Salvation - Aemond Targaryen / Aegon Targaryen

Somewhere on the Blackwater

Vhagar's monstrous flame ripped through the air and with it, Aemond plunged her through.

Her wings took a brunt of the heat but left just enough that his face was kissed by the fire. The tips of his hair singed and gave him the scent of smoke to look forward to. Vhagar's taking off had been rough, she crushed two full buildings with the underside of her belly. And he was sure her landing would be even worse. There was no place to keep her, no place to store her like the dragonpit—where his brother and sister's dragons rested comfortably beneath its stone walls.

No, Vhagar was massive, ancient, and far too much of a warrior to be contained.

He wanted to fly south, to disobey his mother and bring the Step Stones their aid. He wanted to put his war dragon to good use—otherwise he claimed the old bitch for no reason.

"Sōvegon!" He commanded, feeling her massive weight shift upwards. He could still see the people beneath him. Tonight, that wasn't what he wanted. Tonight, Aemond wanted to be above the clouds.

Vhagar's wings carried him higher and higher, until the pressure was enough to pop his ears. The dragon below him moaned and groaned, tail flicking catlike behind them. "sōvegon!"

The beast did as she was bid, breaking through the harsh line of the clouds into the clearness of the atmosphere. No other beast flew in the skies this high—no other dragon would dare approach her.

In the clouds, Aemond was alone.

It was his favorite place to be, now that the cursed Hightower girl roamed his halls. She was everywhere and nowhere at the same time. He had seen her from across the room, seen her enter his mother's chambers where he actively avoided her at all cost, had even seen her trapezing carelessly through the halls with her soon to be lord husband.

He had smelled her. That sweet combination of oils that only she seemed to wear haunted him in his days and in his dreams. Fuck, he dreamed of her. It was a mistake for him to debase himself to the idea of her, to think of her in a way unbecoming of a lady of her standing. He had pleasured himself to the idea of her and that was it for him. Aemond was addicted.

She was like milk of the poppy, sickly sweet and so, so hard to put away. He would do anything she asked of him—more than his mother, he'd run Alicent through if it meant it would make Jeyne Hightower happy.

That was dangerous for a man in his position. For a prince, for a dragonrider.

He would butcher a thousand innocents for her, burn high lords in their holdfasts and peasants in their huts and maybe that made him the problem, but he didn't care. She would never ask him to, Jeyne was far to pure for him. Even her sinning was pure.

His dreams of taking her were just that—dreams.

"Umbagon." He commanded, reaching down to pet the rough scale of her wrinkled neck. She hovered in the air, wings flapping around him. "sȳz tala."

Aemond took his patch off. His head felt lighter, normal, without the garment to restrict him. It was something he rarely did, something no one saw. His sapphire eye was rarely seen by anyone but himself—anyone but the man in the looking glass.

He told anyone who asked he wore the patch for the ladies of the court, so that they would not cringe away in fear from him. But the truth was—Aemond was ashamed. His eye had been taken from him, taken by his bastard nephews and his whore cousins. All for the beast who he now rode.

Well, Aemond thought. Suppose it was a worthy price for the queen of dragons.

He let his arms spread out behind him as he leaned back, feeling the back end of the saddle press against him. He just breathed, allowing the clean air far away from the shit-infested city to fill his senses. The sky was quiet, peaceful. The moon was large and round clear from the mess of clouds that tainted its beauty