A Fair Exchange

Chapter 2: Madness

Author's Note: Thank you to everyone who dropped me a lovely note, feedback, and left kudos! You should know that it isn't for everyone that I give weekly updates, hahaha. (For the Promises Kept fans, stay with me! I'm almost there!)

Chapter Summary: And now, because there was no fight at dinner, Rhaenyra and Daemon and the kids don't leave the Red Keep that fateful night . . .

That night, when sleep finally comes despite the torturous heat in his veins, he dreams of when he had lost his eye.

Aemond puts little stock in his dreams, which he knows is an oddity among Targaryens. His mother has told him time and again about his father's dreams, but that only serves to make Aemond more suspicious and skeptical than he will admit to either of his parents. Even Helaena, whose seemingly inane mumblings often prove prescient, does not speak of her dreams.

Yet when he wakes a few hours before dawn, heart racing and body braced for pain as he is ripped from his sleep by the vision of the steel cutting towards his face, he cannot help but feel that this dream has significance.

When he thinks back to that night, there is very little he can remember clearly after Rhaena flies at him and the fight begins. Even without the agony of losing his eye, he'd lost count of the number of strikes he'd taken to the chest, legs, belly, and head. He had spent the weeks following that night trying to tally the damage his nephews and cousins had inflicted upon him, trying to quantify the debt of pain that each owed him. He'd grudgingly concluded that of all of them, Rhaena had actually done the least harm, despite instigating the fight with her ridiculous attack.

But as Aemond lies in his bed, cold sweat drying on his skin, his mind turns over the memory again and again, those last few seconds of full sight delivered to him so clearly that he wonders whether it is the work of the Crone, the Father, or the Stranger. His dream has given him a piece of knowledge so vital, so crucial, that he cannot believe that he had ever forgotten it.

She had made him pause.

As he'd stood over Jace with the rock in his hand, he'd looked up at Rhaena. She'd screamed out at Jace to stop when he'd drawn the dagger, and the sight of her trembling in Baela's arms had slowed Aemond's blood long enough to make him consider whether he truly wanted to bash his foolish nephew's head in. He'd kept himself from using the rock on Luke, and that had only given Jace time to draw a dagger.

But Rhaena had shaken her head, dark eyes wide with terror, and as he'd taken in how she was doubled over, clutching her belly where he'd kicked her, he'd felt a pang of regret.

And then Jace had taken the opportunity to cast the sand in his eyes, and his whimpering little brother had come forward with the knife.

Aemond grits his teeth and pulls himself from his bed, knowing sleep will not return. He stalks towards his wash basin, resisting the urge to simply empty the pitcher of water over his head. He sluices the water over his face, lets the icy rivulets run down his chest for a moment before drying off. His heart is finally slowing, though his mind is also reaching a grim conclusion.

If there is one thing he can be certain of, it is that Rhaena Targaryen is trouble. No good can come from any association with her, and while he prides himself on fearing nothing and no one, there is another personal quality he values more.

I am not a fool, he tells himself as he dresses. The squires and other attendants are likely still abed, but Aemond is certain he can find a member of the Kingsguard about if he looks. A few rounds of training will surely remind him of all that he has worked for since his maiming.

Since the maiming that took place because of her.

The effort to remind himself merely brings her face to mind again, those big black eyes and those fine bones, that silky dark skin. The elaborate braids that had framed that face, that invited touch and seemed to beg to be unraveled. The tautness of her waist, the suppleness of her hip, the lightness of her touch. Aemond's teeth had nearly ached with the need to snap her against him and bite, to break all that delicate beauty and taste it on his tongue.

"Seven fucking hells," he swears, hating himself for the break in composure as his body hardens and his blood boils. In a span of hours, it feels like he is either burning or freezing. Aemond squares his shoulders and moves to leave. If there is no one to train with then he resolves to mount Vhagar and fly until the madness passes.

He opens the door and finds his weeping mother in the hall, and in an act of cruel mercy the gods finally banish Rhaena Targaryen from his thoughts.

