the bear and the dragon fair - hotd au.

act one, part three : the bear so fair.

Once, years before he had bonded with Vhagar, Aemond had decided that climbing into the dragonpit to try and claim Dreamfyre was a genius idea. Completely disregarding that Helaena had claimed her the winter earlier and that the dragon-keepers were nowhere to be seen and protect him, and that it was a stupid choice all around, his foolish 9-year-old self had strolled right up to the she-dragon and had nearly had his face torched off. After a week of being berated by Mother, having all sorts of foul-smelling salves and poultices put on his freshly cooked shoulder, and worst of all; making Helaena sulk, he thought nothing else could be quite as miserable of an experience.

He was beginning to retract that opinion, however, as even the burning agony of dragon fire was starting to sound like a good alternative to this.

126 AC, in the height of summer, Mother and Father were celebrating 20 long years of miserable marriage. All the lords King's Landing could fit [and then some] were crammed into the Keep, cycling through the same five conversations over and over and over as they stewed in their sweat and agony. Oh hello, Prince Aemond! Hot weather, yes? Have you been betrothed yet? No? Oh, bummer. Better get on that soon. Have you met my daughter?

If Aemond had to meet one more shy maid sweating their makeup off their face, trying to stutter their way through a curtsey and trying even harder not to stare at the canyon of a scar on his face, he was going to march right back up to Dreamfyre and request a round two.

He had been attempting to hide, as much as one could, in the corner of the hall, tucked against the blessedly cool stone, nursing a cup of low-brow harbor gold. Most of the people passing were servants, who after 16 years of his existence in the Keep, had grown used to him lingering in corners and shadows and didn't spare him another glance.

Aegon was still seated at Father's right hand, downing goblet after goblet as the trays passed him by. Helaena had left nearly an hour ago, slipping out the kitchenmaid's door while no one was looking. Daeron, visiting from Oldtown, was seated next to Aegon, for once letting Aemond roam and not be chained to support his brother. Ser Cole was, as always, lingering behind Mother like a great guard dog. His half-sister and her brood were thankfully, nowhere to be seen, choosing instead to send brief courtesies from Dragonstone.

However, Gwyn, the one person he would've wanted to see, was nowhere to be found. He had slipped into the crowd a half-hour past, either looking for more wine or food or some other solace, and promptly had vanished from view. Aemond had been trying to scan the crowd, looking for one rusty-haired fool, but somehow all 6 feet of him had disappeared among the milling lords and servants. And Aemond was absolutely not scowling about it.

As the past few years had gone on, Gwyn had proven time and time again he was the only person for Aemond, only. He wasn't there to serve his father, or a spy for his grandsire, or waiting hand-in-foot for his brother. From soaring with him on Vhagar around the city, sparring with him at whatever abhorrent hour of the night Aemond woke up at, to simply staying and chatting with him whenever their days overlapped, Aemond knew that if there was one person in the whole gods-forsaken world he could trust to stay by him if the rest of his family crumbled, it would be Gwyn Mormont. And yet, he thought bitterly, he's been finding any godsdamned reason to give me the slip this ten-day. He downed the last of his cup.

He usually despised indulging in his drinks, he'd had too many long nights spent helping Aegon out of vomit-stained clothes and lugging him up flights of stairs to his chambers to be sold on wasting away on it, but when the night was as thick as it was with heat and false pleasantries; a man folds and chugs whatever comes his way.

He was only a few cups in, and while there was a pleasant buzz in his chest like gathering flies, there was also the rising heat that came with drinks that made his face feel even warmer in the summer night. The eyepatch felt like it was broiling the skin underneath, but removing it would make it worse. The sapphire now residing in his socket was a new decision, an impulse wrought by his brothers both encouraging a late-night bender, and the surrounding skin was tender to the touch and still irritated.