trespasser | Aemond Targaryen

3. trapped

...

The strange, obnoxious medallion slipped through the girl's shirt and dangled above his head. Aemond scoffed under his breath, despite the sweat that dripped down his upper lip.

As if such a primitive thing would protect her against anything. After all, he was here, wasn't he?

For a slight moment, he wondered whether it was a gift from her daft man, but then lost all interest in the girl's life.

Speaking of her, she was glancing down at his face with a surprised yet hopeful smile again, his arms raised up by her hands to aid him in stretching.

Unfortunately, Aemond knew where this annoying expression of hers suddenly came from. Any kind of reaction on his end she rewarded with a smile, even if it was a scowl so deep it hurt the skin of his face.

He had been... lost in his thoughts lately. And sleepy, which her constant fucking humming did not aid in stopping, only encouraged.

It's been a while since he awoke for the first time, if the cuts he has been making daily on the side of the bed were accurate in any way. And every day he has been feeling slightly better. Aemond hated to admit that the healer from fucking nowhere had an idea of how to heal him — miraculous and surprising.

Lyonel came often, as instructed, and brought news from the whole Riverlands, utilizing his brother's contacts as a travelling merchant. His family remained a useful instrument that gathered all information from the nearby lands; ones Aemond had set fire to, amusingly.

Yet, his men were nowhere to be seen.

And the skies rumbled tauntingly every now and then, echoing the day of his death.

The nightmares that had begun to haunt him at night did not cease, no matter how much he tried to chase the stupid superstitions away. No matter how much he denied the existence of the unease that crept up on him whenever the girl left him on his own. Or whenever he felt his consciousness slip during the night.

Every corner held a knife, every shift of sunlight promised a dragonfire engulfing this wooden cottage; every snap of a broken branch belonged to a feminine silhouette that beckoned him.

come come back comeback withacrown

The constant nudging at his mind was deemed to be impossible to endure at times, his head splinting from the pressure. Shapes and colours slithered around his vision, taunting and threatening, calling out his name before giggling loudly in his ear.

Then a wall of wind hit the walls of the bedroom, before a shattering explosion shook the ground as if an entire mountain collapsed. He would recognise that sound, that power anywhere.

A roar of a dragon.

No, Aemond shook his head, feeling his whole body quake; in anticipation? Fear? Wrath? He could not tell. But it was impossible for his dragon to be alive.

Where Vhagar once was, now gaped an abyss, bottomless and haunting, growing while gnawing on his soul — or whatever was left of it.

You realize you should not have survived, right? Foolish, little Prince.

He writhed in his sleep, clawing at his ribs to get it all out, to offer his body in exchange for his dragon, his only companion.

What price do you name?, he wanted to ask all of the Heavens and Hells. Say it and it shall be done, damn the consequences, damn the people or himself.