When Rhaena realizes that their father is in their room, she bolts out of bed. Baela is slower to wake—perhaps because she'd tossed fitfully before finally sinking into sleep—whereas not having slept at all, Rhaena hears the ponderous swing of the door and the soft footfalls. Her feet are on the floor just as Daemon Targaryen finishes lighting a few candles.

"What's wrong, Father?" she whispers, the tension in his shoulders evident even in a room still mostly shrouded with shadow. She shakes Baela's shoulder.

"You and Baela need to leave for Dragonstone," Father says, already moving to pull clothes from the chest at the foot of their bed. Rhaena's stomach drops when she sees that there are tear tracks on his face.

His arm shoots out to keep her at bay. Rhaena's outstretched arms drop to her side as he turns his face away from her. His hand squeezes her shoulder and she blinks back the tears, covering his hand with hers.

"Daor sir, ñuha dōna riña."

Not now, my sweet girl.

When their mother had passed, he had held them for their sake, not his. There is no comforting Daemon Targaryen when he is in true pain. Rhaena steps back and instead reaches for the clothes he has pulled out. She glances at the bed and sees that Baela is awake, sitting and staring at them with the same understanding in her wet eyes.

"What are we to do when we reach Dragonstone?" Baela asks, tossing the covers off and jumping to her feet.

"You are to fly back here with Moondancer," Father replies, moving to the door and giving them space to dress. "Rhaena, you are to send word to High Tide and inform them that the Velaryon fleet needs to assemble and sail for King's Landing. Wait for us on Dragonstone."

"Yes, Father."

They agree in unison, as they often do when Father is speaking in this tone, but as always, Baela asks the question Rhaena keeps to herself.

"Will we be the only ones leaving?"

"I need to stay here, with Rhaenyra."

Baela stops in the midst of tugging on her boots. "Neither of you have your dragons."

"Rhaenys does, and she is already with Meleys at the Dragonpit." He waves at Baela to continue dressing.

"But Sunfyre is at the Dragonpit, too. And Vhagar."

Rhaena fumbles with her laces as her heart lurches at the thought of Meleys facing off against Sunfyre and Vhagar.

"But neither have their rider. Cloaks, now." Father approaches, fastening Rhaena's cloak himself. "Your cousins, Jace and Luke, will go with you. They'll return with you, Baela, also on dragonback. You'll have charge of Joffrey, Rhaena. And your brothers, of course. Aegon and Viserys will also be going with you."

They nod, clutching hands and following as Father opens the door. Baela is almost pulling Rhaena along, since Rhaena's feet feel manacled to the floor even as her mind races. If neither Sunfyre nor Vhagar have their rider—

"Where is Aegon?" Baela asks as they hurry down the empty hall.

Only a few hours before there had been at least three sentries, and one of the Whitecloaks, Ser Arryk. Not even a page or a maid crosses their path, and Rhaena sees that many of the torches have not been tended to.

"With a friend of ours."

Baela cannot hide the triumph in her voice, but Rhaena can only feel dread. "Then why must we leave, Father?"

They reach the end of the hall before their father answers, which he does as he peers around the corner—never a good sign.

"Because the Hand and half the Small Council are missing."

It is a strange company that is gathered in the council room—and they all know it. Ser Criston Cole looks particularly tortured, standing close to his queen as she commands yet nearly within arm's reach of the woman he has spent years and years hating. The small children are huddled around Helaena, her own and Rhaenyra's, all silver-haired and gnawing at their fists as she whispers to them about Brave Danny Flint and the Nightfort. His mother is speaking with Rhaenyra, their arms slung over each other's waists, friends again, it seems, for the first time in decades.

Only Lyman Beesbury is oblivious to the jarring atmosphere of the room, asleep as he is in his chair.

Aemond takes a deep breath, pushes down the confusing tangle of feelings. There will be a time to feel and contemplate later. As he'd learned as a child, some moments are for considered action.

As if to punctuate the thought, the maesters hurry into the room alongside the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. Harrold Westerling executes a sharp bow to Mother and Rhaenyra, but Aemond notes how he turns towards him.

