AEMOND

If Aemond were to grind his jaws more mightily, his teeth might have shattered.

The King is dead. Father is dead. And all the while he was out on a jaunt, congratulating himself for a prank on the Strong boys well played.

At once Aemond knew not if he should be angry, or mournful, or anxious, or any such unmanlike emotion as the situation would call for.

He turned his head, taking in the room as best as he could with his one eye. Lord Otto Hightower stood behind the Queen, herself seated at the small table. His grandfather had a face as if carven from stone, his mother's was stained. Spring sunlight came streaming through the slits in the wall. Fire flickered in the small hearth. The three golden goblets on the table stuck out like a sore thumb.

"My Prince," Ser Otto's voice rang out. "It is truly a mournful time, but we must steel ourselves and move forth as best as we can."

He was not fond of his grandfather; far from it, but his words were a perfect crutch. Aemond hated this. Dragons control. Men obey. This was his cue to regain some manner of control.

"But of course," he said with a loud breath. It was a release, after a fashion. "Ser Otto, tell me what you are after."

"The realm must needs a king," he said. "The throne must not be unoccupied. I do intend to convene the small council and make your late lord father's wishes known."

"Out with it, Set Otto," he said, "Is Aegon king? Or must we kneel and kiss the old whore's cunt?" He ignored the chastising, bewildered stare that followed. "I mean what I said."

"I promise you," he said, his voice breathy, "there will be no such thing."

Aemond stood upright. Ser Otto came short against him, not helped by his back crooked with age. He made an admirable effort to assert himself despite. "So let's hear your plan," Aemond had been kept out of it long enough.

"Very well," his grandfather said.

Tersely, and occasionally with one fist hammering into the other open palm, he detailed what was to be done. Demand fealty from the lords they could reach, detain those who refuse, execute a few to set an example. Send ravens to lords afar who can be swayed, and leal men bearing daggers after Rhaenyra and her bastard sons. Crown Aegon before the broad mass of smallfolk, encrusted with any jewel, panoply or object of sentiment as would secure his legitimacy.

Aemond was only listening with one ear, and gave Ser Otto only the most cursory of looks. The better part of attention was on his mother, his dear, sorrowsome mother. She kept her head low, and wiped her eyes with a dainty kerchief for the most part, but she did look up with an uncharacteristic disgust when the word was that Rhaenyra and her family be dealt with by cloak and daggers.

When Otto finished his little speech, Aemond said, "Mother, just two nights before you had little intention of crowning Aegon, or have I forgotten?"

"It was your father's dying words," the Queen said. "That Aegon must be crowned. He called him... he called him the prince who was promised."

Aemond cringed. If Aegon is any sort of promise, I am the very face of the Warrior myself. Just a little more and he would have said just that, blasphemy be damned. He merely threw his arms up and said nothing.

Ser Otto got his cue. "If you would excuse me, my Queen and Prince," he said, dipping his head. "I must need make necessary preparations."

Aemond breathed in, and breathed out, and breathed in again. The large oak door had slammed shut behind Otto Hightower, Hand of one King and (most likely) grandfather to another.

"You have made up your mind," Aemond said. "Why not do it right now? Put the crown on Aegon's head and be done with it."

She walked towards him, ignoring his stare. "Aemond," she said. "We can't find him. We can't find Aegon anywhere."

"... what?" This was a joke, Aemond wished it had been. "He is your son, Mother, and your daughter's husband besides."

"I have come back from the Dragonpit, and Sunfyre is precisely where she is supposed to be."

Yes, it would be hypocritical of him, but dragon-riding was an Old Valyrian pastime, and going wherever Aegon went... wasn't.

"We must find him, Aemond," she said. "Find him before-" She shot a glance at the door behind which Ser Otto had disappeared.

"Why?"

"Lord Hand has his designs, and Aegon is... he is so easy to influence and sway." Mother was picking at her nails. "He must not... Aemond, we must not begin his reign in kinslaying most foul."

"Pray do not remind me," Aegon said curtly.

