Chapter Text
He has gone from not sleeping well to not sleeping at all. Even though he's broken all of the mirrors in his bed-chamber, Aemond feels he sees tufts of brown hair from the corner of his eye in the scattered reflections. He cannot eat unless it's when hearing his councilmen's plan for action. He won't talk to his grandfather unless it is that of any spottings of his nephew from their spies sent about the realm. And most of all, Aemond has ceased going to the dinners in his sister's quarters. He knows how it is they will speak of Aegon's sickly state or Daeron's knighting. He is too sure that Alicent and Helaena will then bring to his attention how irritable he always seems.
Aemond feels he was properly hiding his madness before, but now the entirety of the court can see it in the Prince Regent.
"Why spend so much coin on these... efforts even across the Narrow Sea?" Tyland prompts Aemond hesitantly, the others in the council room silencing. They do not question whatever it is that spoils the one-eyed dragon's mind. They only know to steer clear of where his fire will spew.
"We know nothing with our ships courtesy of the Sea Snake. The only way we will gather insight on ours or my cunt of a sister's allegiances is through raven." Aemond replies dryly, leaving no room for question. The air stiffens in the room. Even Criston Cole is reluctant to say something, his mouth pursing slightly.
"There are new heirs to the Driftwood throne. Supposed bastards of the late Laenor Velaryon." Larys floats his rare interjection into the dead conversation, Aemond centering his eye on the man.
"Supposed, you say." Aemond burns his gaze into the Clubfoot. He doesn't falter.
"Yes, my prince. The word I have received is that of an Addam and Alyn Velaryon that are to inherit Driftmark from Corlys. One has even tamed a dragon." The councilmen stir, Aemond narrowing his attention at Larys who stares down into the dark of his wine. "The same beast Laenor once rode."
Aemond lets out a low hum. The news made him wonder if anyone else knew of Lucerys' letters. It made the paranoia in the back of his skewed mind rumble.
"And what of Daemon? Has he moved from Harrenhal?" Aemond looked to Criston, his Hand straightening in his seat to speak of what he most wanted to.
"No, my prince. But his bannerman from the North and Vale are moving in closer. If we do not strike soon, your uncle and sister will hold an army truly formidable." Cole's voice seemingly grounds Aemond again. He watches the way Larys twitches his fingers around the rim of his chalice, the brown of his eyes flitting from his single violet one.
"You care not if we take the battle to your grounds, Clubfoot?" Aemond presses, the aloof appearing man before him sporting a strange smile.
"If my prince needs to ascend upon Harrenhal, it is his kingdom and men to summon, not mine own permission," Larys says slowly, his fingers stiff on the chalice. "The grounds I will protect first and foremost are that of the Crown's."
With that, Criston called on the Lannister army from the hills on Aemond's orders, the talk of the council being that of marching to the Riverlands from the east and west. The Targaryen man spoke of how he would punish the traitorous lords and even his own uncle, always watching the Clubfoot to see if he flinched from his words. The warnings Otto made in his ear made Aemond wary of this Lord Strong. He did not enjoy knowing a man at his table-- the one meant to be at his disposal-- was aligned more so with that of his Dowager Queen mother. It made the plagues in Aemond's head blend together, wondering what else the Master of Whispers kept to himself. Especially inside the infamous Harrenhal with Daemon guarding it.
Aemond sat in front of the fire in his grandfather's quarters as Otto flitted through the letters in his hands, the spies in Essos and across Westeros looking for Lucerys sending what little they'd found.
"It is hard to spot a royal that bears a commoner's features." His grandfather speaks short and gruff, sat behind his desk with clear discontentment. Something blooms on Aemond's tongue, and he is too undisciplined nowadays to keep it inside of his mouth.
"The letter you showed me is that of truth, correct?" Aemond voices his distrust in Otto, the flames of his obsessions swaying to show other unseemly colors.
Otto stares at him, face devoid of any humor or reason as his long fingers move to pinch the top of the candle wick. The little fire kept alive to melt his sealing wax dies between the pads of the Hightower man's inked splotched skin.
