bears. She looks back at Aemond with the look that Otto enjoys. Desperateness. "You should not think of leaving the Red Keep. Your sister will see it you die no matter what- for what you've done for the sake of the realm my boy-"

His throat is so incredibly dry, Aemond wishes he had Aegon's manners to grab the entirety of the bottle in front of him and drink it shamelessly. But the sensation of no moisture along with the combination of the blinding white of the fireplace makes the Targaryen man straighten up in his seat. A cold sweat trickles along his spine, his hands cringing away from his mother's warm touch.

"And what exactly have I done for the sake of the realm? What greatness is it that I measure up to?" Aemond grumbles out, his grandsire already readying to scorn him as he lowers his drink from his lips, but Alicent shakes her head and talks before her father can.

"Is it what happened to your brother that strains your mind still?" He shifts in his seat with clear irritation on his face, Helaena staring out at her brother from the comfort of her bed. Jaehaera clings to her side even in her sleep, and Aemond swallows, thinking about how the weight of two other children should be at his elder sister's side.

"It is everything, Mother." The words confess out in a whisper, his violet eye lowering away and back to the fire.

Only a moment of silence is afforded before Otto puts down the empty goblet and sighs, looking at Aemond who finally returns the fiery gaze his grandsire bears for him.

"So this is how you react in the face of greatness. This is you-"

"Father-"

"I believe you should stay as well." Alicent is shocked by his agreement to her stance, but quickly her father snuffs her expectations of him as he continues, getting up to leave. "But not because I feel you need to protect the Keep."

He leans onto the table, craning down at Aemond who wishes he could retreat into the depths of his mind the way that Helaena does. But the images inside him are decrepit and just as awful as the scene that plays out before him; seemingly adding to the endless unpleasantries of his life. All his mother can do is instinctively brace for impact in silent horror.

"Only because I know Daemon would overtake you so easily in this pitiful state of yours that I'd be so ashamed to call you my own blood-"

"You have drunk far too much. You will retire for the night." The auburn-haired woman gets up suddenly, staring up at the tall man who towers over her, stilled at the daring movement made by his dutiful daughter. She stares back at him, chest heaving and chin held high as he rounds around her, glaring down at Aemond who breathes just as heavily as his mother-- biting his tongue and even avoiding Helaena's concerned look. 

Otto leaves without sparing him a second glance. Larys opens the door and nods to Alicent who also does not return the gesture of acknowledgment. After forcing a soft smile towards the fair-complected girls on the bed a few feet away, trying to ease them back into the storybook they have opened, the Dowager Queen shrinks back into her seat. Aemond tries to convince himself that the iron sharp words are not as painful as sitting on the throne.

"Can I tell you a story?" His mother's voice is so gentle, Aemond can finally find it in himself to give her a warm hum in response. Her lids flutter at the familiar sound, smiling with twitching lips and suddenly wettened eyes. He looks away again. Only because the shape of her vulnerability rings too much semblance to Aegon's. He can see why Helaena rids herself of Maelor's innocent company. It is guilting.

"I was just about your age now when I had you." She moves her hands atop the table to hold his own large ones again. Aemond stares transfixed at the sight, wondering when exactly did he grow so much. "My strangest craving came from your being in my belly. I wanted nothing more than salted tomatoes and pickled garlic, paired with ice-cold, sweetened tea. Even despite it being winter." 

Alicent smiles fondly at the memory, and Aemond only stares at her. He's never heard of this recalling before. He is cautious, as Aemond does not know if it is another telling his mother hides a lesson within.

"But your father once made a comment about how I was becoming spoiled. That being with a dragon babe left me in much more want than I needed to be." Her features harden, a sigh releasing from deep within her chest. Just behind her Helaena finally shut the children's book and shift under the covers, turning over at the distant sound of Alicent's voice. 

