The Passion of a Thousand Suns | Aemond Targaryen

Thirty five: to bear our hearts in grief

THE VALE

AEMOND

Aemond instructed Vhagar to keep to the coast, wary of being sighted. They landed directly on the outskirts of Wickenden, with Vhagar hidden among the trees as Aemond made the trek to the town.

It was dreary. A chill lingered in the air and a storm was brewing above. It reminded him a lot like Storm's End. He forced that memory away, praying for the ghost of his nephew to simply leave. Was he to be forever be haunted by memories?

No. He couldn't allow such distractions to cloud his mind, not when Hira needed him the most.

House Waxley ruled over the lands of Wickenden, loyal to the Black Queen. Aemond pulled his hood over his face, fully aware that this did nothing to hide his most prominent features.

The busiest part of town was the tavern and so the silver-haired prince made his way to the establishment. It was packed to the brim, foot soldiers stationed nearby enjoying the hospitality of the coastal land and locals who spent their days drinking their lives away. Tapping the tabletop to gain the host's attention, Aemond peered down at the bearded old man.

"What yer want?" He grunted.

"Twenty years ago this town was struck with a tragedy."

The man gave him a suspicious look in return.

Aemond dropped a bag of coins on the table. "It was monkshood. What do you know?"

As expected the barkeeper took the pouch, storing it away behind the bar. "It happened overnight. A lot of good folks died. Scum of a doctor came prancing by, shouting 'bout being the saviour. Did all sorts to innocent people. Leeches, flaying, drowning. He was the worst of the worst. Did more harm than good."

"And yet he saved one person."

The man spat on the ground. Aemond raised a brow.

"Bunch of lies to excuse his mad experiments. He didn't save no one. The name Gawyne Conayn is a cursed one, boy."

Aemond didn't believe a word. Quick as lightning, he slammed his dagger in between the barkeeper's hands.

"The coins were me asking nicely."

The barkeeper inched away from the vehement prince. "The woman you're looking for, she wants no trouble. She's a good lass."

"I only have a question."

"And if she answers wrong?"

Aemond shrugged. "Where do I find her?"

The barkeeper jerked his head, gesturing outside. "Two stores down, the tea shop."

So the survivor never left. Why would one stay in such a place filled with a constant reminder of dread and death?

The bell above the door pinged as Aemond crossed the threshold. Unlike the dingy tavern, filled with loud men and smelt of heavy booze, the tea shop in comparison was light, airy and the scents of herbs and vanilla lingered. Few people loitered. Aemond made sure the last customer left before making his appearance known.

The woman behind the counter gave a gasp when finally sighting him. He would have taken offence, if the situation wasn't dire. She was of short stature and looked to be in pleasant health, not a hint of sunken eyes or pale skin. Roughly the age of his own mother, brown of hair with grey eyes. She must have been young when she was afflicted with the toxin.

"Good day." She greeted him, hands anxiously fiddling with a tablecloth. "Tea?"

"Does the name Gawyne Conayn ring a bell?"