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House of the Dragon
(Includes A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms)
While waiting for Aemond, Arianwyn visits Princess Rhaenys. When Aemond returns, his mind races. As he descends deeper and deeper into the darkest recesses of his mind, Arianwyn finally learns what secrets he has been keeping from her.
Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x OC (Daemon and Rhea's daughter)
Warnings: Dissociation, ptsd regression, discussion of the aftermath of Aemond's injury on Driftmark, mention of suicidal ideation
Author's Note: Mind the tags, this one gets dark. This is primarily chapter 35 of the original version, with one re-adapted scene from chapter 34.
Series Masterlist - Previous Chapter - Next Chapter
Arianwyn smiled when she saw Rhaenys.
It was not returned.
"I take it your good mother sent you," Rhaenys said by way of greeting, sneering at her own mention of Alicent. A pang of hurt shot through Arianwyn's chest at the dismissiveness in her tone. As if whatever affection that prompted Rhaenys' attempt to save her from Daemon only days ago was entirely forgotten. She neither stood from her chair nor turned to look at her young cousin.
Swallowing the ache in her belly, Arianwyn stepped closer. "Alicent thought I might offer companionship. You should not be alone in your grief."
"Do you mourn him? Do any of you?" Despite the anger in her voice, Arianwyn found none in her cousin's face as she stared into the fire before her. The always proud and stoic Queen Who Never Was had tears gathering in her eyes and a wobble to her lip. "I am half surprised not to hear the sounds of a celebration."
Anger sparked in Arianwyn's stomach, cold and heavy. She tried to temper it by reminding herself that, unlike herself, Rhaenys had truly loved Viserys. Still, her voice bit as she asked, "You think your own family so callous?"
"Are they my family?" A mirthless laugh. "Sometimes I think not, what with all the green."
Arianwyn looked down at her own gown—green tendrils of embroidery upon black. She had chosen it because it reminded her of moss creeping across rock, a sight she was told was quite common in Runestone. Perhaps it was even more.
"Nykēla aōrho lentro ikson?" She took the seat across from Rhaenys, the raging fire between them. Am I not your family?
There was surprise in Rhaeny's violet eyes when she finally turned, though it swiftly turned to something that felt uncomfortably close to disappointment. "Hae maesterot ȳdrā." You speak like a maester.
"Maester yne gīmēdas," Arianwyn explained. "Ñuhon kepo iksos daor. Viserys iksos daor. Nuño ēngos ñuhys yne tolmīhomy gīmīmiles." It was a maester who taught me. Not my father. Not Viserys. My mother tongue was taught to me by a stranger.
Rhaenys looked away, inclining her head. "I did not know."
"Did you ever ask? Did you ever notice how Viserys treated his own children?" She already knew the answer, but she wanted to hear it. Rhaenys was in King's Landing often when they were children. She would have to be blind not to have seen.
Her only answer was, "He was not cruel."
"The absence of cruelty is not kindness." No, it may be something worse than cruelty for how it tormented Aemond and his siblings. "Viserys was not kind when he spurned every attempt by his children to grow close to him. He was not kind when he sent me away to Dragonstone." That was the moment Arianwyn first knew that Viserys had not loved her, but rather loved Daemon through her. Even that was not the worst thing he had done. "And he was not kind when he let Luke get away with maiming Aemond without consequence!"
The fire crackled and sputtered as a log split, sending sparks across the room. Rhaenys watched them all fade into nothing, then watched where they fell.
"No, he was not," she finally admitted.
It brought Arianwyn little comfort. What use was pity now?
"I have many regrets about that night," Rhaenys continued. Her prior anger had vanished, leaving only exhaustion and mourning. "It is a shame to all of us that we stayed silent. But my judgment was clouded by grief. All I could see were the wounds on my granddaughters' faces." She dropped her head into her hand, sobbing. "I cannot lose them, Aria. They are all I have left of my children."
Though she did not forgive her cousin's apathy toward Alicent's children, the fire within Arianwyn calmed. She could not imagine losing a child. How could she, when she was not yet a mother? To lose one child so soon after another…
"What of Laenor's sons?" Arianwyn asked, noting their omission.
"You needn't pretend." Another laugh, more genuine than the last, but still tearful. "Those boys are… they are fine boys. But they are not my grandsons."
"Yet you would let them usurp your family's thrones."
Rhaenyra would put her bastards upon two of the most powerful thrones in Westeros: Jace on the Iron and Luke on the Driftwood.
Jace, at least, had Targaryen blood through his mother. Luke would be made the head of a house with which he shared no blood at all. Only his proposed marriage to Rhaena would restore true Velaryon blood to the line of succession.
Still, they were bastards.
Even if Rhaenyra claimed the throne, Jace, Luke, and Joffrey would not be her heirs. Little Aegon and Viserys, her sons with Daemon, were her true heirs. Arianwyn could not imagine that, should his wife ascend the throne, Daemon would allow his sons to be set aside in favor of bastards. She supposed the only reason he had not pressed Baela's claim to High Tide was the betrothal that would one day make her queen.
“History remembers names, not blood,” Rhaenys sighed.
“Are those your words, or Lord Corlys'?”
Rhaenys did not answer the question, instead posing her own: “Did you know your grandsire, Lord Yorbert, cast a vote at the Great Council? Twice, in fact. Once as the Lord of Runestone and again as the regent for young Jeyne Arryn. Tell me, Aria, do you know for whom he voted?”
“He voted for you.”
She smiled and nodded. “With his two ballots, he was likely the majority of my supporters. How could he vote any other way as Jeyne’s regent and defender, and with his own daughter—your mother—as his heir? Women ruled in the Vale since even before the Andals came, just as they do now.”
Arianwyn ducked her head in shame, but Rhaenys reached across to grasp her chin and force her to meet her gaze. “Answer me honestly. Who is best suited to rule, Aegon or Rhaenyra?”
Neither, she wanted to say. Aegon was a drunken fool. Rhaenyra a self-important egotist. But that was not an option. Arianwyn had to pick one. The answer came easily.
“Daemon cannot be King,” she declared. "That was why Viserys made Rhaenyra his heir. Yet now she would raise him alongside her, and all would suffer for it."
Rhaenys had helped Arianwyn plot an escape from Daemon and confided in her the suspicion that had haunted her for years, that it was Daemon and Rhaenyra who conspired to arrange Laenor's death. Surely, of all their family, she could understand the danger they were all in.
“Baela and Rhaena are on Dragonstone,” Rhaenys murmured, dropping Arianwyn’s chin.
“I know.” Arianwyn's heart wrenched at the thought of her half-sisters. If it came to war, would they be enemies? Would she be expected to fly Emrys into battle against Baela? Or take Rhaena as a captive?
Rhaenys' voice was small. “What will he do to them if I go against him?”
"He would not harm them." Of that, she was sure. Daemon was capable of many horrible things, but not that. He loved his daughters by Laena as fervently as he hated his firstborn.
"No," Rhaenys seemed to take no relief from that assurance. " But he would keep them from me."