"You think I would sit in this place to squander up the writing of a ghost? That I have the time and effort to sit here and galavant about your failures?" Aemond lets out a short huff of a chuckle, amusement not alive on his grandfather's behalf as he suddenly stands up. Offense is written all over Otto's angry face.
"I want us to find that bastard before your sister does. I want her to remain in anguish over Lucerys' death and unable to move from her mourning." He rounds his desk, Aemond turning away to look into the blinding hearth, unmoved by all the vile things his grandfather can say. "And you. I want you to finish what you started. I do not want this court to even have the opportunity to whisper of how the Kinslayer sported his title without having properly earned it."
The Targaryen prince supposes such a sentence would have distilled him before. That if he hadn't known the weight of the crown atop his head, and the feelings of his sword cutting through unbending foes, Otto's threats and disappointment would make him straighten out.
"When I am out of this war, I will be branded just that even with Lucerys coming out alive," He finally moves to stare up at his grandfather towering over him. "There will be no more dragons other than I if need be." The light of the fire frames Otto's pinched features perfectly, the slight quirk of a smile threatening to form on his face.
There is still clear disapproval for the plans of action from that of Maester Orwle or Wylde, both wanting Aemond to slow the assembly of his convoy and call for more swords. They want bannermen from Storm's End and from his mother's house to march their way over and join, but Aemond cannot stop the way his blood is quickening in his veins at the beliefs in his head. How inside Harrenhal, Lucerys is hiding among those of his father's kin. Brown-haired and brown-eyed, Daemon is keeping Luke safe; away from the clutches of his one-eyed uncle who tore him from the sky.
It's those thoughts inside of him that circle like a hungry vulture as he trains during sleepless nights, Criston Cole sparring with Aemond just like always. They are only huffing animals and brazen warriors as they clang their swords together, the light of the moon glinting off of the metal as they slice through the air. It is what the prince tries to keep up with. The blurry movements and fired-up swings, for when he has grown too tired or too immersed in his thoughts, his Hand begins to speak.
"Your mother is worried on your behalf." Aemond does not say anything as he uses the fabric of his tunic to wipe the sweat from his sliced brow. He finds his unhealthy one does little to keep the salts from running down into his jeweled socket.
"She wants you to stay, but knows what you do is for that of your brother's claim and Jaehaerys' memory." The knight continues to talk, raising his sword to ready for another round. Again, Aemond moves to swipe and swing without mercy, the pair slowing down again to regain their strength after just a few minutes.
"If it were up to her, she'd have you remain until Aegon is better to join you along with Sunfyre. Your mother has even brought up the idea of writing for Daeron to-"
"Are you her messenger nowadays, Cole?" Aemond stabs his sword into the soft dirt, the knight flinching at the sudden movement.
"No, my prince-"
"Then why are you putting on an act like such? It might be fitting for a man such as the Clubfoot, but you..." Aemond rubs at the hardened calluses inside of his palms, his lips twisting with a slight smirk. "You are a Kingmaker. Not a Queen's Doer."
Criston's face drops at the words, his throat bobbing as he swallows hard and stiffens once Aemond moves to walk past him. If Aemond were a true bloodhound, he imagines he could smell the fear dripping from the man's pores.
"I do not plan on sharing this victory with my brothers. The prize of Harrenhal is mine to have alone."
That night, Aemond soaks in his bath and tries to eat. His body has become leaner, the muscles in his chest and arms rippling as much as the surface of the scalding waters. Veins of blue and purple gleam up at him, Aemond dipping his head under and closing his eye. In the water, he cannot breathe but is not dead. There he is alive but not needed. It is the little peace Aemond is afforded. Not even when his head hits the softness of pillows does his mind lull into quietness. It instead takes to roar just as loud as Vhagar herself, plunging Aemond into the endless unknown of darkened thoughts.
In the following afternoon when he is prepping to take leave with his convoy, his mother finally shows as she opens the door upon Aemond's chambers. Alicent's dressed in a darker green than usual. The kind that Aemond sports, so deep it almost appears to be black.
"How long will you be gone?" His mother gets straight to her meaning, Aemond not even looking at her as he buttons his doublet.
