JACE
"Baela," he gasps. "What happened to you?" Bystanders were also seeing past the surprise of a dragon princess in their midsts and begin to whisper about her condition, and nervously study the sky.
She needs to consider it. "I had a… hard landing."
"W—"
"Here." She thrusts a bundle at him. "Happy late wedding day. Sorry I victim-blamed you."
He takes it, wondering if he should open it now. He looks to her to see if she's waiting for him to open it, but she doesn't seem to be waiting for anything. The shape and weight tell him it's a sword before he's even finished unwrapping the cloth, but it's not until he's freed it completely that he learns just how significant a gift this is.
The glint from Blackfyre's ancient nearly blinds him once again; for an entirely non-physical reason. He gasps. "Baela how…"
"Insurance. Little good it did." She sways and twitches in a manner Jace cannot fathom to be from the cold. She seems to not even notice the cold. She seems not to notice anything. Jace wonders if she even knows where she is.
Cregan also seems to see there's something wrong, something deeper than burns and bruises. He'd been whispering to a steward as they spoke, but now addresses Baela as the steward runs off. "Why don't we take refreshment inside," he suggests. "And see to those hands; it would be a shame to lose them." Jace had been distracted by her face, but he now sees that she can barely move her hands, and the bandages almost seem frosted over; perhaps she couldn't fit her glove over them.
She only then notices Lord Stark. "Who are you?" She does not even ask in a defiant way.
"Cregan Stark, Princess," he says with all due formality. "Lord of Winterfell."
Her eyes widen. "Are you going to feed me to a storm too?"
Uhhh… Jace exchanges a look with his host, who seems to have the same non-words on his tongue. "No?" they both say in unison.
Baela nods with her whole body. "Good. You may come. My supplies is on Moondancer. In the Godswood." She stumbles around in a half circle. "Where was that again? I think I got turned around."
Cregan looks to the growing crowd. "Back to work! You can meet our guest at supper." Then he gestures for them to follow him. The steward catches up in a sprint just as they reach the edge of the yard, and hands a bundle to Cregan before leaving. He passes it to Baela. "Here."
Baela actually does clutch the pack, and the clatter from the hot rocks tells Jace why. None of them say anything for a time.
"I'm sorry," Baela eventually says as they walk. "I don't know what order to do this in. I don't think anything has an order anymore. I must have practiced but I think I forgot. It was easier last time I just walked in." She waits until they've left the eyes of the Keep, and comes to a sudden, seemingly random stop. She just stops. "Jace, I need you to go home. I need you to deal with Father before he does something stupid. Again."
"Deal with? Is he still—"
"Father? Of course. And… Joffrey… Joffrey needs you. And Rhaena too." She grips the bundle even tighter with her ruined hands. Blood now seeps through the bandages.
"Baela, why are you—"
"Luke is dead."
Jace falls into the clouds from his dreams. Then he remembers clouds are above, and he falls back to the ground. Hard. "W-what?" he asks, because he thinks Baela said something as he fell. Or before. Baela was right; things have no order today.
"I… I'm sorry to be blunt but I don't want to needlessly draw it out either. Luke is dead. Aemond killed him."
She said those words again, the falling words. How do words keep falling from Baela today? "How… H—"
"Did you know Grandsire told him to fly to Storm's End when he was finished with the fleet, to 'protect' me?"
"No."
She eyes him suspiciously, seemingly decides he speaks truth, and nods. "Good."
What did she say about Luke? "Baela, what happened?"
She opens her mouth, but mayhaps there are no words. Or too many words. Regardless, she closes it for a moment before she answers in a faraway voice. "Lord Beesbury has the report."
"Baela," he pleads, though he knows not for what.
Baela looks right through him. "I'm sorry, Jace."
Sorry for what?
Oh, she said Luke is dead.
"What?" he asks. "We just got married. He was laughing at us as we ate the orange." One does not get married, laugh at oranges, and then die.
Baela's silence tells him otherwise.
"Luke had the safe job," Jace explains. "He told Rhaena he'd rather face the hostile lords and skies than rouse a sleeping Daemon, because he knew best what could happen."