From Arianwyn, too. True, her feelings toward Baela were still complicated, but she was still her sister. And Rhaena was one of the people dearest to her in all the world. Due to Rhaenyra's abrupt departure from King's Landing, she had not been able to properly say goodbye to either of them. Now, to think that she may never see them again…
“We will find a way," Arianwyn insisted, to herself and Rhaenys. "We will negotiate, or fly to their rescue. Or… I don’t know what, but we will do something.”
With their dragons combined—Meraxes, Emrys, Vhagar, Dreamfyre, Sunfyre, and perhaps even Tessarion—surely Daemon wouldn't be so foolish as to try to stop them. Arianwyn's breath lightened as her dread faded away.
Rhaenys only smiled sadly, turning away to face the fire once more. “Thank you, Aria. I should like to be alone now.”
Aemond couldn’t make out a single word of either Aegon’s complaining or Cole’s scolding as they flagged down a regiment of Gold Cloaks to escort them back to the Red Keep. They were too engrossed in their own verbal sparring to notice Aemond had not said a word. He was glad of it. He didn't know what he would say even if they did speak to him.
The Keep itself was a haze of iron and red stone. Aemond navigated the winding corridors on instinct, not thinking at all as he made his way to the Small Council chamber. The world blurred past him so rapidly that he nearly closed his eye to hold his balance.
But then he saw Aria. His Aria.
She ran to his side the moment he stepped through the door. He was grateful she had stayed with his mother, to keep her company and comfort her when he could not.
He was even more grateful when she took him in her arms, lovingly straightening his rumpled clothes and combing through his tangled hair with her fingers. She kissed his lips, his cheeks, and the base of his scar, not caring that sweat still coated his skin and the stench of Flea Bottom clung to him like rain.
“Are you well?” she whispered, ignoring the cacophony of voices around them. “Were you hurt?”
His arms felt as heavy as lead, as if they needed a moment to catch up to his thoughts, but he wrapped them around her shoulders and pulled her into his chest. He held her tight, for she was the only thing that seemed real, the only thing that made sense.
“I’m fine,” he assured her as he drank in her scent like wine. She still smelled of meadowsweet oil beneath the smoke and cold air.
She was so clean, so pure, so good.
He shouldn’t be touching her. He was far too dirty, far too stained. But he couldn’t let go.
“I’m fine now," he repeated.
He held her close the entire time the gathered council spoke, hoping she was paying more attention than he was.
By the time she finished and dismissed them all—Aegon escorted by two Kingsguard and eight house guards —he hadn’t the slightest idea what was said. He knew it was likely to do with Aegon’s coronation and precautions against any resistance from Rhaenyra, but the details were lost.
When they left, he still didn't let Aria go. With his thumb pressed into her wrist, he focused on the steady beat of her heart as she led him through the labyrinthine halls of the Holdfast.
She was so brave. The world was so near to crumbling around them, and yet her pulse was slow and even. She would have made a fine warrior, had she ever wanted to be. At some point, he would have to teach her to defend herself with something other than embroidery shears.
Suddenly, they were back in their chambers. They were in their bedroom, and Aria was lowering him to sit on the edge of the bed, whispering for him to relax and stay there.
He had never felt so alone as when she left the room then.
But she came back.
How had he ever doubted her?
Aria had returned to him from Dragonstone after six years under her father’s care – if it could be called that. Of course she would return now.
She carried something. A large pot, maybe? A bucket? No, it was the ceramic basin Kirin filled each morning and evening so Aemond could wash his face.
Kirin always had to have a guard carry it for him. It was too large and heavy to carry with only one arm. He would have thought it too large and heavy for Aria to carry at all, but there she was, setting it on the table next to the bed.
She was so strong. Stronger than he would have believed had he not seen it with his own eyes. Yes, her arms trembled slightly when she finally let go of the wooden handles, but it was still an impressive feat.
Then she left again.
Aemond stared at the empty doorway, willing her to reappear with every pounding beat of his heart.
But something drew his attention.
The basin. It was warm. He could feel the heat it radiated from where he sat.
Why was it warm?
He reached out a hand to grip the side. It wasn’t just warm; it was hot. Too hot. He shouldn’t be touching it.
Indeed, when he brought his hand close to his face, the skin was red. Not quite a burn, but close.
Well, that was foolish.
Aria came back again, carrying something new in her arms. A large iron kettle. The one that was kept in the hearth for just this purpose. She carried the kettle only by the wood-insulated handle and cradled the base with a thick cloth while she filled the basin with steaming water.
That was why the basin was hot, so that the water would stay warm for longer.
She was so clever. Not just for boiling water on her own, though he doubted many other noble ladies could do so.
She was cleverer than any Maester, librarian, or even Aemond himself. He was so thankful he had been able to spend so many years as the witness to her cleverness. Those days and nights they spent in the library together were more precious than anything else in the world.
After dissolving a small chunk of scented soap in the water, Aria sat on the edge of the bed next to him. She reached behind his head to unlace his eyepatch and carefully set it down on the table.
A great sadness shone in her lovely silver eyes as she cradled his cheek, careful not to touch his scar. It had been burning for so long. It must look ghastly.
“You are not fine,” she scolded gently. But she said nothing more. She only dipped a clean cotton cloth into the soapy water and began washing his face.
She was so kind. No one had ever been as kind to him as she was. No one but her ever looked at him that way—with love, and only love, rather than pity or fear.
His wife was brave. And strong. And clever. And kind.
He loved her so, so much.
He told her so, over and over again, as she washed his face and hands of the Flea Bottom stench.
When she helped him stand and remove his borrowed servant’s clothes, he told her how brave she was. How she was the fiercest woman he had ever known. How even the Conqueror himself would have kneeled before her. How he wished she would unleash her remarkable inner fire for the whole world to see.
When she washed the rest of him, each movement of her hands soft and full of care, he told her how strong she was. But he didn’t just praise her for her physical strength but for the strength of her soul. So few could have survived all those years on Dragonstone with a man like Daemon.
When she delicately combed his hair, he told her how clever she was. How hard he had to study when they were children to keep up with her— even when he was exceptionally clever himself.
When she dressed him again in his own clothing and tied his hair back so the strap of his eyepatch would lie flat, he told her how kind she was. Truly, her heart must have been crafted by the Mother and Maiden themselves. She was not only a woman, she was an angel from the gods and the heavens.
He loved her. He loved her. He loved her.
Arianwyn blushed under her husband's compliments, grateful that she could use the disguise of bashfulness to hide what she really felt—fear.
Something was very, very wrong with Aemond.
She had known it from the moment she touched him. Ever since she could remember, Aemond’s skin always felt as hot as a dragon’s scales, even in winter. But when he returned, and she pressed her lips to his cheek, he felt cold. Not only that, his breath was rapid and uneven. His pupil was wide, his irises nearly overwhelmed by blackness. He swayed slightly, even as he stood. He had only stilled once he held Arianwyn in his arms, as if she were an anchor.