"It will take more than a fortnight to arrive at Harrenhal. I suppose it is for an entire month that I will be away." He finally looks at her, Alicent's hands clasped around one another as her brown eyes bore into him.
"You will leave me, like so? Unprotected and vulnerable to your sister-"
"Sunfyre is being brought to the Keep. Daeron can be summoned if need be-"
"But you are this family's protector right now! It is you that I need!" Aemond takes a step back as his mother keens to take one forward, her jaw tight as she's found him evading her touch. Then he remembers how Larys listens to her orders. The way he never stopped to run anything by him, only eagerly chasing after the shadow of his mother.
"You have all that is necessary with you already. I must go prevent any more gathering strength of forces against us." Aemond grabs his riding cape from the back of a chair, walking over to Alicent's side while he drapes it across his back. "I hope you do not forget that if you keep those here from spilling the secret of Vhagar taking leave... Rhaenyra will not ascend upon us, Mother."
She turns to stare at him with a scorned face, her son stepping out of the suffocating four walls before his eye can meet hers again. For the first time, unreliability has been planted between Aemond and Alicent.
The knights and bannermen gathered were that of four thousand, the thick of the night allowing for even the likes of Vhagar to blend into the horizon as they cut through the kingdom. Smallfolk watch in silence, the rumble of the horses and carriages waking them to witness the Prince Regent leave. Aemond smells the fresh air outside of the Red Keep after so long.
___
The first night that camp is set, a rolled parchment comes to Aemond in the hands of a shaking servant. He grabs the letter and sends the boy away, sitting in the creaking old wood of the chair put for him to rest upon. Aemond thinks it has him more restless than when he is on his feet.
It is his grandfather's writing. A little word about how watchful eyes along the shore have spotted a sighting of one of Rhaenyra's dragons flying down South. They do not know if it is either one of the new dragonseed on saddle, or that of Jacaerys. Aemond crumples the paper in his rough palms and throws the useless account into the fire. He feels even with his one eye, Aemond would be able to conjure up an image better than the spies they bought around the realm.
As long as Daemon is the one left unmoving, Aemond settles into the sturdiness of the aged wooden chair. He is in and out of sleep sitting upright and against the weak flames of his tent hearth.
Throughout the rest of the days and nights, Cole comes to relay the ideas he and the Targaryen man had already prepped and fleshed out all the way back in King's Landing. Aemond is growing tired of the marching and riding on horses, Vhagar displaying his dismay as well through her low growls. No men will go as near her as they did at the beginning of the trail along the King's Road. At times, Aemond would take his stride beside her, his gloved hand placed atop the glowing warmth of her scales. The beast is just as ready for war as her owner, all deemed.
They have no way of gathering word from the Lannister army coming from the west and no knowledge of how close the Northenermen and Vale knights have come upon Harrenhal. Aemond sees visions of war and fire when his eyelid is shut, the warm fires he sleeps against having him sweaty and heaving when he wakes. Some nights, he dismisses the attempt to even set up camp at all, keeping his royal convoy marching onward despite the dull feelings in their feet and the aches in their backs.
With the rain and mud caking the soles of his men's feet, Aemond could only watch and brace from the middle of the line of soldiers as battles were beginning to unfold upfront. Where Cole took his stance, the lords of his sister's call came to fight head-on. Aemond's Hand left bloodied bodies and cut-up men behind, Vhagar taking to crushing the remains of the Lord Darry and Route's traitors between her teeth. Her dull, jagged teeth. Aemond pretended he could not hear the sound of bones rubbing together in her mouth, the grating memory coming back of the place in the sky where the clouds do not reach.
He barks for his men to keep onward, the clap of thunder in the sky just as fierce as his loud calls. Not yet can they rest. Not when the outline of Harrenhal has begun to emerge along the dark horizon.
When the light of day has shown again, thick gray looms over the castle. Aemond walks between parted lines of his bannermen, his hair whipping behind him as the winds pick up. If any were around to watch, they'd mistake the second son as the one who truly warms the throne with his fiery violet eye and rumbling dragon slowly dragging behind. But the victory is not the one he had envisioned as Cole waits for him at the front of the convoy, the gates to Harrenhal wide open and the yards full of his capitol knights.