The last time his mother had left them in his care had been six moons prior. They'd received an unexpected morning visit from some leal lord on a stopover towards King's Landing, and they'd been forced to wake the sleeping dragon.
'He's still abed,' Rhaena had said when word arrived at the break fast table. Not surprising; his stepfather was hard to rouse after one of his insomniac stretches. Baela was the only one brave enough to wake him. But she herself had been only half awake and she ended up falling asleep at the foot of the bed. That also did not surprise Jace. Baela was still young enough and indulged enough to see her parent's bed as the ultimate refuge for rest. Baela was also better at knocking than Jace was, though she would say she just likes to make an entrance, and therefore had no trauma associated with it.
'Rhaena, you're up next,' Jace had declared.
'I heard he's doing his sleep murder threats, absolutely not.'
Jace sighed. Usually, his mother dealt with Daemon when he was like this — when he was like anything. But he didn't have oran… But he did. He had a whole bowl of oranges! 'Here,' he'd said as he handed the bowl to Luke. 'Go pelt them with these — from a distance.'
Luke was dubious. 'You really think that's enough to wake Daemon when he doesn't want to wake?'
'No,' Jace had said. 'But chasing you down afterwards will.' After Baela, Luke was their best runner. After Baela, Luke was their fastest runner.
But not their fastest flyer.
'You know,' Rhaena mused as the footsteps thundered down the corridor, 'the fact that Luke did not object really speaks volumes about our family.'
Jace did not know how Luke outran Daemon that morning. When asked at supper he simply smirked and said, 'The secret is not to waste your breath screaming in fear, Jace!' Then they'd all laughed at him, because Jace was never going to live the mummy incident down.
"Jace?" Baela asks in Winterfell, for apparently it was his turn to leave.
"What?"
Luke is dead.
Baela's emotions apparently left with Jace's mind, and they have yet to return. "We ran into Aemond at Storm's End. Lord Borros declared for Aemond, and Aemond had him throw us out into the storm because we wouldn't be able to outpace him."
Aemond killed him.
Cregan turns from invisible to indignant. "He threw out two emissaries to die? And Prince Aemond pursued you?"
Baela nods. "He just meant to fuck with us. Imbecile. You cannot fuck around on dragons like that. He lost control of Vhagar… He killed me first," she says to nothing and no one. "I was dead. I should have stayed that way. I couldn't kill him back."
"What?" Jace asks again.
She answers him, but not to him. Not to anyone. "He tried to roast me. I had to jump."
Is that why she's so injured? He tries his best to appraise her state. "How high?"
Baela shakes her head. "I don't want everyone to turn to mice again." She tries to play with her hair, but the ends break off into her ruined hands.
He looks down to Blackfyre. "Baela… how did you—"
"I took it to guarantee our safety. Because we couldn't kill him; he said if he dies Rhaenyra dies and they'll crown Aegon as her heir."
That earns him a look from Cregan. He gets the message. That complicates matters.
That. That which they are talking about. About Luke.
Luke is dead. How does he keep forgetting?
Aemond killed him.
Baela still speaks in that detached way she favours today, with her eyes attached to the hot stones. "He agreed. Not that he has much use for it. Rhaenyra bit his sword hand, then I broke it. But then he fucking lost control." Baela gives Jace a strange look. "And then we all lost control. I'm sorry Jace, we should have landed. It's just in the moment."
"What? How would—"
"No, Jace. When I say it, they look at me like I'm Father. And we cannot have two right now." She turns to Cregan. "Where is my dragon again?"
Cregan wisely opts for silence, and gestures for them to continue. But when Jace caught his eye before he turned to lead them, he could see that Lord Stark had absorbed the situation far quicker than Jace had. He was already considering where this development leaves them.
This development. That Luke is dead, Jace has to remind himself again. No wonder he makes no progress when he must come back to that first point.
"Who did he declare for?" Baela asks in High Valyrian.
"Us."
"Good," she says. "Lady Arryn sends her regrets. And… you should have asked Joffrey what he thought before you left."