The worst, though, was his mind. Though his body was present, Arianwyn could tell that his mind was distant, somehow. He was not truly seeing anything that happened around him, and he certainly was not hearing anything.
Four times, Arianwyn had to respond in his place when he was asked a question. Aemond had not noticed at all.
Neither did he notice when she stopped at Orwyle’s side as they left, asking him to attend to Aemond. The Grand Maester had agreed, but warned it could be some time before he could get there, as he had first been asked to tend to the new king.
But it had to be him, she insisted. He had been the one to tend to Aemond after Driftmark, after all. Her husband’s pride would allow no other to see him in this state.
Orwyle had instructed her to keep Aemond as calm as possible. Bathe him, if she was able, for he would feel better when he was clean. Keep him warm and secure.
When Arianwyn finished dressing Aemond in fresh, clean clothes, she brought him to their sitting room and sat him on the low couch by the hearth. All the while, he continued whispering his praises, trying to pull her closer to him, but she stayed back.
“I need to fetch an eyepatch for you,” she explained. He had been wearing his favorite one that morning, and she did not know where it had gone after he and Cole changed into servants’ clothes. “Orwyle will be here any moment, and I know you don’t like others to see you without one.”
Aemond cupped her face in one large hand. He was warmer than he had been, but still too cool. “Your eyes, Aria… Brighter than… the moon. Ao issi se hūra, Aria.” You are the moon.
He was still muttering about her eyes when she returned. “Sometimes … glowing, Aria. The fire… in you. It is… beautiful. Let me… I want to… burn?”
She latched the eyepatch slightly looser than he usually wore it, not to irritate the still-reddened scar. Then, once she was satisfied it was secure, she kissed him once, immensely gratified when his lips moved against hers. They hadn’t before.
“I would prefer my husband unburnt,” she whispered, laying her hand over his heart to feel it beat. Still fast. “I like you just the way you are.”
He stared at her for a long moment, as still as stone.
“I can't… can't see you. Not… truly. My eye… he took it. Took you… your beauty.”
It took all her strength to remain calm, though her heart felt as if it would burst. She brought her hand back up to his face, her fingers skimming, but never touching, the red line of his scar. “I look the same,” she said, her voice shaking. “With one eye or two, I am always the same.”
He leaned into her touch with a great sigh until his scar was pressed into her hand.
“Aemond.” She tried to pull away, but he held her firm. “Aemond, please. I don’t want to hurt you.”
He squeezed his eye shut and hummed. “No, you can't. . I told you… You are an angel.” He had mentioned the word earlier, though the sentence had not exactly been intelligible. “My angel.”
"I am no angel," Arianwyn whispered. She tried not to think on what the Septon had once told her; how angels appear only to those slipping into the Stranger's embrace. "I'm just a girl. But… I love you so much, Aemond."
She only half-heard his slurred reply before she stood and ran to the door the moment she heard a knock. "Thank the gods," she prayed softly as she beckoned the Grand Maester into the room.
“How is he?” Orwyle asked, briefly placing a gentle hand on Arianwyn's shoulder. "Has he calmed?
Aemond had stopped his mumbling. His head was tilted as he looked at Orwyle as if it took great effort to remember who he was.
“His heart has slowed, and some of his warmth has returned,” she explained. “But he is still… far away. It’s almost as if he is drunk. But that can’t be it, can it?”
Orwyle set the tray down on the only remaining empty space on the table after all of Arianwyn’s things had been moved in. Then, keeping a discerning eye on Aemond, he poured a cup of tea and held it out to the prince.
Aemond accepted, but only after looking to Arianwyn to confirm that he should. Even then, he watched the Maester suspiciously as he took a cautious first sip.
“Were it any other man, that would be my first suspicion,” Orwyle frowned. “But not with Aemond.”
“Then what is it?” Arianwyn pleaded with growing desperation. “Is he sick? Could he have hit his head? Or been poisoned?”
Aemond growled and moved to stand, but Orwyle stepped before him and pushed him back into the chair.
Rage and recognition in Aemond's violet eye as his cup shattered to the floor. “Get away! I told you to leave me alone and let me die!” he spat.
Arianwyn could not breathe.
Orwyle was unfazed. He seized Aemond’s chin and forced him to look into his dark eyes. “If you don’t calm down and take your medicine, my prince, I will write no letter today. Is that what you want?”
Aemond’s eye went wide, and he stared at Arianwyn as he had when he first saw her in the training yard only days before.
“She’s here,” he breathed. “Aria. She came back.”
“Yes, she did.” Orwyle moved aside, giving Aemond a clear line of sight on his wife. “You were reunited. You were married.”
“We… we were?”
Summoned by a gesture from the Maester, Arianwyn came forward to kneel before Aemond. He reached for her as though he was unsure if she was actually there. But his hand found its place in hers, and he held on tight.
“You’re here.”
“I’m here.”
“Please don’t leave.”
“I won’t. I promise.”
“I love you, Aria. I always have.”
“I know. And I love you too, Aemond.”
“Please don’t leave.”
He was crying as he begged. Not only from his good eye. Tears spilled from his sapphire as well, pooling in the notch of his lower eyelid before falling down his cheek. Arianwyn caught each tear, wiping them away with her fingers, desperate for them to stop. She looked to Orwyle. “What is wrong with him?”
The maester smiled sadly. “Nothing, my dear. There has been no injury, no poison, no illness. He has simply had a bad day. A very bad day.”
“Then what do we do? How do we help him?” She didn’t understand, but she trusted him. If Orwyle said nothing was wrong, then nothing was wrong.
He moved to the tea tray, pouring a few drops of white liquid into a new cup. “He is feeling too much all at once, so he has retreated within his own mind. That is why he said… what he said to me. When he sees me, he is back in my tower, and he has just come home from Driftmark.”
It didn't make sense. "Then why is he so frightened?" She brushed another tear aside. He had not cried when his ruined eye was removed, or when the void left behind was stitched together. Why did he cry now? "Why did he say… what he said?"
'Let me die,' he had said. The words rattled through Arianwyn even now. How could he ever wish for such a thing?
"You say he is as he was when he returned from Driftmark," though she addressed Orwyle, she didn't look at him. She couldn't look away from Aemond. She was afraid of what he would do if she did. "But this is not how he was. He was wounded, but proud. He was healing and training and flying with Vhagar. That is what he wrote—"
"I know." The maester sounded so tired, his words quiet and resigned. "It was I who took down those words, if you recall."
He was. Oftentimes, he would leave notes in the letters just for her. His own commentary on Aemond's behavior. Surely he would know the truth…
Arianwyn's own tears spilled over. Aemond did not wipe them away, though his lone eye followed each one. But she only looked at his sapphire and the jagged scar surrounding it.
It did not look as it had on Driftmark. The edges looked more jagged, and the cut seemed wider than she remembered. When Aemond blinked, sending another tear along his right cheek, it was not mirrored on the left. His sapphire eye did not blink.