"It is as you said, my prince." Within a heartbeat, the room is silent. Even Lord Beesbury's soft snores have ceased and he is blinking owlishly around the room. "Tyland Lannister, Jasper Wylde, and the Hand have all left the city, by different gates. Only Lord Strong is unaccounted for."

"Where is my son?" Mother asks, what she fears already written all over her face. In a breath it seems that Rhaenyra's arm is the only thing holding her up.

"The Cargylls and the whole of the City Watch are out looking for him, Your Grace." Westerling's eyes shift to Rhaenyra, his chagrin plain. Aemond steps in before the man can begin equivocating over titles.

"Grandfather will make for Oldtown and his brother's support. If he does not have Aegon, he will simply crown Daeron in his stead." He turns to the maesters. "Have you sent the ravens?"

"To every house in Westeros, my Prince," Grandmaester Orwyle confirms. "Many will be furious about not having enough time to reach King's Landing before the coronation, but at least now any house that dares support the Hand will know that they do so as treason."

Aemond looks at his sister. "We need to reach all the great houses within the week. Stark, Baratheon, Tully, Tyrell. Even Lannister. Which first?"

Rhaenyra's expression does not change, but Aemond can feel her hesitation. He bites down on his impatience, which seems to grow by the minute, not least because the longer he lets himself stop to really think, the more convinced he becomes that he should not be affixing himself to her cause, after all.

When he had first held his mother to comfort her, not two hours before, his mind had confronted him with very different tasks: rounding up Rhaenyra and her supporters, sending ravens out proclaiming the change in succession, preparing for the crowning of a king rather than a queen. Who exactly that king was, his grief-stricken mind had been hazy about, but then his mother had shaken herself from her misery and had begged for his help.

"Your father spoke of a dream," Mother whispered, digging the heels of her palms into the sockets of her eyes as though the motion will stop the tears. "Not his, but older—the Conqueror's dream. I didn't understand, but Rhaenyra did. It's why she must have the throne. She knows what it means. From her line will come the prince that was promised."

The phrase is like a match being struck in the darkened vaults of Aemond's memory—illuminating for but a moment, giving a sense of the familiar but no lasting detail. He wants to chase the thought, recall its significance, but what is more pressing is what is before him now, what his mother appears to be saying.

"You're going to let her have the throne," he says, testing each word with incredulity, though his lack of acceptance does not change the fact that he understands what she means. "After all this time, Mother—"

"Aegon doesn't want the throne. He isn't suited." Truer words were never said, and yet hearing them from his mother makes Aemond recoil. She clutches his arms, her eyes alight with an urgency he has only seen once. "And as much as I know you want it, my dearest love, and as suited as we both know you are, your father never wavered. Twenty years, and not once did he doubt. He was so sure." It seems to hurt her to say it, but the words pour out of her in a way that only truth can. "Even as he held both our hands and passed from this life to the next, he was so sure that Rhaenyra must have the throne. We cannot, Aemond—"

When the words seem to choke her, Aemond relents and pulls her against his chest, holding her tight because it feels like she might shatter if he does not. Her distress hurts him, as it always has, but he almost envies her the release of her grief. His chest feels hollowed out by a gnawing pain, but no tears of his own will come.

"We need to leave, Mother," he says at length, when his doublet is soaked and her breathing is steadier. "We need to find Helaena, the children, and Aegon, and we need to leave."

"Rhaenyra will not harm us."

That she believes it of a woman whom she had openly hated but the day before makes Aemond wonder if he is still trapped in his dreams somehow. But what she has addressed is not his true concern. "Even if Grandfather seeks to crown Aegon anyway?"

Aemond is not a fool. He does not like politics, but like many things in his life he has forced himself to be familiar with it out of necessity. He has always known what his grandfather intended—it was, after all, until this moment, what they had all intended once Aegon had lived past childhood. He had watched as Otto Hightower had filled the Small Council with men loyal to his purpose, or at least incapable of hindering it, and Aemond had prepared every day for the day when they were meant to move as one in order to bring forth the intended outcome. It is a small comfort that it seems his preparations are not to be wasted, though his mother is now asking him to work for something he has never envisioned nor wanted.