They come upon the dragons before Jace can engage. Vermax cranes her neck over Moondancer in concern, who seems just as exhausted yet less out of sorts than her rider. Deciding it's best to move her to the stable whilst she can still actually move, Jace leads the procession in silence. Once there, remembering Baela's hands, he steps ahead to remove the bag from Moondancer's charred saddle. Jace runs a hand over it. The structure is intact, as dragon saddles were obviously designed with fire in mind, but the top comfort layer is burned to tatters. He removes the saddle as well.
Baela notices. "Oh. I suppose I need have that fixed." She turns to Cregan again. "Is there someone here who could handle it? I don't think Moondancer is up for another trip for a while, so now is as good as ever." Moondancer flops into the straw. She looks as if she's not up to get up for a long while.
Apparently only capable of one task at a time, and satisfied that Moondancer is taken care of, Baela turns her attention back to Jace. "You need to go home, Jace."
Because Luke is dead. She's telling me to go home because Luke is dead.
Aemond killed Luke. Luke is dead. Aemond killed him.
It hits him for the last time. It coils around him like those fucking vipers so he cannot forget. It twists around his stomach, his chest, and his throat, far harder than Daemon's hand ever did. This time, his flames do not choke out and die. This time, they rage. "We'll return together once you and Moondancer have rested," he declares. He leaves the fire and blood unspoken in mixed company.
Her vacant eyes finally fill — with urgency. "No, Jace. Listen to me. You must ensure Father doesn't do anything stupid, and I cannot be around him right now. Besides, the Starks are the first lords paramount to declare for us." She takes a deep, serious breath before addressing their host. "I will remain here, Lord Stark, to ensure the Greens do not retaliate for your declaration. Let it be known that the North is under my direct protection; any Hightower dragon who passes Moat Cailin will answer to me," she declares in earnest.
Cregan looks to Moondancer, who is not only dwarfed by Vermax, but is also sprawled as dramatically as Daemon pretending to literally die of boredom. To the Northman's credit, he nods politely, though perhaps answers a little indulgently. "Your efforts are much appreciated, Princess. My people will sleep easy."
Baela is at least present enough to catch his tone and glare. "If only you knew."
Their host seems to decide he does not know what to do with the half-mad dragon. "Perhaps while you get the dragons settled, I should take that saddle and see to your quarters — and the Maester." His expression darkens. "And I'll call on Lord Cerwyn. It's time for a war council." The wolf is certainly hungry, but Jace does not mind.
Still, he waits until Cregan is out of earshot. He knows not how far the commonalities between fire and ice extend. He knows not how hot he can burn whilst maintaining the Northman's approval. No. This matter calls for his own kind. He turns to Baela. "What are we going to do?"
ALICENT
"Aemond," she tries one last time.
As expected, he does nothing but tunnel deeper into the blanket. She sighs. They were expected in the throne room any moment, and they'd yet to even ice his forehead and cover his bruises with pigment. She had wanted to wait for Aemond to recover, but the council had insisted time was running short. "We have a narrow window of opportunity," her father had said. "We must have the lords pledge themselves now, whilst Daemon's crimes and confession are well known, and before word of Lucerys spreads." He'd informed all lords and nobles present last night that they should congregate this morning.
"Best give him a few more hours," Aegon suggests — with a cactus. Not the one from the trunk, but a large, miraculously alive one that must have been ripped out of the garden.
"Aegon," she snaps. "Why do you have that?"
"Rhaenyra's request." He smiles. "Anyways, don't want him to be too tired for the council meeting." He then leaves for Rhaenyra's room, being the only one of them that she would allow to attend to her. Alicent still refused to give him key rights or alone rights though.
Eventually, Alicent gives up, and her father decides to take over rather than cancel. He too is in need of ice and pigment to cover the bruise upon his forehead. It was more likely from Daemon's seal, which she'd learned he'd tossed from his dragon, but Aegon was taking much delight in attributing his "goose egg" to the goose egg. So far he'd limited himself to behind his back, but she suspects he will soon do it to his face.