"So when my cravings came again, I did not speak of them. I held my tongue and only thought of the strange combinations I most wanted, but never brought myself to send for." She continues, warming Aemond's palms with her tickling touch. Tracing the lines in his skin as he is left unmoving and tired. He is so very tired against the gentle light of the almost dead hearth and listening to the soft sound of his mother's warm voice. 

"And yet, still, those dishes made their way to my chambers. They found me when Viserys was out in council meetings, and never made their way back to his knowledge." Alicent gives Aemond that look that means he is supposed to understand what it is she is getting to in these types of tales. The meaning, the message, the entire reason as to why she would still be getting what she wanted even though she was queen. Aemond bites his tongue and lets her continue.

"It was my father's workers who indulged me." He retreats from her touch, resting his hands on his thighs and gripping them as he straightens his posture and strays from his mother's intense gaze.

"And when I went into my labors, it was not on the new year as the maesters predicted. Your grandfather was worried ill about me all the way in Oldtown, so stricken on the potential health of you, my boy. Then, when you came, it was too early and you were so very small-" Aemond gets up from the chair, his temper deciding for him that he has heard enough of this tale. As he moves to leave out of the door, the soft thud of his mother standing up only makes him reach for it faster. Her words flee from her mouth just in time for him to try and go.

"That is your greatness, Aemond. Your very slim chances of succeeding struck still beneath the weight of your ambition."

Only then does he stop, the door opened just a smidge to see Larys peeking through the gap, wide-eyed and in anticipation. Or fear. Aemond gives Alicent one more look before he leaves, but she takes that as a sign to warn him further and cement her lesson in the fiery prince.

"I beg of you son, do not continue to try and create more odds stacked against you-" Aemond leaves hastily, leaving the door ajar for Larys to gather the sight he's been straggling around for. So that the soft scent of heads on pikes can show Alicent just what he is capable of.

In his chambers the prince locks himself away in the nights, the overbearing incense that once burned to aid his father to sleep now alive and well in Aemond's own time. It did nothing to soothe him. Even when he dipped his body, and suffocated himself inside the warm water of the wash tub like when he was younger, Aemond's mind would not settle. It is full of a burning feeling. One that pounds on the bone of his skull to be let out. It is the crown that convinces Aemond not to let his blight speak for him any longer.

He had spent years in his lonesome childhood reading about the art of war. The philosophies of scholars from even before Aegon's conquest. The ageless words of pages in neglected books gave him company in solitude. Nowadays though, Aemond could barely focus on the same sentences he'd read over and over before. Nothing made him contented. Everything left him bothered.

Just the thought of seeking out comfort from Vhagar left Aemond shifting in his sheets, remembering the way the dragon slept so soundly unlike himself. It is not rare now for the newfound man to stare into the dark of his ceiling, convincing himself that all the things he's ever wanted are in between his fingertips. How nothing else is needed with the power he's ascended to.

Aemond drifts to sleep, not falling for his own lies once he wakes in the morning. Always dreaming of the place above Shipwrecker's Bay, the way the clouds do not reach there, and especially the sick sound of innocent bones crunching in Vhagar's jaws.

The following day bleeds with the others before. Talk of what to do and what not to pound into the sides of Aemond's ears. Even despite his settled words, the council continues to stir in the opposite direction, looking at one another as if they know something he does not. Even Criston silences his previous eagerness, leaving Aemond to wonder if the talks and wants of his family bleed out of their shared dinners. So when the sun is long gone, and the Masters believe themselves listened to in full, Larys gives the familiar send-off of Helaena's want to see her younger brother. 

Only, Aemond retires elsewhere in the Red Keep. Walking among the eerily empty halls and taking full strides through the castle, hands behind his back as his usually plagued psyche begins to become void. The night air is fresh and cool. The breeze trails across his exposed neck and hands, blanketing Aemond in a calming manner. And even though the guilt had riddled him still and far away from the place where his brother rested, Aemond for the first time carried himself over to the Tower of the Hand. 