"We need to find Aegon and stop Grandfather," he says, almost reeling from the wrongness of his own statement. "He and his allies have been planning this for a long time, they are surely on the move even without you."

He does not say that he had considered himself one of those allies but minutes before, and his head begins to ache as he contemplates the number of people who will have to be informed that their allegiances must now shift, too.

Mother nods, wiping again at her tears. He almost tells her not to bother. He knows that there will be no end to them in the foreseeable future.

They had been waiting at one of the secret quays at the base of the cliffs outside the Red Keep for over an hour. The muted roar of the Blackwater Rush might have lulled Rhaena to sleep at another time, but the push and pull of the waves only makes her think of the minutes that have ticked by and her nerves stretch with each moment that she must imagine what is happening. Baela marches up and down the quay like a sentry. She has just brushed past Rhaena for what feels like the thousandth time when she whirls and snaps an inquiry.

"What are you doing here?"

If Baela had been armed, Rhaena is sure she would have drawn her weapon as she'd asked. Instead her sister steps in front of her, as though to shield her, and Rhaena knows who is approaching before she even sees him. Beside her, Ser Steffon Darklyn and Ser Lorent Marbrand both grip the hilts of their swords, their posture shifting from watchful to threatening.

"Easy, Baela." Father's voice is thick with amusement. When Rhaena peers over her sister's shoulder she sees Father emerging from the shadows, carrying their little brothers. The children's wet nurses and a few of his personal guard follow.

And walking before them all, leading a small child forward in each hand, is Aemond. Rhaena meets his sullen gaze and digs her nails into her palm as a current seems to pass under her skin. She shifts her eyes to the woman beside him and answers Helaena's tentative smile with one of her own. Her youngest child is asleep against her shoulder, a thumb in his mouth.

Jace, Luke, and Ser Erryk Cargyll bring up the rear of the small party. Baela seems to relax at the sight of her betrothed, who shoulders his way to the front to take her into his arms.

"Time for that later," their father says in an almost chiding tone. He kisses Aegon and Viserys each once before handing them to his daughters. Viserys buries his face sleepily against Rhaena's neck, unbothered by the change in his carrier.

"Will you be joining us?" Rhaena directs the question to Helaena.

"For our mutual safety," Helaena replies, the words followed by a queer little laugh. "Is it not strange that we only feel safe when we know we can hurt one another?"

Rhaena smiles but cannot force a laugh. When she looks at Father for explanation he is also chuckling.

"Aemond, Helaena, and her children will be sailing with you to Dragonstone," he says. "They will remain with you as our guests until we send word."

Comprehension of what he does not say almost makes Rhaena wince. Though she tells herself not to, her eyes still find Aemond, who is looking at her with such a fixed, burning expression that her younger self might have snapped, "I'm not the one who decided to hold you hostage!" Instead she keeps her face carefully composed and slowly pulls her gaze away.

"What of Aegon?" Baela asks Father. She cups her hand over their little brother's head and presses it back against her shoulder when he stirs. "Not you, sweetheart."

"My brother will be staying here, to pledge his allegiance on behalf of our family when our sister is crowned on the morrow." It is a strange thing, how Aemond manages to drawl and still infuse every word with sharp bitterness. "We must show the people that the House of the Dragon is united, is that not so, Uncle?"

He does not wait for Father to respond before dipping his chin into a nod that manages to be disrespectful and walking forward, his eye fixed on the boats that have been awaiting their arrival.

Father's grin is as sharp as a knife, his teeth glinting in the torchlight as he calls out his retort.

"Safe travels, children!"

Despite his inner turmoil, Aemond finds sleep. It is brief, but there are no dreams, and when he wakes near noon it is to calm waters and a balmy breeze blowing into his room. He lays still for a few more minutes, listening to the sounds of the great warship as Morning Tide cuts through the sea to Dragonstone.

At least you are alive.

