the bear and the dragon fair - hotd au.

act two, part six : spectres in the snow.

Aemond, as a rule, did not dream. When he slumbered, all he saw were loose shapes and faces, flashes of pain and shame, repeating on a loop. This is precisely why when the true dreams started, they rattled something loose deep within him, knocking him off kilter.

In the dark of the night, he saw Alys, standing among the smoldering ruins of the Red Keep, smiling so shrewdly before her swollen stomach burst like a ripe plum; twisting and writhing and spurting until a dragon, sticky with wax and as purple as the dusky sky emerged from her shredded womb. A great white smoke, taking wing from a black castle, its shadow filling the world with fog. Aegon, crawling to him, skin and muscle being pulled from his face in torrents of flame, rasping to him, soldier... brother... traitor...

Even with the hearth blazing, the cold from the early morning seeped into the room, sticking to his sweat as Aemond woke with a choked scream. Shivering, he dragged himself from the furs of his bed to sit in front of the hearth, the brick cutting into his thin sleep clothes to bruise his shins. As he stared into the crackling logs, each spark and ember seemed to become Aegon's melting face, flaming bone and sinew. Aemond barely made it to the window before his meager dinner came up, splattering against the stones far below.

The sun was barely trickling up the horizon, and faint flakes of snow danced in the air. He watched them for a long moment. Aemond always held a fondness for this time of day; the inhale before the dawn when the world seemed stilled in its peace and sweetness.

And yet, a breath must be let loose eventually. Morning proper found him back in the training yard, breath steaming in the chilled air. Every stab was a response he had to wait on before he could move. Stab. The Boltons. Slash. The Ironborn. Stab. The wildlings. Clash. The Ryswells. He could smell the storm gathering on the horizon, and trying to find the right place to be when it broke was maddening.

The godswood brought more peace to Aemond's troubled soul. A quiet morning in a sacred place; a sweet mirror to his mornings with his Mother. He didn't attend the sept every morning, but he used to as a child, clinging to his mother's skirts as she lit her candles and chanted beneath her breath. It was a kind of nostalgia, caught over him like the dew on the weirwood leaves, but it was dissipated soon enough.

"Here so early, my prince?" The voice shattered the gentle peace he'd found, but he restrained his sneer as he turned. A wise choice, given that the voice belonged to Wylla. She came striding from the trees, wearing her fur stole with the bravado of a knight in armor. Aemond stood, easily two handspans taller, and she looked up at him unflinching. "I didn't think you a man of the weirwood."

"I'm not,"Aemond said simply, shifting his stance. He felt oddly self-conscious under Wylla's stare. "There's no sept here."

"I didn't think you a man of the sept either," she rebuked, gracefully stepping over the thin stream gurgling through the wood. "Didn't seem appealing to you Valyrian types."

"It's not popular. My mother was my introduction."

"Oh?" Wylla sat next to where he'd been kneeling, patting the earth next to her. "And you stuck with it?"

Aemond hesitated before kneeling again, rubbing his hands over the tops of his thighs. Even with the new fox-fur cloak and wool clothing; the cold seeped into everything. "I find comfort in it. Prayer, the septs, the songs... it helps me feel settled, I suppose."

Wylla hummed but said no more. Aemond kept his gaze on her, but she simply closed her eyes and folded her hands together, and after a moment, he followed suit. "Blessed Mother," Wylla began; her voice melodic and even, and the prayers flowed easy.

A prayer for his mother, for his sister, for Daeron and Jaehaera, and for Maelor and Cole. Prayers for the kingdom, the nobles, and the smallfolk. Prayers for Gwyn, for his child, for Alys, even. Only one prayer remained, but he hesitated, leaving it unsaid. Aegon was beyond the help of the gods now, cradled in the hands of fate and luck. May The Seven save his soul if he didn't drown it first.