Her father sits the throne again, and he does not seem happy about it. Even after the cosmetic precautions, they keep the crowd as far from the throne as they can justify. Most pledge themselves immediately, though not exactly enthusiastically. By now the Court was accustomed to an absent monarch. What exactly could they say?
"I have known Her Grace since she was but a girl," says Lady Fell once most of the others have finished. "I would be delighted to pledge myself to her directly." Several low murmurs agree.
"My Lady," her father says. "I'm afraid Her Grace is not in a state to venture far from her quarters. Or receive visitors."
"When might that time come?" asks Lord Caswell. "She seemed well enough at the wedding, injuries and inebriation aside."
"I'm afraid her condition has deteriorated since then. I am told it is not uncommon."
Lady Fell takes in her surroundings. "Where is Lord Beesbury? I have not encountered him for some time, and I expected to find him here."
"Lord Beesbury resigned his post," her father says. "He did not tell us why, only that some urgent matter came up." Lady Fell exchanges a look with Lord Merryweather.
We need to contain this. "If you'll forgive me, My Lords," Alicent says. "We had expected the King to oversee this matter, but an urgent development demanded his attention. As a result, we find ourselves overscheduled this morning. We might continue with anyone we missed another day."
Most of the attendees gratefully file out of the room, save for several scores of servants, landed nights, and a few lords who talk amongst themselves. Once Alicent deems the hall as empty as it's going to be, she approaches where Lady Fell now stands with Lords Hayford, Merryweather, Harte, Buckler and Caswell. Not an ideally small audience, but small enough.
Alicent swallows back all the sensibilities her father has scolded her for, and addresses them in a low voice. "My Lady, My Lords. I am afraid the situation is more… complicated than we have let on to the general public," she says honestly. She fights the urge to shred her hands. "For the sake of Her Grace's privacy." She forces herself to look each of them in the eye. Gods, she wishes her father's bruise were not so apparent up close; this was supposed to be his job. "You see… it is… also her state of mind that is of concern. The Maesters say it lies dormant in Targaryens, and is often triggered by extreme stress."
The group trades silent looks amongst themselves before Lord Caswell responds. "I would not dream of betraying her… privacy through gossip. I would simply feel better if I could see Her Grace, even if just briefly."
"My Lord," Alicent says, "I do not think Her Grace would be comfortable with a visit at this… personal time."
Unfortunately, it is not only men she addresses. "In that case," Lady Fell says, "what if I paid her a visit? I have visited her before at the birthing bed, so I am certain she would be receptive. I only mean to offer my condolences and support."
"I don't know…" She really doesn't.
"It would just be between us women," Lady Fell insists.
"Yes," Lord Staunton says. "If it is overwhelming her you are concerned with, or her… modesty, Lady Fell might relay my support as well."
"Mine as well," says Lord Caswell. The other lords nod.
Alicent makes no answer, as she's directing all her energy to prevent a helpless, lost expression from crossing her face. She hopes she simply appears to be silently considering.
Lady Fell must realize she will get nothing more from Alicent. "Please, bring my request to the Queen. I will remain close by today, in anticipation of your response." The lords once again look amongst themselves.
"Very well," Alicent says. "The Queen remains abed, but once she rises we will… deliver your message and notify you of her answer."
"That is all I ask," says Lady Fell. Mercifully, the lords file out, and the other stragglers take that as their cue to follow. Her father waits until the room is cleared to leave the throne to avoid encountering anyone too closely. They truly cannot risk explaining another injury. He approaches her alongside Ser Criston.
"I assume you heard me," Alicent says. "I did not know what else to say."
"Worry not, daughter. You did as well as you could, given the circumstance." He seethes. "Aemond should have been here; there would be far fewer questions regarding a Targaryen Consort. And his crown, long hair, and eyepatch make covering his injuries far easier." He bitterly rubs his head and Alicent wonders how hard the seal might have hit him. She also wonders if Prince Daemon had hoped to give him a wound in the form of his seal. Even Alicent had to admit it would have been funny.
