The Prince and His Flower

N I N E T Y - O N E

Vhagar and Terrax circled the skies every hour of every day, their cries filling the silence, their flames brightening the night sky. 

"I wish those bloody dragons would drop out of the sky." Alicent sneered, turning away from the window. 

"Now's not the time to let your emotions get the better of you." Otto sipped his wine. "We need to plan our next move."

"Our next move?" She turned to her father, tears stinging her eyes. "We have lost, Father. We've lost everything."

"We haven't lost until our heads are on a spike outside these walls." He said coldly. "Daeron is going to rule as Prince Regent and Aemma doesn't need her cane to ride a dragon."

"What of my other sons?" Alicent asked. "Are they simply casualties of the war?"

"They aren't casualties until they're actually dead." He sighed. "We're in a very tough position, Alicent. We have Rhaenys, but how long until Corlys decides to come for his wife? We have the support of the Triarchy but the Velaryon Fleet is stronger than any we've ever seen!"

"Let them come, let them raise their arms against us." She shook her head. "And let them burn."

All of their injuries were severe, with Rhaenys suffering the worst of it. Her screams and cries of agony could be heard echoing throughout all hours of the day and well into the night.

Aegon cried, all of the time. He cried for his precious Sunfyre, for his brother, for his love, and he cried for his son. The pain of his shattered bones consumed him, leaving him in a state halfway between conscious and unconscious. He drank as much milk of the poppy as was safe, looking for any respite to his pain. 

Aemma refused to stop working, forcing herself to carry on for the sake of her family. She would ride into certain death if it meant this war could mean something if it wasn't just conflict after conflict, death after death. If her death meant everything ended, she would do it gladly. She had a nagging feeling that above the God's Eye is where everything would end, but whether it meant her death or not she had no clue.

All she knew is that she couldn't buckle, she couldn't yield to her emotions when faced with the harsh cruelty of the world. She had to fight, push forward and put an end to this bloodshed. For Luke.

Her body ached, all of the time. Her knee dislocated so severely that she needed a cane to walk and her arm was broken, left to be held together by a clay cast that itched like no other.

Aemond wasn't dead, but he wasn't alive. He didn't speak, he didn't eat, he just slept. It had been three days with no change, but Grand Maester Orwyle constantly assured her that he would be fine, it's normal for a head injury. 

"It won't do you any good, worrying by his bedside at every free moment you have." He would say, wringing his wrinkly, mottled hands. "Don't let your womanly emotions consume you."

"Don't let your old age consume you, or let you forget who you are speaking to," She snapped. "Lest the guards find you cold in your bed come the morning." He stopped trying to convince her to leave his side after that.

Daeron was suffering under the weight of the crown, sitting on the Iron Throne and listening to the cries and pleas from commonfolk all around. They all begged for the same thing; gold, land, or refuge, all of which were dwindling with each passing day. Daeron was someone who did best with someone telling him what to do, not him telling others. Even during their time in the riverlands, Aemma was the one taking charge. 

The Red Keep was even more melancholy than usual, the servants silent as a mouse as they attended to their tasks, the guards were more watchful than usual, and all of Larys's busy bees seemed to be listening even more intently.