The Prince and His Flower

O N E - H U N D R E D - S I X

Aemond

There were two things Aemond was certain of: Harrenhal was haunted, and Alys Rivers was a witch. Upon his return to the decaying castle, his dreams had grown vivid, sometimes familiar, sometimes foreign.

Tonight was no different. After the castle had settled into its usual silence, he wandered its cold, empty halls. The rhythmic drip of water from the leaky ceilings was the only sound, save for the soft echo of his own footsteps.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Time seemed to stretch—whether minutes or hours, he couldn't tell. But soon, another set of footsteps joined his. They were elusive—sometimes ahead of him, sometimes behind, sometimes right beside him. Yet, still, he walked alone.

Then came the humming. It started softly, barely a murmur, before rising in volume, filling the empty space around him. He followed the sound, trying various locked doors, descending a staircase, then turning right, then left, then right again. The castle seemed to stretch and shift, twisting him deeper into its labyrinthine heart.

He had ventured far from his chamber, deep into the darkest corner of the castle, a place where even the stone seemed to breathe. The humming was now unmistakable, louder and clearer. It was no longer a distant whisper—it was calling to him. He pushed open a door and stepped into the room.

There, standing by the window, was Aemma. She gazed out at the bay, humming softly as she swayed, something wrapped in her arms. For a moment, his heart stilled. Was this the future? Was this the vision she had promised him, the one she had always claimed to see?

"Aemma," he said, his voice barely a breath.

She turned toward him, a radiant smile lighting up her face. In her arms, their child slept peacefully, bundled against the chill of the night.

"We've been waiting," she said, her voice warm, filled with a kind of patient joy. She rocked the baby gently, her eyes never leaving him.

Aemond stood frozen, a wave of emotion flooding him—longing, fear, and an aching hope. The child in her arms was a dream, a future he had once thought impossible.

Their child.

Born of their love.

Aemond took a step toward her, drawn by the quiet, gentle rhythm of her hum. The air felt thick with unspoken words, with something half-remembered but impossible to grasp. He wanted to reach out to her, to feel the warmth of her smile again, to hold the child in her arms. But as he drew nearer, Aemma's gaze remained fixed on something just behind him.

His pulse quickened.

He turned, expecting... what? But there was nothing. No one. Only the empty, cold space of the chamber stretching behind him. The sound of the water dripping above them echoed louder than before. The shadows seemed to thicken.

When he turned back to Aemma, his heart stopped.

Aegon stood in the doorway, his posture relaxed, a small, knowing smile on his lips. Without hesitation, he crossed the room, his eyes never leaving Aemma's, and wrapped his arms around her. Aemma looked up at him, her face lighting up with a smile that Aemond hadn't seen in so long—the kind of smile that was soft, tender, full of affection.

Aegon kissed her then, a slow, sweet kiss. It wasn't just a kiss; it was the kiss of someone who had known her, loved her, for a long time. Aemond watched, frozen, his breath caught in his throat.

They were in love.

Aegon and Aemma. Together. A family.

Aemond could hardly move. The weight of it crushed him—this impossible, twisted vision of the future. Aemma and Aegon—his brother—together in this impossible dream. He felt as if he were fading, as if the walls of the castle had closed in on him, trapping him in this moment he couldn't escape.