"I do wonder, Mother," he said, "Why must I clean up after Aegon?" He raised his hand before the Queen could offer any answer. "You need not speak further," he said. "I will do what I must."

"Then please do," she said instead. "I have asked Ser Criston. You will find Aegon safe and sound, the Seven willing."

Aemond left with a curt nod and many things roaring in his head.

He was meant to seek Ser Criston at once, for the sooner they could be done with this farce the better. It was Helaena that delayed him.

He met his dear sister, his odd sister, his sister who dreamt very much and made sense little, just as he was clearing the stairway leading to the garden beneath the walls of Maegor's Holdfast. It was almost as if she had been waiting long for him, for she bolted upright from that garden bench the moment he maybe entered the corner of her eyes.

When she saw him, she shot up and charged him, her head tilted forward without regard for decorum whatsoever. So aggressive was her advance Aemond forgot to ask her exactly where in the seven hells Aegon had gone.

"Aemond," she said breathlessly. "Where were you?"

A veil of darkness hung over her eyes like she had not slept for so many days. She had never been so hysteric. Her nails were clawing the back of her other hand. Perhaps it was a hidden blessing that Aegon was not in, he hated Helaena when she was like that. And when Aemond reached his gloved hands out, she grabbed them both like a drowning man clutching a length of rope.

"I was flying," Aemond said truthfully. "Helaena, I apologize. I should have been here when Father passed."

He did not, of course, mean it, but whatever it took to maintain that illusion he was a good son, a respectful son, a dutiful son.

Helaena didn't seem to have heard what he said. "Aemond, Aemond," she said. "The comet last night. Did you see it?"

That caught Aemond off his guard. He stood back, and tried to recall. He didn't quite see anything of that like: when he flew his eye was more often on the ground than it was at the sky. Nothing could threaten him from above, that was what he had told himself.

But missing out on one whole comet? Itself not likely to come very often? While he was flying no less? Embarrassment, thy name is Aemond of the House Targaryen.

Aemond did not like embarrassment. So Aemond lied. "I saw it," he said, as coolly as he could manage. "What of it?"

"It is most dreadful," Helaena murmured. "A beast comes hiding beneath the board. A worm crawls beneath the sky bearing amber that burns. And the children... the children..." She had some trouble breathing.

This had happened before, and Aemond had always helped Helaena by holding her tight. It did not work half as well this time, nor did patting her back work at all.

"You do dream overly much." He said at last. Annoyance creeped into his voice despite his best effort and intention. "They are but what they are."

"You must not leave the Red Keep today," Helaena said feverishly. "Promise me, Aemond." Her eyes burnt like violet flames. Helaena had never been quite so imperious.

At once he did not know what to do. He could only extract his hand from her grip. It was tough: as though every ounce of her energy was spent holding him in place.

He was meant to say it will be fine and leave flippantly as was his wont. He did not do that. He stripped off his eyepatch, and looked long at her. "I will be fine, you hear me, sweet sister," he said, and left.

He met Ser Criston Cole halfway between the training grounds and the royal apartments. The Lord Commander was out looking for Aemond as much as the other way around. They acknowledged each other, the one with a nod, the other with a bow.

"Ser Criston," Aemond said. "No need to tell me. I know what we are doing."

"I have prepared the garbs," Ser Criston said. "Please follow me."

And Aemond did as he was bid.

His steps trailed after Ser Criston, Helaena's words turning like a speedy wheel in his head. She had oft been true in her visions and predictions. Yet never, not even that day he lost his eyes and the innocent childly trust that Father loved him after all, had Helaena been so fervent in her warning.

He had half a mind to discount them, consider them the ramblings of a woman given too much grievances (not grief. Not yet, anyway).

But then what would have happened to our House if no one believed Daenys the Dreamer?

Part of him tried to shake off the thoughts. Helaena could be like Daenys, true, but she was like as not to be something else altogether. But what if...

He was not such an unlearnt brute. Perhaps his very life would be jeopardized. Or some other consequences yet seen, to affect his family.