"We do not think this is a farce. It is suspected that Daemon has fled-" Aemond does not wait for Criston to finish his sentences, his armored body pushing through the stoned archways and columns to glower about the large structure. In the dawn, Harrenhal does not fulfill all the gruesome stories surrounding its ill-omened existence. Something flickers awfully inside Aemond's chest.
"I did not think it in my uncle to practice such cowardly habits." Aemond seethes, the flicks of brown hair and eyes fluttering about the terraces and exposed hallways beckons his tired body around the square. Criston can only try and keep up with the prince's jerking movements.
"We can only plan to take station for the night and await the Lannister army and our foes from the North. Another travel for a fortnight will exhaust our troops-"
"Do what you must. As will I." Aemond says before taking to the stairs beside the courtyard, the men gathered around ordered to comb through the grand estate. Even if their limbs sting and their necks are sore from remaining so upright, none dare to disobey the prince.
By nightfall, his army has forced their way through Harrenhal. Every locked room and dark dungeon is opened and set alight, Aemond passing by the remaining Strongs of the castle as they lower their heads in either fear or respect. Aemond cares nothing for any of it, sitting at the head of the long table as his soldiers take to a feast. There is no victory to celebrate, so he only watches in silence as his pale fingers twirl the full chalice. His veins burn in quiet anguish. He wants fire to be breathed and for his nephew to emerge from the grey of the ashes. Aemond feels that the whispers in his head would cease if all his blight's wishes are gripped in between his own hands; his palm clutching the chalice harshly. His plagued mind imagines it is Lucerys' throat he holds instead.
"Does the food displease you, my King?" A firm voice sounds from beside Aemond. It is where his blind eye sits, his head turning to see a woman of raven black curls and a bright green stare. She is holding emptied platters from his men, a pitcher in her other hand as she tends diligently to the convoy.
"I am no king," Aemond replies, his eye roving back over to where some sit with bandaged arms and bellies full.
"Your men were a great deal to heal. All supplies have been run dry since you've come." The woman continues to talk, grabbing up Aemond's plate even if it is still full. It seems the glint in her stare knows that the hunger Aemond holds isn't for a meal.
"Yes well, with my numbers along with my uncles, I do feel all that Harrenhal can give has been taken. Has it not?" Her lids stutter , Aemond waiting for the moment the helping hand falls back into the shadows like the others. Slowly she retreats, but the woman's face is still hardened and her eyes set on him, the prince watching her just as much.
When he is shown to his quarters, Aemond asks for a bath to be drawn. He calls for it to be scalding and hot, no tepid waters to be poured for him. He waits as the servants work quickly, his fingers tapping on the cold of his armor. He hates how it has gone unused and unnecessary. He pulls himself to look at the fire instead, watching the way the flames look more brilliant in the dark of this unholy place.
"Your fire burns bright." Aemond turns at the sound of the stranger's voice again. She always seems to place herself on the side of him that is unable to see. The hearth makes the green in her stare look as vibrant as wildfire.
The woman takes Aemond's silence as an invitation to come closer. None would dare to come closer.
"Tell me what it is you see in the flames, and I will tell you mine own vision." The way she speaks is so elusive and strange, yet nothing at all similar to Helaena's own peculiarness. Even the servants working to warm the tub in the next room over can only stare at the woman of raven curls. Aemond only moves his attention back to the fire, still aware of how the stranger is coming closer to his side.
"I see myself. I am made up of this very fire and all before it," Aemond mutters, the crackling of the log registering in his ears. "Even the ones I burn after this hearth dies." The white tips of the licking heat dance high as he continues to speak.
The other girls have finished, nodding their heads to take their leave, the woman eldest than all of them smiling at the skittishness. Aemond almost had forgotten about his awaiting bath. But then the top of her head is shown and her eyes closed, the prince swallowing hard as she turns to leave with the others.