How had she not noticed? She had spent so much time admiring the sapphire that she hadn't noticed that the skin that was stitched shut on Driftmark was not healed, but missing. Nearly all of his upper eyelid was gone, only a thin strip remaining to flutter when he closed his remaining eye. A large gash marred the lower, extending a thumb's width down his cheek.
Gods, she felt a fool for being so blind.
"What really happened, Orwyle?"
The maester's dark eyes flicked to Aemond, wary. Or perhaps afraid? "He forbade me from telling you, Aria. He did not wish for you to worry when you were already so bereft. Queen Alicent and I agreed—"
"I don't care!" Arianwyn shouted. She regretted it instantly, for the sound made Aemond flinch, his hand ripping from hers as he covered his ears. Once she had soothed him sufficiently, she asked more softly, "I don't care why you did it. I just want to know the truth."
In all the years she spent as Orwyle's student, he had never hesitated to answer a question. Even if his answer was that he did not know, he said so immediately. To an impatient young girl, it had been something she greatly admired.
Now, he hesitated.
"Aemond did not recover as quickly as he—we—told you, Aria," he began. Each word seemed to pain him. "Despite our efforts at High Tide, infection had set in by the time I returned to the Keep. I treated it as best I could, but it worsened. It became necessary to… to cut away the dead and dying flesh, and cauterize what remained.
"You must understand, he was gravely ill. Had we not done something, he would certainly have died. I attempted to remove as little as possible; only what was absolutely necessary. But the infection returned, and I was forced to perform the procedure again. I had to do so several times, I'm afraid."
Arianwyn ran a finger down the edge of the scar. No, it was not one scar, but many.
"Your husband was remarkably brave," Orwyle continued, "braver than most men I've ever seen."
Arianwyn shook her head. "He wanted to die."
"No, he did not. He wanted the pain to end. Death, to him, seemed the only option."
"You did not give him milk of the poppy?" Anger sparked within her, a cold fury directed not at Orwyle but at Luke. The bastard had wounded Aemond far beyond what she ever knew.
"We did, but it can only do so much. He still endured tremendous pain."
It is only my eye that is wounded, and yet he acts as though I have been rendered incapable of even independent thought, Aemond had written.
Aemond had lied.
"But he wrote to me every day," Arianwyn reasoned aloud. To think that Aemond had kept a secret like this from her for so long was a wound in itself. "He said he was well. He told me of riding Vhagar."
A small smile appeared on Aemond's lips at the mention of his mount, but his tears still fell, and his eye remained distant.
"The prince did not mount Vhagar for more than half a year after his injury," Orwyle said. That was enough for Arianwyn to finally look at him. His night-black eyes were mournful, but there was an ease in his shoulders that suggested he was relieved to finally divulge what he helped keep hidden for so long. "He only started training again weeks before."
"He was ill for so long?"
"Not exactly. The illness passed, but the injury and the infection left him," Orwyle paused, brow furrowed, then sighed. "He was left changed in many ways. It took time for him to adjust to the loss of his vision, yes, but there was more. He struggled to balance, and his speech slurred at times. It was as though the connection between his mind and his body was severed and had to be reformed."
It was horrible. A burden no child—no person—should ever have to bear. Still, Arianwyn wished for Luke to suffer a thousandfold the same fate. The pang of guilt which usually followed such thoughts was notably absent.
"And he was still in pain," Orwyle added. He looked at Aemond now. Did he see the boy or the man? "The episodes have grown far less frequent, but there are still days when he cannot bear any light or sound. That is usually when," he gestured to the prince, "this happened ."
"This has happened before?" Another lie by omission. Though, as she had only just learned, those were not unusual for her husband.
Orwyle nodded. "Not for a long while, mind. But this is far deeper than I have seen in years." He stood, turning away to prepare a new cup of tea. This time, he poured in some pale liquid from a glass vial, hesitating before doing so. “He will emerge from this fog, Aria. He just needs time to sort everything out. Stay with him, keep him as calm as you can, and he will return to you. The tea will help. I’ve added a splash of milk of the poppy." He offered the cup to her. "Go on, Aria. He will accept it better from you.”
Indeed, he took it and drank without hesitation.
Orwyle grimaced as he moved toward the door. “The servants should be released sometime soon. I will instruct Kirin and your new maid to knock and ask permission before entering. I think it best you two are alone until Prince Aemond has recovered.”
Arianwyn wished to embrace the man, but Aemond still held her too tightly to let her go. Instead, she offered him a grateful smile. “Thank you again, Grand Maester.”
“It is my sincere pleasure, Aria,” he said. With the door half-shut behind him, he turned to look at her once more. "I wish only that I could have done more. Tonight, and before."
They stayed there for what felt like days, with Aemond sitting in his chair and Arianwyn at his feet, her head resting against his thighs as he absentmindedly played with her hair. He never took his eye off her, even when she got up to pour him a fresh cup of tea.
Occasionally, he would speak. Sometimes it would be a continuation of a conversation they had years ago or something they had discussed in their letters.
Most often, he begged her not to leave him.
Each time, she squeezed his hand to show him that she was there and assured him she would never leave. Each time, he calmed more and more until his eye was, at last, clear again. But even then, he stayed silent, one hand in Arianwyn’s hair and the other flexing restlessly against the arm of the chair.
“Aegon asked me to help him run away,” he said.
Arianwyn raised her head, unsure whether he was in the past or the present.
“Today,” he clarified. “He wanted to run away and leave the crown to me.”
Arianwyn was far too exhausted to keep her surprise from her face. "What did you say?"
He shook his head, “No.”
“Why?” she asked, pulling herself up to a kneeling position with her hands on either side of his hips. He had often complained when they were young that he was more suited for the role than Aegon. “You are wise, and strong, and noble, and good. You would be wonder–”
She was cut off when he leaned down and kissed her fiercely, as if for the first and last time.
“All I ever want to be,” he said as he pulled back, cradling her face in his hands, “is your husband. Being king would keep me from you, from Runestone, and from all the children we will one day have.”
Arianwyn shook her head. “My home is with you, Aemond, wherever that may be. Runestone can stand without me.”
It had for thousands of years before, why not longer? It wasn't as if she had truly abandoned it; she left as an infant. Runestone felt as distant as the ruins of Old Valyria, like it was a place from one of their beloved fairy tales, rather than something real.
“But it has to be Runestone,” he insisted. “That is our fairy tale, don’t you see? No Greens or Blacks, no succession, no Iron Throne, no fathers who don’t care. Just us. Us and our perfect life.”
He always loved fairy tales with happy endings. The prince rescues the princess, and they fly away on dragonback to live happily ever after.
It was a miracle, was it not? He was a prince and warrior. A man who had suffered unimaginable pain as a mere child and endured. A man who was scorned and feared, wrongfully, as a monster. And he still believed in fairy tales.
How she loved that about him.
“Well,” she said as she turned her head to kiss his palm. “Then it’s good that you brought him back, my Lord Royce.”
Aemond hummed. “I think I rather like that.”
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Masterlist below the cut
House of the Dragon
(Includes A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms)
While waiting for Aemond, Arianwyn visits Princess Rhaenys. When Aemond returns, his mind races. As he descends deeper and deeper into the darkest recesses of his mind, Arianwyn finally learns what secrets he has been keeping from her.
Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x OC (Daemon and Rhea's daughter)
Warnings: Dissociation, ptsd regression, discussion of the aftermath of Aemond's injury on Driftmark, mention of suicidal ideation
Author's Note: Mind the tags, this one gets dark. This is primarily chapter 35 of the original version, with one re-adapted scene from chapter 34.
Series Masterlist - Previous Chapter - Next Chapter
Arianwyn smiled when she saw Rhaenys.
It was not returned.
"I take it your good mother sent you," Rhaenys said by way of greeting, sneering at her own mention of Alicent. A pang of hurt shot through Arianwyn's chest at the dismissiveness in her tone. As if whatever affection that prompted Rhaenys' attempt to save her from Daemon only days ago was entirely forgotten. She neither stood from her chair nor turned to look at her young cousin.
Swallowing the ache in her belly, Arianwyn stepped closer. "Alicent thought I might offer companionship. You should not be alone in your grief."
"Do you mourn him? Do any of you?" Despite the anger in her voice, Arianwyn found none in her cousin's face as she stared into the fire before her. The always proud and stoic Queen Who Never Was had tears gathering in her eyes and a wobble to her lip. "I am half surprised not to hear the sounds of a celebration."
Anger sparked in Arianwyn's stomach, cold and heavy. She tried to temper it by reminding herself that, unlike herself, Rhaenys had truly loved Viserys. Still, her voice bit as she asked, "You think your own family so callous?"
"Are they my family?" A mirthless laugh. "Sometimes I think not, what with all the green."
Arianwyn looked down at her own gown—green tendrils of embroidery upon black. She had chosen it because it reminded her of moss creeping across rock, a sight she was told was quite common in Runestone. Perhaps it was even more.
"Nykēla aōrho lentro ikson?" She took the seat across from Rhaenys, the raging fire between them. Am I not your family?
There was surprise in Rhaeny's violet eyes when she finally turned, though it swiftly turned to something that felt uncomfortably close to disappointment. "Hae maesterot ȳdrā." You speak like a maester.
"Maester yne gīmēdas," Arianwyn explained. "Ñuhon kepo iksos daor. Viserys iksos daor. Nuño ēngos ñuhys yne tolmīhomy gīmīmiles." It was a maester who taught me. Not my father. Not Viserys. My mother tongue was taught to me by a stranger.
Rhaenys looked away, inclining her head. "I did not know."
"Did you ever ask? Did you ever notice how Viserys treated his own children?" She already knew the answer, but she wanted to hear it. Rhaenys was in King's Landing often when they were children. She would have to be blind not to have seen.
Her only answer was, "He was not cruel."
"The absence of cruelty is not kindness." No, it may be something worse than cruelty for how it tormented Aemond and his siblings. "Viserys was not kind when he spurned every attempt by his children to grow close to him. He was not kind when he sent me away to Dragonstone." That was the moment Arianwyn first knew that Viserys had not loved her, but rather loved Daemon through her. Even that was not the worst thing he had done. "And he was not kind when he let Luke get away with maiming Aemond without consequence!"
The fire crackled and sputtered as a log split, sending sparks across the room. Rhaenys watched them all fade into nothing, then watched where they fell.
"No, he was not," she finally admitted.
It brought Arianwyn little comfort. What use was pity now?
"I have many regrets about that night," Rhaenys continued. Her prior anger had vanished, leaving only exhaustion and mourning. "It is a shame to all of us that we stayed silent. But my judgment was clouded by grief. All I could see were the wounds on my granddaughters' faces." She dropped her head into her hand, sobbing. "I cannot lose them, Aria. They are all I have left of my children."
Though she did not forgive her cousin's apathy toward Alicent's children, the fire within Arianwyn calmed. She could not imagine losing a child. How could she, when she was not yet a mother? To lose one child so soon after another…
"What of Laenor's sons?" Arianwyn asked, noting their omission.
"You needn't pretend." Another laugh, more genuine than the last, but still tearful. "Those boys are… they are fine boys. But they are not my grandsons."
"Yet you would let them usurp your family's thrones."
Rhaenyra would put her bastards upon two of the most powerful thrones in Westeros: Jace on the Iron and Luke on the Driftwood.
Jace, at least, had Targaryen blood through his mother. Luke would be made the head of a house with which he shared no blood at all. Only his proposed marriage to Rhaena would restore true Velaryon blood to the line of succession.
Still, they were bastards.
Even if Rhaenyra claimed the throne, Jace, Luke, and Joffrey would not be her heirs. Little Aegon and Viserys, her sons with Daemon, were her true heirs. Arianwyn could not imagine that, should his wife ascend the throne, Daemon would allow his sons to be set aside in favor of bastards. She supposed the only reason he had not pressed Baela's claim to High Tide was the betrothal that would one day make her queen.
“History remembers names, not blood,” Rhaenys sighed.
“Are those your words, or Lord Corlys'?”
Rhaenys did not answer the question, instead posing her own: “Did you know your grandsire, Lord Yorbert, cast a vote at the Great Council? Twice, in fact. Once as the Lord of Runestone and again as the regent for young Jeyne Arryn. Tell me, Aria, do you know for whom he voted?”
“He voted for you.”
She smiled and nodded. “With his two ballots, he was likely the majority of my supporters. How could he vote any other way as Jeyne’s regent and defender, and with his own daughter—your mother—as his heir? Women ruled in the Vale since even before the Andals came, just as they do now.”
Arianwyn ducked her head in shame, but Rhaenys reached across to grasp her chin and force her to meet her gaze. “Answer me honestly. Who is best suited to rule, Aegon or Rhaenyra?”
Neither, she wanted to say. Aegon was a drunken fool. Rhaenyra a self-important egotist. But that was not an option. Arianwyn had to pick one. The answer came easily.
“Daemon cannot be King,” she declared. "That was why Viserys made Rhaenyra his heir. Yet now she would raise him alongside her, and all would suffer for it."
Rhaenys had helped Arianwyn plot an escape from Daemon and confided in her the suspicion that had haunted her for years, that it was Daemon and Rhaenyra who conspired to arrange Laenor's death. Surely, of all their family, she could understand the danger they were all in.
“Baela and Rhaena are on Dragonstone,” Rhaenys murmured, dropping Arianwyn’s chin.
“I know.” Arianwyn's heart wrenched at the thought of her half-sisters. If it came to war, would they be enemies? Would she be expected to fly Emrys into battle against Baela? Or take Rhaena as a captive?
Rhaenys' voice was small. “What will he do to them if I go against him?”
"He would not harm them." Of that, she was sure. Daemon was capable of many horrible things, but not that. He loved his daughters by Laena as fervently as he hated his firstborn.
"No," Rhaenys seemed to take no relief from that assurance. " But he would keep them from me."