"My Prince," Ser Criston's voice brought him back on his feet. "Is something bothering you?"

Aemond let his head nod. He chose his words carefully. "Did you perchance see the comet last night?" he asked. "My lady sister is convinced it meant something. A dreadful something."

Criston breathed stiffly.

"I did, my Prince," he said "It came ere the Hour of the Owl had fully passed. I saw it casting a curved tail over the Dragonpit. It was most peculiar. It never fell, but instead hung in the night-sky, as if kept there by the gods' hands themselves. And I am hardly alone. It is the talk around the Red Keep since this very dawn." Aemond narrowed his one eye, but Criston's palm shot up. "I do swear it, my Prince. The shooting star, such as it was, remained until the sun rose, for its light could not outbid sunlight. Perhaps once the sun sets we may even see it again."

"Well," Aemond said, "At least I have not missed something as extraordinary as a gods-damned comet entirely."

"And at any rate," Criston said, "It is hard enough keeping the servants' lips sealed without a shooting star. Rumors should be running wild along the streets as we speak."

"And what sort of rumor may there be?"

"Not least, that your father had passed away." Ser Criston said. "Words might have already reached far as Dragonstone. There are other rumors, too. I heard a murmur that a comet that does not fall signifies a..." His voice trailed off, and he only spoke again when Aemond would not relent his stare. "An unnatural death, my Prince. Death by secret murder."

Superstitious nonsense, was what Aemond wished to say. "We should cut off all their tongues," he said.

"Not today," Ser Criston said, shaking his head.

"Naturally," Aemond said. "I'm not daft." He paused for some moment. "Lady Helaena warned me against leaving the castle grounds today, on reasons of the comet. Would that her worries is mere baseless fears," he said. "She has the soft heart of women. Of course an ill dream would unnerve her so." He was trying to convince himself as much as Ser Criston, and Aemond was well aware of it.

"Have a care, Your Grace," Ser Criston said grimly. "Women are made in the likeness of the Mother, and must needs be cherished as such."

By now Aemond had gone past indecision. If anything, it was Ser Criston who had so given him that last push. He stayed his tongue, but his mind was made.

He was a dragon. Not a dragon to be crowned, no, for fate was a rotten cursed thing, but a dragon no less. And dragons would act, not wait.

They came now to the armory beside the training court. The grounds were eerily short on men. They walked past the two guards posted at the armory – the only place, truly, needing any manner of defense in such a time. Ser Otto must be putting most of the guards to his purpose.

"Ser Criston," he ordered. "You must give me a moment. I shall not be long." And he did not take long: He unbuckled his longsword and dagger, and dropped his princely cloak on the table. and switched it for a plain dagger sheathed in a plainer scabbard, one of the many unmarked, unremarkable things given to the watches. "There was a time the two-score houses of Dragonlords had Valyrian steel swords and daggers for any and every son worth a halfgroat," he said. "But this will do."

"It will do," Ser Criston said. He passed Aemond a beige linen cloak with a thick hood.

They went out of Maegor's Holdfast through a less-known path that wound down to the waterfront. Past the curtain wall of the Red Keep, over a sally bridge, were the first streets near the port. Now Criston led the way, and the duo took brisk steps along progressively more ramshackle houses, first of stone, then of timber. They went to those streets dominated by red-glassed oil lamps that grew and wound beneath the shadow of Visenya's Hill and the Dragonpit combined.

Criston and Aemond went into this brothel, then that pleasure-house, then another pillow-house full of white-haired Lysene dancers and mummers who twirled and swirled around titillating props. A madame recognized Aemond – not Prince Aemond as such, but as a boy dragged into the pleasure-house by his more worldly brother some time back. A deeply tanned dancer waved her kerchief at him: the hood might have hidden his hair well, but his demeanor was undeniably high-born (if he must say so himself). He tossed a silver stag at a tired-looking dancer he vaguely recalled.