"You did not say what the flames tell you." Aemond reminds her, the woman sparing a glance over her shoulder as the others wait for her. With one nod, she lets the girls go away, her playful eyes shining even brighter than before, the Targaryen prince narrowing his own at her.
"I believe you will see it soon enough. I know more than what a single raven or writing can tell you, my King." He grits his teeth as the odd creature shuts his door closed. Aemond is no king.
That night after he slipped into the bath and wanted to submerge himself underneath the hot waters. Aemond feels along the sides of his bare torso, long fingers skimming across the edges of his back. The scars are thick and raised underneath his fingers. He hasn't taken to disciplining himself in so long, temptation and greed running dry from his mind. Now though, Aemond is consumed in it. He sinks deeper into the bath, completely submerged under the water in the same way he feels his thoughts are of Lucerys. He wanted to go to that place with no noise, feeling as bare and vulnerable as a babe in its mother's womb. But a sharp knock on the door of his quarters along with a muffled voice had Aemond groaning in discontent, pulling himself from the waters and wrapping in a thick robe. The pores on his white skin pebbled from the harsh winter air that seeped in through the castle walls.
He opened the thick wood to see a serving boy, his hands holding out a rolled parchment that was untouched. Not even Criston Cole could have seen what was contained in these words-- these that were meant for Aemond's eye alone. Quietly he picked the paper out from the clutches of the little thing of dark curls and a brown gaze. Always, he found himself set upright against the hearth, his dampened hands taking to opening the scroll and reading intently.
At first, he did not let the sentences sink deep into his bones. Then, Aemond read what his Uncle Daemon had written to him a single time more and abandoned those sentiments on the chair by his hearth, his blight settling on the cool tones of his armor in the dark of his chambers.
Aemond did not let Harrenhal sleep that night. Some thought him truly possessed as the prince roared from somewhere in the walls, the Strongs of the castle spurring out from their quarters to wonder what was happening. They didn't have to wait long.
___
In the training yard, Aemond had dragged the Ser Simon Strong out into the bareness of the moonlight. The children wept and pressed their faces into their wet nurses, the strange woman of wildfire eyes watching unflinchingly as the man brought her uncle to his knees. It was the first time she saw him cry, the aged creases on his person stretched and his mouth swirling with agony. He was begging. He was desperate for life to be spared for him. She almost laughed. A dragon like the prince knew nothing of peace, only calamity.
"You are a traitor to the realm. You bend the knee upon my uncle's arrival and try weaseling your way into the Crown's good graces. As if you don't align yourself with the likes of them-"
"We don't-"
"As if you do not know where your loyalties stand!" Aemond spits, his violet stare breaking into the archways of the castles where other men of the house stand. She watches as none of them try to intervene and save their kin. A spasm twists at the corner of her lips, for she knows the greatest of how they never have.
"My nephew is on your counsel. Our House stands with you, Prince Aemond." Simon speaks into the cold air, his teeth chattering in his skull. Even if the winds are biting and all are in their robes and sleeping smocks, none pull away from the scene. They watch as the unpredictable man turns to his own knights, his lips opening into a snarl.
"Ready a sword for Ser Simon." A squeak pulls from the lips of one of the children near her, a quick hand coming to smoother the sound. They know such cries are like cheers to men like this. The tot on her hip can only grip harder onto the woman, pulling on her black hair and whining for more warmth to be afforded to him. If such a creature cannot understand how the woman he beckons for is not even his mother, she knows he cannot grasp the awful happenings occurring down below in the yard.
Through Simon's blunderings, Aemond only drops the metal at her uncle's hands and knees.
"Let the gods decide if you speak truly. If you are innocent, the Warrior will give you the strength to defeat me." She knows in Aemond's blackened heart, there reside no such ideas of gods. And she knows that despite the fact that even if the man that shares the same blood as her has never given her direct reason to wish him dead and cold like this winter night; Alys does not want for him to get up.
So for the first time, she gets what she wants. Aemond swings and cuts through flesh and bone as if he has been without it for far too long. And from the way the barrows wheel away the chunks to his great she-dragon-- how eager Vhagar accepts the still warm remains inside of her mouth-- Alys finds that must be so.