But that brings her thoughts back to other events that transpired after she was poisoned. She looks around to ensure they're alone before turning on Ser Criston. "Did you truly throw Rhaenyra into the ocean?" she demands.
"He what?" her father exclaims, also turning on Ser Criston. "You truly did? I had thought it just a taunt!"
Ser Criston refuses to be cowed. "She was covered in fuel; we needed to remove it."
"Is that why she's ill?" her father demands.
At this Ser Criston does back down. "Well, we realized too late that we couldn't safely throw her in whilst she was fully unconscious, so we had to wait. We didn't think she'd get sick over the cold though! Or at least, I didn't." And then he has the grace to look uncomfortable. "I don't think Tyland is happy that a woman broke his nose; he took it a little too far. Had I not been there it might have turned… distasteful. I'd think twice about leaving him alone with her."
Her father nods his head sideways as if to say, fair enough.
Alicent is not finished. "And where was Ser Harrold while this was happening?"
"Finally being smart enough not to interfere," Ser Criston says. And then Alicent remembers how he was essentially reimprisoned the last time he spoke up for Rhaenyra. She resolves to work out a way to grant him more authority on these matters.
But how can we even do so, without compromising security?
A question for another day. They have a more pressing question at hand. "Father, what do we say to Lady Fell?"
"I believe that's Cole's department," he says. They both then look to him.
"This falls under one of our contingencies," he assures them. Alicent sighs in relief. "I'll fetch the Grandmaester; we have it handled. Tell Lady Fell that 'Her Grace' is not in a condition to receive visitors, but if she insists, she might join her in her quarters for a midday tea."
Her father nods. "Very good, see it done," he says, and asks no further questions. Ser Criston turns and leaves before Alicent can either.
JACE
"Baela," he tries again, but she gives him no answer. She moves like the world did when the two of them stole Daemon's adult-only party-time tea. She looks like Daemon when— "Baela, when did you last sleep?" He'd at first thought she had two black eyes, but he can now see they are not bruises. She's just that tired.
She steps away and appears to look around, but Jace doubts she sees anything. "Umm… how long has it been? I don't know I couldn't find you or the Eyrie in the dark so I had to wait around."
Moondancer groans.
"Baela."
Her eyes drift away again. "I suppose… the night before we left."
Four days ago. "Seven Hells, you really are your fa—"
Her eyes return — for an attack. "Don't you dare say it."
He doesn't.
She shakes her head. "I imagine this loss will do us no favours with Lady Arryn. What do you think of this one?"
"We can trust him. We've forged a pact." He tells her of the specifics.
She stops him with an explosion. "You sold our daughter?"
"I… Baela. We were betrothed as children."
"But not officially. Not until we were grown. If we didn't get along our parents would have severed it or at least swapped us!"
"I'm pretty sure they waited so they could use the possibility as leverage with our grandparents," Jace says for some reason.
Baela ignores him. "And marrying you didn't mean being shipped to the end of the world at the age of seven! I left Pentos at not much older and Pentos is not my home. Pentos is not where I'm from. What will she know of her family? Her language? Of dragon-riding? How will she visit?"
"I… the point is that she would learn the ways of the North." He had not thought about what she might not learn. But why would he? Agreements like this were struck every day.
"Dragons are loathe to accept the indignities inflicted upon common men," she reminds him. "Jace, you betrothed Joffrey without consulting him, which was bad enough, but you also sold a daughter I have yet to bear? How could you do this, after everything that's happened?" She's yelling by the end, and Jace looks around, nervous that the Northmen's first encounter might be of two fighting dragons.
"He's a Stark," Jace reasons. "Cregan is a good man; his son will likely be the same."
"I'm sure that's what Alicent told Rhaenyra!"
He flinches. And then he does think of his mother. And the fact that the Hightowers hold her, and the fact that they killed her son.
'Come at me again and I'll feed you to my dragon!'
The fact that they killed her son. As Aemond had always promised.
'You will die screaming in flames just as your father did! Bastards.'
