Lady Arianwyn Targaryen, Lady of Runestone, was not born of love. Nor passion. Nor even a sense of duty. She was seeded by her father, the Rogue Prince Daemon Targaryen, in an act of unbridled hatred, and borne of her mother, the late Lady Rhea Royc...
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Aemond woke at dawn each morning consumed by the knowledge that he would not see Aria that day.
It had been more than half a year since he saw her, and yet the pain was still as fresh as the day he had flown away from her.
At least he had her letters.
And at least he was finally able to read them himself and in his own room. Orwyle had only released him from the Maester's Tower a few weeks ago. No more fevers that rattled his mind with hallucinations, no more additional procedures that whittled away at his flesh, and no more pain so intense it chained him to his bed.
There was still pain. Orwyle told him he would likely always have pain. But it was bearable now – mostly. Bearable enough that he could convince both the Maester and his mother that he no longer needed daily doses of milk of the poppy. He hated it nearly as much as he hated Daemon. The loss of his senses was something he could not accept.
On Driftmark, his fear and anger had overridden his senses, and because of it, he lost Aria. He would not allow such a thing to happen again. To himself or to her.
Aria thought he had healed long ago. She thought he had been well enough to ride Vhagar for months. She thought he was happy and well.
Aemond was anything but.
He missed her so much it ached; the pain sharpened by the fact that he knew it would be years before they saw each other again. It took all his strength to pull himself from his bed rather than sleep until she was at last free of her father. For in his dreams, they were still together.
But Aemond had made her a promise. The next time she saw him, he would be the fiercest of their line since Aegon the Conqueror. He could not accomplish that by lying despondently in bed.
So, he stood and faced the sunlight streaming in through an eastward-facing window, stretching his sore muscles. Each morning, he tried to gaze far enough into the sea to see Dragonstone and the castle and Aria's tower. But all he ever saw was the distant horizon.
He dressed in the leathers he had ordered specially made to be suited for both fighting and flying. To be as fierce as the Conqueror, his skill on dragonback must be matched by an equal proficiency with the sword.
Cole had been so impressed by Aemond's defense of Aria and his determination to adapt to the loss of his eye that the Kingsguard had gifted him with a real blade to replace the flimsy wood of his practice sword. It was simple and wrought of ordinary steel – the ancestral Valyrian Steel of House Targaryen was still wielded by the king and Daemon – but it was still a fine sword.
And Aemond was growing into a fine warrior. Every morning, without fail, he went directly to the training yard after a meager breakfast in his rooms. He usually had the yard to himself for at least an hour before the other guards and knights began to arrive.
