the bear and the dragon fair - hotd au.

act two, part seven : long claw, black fire.

warning: this chapter contains sexually explicit content [though its a bit vague], and also mentions/descriptions of starvation as an allegory.

Steel kissed, then sprang apart in languid, liquid strokes that sliced through the air and heated the blood.

Aemond circled the squire opposite to him as a cat might circle a rat. Finally, after nearly a whole moon on Bear Isle, the men and women here had gauged him no threat and engaged with him in merriment rather than awkward fear.

Theomore Poole, a squire to some knight or another, was a lanky boy no older than Daeron. The first thing Aemond learned about him was that he had lost a foot to infection as a boy, leaving him with an iron false foot. The second thing he knew was that Theomore was a great swordsman despite that, and was the first of the boys of Mormont Keep to be brave enough to ask Aemond to spar.

He was agile despite the metal limb, Aemond pondered as he ducked below a swing. Just as he was perceptive despite the lost eye, he'd never sparred with someone like him, anyone who had some sense or limb crippled. But here in the north, where the medicine was scarce and squabbles were plenty, he'd seen several men on the isle alone missing hands, fingers, feet, or noses. Frostbite, Gwyn had told him when he'd caught him staring once. Most folk here can't stop work for the winter, and sacrifice a few extremities for it.

Theomore was talented, to be sure. He predicted that Aemond's blind side was the obvious target, so he focused on the other side, sweeping low for his feet or high for his head. His shortsword darted to and fro like a steel viper, quick and smooth. Aemond knocked a blow aside, then another, dancing to circle behind the boy. The other keep boys—squires, pages, and hunters- had made a loose circle about them, and their jeering harmonized with Aemond's panting breath.

Slash, hack, parry, on and on the dance continued, until there was an opening; Theomore swiped too low, leaving his side exposed. Aemond grinned, flipping the grip of his sword to swing—

"Prince Aemond!" A shrill, breathless voice startled him from his strike. Just as he turned to the voice, Theomore swung with the flat of his blade, knocking him flat to the floor in a whoomph that sent all the air in his lungs rushing out.

In the near moon Aemond had been on Bear Isle, he'd never seen any emotion on Alys' face beyond strange smugness or careful complacency. But now, her face was drained of color, to make room for quiet horror. "Aemond," she repeated, hanging out of the doorway that led back into the keep. "It's urgent."

He was quick to scurry after her, grabbing his fallen sword from the dirt as he rolled to his feet, and motioning for Theomore to stay. Alys says no more as she leads him to the room they'd been using for meetings. Aemond almost feels like he's been bowled over again with how the grim atmosphere of the room seems to suck the life and air from him in one swift blow.

Gwyn was pacing, the same way he did when he told Aemond of Jaehaerys' murder. Already, that had his gut twisting in dread. Maester Nymos had a few letters laid out before him, looking as if he's aged another 60 years just by reading them. A few other lords and knights are crowded in the space, as silent as corpses.

"What's happened?" Aemond asked, the sound of his own voice feeling almost blasphemous in the anxious quiet. Gwyn looked at him, finally, looking almost surprised to see him there. It's Nymos who speaks, in the end.

"We've... had news from King's Landing." He began. Alys placed a gentle hand on Aemond's elbow, and for the first time; her touch gave him comfort, rather than displeasure. "Criston Cole moved to attack Rook's Rest, and Rhaenyra sent the princess Rhaenys to attack his host upon Meleys." Aemond watched Nymos' spotted throat bob with his swallow, feeling as if he was floating far away. "King Aegon came to defend his men."