From Arianwyn, too. True, her feelings toward Baela were still complicated, but she was still her sister. And Rhaena was one of the people dearest to her in all the world. Due to Rhaenyra's abrupt departure from King's Landing, she had not been able to properly say goodbye to either of them. Now, to think that she may never see them again…
“We will find a way," Arianwyn insisted, to herself and Rhaenys. "We will negotiate, or fly to their rescue. Or… I don’t know what, but we will do something.”
With their dragons combined—Meraxes, Emrys, Vhagar, Dreamfyre, Sunfyre, and perhaps even Tessarion—surely Daemon wouldn't be so foolish as to try to stop them. Arianwyn's breath lightened as her dread faded away.
Rhaenys only smiled sadly, turning away to face the fire once more. “Thank you, Aria. I should like to be alone now.”
Aemond couldn’t make out a single word of either Aegon’s complaining or Cole’s scolding as they flagged down a regiment of Gold Cloaks to escort them back to the Red Keep. They were too engrossed in their own verbal sparring to notice Aemond had not said a word. He was glad of it. He didn't know what he would say even if they did speak to him.
The Keep itself was a haze of iron and red stone. Aemond navigated the winding corridors on instinct, not thinking at all as he made his way to the Small Council chamber. The world blurred past him so rapidly that he nearly closed his eye to hold his balance.
But then he saw Aria. His Aria.
She ran to his side the moment he stepped through the door. He was grateful she had stayed with his mother, to keep her company and comfort her when he could not.
He was even more grateful when she took him in her arms, lovingly straightening his rumpled clothes and combing through his tangled hair with her fingers. She kissed his lips, his cheeks, and the base of his scar, not caring that sweat still coated his skin and the stench of Flea Bottom clung to him like rain.
“Are you well?” she whispered, ignoring the cacophony of voices around them. “Were you hurt?”
His arms felt as heavy as lead, as if they needed a moment to catch up to his thoughts, but he wrapped them around her shoulders and pulled her into his chest. He held her tight, for she was the only thing that seemed real, the only thing that made sense.
“I’m fine,” he assured her as he drank in her scent like wine. She still smelled of meadowsweet oil beneath the smoke and cold air.
She was so clean, so pure, so good.
He shouldn’t be touching her. He was far too dirty, far too stained. But he couldn’t let go.
“I’m fine now," he repeated.
He held her close the entire time the gathered council spoke, hoping she was paying more attention than he was.
By the time she finished and dismissed them all—Aegon escorted by two Kingsguard and eight house guards —he hadn’t the slightest idea what was said. He knew it was likely to do with Aegon’s coronation and precautions against any resistance from Rhaenyra, but the details were lost.
When they left, he still didn't let Aria go. With his thumb pressed into her wrist, he focused on the steady beat of her heart as she led him through the labyrinthine halls of the Holdfast.
She was so brave. The world was so near to crumbling around them, and yet her pulse was slow and even. She would have made a fine warrior, had she ever wanted to be. At some point, he would have to teach her to defend herself with something other than embroidery shears.
Suddenly, they were back in their chambers. They were in their bedroom, and Aria was lowering him to sit on the edge of the bed, whispering for him to relax and stay there.
He had never felt so alone as when she left the room then.
But she came back.
How had he ever doubted her?
Aria had returned to him from Dragonstone after six years under her father’s care – if it could be called that. Of course she would return now.
She carried something. A large pot, maybe? A bucket? No, it was the ceramic basin Kirin filled each morning and evening so Aemond could wash his face.
Kirin always had to have a guard carry it for him. It was too large and heavy to carry with only one arm. He would have thought it too large and heavy for Aria to carry at all, but there she was, setting it on the table next to the bed.
She was so strong. Stronger than he would have believed had he not seen it with his own eyes. Yes, her arms trembled slightly when she finally let go of the wooden handles, but it was still an impressive feat.
Then she left again.
Aemond stared at the empty doorway, willing her to reappear with every pounding beat of his heart.
But something drew his attention.
The basin. It was warm. He could feel the heat it radiated from where he sat.
Why was it warm?
He reached out a hand to grip the side. It wasn’t just warm; it was hot. Too hot. He shouldn’t be touching it.
Indeed, when he brought his hand close to his face, the skin was red. Not quite a burn, but close.
Well, that was foolish.
Aria came back again, carrying something new in her arms. A large iron kettle. The one that was kept in the hearth for just this purpose. She carried the kettle only by the wood-insulated handle and cradled the base with a thick cloth while she filled the basin with steaming water.
That was why the basin was hot, so that the water would stay warm for longer.
She was so clever. Not just for boiling water on her own, though he doubted many other noble ladies could do so.
She was cleverer than any Maester, librarian, or even Aemond himself. He was so thankful he had been able to spend so many years as the witness to her cleverness. Those days and nights they spent in the library together were more precious than anything else in the world.
After dissolving a small chunk of scented soap in the water, Aria sat on the edge of the bed next to him. She reached behind his head to unlace his eyepatch and carefully set it down on the table.
A great sadness shone in her lovely silver eyes as she cradled his cheek, careful not to touch his scar. It had been burning for so long. It must look ghastly.
“You are not fine,” she scolded gently. But she said nothing more. She only dipped a clean cotton cloth into the soapy water and began washing his face.
She was so kind. No one had ever been as kind to him as she was. No one but her ever looked at him that way—with love, and only love, rather than pity or fear.
His wife was brave. And strong. And clever. And kind.
He loved her so, so much.
He told her so, over and over again, as she washed his face and hands of the Flea Bottom stench.
When she helped him stand and remove his borrowed servant’s clothes, he told her how brave she was. How she was the fiercest woman he had ever known. How even the Conqueror himself would have kneeled before her. How he wished she would unleash her remarkable inner fire for the whole world to see.
When she washed the rest of him, each movement of her hands soft and full of care, he told her how strong she was. But he didn’t just praise her for her physical strength but for the strength of her soul. So few could have survived all those years on Dragonstone with a man like Daemon.
When she delicately combed his hair, he told her how clever she was. How hard he had to study when they were children to keep up with her— even when he was exceptionally clever himself.
When she dressed him again in his own clothing and tied his hair back so the strap of his eyepatch would lie flat, he told her how kind she was. Truly, her heart must have been crafted by the Mother and Maiden themselves. She was not only a woman, she was an angel from the gods and the heavens.
He loved her. He loved her. He loved her.
Arianwyn blushed under her husband's compliments, grateful that she could use the disguise of bashfulness to hide what she really felt—fear.
Something was very, very wrong with Aemond.
She had known it from the moment she touched him. Ever since she could remember, Aemond’s skin always felt as hot as a dragon’s scales, even in winter. But when he returned, and she pressed her lips to his cheek, he felt cold. Not only that, his breath was rapid and uneven. His pupil was wide, his irises nearly overwhelmed by blackness. He swayed slightly, even as he stood. He had only stilled once he held Arianwyn in his arms, as if she were an anchor.
The worst, though, was his mind. Though his body was present, Arianwyn could tell that his mind was distant, somehow. He was not truly seeing anything that happened around him, and he certainly was not hearing anything.