After the eleventh establishment, Criston was throwing his hands in exasperation. Aemond shook his head: the Lord Commander might have not been a flawless pillar of chivalry, but he kept well his oath of chastity and knightly honor. It must pain him a fair bit to be here any more than he absolutely had to.

"This goes nowhere," Aemond said.

Criston wiped his brows. He shook his head. "Would that Ser Arryk were with us," he said. "Too often he accompanies Prince Aegon out and about."

"And why is he not?" Aemond asked.

"Because Prince Aegon had taken Ser Arryk with him, wherever it is he had gone." Ser Criston said. "I thought it wise in a way. Better so, than have your brother venturing the ill-repute places unguarded."

The sun was high above them now, and the cloaks were starting to burn Aemond from the inside. He walked off into the broader street, where there was still some semblance of a breeze between the rows of townhouses. Ser Criston followed him close behind.

There was the breeze all right, and it carried down with it the aroma of hot cakes and fritters. King's Landing did have a great assortment of taverns, potshops and ale-houses, supplemented by an army of peddlers and stalls. They sold sweet breads and muffins kept warm under layers of cheese-cloth, pastries and fritters straight off the sizzling pans, bowls of summer soup seasoned with one too many pinches of spices from the other side of the world, and whole fish fresh off the harbor battered and deep-fried in huge cauldrons. And, seven hells, Aemond was hungry. His gaze ran angrily along the offerings available.

His surveying was stopping at a crossroad stall where a portly chef was busy shoveling fillings into small bread loaves split open when a trio cleared the crossroad and descended on the stall like a storm.

At first Aemond paid them no mind. And then his gaze traced to the man among them – yes, there was just the one man, followed by two women.

He looked long at the stranger, and the more he looked the more he thought something was afoot. It was not merely about the stranger's height, or that jade ornament on his ear he didn't take off, or that his slick-black hair was too tidy and well-kept. He was tipping his head to even a lowly hawker, and had none of the swaggers of a gambeson-clad, rotten-toothed, sodden freerider that clung to winesinks and brothels like piss-stain in a privy. Such was a bit of learned courtesy of someone who had consciously taken in gentle manners, not grown up with it.

And the women who came along with him, too! He was accompanied by a shrill-tongued washerwoman looking too lithe and slim to be a washerwoman, and a peasant girl looking too tall and too well-fed to be a peasant girl. That wasn't the company of armsmen, not in King's Landing, not even in the oddest of the Daughters all the way in Essos drowning in mercenaries and their camp followers.

Something clicked, and Aemond laughed out loud. Almost. Here was a crud whisperer if Aemond had ever seen one.

Aemond turned around. "Ser Criston," he said. "Look at that mercenary over there. The black-haired fellow in gambeson."

Ser Criston narrowed his eyes. Both of them. "What of him, my Prince?" Then he raised his brows. "That's an odd ear-piece if I have ever seen one."

"I am most certain I have seen this fellow just this morning," Aemond said, still staring at the man and his companions. "Skulking and spying as I left the Dragonpit."

"Many a spy and informants make their nest between the Street of Silk and Flea Bottom," Ser Criston said. "It is nothing out of the ordinary: perhaps Lord Strong's men, or some noble or other's. They have nothing to do with us at any rate, my Prince."

Aemond was unconvinced. "Tell me, Ser Criston," he said, "Which noble house is most like to employ agents from foreign shores?"

The Kingsguard dipped his head in thoughts. Then he looked up, and his eyes were dark. "None more like than House Velaryon."

Aemond nodded slowly. "Hence, Ser," he said. "Let us follow these failures of a spy like I have ever seen one. Perhaps they know something we should." It was more his curiosity talking than any manner of adroit reasoning. Let it be so, he thought, and dared to hope.

"But Prince Aegon-" Criston lowered his voice. "The Queen had said it is most imperative we find your brother before Ser Otto does."

"It should not take long, I promise," Aemond said. "Follow, Ser Criston."

It was an order, not a request. Aemond knew his worth as a dragon. He went off first, before Ser Criston could respond.