Luke is dead, but it hits him no longer. You cannot hit fire, after all. You feed fire. "What are we going to do?" he demands once again.
"I just told you!" she counters with fire hotter than her rocks. He nearly takes a step back, because she sounds so much like her father when she's angry.
Daemon. Daemon will know what to do. "What did Daemon say?"
She drops her anger — for scorn. "Why would you listen to him?"
"He'll know what to do!"
She scoffs. "Of course. He always thinks he knows what to do."
What in the? "Baela, we need to answer this! What does Daemon want to do? He told me, he told me bloodshed was inevitable from the moment they took the throne. He has a plan. What is it?"
Fire and Blood, surely?
Baela decides she can balance her scorn and anger. "Jace, when someone strangles you whilst yelling at you, you're not supposed to listen to them!"
"Usually not, but this is a special situation, Baela."
Luke is dead. Aemond killed him.
"Yes it is, Jace. This is a special situation. The kind of situation where my father will do something stupid. Something impulsive and cruel and destructive but useless! I must advise you not to act this upset around him; he'd sooner bring you someone's head than comfort you."
Was he upset? He had thought he'd appear angry. "We should be taking heads, Baela! Are you truly choosing now to worry about what's right?"
"I don't give a fuck about right, but what's smart? The only true justice is to defeat the Hightowers. All of them. Aemond is far from the only one at fault, and we cannot kill Aemond until we free Rhaenyra."
How do we free Mother without killing Aemond? Jace had honestly thought that would have to be how they pushed the Greens into talks. But only Vermax and Caraxes were large enough to get their teeth into Vhagar, and Daemon didn't seem to think they were enough. And right now, he trusts what Daemon thinks. This is what Daemon was born for. So if not him…
"Then what do we do, Baela?"
She throws her arms up, stiffly. "I don't know! I just know that Father is the last person to know! We need support. We need the threat of the North. We need… You need to go home. Who knows what he did after I left. Hopefully Rhaena poisoned him again before he cut down half the Black Council. You need to… go to Rhaena. We need Seasmoke. Seasmoke will embolden the Vale, and confuse the realm. But Father is never going to do it."
"Why?"
Baela rolls her eyes. "Honestly, Jace. Put the pieces together, would you? If I do it for you it sounds insane."
Jace rubs his face. "Alright, we'll work something out." We'll work something out.
"He's not capable of working something out! He's going to do something soon, something stupid, something direct, something to make himself feel better. Feel in control. That's all he is, all that he's capable of!" She shrieks so hard that Jace worries for her throat — the strain already comes through.
He lowers his voice in the hopes she will follow. "If you're so concerned, then go back to him."
She does, fortunately. "I cannot. It's dangerous. We… feed each other."
Jace shakes his head. Then what do they do? What do they do about—
Luke is dead. Aemond killed him. Daemon will know what to do. He might not trust Daemon, but he trusts him with this. Daemon did care for Luke. Regardless, he'd see this as a slight. A slight that must be answered. Daemon knows the answer: Fire and Blood. Jace would have thought Baela would be the first to support him. "Baela, what happened? Why are you suddenly so against your father?"
"Because I see him now!" she shrieks again, and Jace wonders for how much longer she'll have a voice. "I couldn't see him before; I didn't want to see him before, because seeing him meant seeing me! But then I saw me, in Aemond's eyes, and when I saw me I saw him!" She softens. "And you. I'm sorry."
Jace summons his most authoritative airs. "Let's get you to the Maester. I'll consult with Lord Stark then leave for Dragonstone. This will be answered," he declares. "You can join me once you've recovered." The Starks can handle Baela for a while. Hopefully, someone on Dragonstone could tell him what actually happened.
Aside from the fact that Luke is dead.
And Aemond killed him.
Despite the fact that his declaration was, on the surface, what Baela had asked of him, she glares. "So that's it? You're going to run home to my father like a puppy and follow him down a path of destruction?"
"I'm hardly experienced enough to lead a war myself Baela! We need him."