His pride is stinging, but Aemond knows he will live.

He had doubted it for a moment when Daemon Targaryen had sauntered into the council chamber in the midst of Aemond's argument with Rhaenyra. His mother had stood between them, one restraining hand on each of their shoulders, and Daemon had taken one look at the scene before bursting into laughter, like the madman he was.

Aemond reaches for the teachings of the Seven that Mother and Cole have impressed upon him again and again since childhood, hoping for a balm. He understands Rhaenyra's decision to send him and Helaena away until after the coronation is finished and the plotters are apprehended. One does not simply put decades of enmity and rivalry to bed within the space of a night and day. The only person among them that she trusts is Mother, and Mother does not hold the dragons in this cyvasse game. He knows what Rhaenyra thinks: if she had agreed to his plan to take Vhagar to Oldtown to secure his youngest brother as well as his great uncle's fealty, she would have had no way of ensuring that he would not simply join up with Grandfather and place himself at the head of the challenge to her claim.

"What is to stop you from misusing such an opportunity?" she had asked, just before Daemon had arrived.

As though it would not matter to him that she would have his older brother, sister, nephews, niece, and mother within her power should he decide to turn in such a way. As though she thought him incapable of the very feeling that had moved him to support her claim simply because his mother had asked him to.

Aemond understands being mistrusted, but a part of him is still roaring with offense at being considered so monstrous and dishonorable. Had he been closer to Vhagar in that moment, he might have jumped to do the very thing Rhaenyra had feared he might.

He rouses himself to leave his quarters, though his temper still feels too frayed for company. He and his family might be prisoners in all but name, but he will not allow himself to be treated like one. If Rhaenyra wants him confined to Dragonstone without his dragon, he intends to comply with her wishes.

And then he is going to make her regret ever asking it of him.

Rhaena rubs her hand in a firm but gentle circle over Luke's back, humming softly. He has been ill most of the morning, but his stomach finally appears to be settling as they get further out to sea and the waves gentle. His skin is cool, if a little clammy, and he has managed to keep a little water down. His blue eyes are shadowed though, and he looks thoroughly miserable.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, peering up at her through the thick fringe of his lashes. "You shouldn't have to care for me, Rhaena."

"Don't be silly," she tells him, smiling and hoping that it gives him assurance. "I want to. I'm just sorry that you're unwell at all."

Luke almost smiles back, but instead his mouth slips into a grimace. "I don't understand why I'm like this. I've been on a dragon more times than I can count, and Arrax is far less steady than any ship or boat, but I haven't once felt sick on dragonback."

Rhaena has wondered about this, too. Perhaps Luke has no way of trusting a ship as he might his dragon—and she does not blame him.

"Not everyone is a natural sailor," she says carefully, watching his face as she looses the words, keeping the pressure in her hand even as she continues to sweep the tension from his back. "If you've been on dragonback more than you've been on the water, it's to be expected that this is not as easy."

Luke sighs. "I suppose I should spend more time on boats," he concedes. "Especially now that Driftmark is to be mine."

She bites her tongue over even the lightest of teasing. The price for Driftmark had been dearly paid, and inwardly she says a quick prayer for Great Uncle Vaemond. Poor Luke is trapped between hating the allegations of his bastardy and hating the prospect of inheriting Driftmark, and she cannot bring herself to make him laugh about it. Instead she presses a kiss to his forehead, right over where his brows are puckered.

"Think of it as a way of keeping me company."

Rhaena spends the rest of the hour telling him about her early life in Pentos, of the great trade ships and the pleasure barges that crowded the harbor, the manse that the magisters had housed them in, and the offer the Prince of Pentos had made to them all those years ago. By the time she has summoned up her memories of being scolded by her father for speaking bastard Valyrian rather than High Valyrian, Luke's weary eyes have finally closed. His lashes do not even flutter as she brushes her thumb over his cheek.

"How good you are with children, cousin."