In the dark of the night, with the unfamiliar peace of the servants elsewhere, the pathway up to the sickly place was one seen just by the prince and a standing guard. He nodded to his Regent, stepping aside without a word and expecting the Targaryen man to easily walk through the door, as all thought Aemond headstrong and sure of himself. But there was a stutter of hesitation in Aemond's movement, only for the slightest second before the pale hand pushed onward. 

The similar burning scent of incense burns in Aegon's quarters. The curtains are drawn even despite the morning light having been gone for hours, and even the fire in the hearth is slightly dwindling. Aemond lets his eye adjust to the dim room, settling on the way the outline of his brother's body slightly rises and drops underneath the covers of his bed, the strange wheezing whistle coming from his mouth after every exhale. With every breath, the younger walks closer and closer, sure of Aegon's rest, approaching the side of his sleeping body. But his throat tightens as he sees the way the skin of his brother tinges with thick layers of scarring. Red and wrinkled as it climbs up his neck and across his face like an infestation. It makes Aemond recall the memory of the man called Blood and how his back had festered with gore after being tortured for so long. 

Aemond feels his methods of causing pain are so perfect, he no longer needs to place his own hands on those to deform them like so.

The labored inhale from Aegon causes the younger to take a step back, the puffy eyes of his brother opening wide as his twisted face seethes in anguish. He reaches out for something, seemingly someone as it is only the outline of Aemond that is there to comfort him. But the prince is frozen in place. He does not know what to do. He is not familiar with soothing. Aemond has read about war and practiced his skill in sparing, never the art of healing.

The knight calls for the maesters on the nearby floors. Aemond hears it as the door is still ajar, never having closed it in case he wanted to bolt at the gruesome sight of Aegon. He stays staring in the dark at the deranged gasping of his mother's firstborn, only stepping aside once the elder men come to administer milk of the poppy to Aegon's whimpering lips. Aemond leaves once the battered man wheezes back to sleep, under the suffocating gaze of the few around the bear witness to the prince of a blackened heart's only visit to their king.

Outside where Aemond had felt the calm nature of the winter wind now felt like a singe in his soul. The sounds of men and horses padding on the soft ground made the man realize his standing was in that of a busy, unresting castle. Signs of life were found once again as Aemond came upon the stables, the clattering of chains and grunts of the Kingsguard making the Targaryen snap out of his sulking state.

"Prince Aemond-"

"What is this here?" His violet eye flickers on the skinny boys of brown hair, shrinking into one another at the sight of the infamously cruel second son. 

"Your mother's orders have not reached you, my liege?" Aemond's throat dries at the sight of the whore from his visit to the brothel. The blue eyes and plain face look at the floor in fear, as it is the memory of the wings on his pale back that the two most recall. Then, fear strikes the prince's heart, as his avoided dinner with his mother and grandfather might have been one where the scorned man spilled Aemond's secret on the Street of Silk. Permanently branded him an unworthy man of the crown. Maiming Aemond this other way.

Silently, Aemond hurried through the grass and gravel to Helaena's quarters, looking upon the heads that had begun to show bone gaping toward the sky. Frozen in pleas of mercy. Just the same way he'd been in front of Aegon's broken body.

It is Cole that stands outside of the doors tonight, nodding to Aemond as he begins to open the door slowly after a gentle knocking, the Targaryen man pushing through the careful action and standing upon the threshold with a reignited fire. Otto reads to Helaena and Jaehaera as they sleep, not even breaking away to look at him. Alicent sits in front of the hearth with bitten cuticles, the table beside her holding a pot of tea and a piece of paper. The dinner for tonight has been left untouched.

"Your Mother received a letter," His Hand comes by his side after closing the doors gently, Alicent turning her head finally to the pair. Her eyes are glossy, but it is not the face of distaste that is given to Aemond. It is terror.

"We assume it is from your sister." There is a crumb of peace inside his chest, but he does not rest yet as it does not explain the boys.

