Led By Fiery Passion (currently being revised)

Part 65

Aemond

Aemond departed Dragonstone beneath the cloak of night, Vhagar tearing through the storm-laden skies with the force of a thunderbolt. Rain lashed against him in merciless sheets, soaking his cloak and plastering his pale hair against his face, yet he welcomed it. Storms were familiar companions, harsh, untamed, relentless, just as he was. Lightning split the clouds above, illuminating the world in brief, jagged flashes.

Then, through the thunder's bellow, came another roar, deep, ancient, feral. Aemond's hand instinctively tightened on the reins, but recognition flickered almost instantly, followed by a slow, sharp grin. Cannibal's colossal shadow cut through the storm alongside them, scales darker than night itself.

For a few heartbeats, dragon and rider shared the skies with the wild, untamed beast. Aemond's grin lingered as they passed the small island where he and Aenyra had carved stolen moments of fire and tenderness. The ache of memory flared hot and sharp, then dulled into steel. Cannibal veered away, but Aemond pressed onward, urging Vhagar through the storm until the tempest began to ease, rain dwindling to a steady drizzle.

Guiding her toward a secluded glade, he whispered reverently, "Kirimvose, Vhagar. Umbagon kesīr nyke'll sagon arlī."
Thank you, Vhagar. Rest here; I will not be long.

Climbing down into the damp earth, he lit a torch and disappeared into the narrow passage that wound its way into the heart of the Red Keep. Each step echoed with memory; he had memorized every twist and turn since childhood, a secret map branded into his bones. Tonight, it would serve him well.

At last, he reached the door. But before he could press it open, voices carried to him, low, coarse, threaded with menace. His body stilled, blood running cold yet simmering hot with rage. He eased the door ajar, and the sight within made his heart seize.

A burly brute clutched a blade to Jaehaerys' throat, the boy stiff with terror. Another man loomed over Helaena, who had thrown herself before the child, trembling yet defiant. Maelor slept in his crib, blissfully unaware of the peril closing in.

"It's not the king," the knife-wielder sneered, voice thick with cruelty. "But he said a son for a son, and I believe you'll do."

Helaena's voice broke, raw with fear. "P-please... don't—"

The plea ended with the crash of the door. Aemond stormed into the chamber, sword already in motion. The steel pierced through flesh and bone, plunging into the face of the man menacing Helaena. The crack of skull, the hot spray of blood—it was brutal, merciless, and Aemond reveled in it. The man crumpled at her feet, twitching once before going still.

The larger brute's eyes widened at the sudden carnage. With a bellow, he shoved Jaehaerys to the ground and lunged, fury driving him. A chair skidded under Aemond's boot, breaking his stance for the briefest moment.

"RUN!" Aemond's roar thundered through the chamber, the command leaving no room for disobedience.

Helaena startled, frozen between terror and disbelief, but instinct spurred her into motion. Snatching Maelor from the crib, she grabbed Jaehaerys by the arm, tugged at Jaehaera's hand, and hurried them toward the hidden passage. She paused at the threshold, tears streaking her pale cheeks, desperate not to leave him.

"Aemond—"

His eye cut to hers, sharp as steel. "Go! I'll follow!" His tone was iron, leaving no space for doubt.

Trembling, she obeyed, tugging the children into the darkness.

The brute seized the moment, hurling anything within reach, books, chairs, shards of wood, at Aemond. He advanced like a storm through the barrage, weaving, sidestepping, his sword flashing arcs of silver through the dim torchlight. The knife came next, a crude slash meant to gut him. Aemond twisted, blade answering with swift, cold precision. Steel bit into the man's arm, ripping a deep crimson line.