Salvation - Aemond Targaryen / Aegon Targaryen

Mutual Assured Destruction

There was nothing worse, Jeyne thought, than the coupling of Aemond's anger and silence.

The morn of their departure, the morn after Jeyne had—unwittingly—disclosed their sins to an outward party, Aemond woke from his slumber to crack the contors of his spine. He yawned—large and loud—with his tongue that had not touched her since sprawling from his maw like a lizard.

He did not look at her as he pulled a fresh shirt from the wardrobe and pulled it over his lean, pale frame. Or when he tied the string of his breeches over muscled hips and tucked the hem of the shirt into the black cotton. Jeyne handed him his boots, thick and heavy—the perfect for riding dragonback—and allowed her fingers to brush against his.

He made no move to touch her, or to thank her.

He left without a word—leaving her to wonder in fear and silence.

Would Cassandra truly betray them? Did Jeyne's new life as a Targaryen truly mean there was no one she could trust?

What a lonely life... Jeyne thought, pulling thick cotton breeches over her long, sore legs. The silks of the night were gone. She would not wear such fineries again until they made landfall back in the Seven Kingdoms. Aemond hadn't even tried to ravish her... the visions that had danced in his head when he saw her at the feast were long gone.

They had not returned on the coast, either, where Aemond and Aegon were huddled together with their beasts in the distance. Ships below them, stocked with men ready for war, raged against the waters of the Bay. Lord Baratheon fumed farther from them—face red and bulging with anger. His wife and daughters were nowhere to be seen—a nagging voice in Jeyne's head urging her to say goodbye to her friend, and to be assured of her friend's loyalty.

Aegon was the first to make eye contact. Thick purple irises were swallowed by black pupils, narrowing and widening with relief.

"Brother," Aegon clapped Aemond roughly on the back, making the taller lurch forward a bit. "It appears Lady Jeyne manages to pull off silks and breeches. Don't you agree?"

"I do," Aemond admitted. She saw his exposed eye soften, thin lips turning upward in the corners.

Jeyne melted. Finally, she thought. See me. I am still your wife. "Your graces," Jeyne fell into a short curtsey, awkward with the meat of her legs showing to them. "I trust you slept well, Aegon?"

"I..." he faltered. Before Jeyne could question it, his charmed smile returned. "I did. A better sleep than we shall see until this business in the Stones is settled, don't you know it."

"She is here," Lord Baratheon grumbled. His meaty legs moved him forward, a short quick bow to her signaled her only acknowledgement. "I suppose you will be off then."

"We will." Aemond's back straightened. He looked to Jeyne. "Come, my love. You shall mount first."

"Thank you," Jeyne spoke to Lord Boros. "Your home is truly wonderful. Give Cassandra my best. I should hope to—"

"I shall give her your best, princess." He interrupted. Jeyne saw his mouth twitch.

She blinked, taken aback. "I..." she started. Aemond's hand found the small of her back, steering her away from him and taking any words from her mouth.

She was maneuvered like a doll to Vhagar, the elderly beast had slept the night on her the beach. Her scales were covered in the dark, salty sand that littered the bay. She smelled as she always had—of brimstone and smoke—with the added tang of fish that had unfortunately wandered too close to the shore. Her breath was enough to make Jeyne gag as she reared her head and yawned.