She sneers. "Of course. You cannot do anything for yourself. Not with that temper. You lose your temper over stupid insults and start fights or escalate fights you cannot even win! That temper has already led you into two losing fights with the Greens. Are you looking for a third humiliation? Because this time, Luke isn't here to save you from Aemond. My father is not going to be interested in breaking up this fight."
"Because Aemond killed Luke, Baela!" How does she keep forgetting? How does he keep forgetting? He saw him the other day, and now he's gone.
Luke is gone.
But Aemond isn't.
Yet, he tells himself. Yet is the word he clings to as tightly as Baela does to those stones.
She looks to those stones, then up at him anew. She stretches her bloody hand that at least can now move in front of her face then brings her fingers together, as if gesturing to her chin. "Gods, you even look like him, aside from the colouring."
"Who?"
"Aemond."
"What the fuck, Baela!" But did he?
"A stupid boy, playing at being my father. You have no idea the danger you trifle with. Aemond certainly didn't."
She did not just say what he thinks she said. She's delirious from what she'd been through, he reminds himself. She knows not what she says. He takes a few breaths to calm himself, they do not need two fires so close together. "Baela," he says as softly as he can. "Let's get you back to the Keep. You need a Maester, and then you need rest." He wonders if he should tell Cregan not to give her the saddle until her state of mind has improved, but then he dismisses it. Baela would see right through him, and return bareback out of spite.
Baela indeed does see right through him. "Fine," she puffs. "Do what you will when I'm abed. Run home to my father. But I'd guard your neck if I were you. My father is a weak, cruel man. When confronted with something he cannot fight, he lashes out at an easier target. You are the easiest target there is."
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"Because even after all the shit he's pulled, you still run back to him. Why are you so obsessed with trying to impress him? He strangled you and you still care what he thinks. It's pathetic." She practically spits the last word. "Is it father issues? No. Gods, it's the same as Aemond."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Please," she scoffs. "Like you don't straighten every time he calls your name."
Did he?
She must catch his surprise. "You thought it was just Luke? You look to him like a puppy learning to posture."
Did he?
She just keeps going; it's like she cannot stop. "At least Luke had the excuse of liking my father. What's yours? Is it because you never had a father who could say he was your father, or are you trying to prove something? Are you truly so insecure over your parentage? Is that why you're nearly a man grown yet still so weak? You're afraid to lift weights and risk appearing Strong?"
"Baela!" he gasps, and he knows not if it's from anger or hurt or concern. Apparently, fire can indeed burn fire.
She's yelling again, but her voice now cracks. Her voice is tired and dry from burning so long. "What are you trying to do? Be more Targaryen? You're as bad as Aemond. You think if you can be like him that makes you a Targaryen. Except my father is stupid and you're stupid for trying to be like him!"
Luke is dead. Aemond killed him. But that's far away. Those flames burn on Dragonstone.
Luke's pyre likely burns on Dragonstone, and that does hit him once more. He thought he was finished being hit! But those flames are far away; they cannot touch him for long; not yet. Jace wasn't there, but Baela was. And now Baela is right here. It's Baela who burns him now. But Baela is burning herself.
"Baela, you need help." He steps toward her so he might actually check on her, or hold her, or… whatever he can do. But she must see that shift, and she wants no part in it. She runs. She bursts out of the stables, with no direction in mind, apparently. She just looks around, stepping in an imperfect circle as if blown around by wind.
He easily catches up to her. She's burning out fast. "Baela! What are you doing?"
She stops and lets the stones fall from their pouch. She watches them sizzle in the snow until they finally go cold. "I don't know."
He takes her by her arm as gently as he can. She does not take solace in him, or embrace him. She simply leans upon him like he's any piece of furniture. Jace knows it's silly, but he almost wishes she'd faint just to make things even. But no, she remains conscious as she he guides her inside the keep.
She mumbles only a few more words during their trip. "None of us survived that storm."
ALICENT
"Aemond!" her father shouts. As usual, he did not bother to knock, nor did the guards bother to stop him.
Helaena, whom Alicent had left her to care for him, looks up from her embroidery. "He's still abed," she whispers. "I do not think he is interested in waking."