Four times, Arianwyn had to respond in his place when he was asked a question. Aemond had not noticed at all.
Neither did he notice when she stopped at Orwyle’s side as they left, asking him to attend to Aemond. The Grand Maester had agreed, but warned it could be some time before he could get there, as he had first been asked to tend to the new king.
But it had to be him, she insisted. He had been the one to tend to Aemond after Driftmark, after all. Her husband’s pride would allow no other to see him in this state.
Orwyle had instructed her to keep Aemond as calm as possible. Bathe him, if she was able, for he would feel better when he was clean. Keep him warm and secure.
When Arianwyn finished dressing Aemond in fresh, clean clothes, she brought him to their sitting room and sat him on the low couch by the hearth. All the while, he continued whispering his praises, trying to pull her closer to him, but she stayed back.
“I need to fetch an eyepatch for you,” she explained. He had been wearing his favorite one that morning, and she did not know where it had gone after he and Cole changed into servants’ clothes. “Orwyle will be here any moment, and I know you don’t like others to see you without one.”
Aemond cupped her face in one large hand. He was warmer than he had been, but still too cool. “Your eyes, Aria… Brighter than… the moon. Ao issi se hūra, Aria.” You are the moon.
He was still muttering about her eyes when she returned. “Sometimes … glowing, Aria. The fire… in you. It is… beautiful. Let me… I want to… burn?”
She latched the eyepatch slightly looser than he usually wore it, not to irritate the still-reddened scar. Then, once she was satisfied it was secure, she kissed him once, immensely gratified when his lips moved against hers. They hadn’t before.
“I would prefer my husband unburnt,” she whispered, laying her hand over his heart to feel it beat. Still fast. “I like you just the way you are.”
He stared at her for a long moment, as still as stone.
“I can't… can't see you. Not… truly. My eye… he took it. Took you… your beauty.”
It took all her strength to remain calm, though her heart felt as if it would burst. She brought her hand back up to his face, her fingers skimming, but never touching, the red line of his scar. “I look the same,” she said, her voice shaking. “With one eye or two, I am always the same.”
He leaned into her touch with a great sigh until his scar was pressed into her hand.
“Aemond.” She tried to pull away, but he held her firm. “Aemond, please. I don’t want to hurt you.”
He squeezed his eye shut and hummed. “No, you can't. . I told you… You are an angel.” He had mentioned the word earlier, though the sentence had not exactly been intelligible. “My angel.”
"I am no angel," Arianwyn whispered. She tried not to think on what the Septon had once told her; how angels appear only to those slipping into the Stranger's embrace. "I'm just a girl. But… I love you so much, Aemond."
She only half-heard his slurred reply before she stood and ran to the door the moment she heard a knock. "Thank the gods," she prayed softly as she beckoned the Grand Maester into the room.
“How is he?” Orwyle asked, briefly placing a gentle hand on Arianwyn's shoulder. "Has he calmed?
Aemond had stopped his mumbling. His head was tilted as he looked at Orwyle as if it took great effort to remember who he was.
“His heart has slowed, and some of his warmth has returned,” she explained. “But he is still… far away. It’s almost as if he is drunk. But that can’t be it, can it?”
Orwyle set the tray down on the only remaining empty space on the table after all of Arianwyn’s things had been moved in. Then, keeping a discerning eye on Aemond, he poured a cup of tea and held it out to the prince.
Aemond accepted, but only after looking to Arianwyn to confirm that he should. Even then, he watched the Maester suspiciously as he took a cautious first sip.
“Were it any other man, that would be my first suspicion,” Orwyle frowned. “But not with Aemond.”
“Then what is it?” Arianwyn pleaded with growing desperation. “Is he sick? Could he have hit his head? Or been poisoned?”
Aemond growled and moved to stand, but Orwyle stepped before him and pushed him back into the chair.
Rage and recognition in Aemond's violet eye as his cup shattered to the floor. “Get away! I told you to leave me alone and let me die!” he spat.
Arianwyn could not breathe.
Orwyle was unfazed. He seized Aemond’s chin and forced him to look into his dark eyes. “If you don’t calm down and take your medicine, my prince, I will write no letter today. Is that what you want?”
Aemond’s eye went wide, and he stared at Arianwyn as he had when he first saw her in the training yard only days before.
“She’s here,” he breathed. “Aria. She came back.”
“Yes, she did.” Orwyle moved aside, giving Aemond a clear line of sight on his wife. “You were reunited. You were married.”
“We… we were?”
Summoned by a gesture from the Maester, Arianwyn came forward to kneel before Aemond. He reached for her as though he was unsure if she was actually there. But his hand found its place in hers, and he held on tight.
“You’re here.”
“I’m here.”
“Please don’t leave.”
“I won’t. I promise.”
“I love you, Aria. I always have.”
“I know. And I love you too, Aemond.”
“Please don’t leave.”
He was crying as he begged. Not only from his good eye. Tears spilled from his sapphire as well, pooling in the notch of his lower eyelid before falling down his cheek. Arianwyn caught each tear, wiping them away with her fingers, desperate for them to stop. She looked to Orwyle. “What is wrong with him?”
The maester smiled sadly. “Nothing, my dear. There has been no injury, no poison, no illness. He has simply had a bad day. A very bad day.”
“Then what do we do? How do we help him?” She didn’t understand, but she trusted him. If Orwyle said nothing was wrong, then nothing was wrong.
He moved to the tea tray, pouring a few drops of white liquid into a new cup. “He is feeling too much all at once, so he has retreated within his own mind. That is why he said… what he said to me. When he sees me, he is back in my tower, and he has just come home from Driftmark.”
It didn't make sense. "Then why is he so frightened?" She brushed another tear aside. He had not cried when his ruined eye was removed, or when the void left behind was stitched together. Why did he cry now? "Why did he say… what he said?"
'Let me die,' he had said. The words rattled through Arianwyn even now. How could he ever wish for such a thing?
"You say he is as he was when he returned from Driftmark," though she addressed Orwyle, she didn't look at him. She couldn't look away from Aemond. She was afraid of what he would do if she did. "But this is not how he was. He was wounded, but proud. He was healing and training and flying with Vhagar. That is what he wrote—"
"I know." The maester sounded so tired, his words quiet and resigned. "It was I who took down those words, if you recall."
He was. Oftentimes, he would leave notes in the letters just for her. His own commentary on Aemond's behavior. Surely he would know the truth…
Arianwyn's own tears spilled over. Aemond did not wipe them away, though his lone eye followed each one. But she only looked at his sapphire and the jagged scar surrounding it.
It did not look as it had on Driftmark. The edges looked more jagged, and the cut seemed wider than she remembered. When Aemond blinked, sending another tear along his right cheek, it was not mirrored on the left. His sapphire eye did not blink.
How had she not noticed? She had spent so much time admiring the sapphire that she hadn't noticed that the skin that was stitched shut on Driftmark was not healed, but missing. Nearly all of his upper eyelid was gone, only a thin strip remaining to flutter when he closed his remaining eye. A large gash marred the lower, extending a thumb's width down his cheek.