"And what of it?" Aemond does not care for their war of ravens and heated words. He knows of the real one in the smoke of burning fires. The dreadful spin of it in the skies atop dragons. A simple parchment of shaking letters and a single sentence does nothing to scare Aemond the way the sight of his brother's bloodied, crying mouth had.

"She has promised what I knew she would," His mother takes hold of his hands, shaking as she peers up at him from where she sits. Aemond takes another glimpse at the ink to see if he has missed what stirred Alicent so violently as she sniffles.

"That woman has promised to finish what that child of hers did to you all those years ago." He picks up the letter, the fire behind it illuminating the white of the wrinkled paper so that it is translucent. Aemond reads the High Valryian over and over as Cole and his Mother explain what it is they have planned. That the boys with brown hair will be sent to her fortress in Dragonstone to haunt Rhaenyra's loss of Lucerys. How with her paranoid, grief-stricken mind, she would be stuck in the position of either striking down the servants and whores, or be reminded of the dead boy.

"It will prove to her loyal followers how truly mad she is." Alicent swallows, pulling away as the sore spots of her wounded fingers begin to ache from grabbing Aemond too hard.

"Or maybe, you have given her more bastards to put in her army." Aemond does not look up to his grandfather that speaks, still staring at the shakey writing. 

"Larys has promised to those creatures if they are ever to take to a dragon, they will be brought to our side."

"And what secures these little promises?" Otto shoots back at the auburn-haired woman.

"Lands. Titles of lordships that the commoners could obtain all because of the crown." Criston steps in, the Hightower man sighing as their Regent has yet to speak. They all look to Aemond who is engrossed in the single term that plagues his mind. It rattles him so unnerved that with the letter in hand, the prince looks past the three staring at him, and walks out of the painfully heated room, back outside.

There is something not right. 

Aemond moves to see if he can try and stop it. How fast his heart races inside of his chest. The pounding of drums inside of his ears. How cold the sapphire feels pressing into his socket. But most importantly, the shipment of boys that look nothing like Lucerys.

He walks into the Goldcloaks station, barren and ghostly as most of the men took to Daemon's side. The handholds rest just beyond the room, but as he opens the door to try and set off, a throat clears behind him.

"Let us see which eye will go next qȳbor, your one or either of my two," Otto repeats the sentence from the parchment in Aemond's hand, his eye shaking as he looks out and down at the dark sea waters where the boat has already sailed. It is small and cramped, and yet those simple servants and sex workers seem much freer than the prince watching from the confines of the Red Keep.

His grandfather is standing still, not even sporting a humored grin as he stares at Aemond. For the first time, Otto is not satisfied with knowing something he never was supposed to find out.

"I told your mother the term meant younger brother."

"Do you truly believe him to be alive?" The corners of Otto's lips twitch. He steps forward and places his firm hands on the sides of Aemond's face.

"If you crush a roach beneath your foot, it will still squirm." The sound of metal on metal comes from beyond, Aemond pulling out of his grasp to look back out towards the shore. Larys climbs slowly with the help of knights. The man behind his mother's bidding before heeding his own. Otto is just behind his back now, easily able to push the prince out into the cliff to tumble to his death. But the man of opportunity cannot let this one go just yet.

"You would need to separate the head from a pest like that, no?"

Aemond nods softly, gripping the letter in hand. His memory flickers back to the sight of the wingless statue Jaehaera plays with, the words of Helaena's droned-out rambling making Aemond speak in a faint whisper.

"I will not fight a war of ravens, but of dragons."

Otto steps away from Aemond with a soft smile, pleased with how the flames inside the temperamental boy have been stocked and redirected despite his mistake. They do not wait to confront Larys, the duo leaving for the council room to prep. The late hour does nothing to tire the two and their shared secrets. The same goes for the Master of Whisperers who comes to the top of his climb and deems the open door as nothing. His mind is only focused on the quarters of the woman he still deems his rightful Queen, ready to ask Alicent for a reward for his dutiful deed.