ℒove always wakes the dragon (Aemond x OC)

A Never-Ending Night

The following hours are a mess, a ribbon made out of bleak faces and hushed voices. No one is still — Daemon keeps pacing outside Lia's room, Aegon does the same at the other end of the hall. Alicent bites her fingers, Rhaena bites her lips to stop herself from crying; it hardly helps. Helaena talks to Floris in short phrases, both glancing cautiously at Aemond. He stares blankly at the door. The sun outside loses its brightness, and the sky is a shade darker when Mellos finally walks out.

"I cleaned the wound thoroughly and changed the bandages. The cut on her arm only needed some stitches," the words he says should bring hope but his face expresses grave concern. "I don't know how bad the internal damage is. I don't know how much blood she lost."

"But she's survived so far, that is supposed to be a good sign," Daemon retorts, and it is odd to hear him use a tone so demure.

"She is young, and her body is strong. But we both know even the strongest men don't live forever."

Daemon pursues his lips, his face twitching momentarily as if he swallowed poison. "Can I come see her?"

The maester sighs as his gaze goes around the hall, from one face to another, all turned to him. "It is best for her to rest. The same goes for everyone in here."

He goes off before anyone can come up with an objection. A couple of younger maesters rush out of the room to follow him, leaving with blood-stained piles of bandages and whey-faced. The small crowd is dispersing, although unsure, almost feeling guilty for it. Aemond is yet to move from his spot; he has no wish to. He blames himself the most.

The Grand Maester returns at night, and he wears the same expression when he leaves, and hope seems to be getting out of reach. But only the night is crucial, and things will get better by the morning, Aemond tells himself as he tries to stay awake. Sleep creeps up on him, props his back against the wall as he sits down and inevitably falls into deep slumber. Instead of the sun, the dawn brings rain. The sky is smeared with clouds, grey and gloom, and Aemond wakes up with a shiver. The good news is that Lia isn't dead. She isn't awake, either. The morning fades into the day, then into the evening — maester Mellos comes and goes, the bandages are endless and endlessly blooded. Aemond skips all the family meals — he only notices because Daemon visits his daughter after each. They don't acknowledge each other but they share the same feelings — what Aemond hides is written on his uncle's face: confusion, anguish, fear. Mellos does nothing to dispel it.

"She's feverish, her body is still fighting," the maester says to Daemon at the approach of the second night. "It takes time."

"And how long?"

"There is no point in playing a game of guessing, Your Grace. I wish I could promise you that she will wake up in the morrow but I can't."

The princes are alone in the hall, and Daemon's hands are clutching into fists, his breath heavying with anger. Or maybe more so with despair. Because none of Daemon's children ever were in danger. But there's no one he can hurt to somehow compensate for Lia's pain. He gazes briefly at Aemond sitting by the wall.

"I didn't thank you yesterday," Daemon says quietly, eyes not meeting his. "Thank you for coming to help her."

And he quickly leaves but even quicker Aemond gets a thought: he should've come sooner. The guilt is never-ending — and it's also tiresome enough to drag him into sleep, convince him it's his only way to get a break from overthinking. It does work, maybe a little bit too well: he wakes up at the feeling of someone gently shaking him, the heat of midday sun flowing through the windows.

"My dear, you missed the breakfast again. You have to eat," Alicent pleads. "Here, I brought you something."

She's holding plates with bread and fruits, and he does her a favor. Small bites of food he takes smell and taste like nothing. Alicent tries cheering him up but she's the only one who's talking, and Aemond eventually gets her to leave with a fake promise that he'll join their next meal. Later that day, as the sky starts blooming purple, the maester returns with a small pot.