Rhaena starts, jerking her hand away from Luke's face. Mercifully, he is too deeply asleep to be disturbed, else he would surely be horrified by the sight of Aemond Targaryen lounging in the open door of the cabin, his shoulders propped lazily against the doorframe and his arms crossed in front of him. He reminds her disturbingly of her father in that pose, except there is nothing remotely soft in her cousin's face that might make it a true likeness. She fights the urge to lay herself over Luke protectively and stands, wondering at how the timber beneath her feet seems suddenly unsteady.

"Prince Aemond." She clasps her hands together in front of her and pulls her spine up as straight as she can manage, reaching for courtesy like armor. "It is good to see you have your sea legs."

His one eye flicks over to Luke and his lips curl. "Yes. Odd how those don't come naturally to everyone." Before she can defend her cousin, Aemond straightens and he locks his hands behind his back, his eye now boring into her. "Have you finished here?"

Rhaena does not want to think about why, but it feels dangerous to tell him otherwise, so she nods and forces her legs to propel her forward. A servant can return with a fresh washbasin and collect Luke's unfortunate bedclothes, though she had intended to see to the tidying herself. It is more important to put distance between Luke and Aemond, and when Aemond steps out into the hall to let her pass, she reaches to pull the door shut even before she is fully out of it.

To her bemusement, Aemond does not begin walking down the hall. Nor does he step further back to give her more room. Were his hands not behind his back, she might have thought he was caging her against the door. When she feels the puff of his breath against her forehead, she turns sharply away and forgets herself enough that her walk is brisk.

"Were you looking for Princess Helaena and the children?" she asks, though she knows he had not been. The door to Luke's cabin had not been shut, for propriety's sake, and she had left it open enough that anyone might have peeped in to see the room's occupants. When she realizes that she has rudely cast the words over her shoulder, she forces herself to slow down, to turn and face him.

He strolls towards her in an almost leisurely manner, that blue eye sliding over her in a way that she knows is appraising—but whether he does it earnestly or only to unnerve her, she is less certain. "Not particularly," he finally replies, when there is again less space between them than she would like. "Helaena is best left to her own devices and the children should be well in their cabin. I should like to be acquainted with this ship, if you have the time to introduce us, cousin."

Rhaena knows she should refuse, but no excuse comes to her tongue. When she decides to refuse anyway, the words die in her mouth when Aemond reaches forward to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear. Her skin burns where his fingers brush against it and she is unable to meet his eye. She is grateful for the darkness of the hall and the depth of her complexion because she can feel the scarlet heat climbing up her neck into her face. She is already at a disadvantage to him for want of boldness—she cannot give him further ground by letting him know it.

"You know so much about sea vessels, after all." His fingers trace the shape of her ear before his hand falls away. "And besides, we will be spending many days on Dragonstone together. We should also become better acquainted."

Though the embarrassment nearly kills her, she forces herself to search his face. He had intended for her to understand the lewd suggestion . . . but she knows it wasn't fully malice that had driven him to make it. His eye roves over her face, as well, seeking its own answers.

"First," she says, holding his gaze, "you should know that I take exception to eavesdropping, cousin."

Finding her courage, she moves closer to him and slips her arm through one of his—his left one. He stiffens for a moment, his smug expression freezing, and then his elbow is curling and he is pressing her hand firmly over his arm.

"Second," she continues, before he can speak, "I don't like games, but I play when I'm challenged." She squeezes his forearm ever so slightly. "Do you understand?"

She hopes that by being as forthright as she can manage, she can force him to stop baiting her. He might snap and snarl or otherwise lose his temper, but he might at least speak plainly and they might come to an understanding that does not make her feel like clawing at her own skin in pursuit of relief from the tension he is weaving.

Her hopes and purposes scatter like dust when Aemond bends down and closes his mouth over hers.

Author's Note #2: I'm afraid that's where I'm going to have to leave it for a while, hahaha, what happens next felt like a better way for Chapter 3 to open than Chapter 2 to end, haha. I'm finishing two fics this December, so this might get picked back up in January already—but who knows how inspired I might be? I hope you guys read my other fics in the meantime, but if I don't see you until January, I wish you the very best of holidays!