Gods, she felt a fool for being so blind.
"What really happened, Orwyle?"
The maester's dark eyes flicked to Aemond, wary. Or perhaps afraid? "He forbade me from telling you, Aria. He did not wish for you to worry when you were already so bereft. Queen Alicent and I agreed—"
"I don't care!" Arianwyn shouted. She regretted it instantly, for the sound made Aemond flinch, his hand ripping from hers as he covered his ears. Once she had soothed him sufficiently, she asked more softly, "I don't care why you did it. I just want to know the truth."
In all the years she spent as Orwyle's student, he had never hesitated to answer a question. Even if his answer was that he did not know, he said so immediately. To an impatient young girl, it had been something she greatly admired.
Now, he hesitated.
"Aemond did not recover as quickly as he—we—told you, Aria," he began. Each word seemed to pain him. "Despite our efforts at High Tide, infection had set in by the time I returned to the Keep. I treated it as best I could, but it worsened. It became necessary to… to cut away the dead and dying flesh, and cauterize what remained.
"You must understand, he was gravely ill. Had we not done something, he would certainly have died. I attempted to remove as little as possible; only what was absolutely necessary. But the infection returned, and I was forced to perform the procedure again. I had to do so several times, I'm afraid."
Arianwyn ran a finger down the edge of the scar. No, it was not one scar, but many.
"Your husband was remarkably brave," Orwyle continued, "braver than most men I've ever seen."
Arianwyn shook her head. "He wanted to die."
"No, he did not. He wanted the pain to end. Death, to him, seemed the only option."
"You did not give him milk of the poppy?" Anger sparked within her, a cold fury directed not at Orwyle but at Luke. The bastard had wounded Aemond far beyond what she ever knew.
"We did, but it can only do so much. He still endured tremendous pain."
It is only my eye that is wounded, and yet he acts as though I have been rendered incapable of even independent thought, Aemond had written.
Aemond had lied.
"But he wrote to me every day," Arianwyn reasoned aloud. To think that Aemond had kept a secret like this from her for so long was a wound in itself. "He said he was well. He told me of riding Vhagar."
A small smile appeared on Aemond's lips at the mention of his mount, but his tears still fell, and his eye remained distant.
"The prince did not mount Vhagar for more than half a year after his injury," Orwyle said. That was enough for Arianwyn to finally look at him. His night-black eyes were mournful, but there was an ease in his shoulders that suggested he was relieved to finally divulge what he helped keep hidden for so long. "He only started training again weeks before."
"He was ill for so long?"
"Not exactly. The illness passed, but the injury and the infection left him," Orwyle paused, brow furrowed, then sighed. "He was left changed in many ways. It took time for him to adjust to the loss of his vision, yes, but there was more. He struggled to balance, and his speech slurred at times. It was as though the connection between his mind and his body was severed and had to be reformed."
It was horrible. A burden no child—no person—should ever have to bear. Still, Arianwyn wished for Luke to suffer a thousandfold the same fate. The pang of guilt which usually followed such thoughts was notably absent.
"And he was still in pain," Orwyle added. He looked at Aemond now. Did he see the boy or the man? "The episodes have grown far less frequent, but there are still days when he cannot bear any light or sound. That is usually when," he gestured to the prince, "this happened ."
"This has happened before?" Another lie by omission. Though, as she had only just learned, those were not unusual for her husband.
Orwyle nodded. "Not for a long while, mind. But this is far deeper than I have seen in years." He stood, turning away to prepare a new cup of tea. This time, he poured in some pale liquid from a glass vial, hesitating before doing so. “He will emerge from this fog, Aria. He just needs time to sort everything out. Stay with him, keep him as calm as you can, and he will return to you. The tea will help. I’ve added a splash of milk of the poppy." He offered the cup to her. "Go on, Aria. He will accept it better from you.”
Indeed, he took it and drank without hesitation.
Orwyle grimaced as he moved toward the door. “The servants should be released sometime soon. I will instruct Kirin and your new maid to knock and ask permission before entering. I think it best you two are alone until Prince Aemond has recovered.”
Arianwyn wished to embrace the man, but Aemond still held her too tightly to let her go. Instead, she offered him a grateful smile. “Thank you again, Grand Maester.”
“It is my sincere pleasure, Aria,” he said. With the door half-shut behind him, he turned to look at her once more. "I wish only that I could have done more. Tonight, and before."
They stayed there for what felt like days, with Aemond sitting in his chair and Arianwyn at his feet, her head resting against his thighs as he absentmindedly played with her hair. He never took his eye off her, even when she got up to pour him a fresh cup of tea.
Occasionally, he would speak. Sometimes it would be a continuation of a conversation they had years ago or something they had discussed in their letters.
Most often, he begged her not to leave him.
Each time, she squeezed his hand to show him that she was there and assured him she would never leave. Each time, he calmed more and more until his eye was, at last, clear again. But even then, he stayed silent, one hand in Arianwyn’s hair and the other flexing restlessly against the arm of the chair.
“Aegon asked me to help him run away,” he said.
Arianwyn raised her head, unsure whether he was in the past or the present.
“Today,” he clarified. “He wanted to run away and leave the crown to me.”
Arianwyn was far too exhausted to keep her surprise from her face. "What did you say?"
He shook his head, “No.”
“Why?” she asked, pulling herself up to a kneeling position with her hands on either side of his hips. He had often complained when they were young that he was more suited for the role than Aegon. “You are wise, and strong, and noble, and good. You would be wonder–”
She was cut off when he leaned down and kissed her fiercely, as if for the first and last time.
“All I ever want to be,” he said as he pulled back, cradling her face in his hands, “is your husband. Being king would keep me from you, from Runestone, and from all the children we will one day have.”
Arianwyn shook her head. “My home is with you, Aemond, wherever that may be. Runestone can stand without me.”
It had for thousands of years before, why not longer? It wasn't as if she had truly abandoned it; she left as an infant. Runestone felt as distant as the ruins of Old Valyria, like it was a place from one of their beloved fairy tales, rather than something real.
“But it has to be Runestone,” he insisted. “That is our fairy tale, don’t you see? No Greens or Blacks, no succession, no Iron Throne, no fathers who don’t care. Just us. Us and our perfect life.”
He always loved fairy tales with happy endings. The prince rescues the princess, and they fly away on dragonback to live happily ever after.
It was a miracle, was it not? He was a prince and warrior. A man who had suffered unimaginable pain as a mere child and endured. A man who was scorned and feared, wrongfully, as a monster. And he still believed in fairy tales.
How she loved that about him.
“Well,” she said as she turned her head to kiss his palm. “Then it’s good that you brought him back, my Lord Royce.”
Aemond hummed. “I think I rather like that.”
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idk who needs to hear this, but your partner should be making your life better and easier than it is on your own. if your partner is making your life harder, they're constantly stressing you out, if they're not showing up for you? babe you gotta leave, life is so short and we only get one, so don't spend it with someone who makes you feel bad about your life, you deserve so much better than that
