the bear and the dragon fair - hotd au.

act two, part one : dancing bears.

Even after 3 days and 2 nights of flying, the sickening snap of Vhagar's jaws kept echoing in Aemond's head.

Above those stormy clouds, he had spent a solid half hour circling above Shipbreaker Bay in shock, another half hour panicking, and finally, a good fifteen minutes contemplating his next move.

Seemingly, two paths lay before him. The first: return to King's Landing and face the wrath of Mother and Grandsire. Accept that he has now started the war between his siblings in earnest, and dedicate himself to his brother's cause.

The second: be the honorable man he always hoped to be. Go to Dragonstone, confess, and plead with Rhaenyra for mercy. With luck, be sent to the Wall for the rest of his days. Without, and most likely, be put to the sword.

Round and round and round he went, surely looping half a hundred times before he realized he had a third path. No one was witness to what happened. It was a violent, stormy night, with a heavy blanket of rain clouds obscuring Lucerys' death. Theoretically, he could pretend to not know how his nephew died, but he was self admittedly a horrible liar. But, if he technically didn't have to lie, he could bide his time.

If he disappeared along with Lucerys and Arrax, no one would be the wiser. It was a horrible storm, it wouldn't be unreasonable to assume that both dragons had crashed into the sea, or flown too low into the cliffs, or any other number of horrible deaths. If Aemond hid, and let the realm believe him dead, he could wait in the shadows like a foxtrap and spring when no one would expect.

It was the path of a turn cloak. The path of a craven fool who couldn't control his temper, who couldn't face his family after what he'd done. Yet, the path sang to him.

One more loop to think over logistics, and he knew the path he was headed down. But where would he go?

The answer hit him like an arrow, swift and sudden. Bear Isle. Out of the way, fairly isolated, and no one would think to look for him there. He would have to make a wide arc, half over the Narrow Sea and half over the vast North, to avoid being spotted by any major settlements, but it was possible to make it there fairly quickly. And besides, he reminded himself, he had made a promise to the now-Lord there to visit, a promise he had failed to uphold until now.

One more loop for courage, and he was off, sailing northwards up the coast. He had made one stop on the second day, on a rocky cliff of the Fingers to give Vhagar a rest, but every other moment was spent flying. He had soared over Tarth, up the coast to Crackclaw Point, and made a wide swing around Dragonstone. His leathers were far beyond uncomfortable at this point, leather dried out and stiff, yet sticking from his sweat on the inside. The sun made his eyes ache, his face burn and his palms constantly damp, but there was no rest for the damned. For kinslayers.

The North seemed to be one continuous barren field, sprawling out far below. Occasionally a hold or a town could be seen, one or two plumes of smoke rising, but people were few and far between. Still, Aemond kept Vhagar nearly in the clouds the entire flight, lest they be spotted too clearly. Trying to stay awake was a futile mission, he soon learned, frequently finding himself slumped over the front of the saddle with his face pressed to the warmth of Vhagar's scales, only woken by her quiet grumbles. He tried to convey what happened and what his plan was to her, pressing his gloves to her flesh and praying she understood she didn't do anything wrong, it was on him, she was just trying to help. He wasn't sure she understood, but she made a few kind trills and clicks that soothed some part of his restless soul. He sent a quick thanks to the Seven that he had Vhagar of all dragons with him for this path; her massive bulk and ages of experience let her fly days with little rest and food, and even if she wasn't the fastest by far, riding her was more akin to sitting in a carriage than riding a horse, a sturdy, stable mass that rarely jolted or swayed too much.