But even with the morning rising on the horizon, the horrors of Harrenhal do not stop. The prince calls for the rest of the men of the house to line up, those grown suddenly thrashing against soldiers and using their voices to yell. Never has she seen them so lively, the men of her family unhesitating to move for themselves. It is the children she feels for, the capitol men all ordered to force the boys to move forward despite their feet digging into the ground. They cling and claw at the same women who have nursed them since infancy, Alys looking forward as the shadow of a knight comes over her. His cold hands are opened for the babe on her hip, his little fingers fixed in the fabrics of her robe for warmth.
She tears him off herself, unwilling to look at the glossy brown eyes. Alys convinces herself he still does not know what occurs. That he will stay eternally innocent. How soon, he will join her God, not the Old or the Seven who have never answered her prayers or left her home unscathed.
When the day has fully broken along the forest tree line, the announcement of all bastards to be brought to the Prince Regent makes the girls who felt hidden suddenly wail in horror. Alys grabs them harshly, making them stifle their self-mourning as they are pulled along with armor-clad hands. The stench of iron is heavier as they are hurried down the stairs and across the training yard. One of the children faints from witnessing the bodies all limp in a pile and the brown eyes rolled into severed heads.
Aemond stands tall, his single eye blown with crimson spottings flaked and browning along the contours of his face. As the sun rises behind him, his head of white hair looks just as vibrant as the tips of a blinding hearth. And he must see something just as vibrant in Alys as he sets his attention on her, his eye flitting up to the Dornish man holding her in place, head cocking to the side.
A breath escapes her mouth as she is torn out of line, the blundering whines of her kin for mercy spared on their behalf making the prince grunt in disapproval. Alys walks steadily despite the sounds of cut-off cries sounding off behind her. She only hesitates once the wet sound of another head rolling seemingly starts to follow her, another ghost for the halls of her home.
Alys is left in Aemond's chambers, her body moving instinctively to tidy about the room, her hands throwing the tinder by the fireplace to let the great flames roar back to life. It grounds her again, the way the images blind her view and dance inside of her skull.
Alys' attention falls onto the letter left unraveled on the resting spot by the hearth. She does not need to read it to know what has happened; Daemon has returned to his queen and has planted a false seed of mutiny in his nephew's mind. It helps to remind her what it is she has planned on doing. How it is she will tame this dragon. That unlike Daemon who did not sway against her coy act and waving words, Aemond is just as entrapped by the unfolding of fate and duty as Alys is.
She will not let all the bloodshed be for nothing. Not when she is so close to having everything.
He comes when his bath is being warmed again by her, Alys peering over her shoulder to gaze quietly at the man with blood-soaked locks and shadows eternally underneath his eyes. Especially the emptied one.
"You knew of the raven that would come." Aemond does not stop to confront her, even when Alys has floated over to him to try and help his armor off. He backs away, like the feral animal she knows him to be.
"I did." She says firmly, her white palms floating out to him again. He lets her touch the metal fully, the warmth of iron underneath her fingers. Aemond turns from her like it is he who is wounded.
"Your kin conspired against me. They told my uncle of my coming here." The prince says as if trying to justify his actions to Alys. Her mouth corners twitch again.
"They did." She affirms right back to him, the tightness of his muscles relaxing underneath her fingers as she continues to help him out of his armor. It is as snug as a tomb. He stares at her for a bit, her gaze meeting him once she has finished prying him from the blood-covered metals. "I reheated your bath, my King."
He finally ceases to try and correct her. Aemond watches her as he moves throughout the room, silently judging her character as if he hasn't already let Alys into his chambers and spared her life. Before he begins to strip, Aemond takes his crazed eye upon her and smiles. It is not of happiness though.
"Did you see me in the fire, witch? Was it you who warned my uncle?" Even if he is firm where he stands, Alys has never come so close to a beast so wounded.
"I saw a dragon in the flames," She begins, turning her back to him. Alys does not hear anything happen at first, so she holds her hands away to make the prince at ease. "I thought it was your uncle when he came. When he took and took from my home without regard to give anything in return. But then he flew and did not breathe fire like the way the light told me."
She hears Aemond dipping into the water, the sound of the surface breaking making her smile to herself.
"But the visions don't always appear to me in full. At times, I have to see the very image in the flesh." Alys is quiet for a moment, her ears registering how the dragon behind her has begun to breathe slower. She turns around, catching his violet eye and the way his lids have lowered. What a prize she has found.
She washes his hair, wringing the red from pristine blonde-white strands and combing her nails through it. The tonic in the water has made him obedient, Aemond's hands taking to sink deeper into the soapy suds and cross atop his chest. It is like he is being lowered into the ground. Into a grave.
Aemond is quiet as he's helped from the water, dried, and slipped into a velvety robe. Alys brings a tea to his lips, the outline of the scars along his back and the aged burns climbing across his neck and arm embedded into her mind. Gently she lays him into bed, sitting on the soft furs and swiping the bottom of Aemond's pale pink lip.
"What have you done to me?" He whispers out weakly, Alys moving forward to capture his breath with her own mouth. He winces against her, Aemond's forehead crinkling and eye fluttering as though her kiss is a sharp knife.
"I am taking care of you. We are but flames, together, my King." She knows he has little strength to move due to the suppressant soaked in the bath, but the crushed herb she crushed spokes the fire in the prince's loins. He accepts and bends for her, Aemond's lips rolling out a plea every time she grinds against him, Alys shushing him with her own mouth. This is not love but duty, for what they are making is an heir. Alys tells herself that the dragons in her visions and the fire across the lands along with the dying babes in her cursed womb means this one will hold. That the very thing spilling out of Aemond along with his groans is her promised prince, and that this child will be the thing that breaks her from the walls of Harrenhal and across from the throne.
Aemond sleeps. She finds all of them do after, Alys dragging a dampened cloth on the inside of her thighs and wiping her mouth clean. He tastes of sorrow and ash. She excuses it as it being the tea.
Alys goes back to tidying in an effort to wind down, her feet padding against the tile to empty the bathing basin. To get rid of the remnants of her doing. The iron in the water swirls for her though, her eyes fixating on the way the surface curls inward and forms something. At first, it looks like a ship. Then it shifts into something else, a mirage of things burning into the back of her eyelids-- the same way Aemond's jagged scars and her family's torn flesh have. Quickly, Alys pushes the water out of the tub, blinking hard and turning away to flee to the hearth. More tinder does she throw in as she settles by the blinding light.
The entirety of the day passes as she sits to pray in front of the fire. A soft knock comes around dinner time, Alys opening it shamelessly with her robe undone and Aemond still laid bare under the sheets of the bed. Instead of a meal being brought, it is that of the knight from Dorne, his brown eyes crinkling at the sight of the strange woman.
"He sleeps." She opens the door wide enough to give a glimpse of the prince and their doing. The man only nods slowly, his gaze fierce and judgemental as he settles on Alys again.
"Tell him another raven has come. Tell him it is most urgent." Alys shuts the door as he goes. She finds it must not be entirely dire if Aemond is still allowed to sleep.
On cue he stirs, Alys walking hurriedly to his side to sit. His eye opens, the other cut one simply twitching its dull edges as his sapphire is always left wide and watching. Slowly, he raises his hand to come upon the crick where her neck and shoulder meet, holding it tenderly. In that instance, Alys understands that with him under all the blends influences in his state of depravity, her dragon has begun to conjure up images of his own as well.
"Skorkydoso nyke've jorrāelatan aōha zōbrie laesi va nyke." She doesn't understand him at first, but then when Aemond's lips pull weakly into a smile unsuitable for his sullen features, and the familiar anger bubbles back into him from the way he begins to grip harder into her flesh, Alys can only shake her head in coerced agreement.
Whoever he sees in her, it is the very depiction of love, even as his hands come to hold her neck harder. It's in the way his eye sparks and his mouth hangs in a smile when he pulls her in for a harsh kiss. All Alys can think of as she reciprocates his touch is the poor, unfortunate soul kept captive inside the heart of such a dangerous creature.