Despite Helaena's whispers, Aemond had been roused by her father's entrance. Regardless, her father takes it upon himself to ensure he rises for the day — by being as loud as possible. "I just had to sit the throne in your stead, again!"
"Yes, I'm sure you hated that," Aemond mumbles. He rolls onto his stomach in an effort to ignore them. As of late, she wouldn't be able to tell Aemond and Rhaenyra apart.
Her father shakes him. "Oww!" Aemond cries.
"Father!" Alicent shouts. She puts herself between her father and her son. "He has a neck injury."
"Yes," he growls. "I recall. From the little girl you allowed to strangle you."
"What?" Helaena asks. "I thought he fell."
Alicent shares an urgent look with her father. "A jape," her father says. "You would need the context to understand. Why don't you take Ser Arryk and get some more ice from the mountain? We'll take it from here." Helaena makes no argument, but she does look back once before she leaves.
Her father turns fierce once again. "The least you can do is attend the meeting. Get. Up."
Aemond resumes his Rhaenyra impression.
"Aemond!" the Hand now screams. "We did all of this for you! Because you were supposed to be a real Hightower king, not whatever Aegon would have been."
"Hey!"
Alicent turns around to the source. He must have caught the door as Helaena left. "Aegon, what are doing here?"
"I was on my way to the meeting. I just came by to ask when I'm getting my ball."
Her father sighs. "Go patrol the city."
"Later," Aegon says. And then he smirks and rubs his hands together. "I have an important presentation for today. I'll meet you there; just need to… stop by the kitchens first." And then he disappears.
I don't like where that's going.
Alicent manages to rouse Aemond in time for the meeting, but not in time to ice or cover his bruises, so they make their way to the Small Council chambers with Aemond under a hood.
Aegon is the only one there when they enter, which means Aegon arrived early. Alicent really does not like where this is going. He leans back and manages to balance his chair in a tilt. "So. Where is my ball?"
"Sit up straight," her father orders. "Have some decorum." He then leans around Aemond to whisper to Alicent. "Prince Daemon used to sit exactly like that during meetings. In the same spot too. It's uncanny, really."
Aegon does obey the order, but Aemond leans slightly back after that comment. Honestly, this family's obsession with that man knows no bounds.
They wait for Lord Larys and Lord Wylde to arrive to discuss this morning's development. She imagines that the Grandmaester, Ser Criston and Lord Tyland will be some time. Thinking of the latter two, Alicent turns to Aemond. "I spoke with Ser Criston. It did happen, but it will not happen again."
"I hope not," Aegon says. "Rhaenyra is not very happy with any of you as it is." He turns to Alicent. "She also told me to tell you that if you get tempted to bother her with more meaningless apologies, you should choke on your apology, jump into the ocean, and choke on water." He removes a goose egg from his bag and, with much flourish, sets it in the council ball divot. "You know, all of you should really be more careful. On the off chance the Velaryons prevail, or Prince Daemon arranges a daring rescue, you're really digging your own graves."
Her father glares. "Aegon," he warns.
"Oh," Aegon says with innocent surprise. "How rude of me. Would anyone else care for one?" He looks around the room. "Nevermind. I see that Grandsire and Aemond already have goose eggs." To his credit, he makes it through the whole line before laughing at his own jape. "Hey, hey Grandsire. Is your goose egg from a goose egg? Or the seal? Tell me it's a goose egg goose egg!"
The Hand and the King make an admirable effort to ignore him.
Ser Criston and Lord Tyland follow not much later and Aegon takes a strange interest in appraising them both. "Thanks, Rhaenyra," he mumbles. "Now I can't unsee it."
Lord Tyland sets a large ice dish upon the table. "This is the last of it," he warns. He fills his cloth bundle, takes a seat, and rests the ice against his nose.
"Ser Arryk is handling it," her father tells him. He collects some ice of his own and rests it against his goose egg. Alicent makes a bundle to hand to Aemond, which he's taken to alternating between his forehead and his hand. As she suspected, Alicent was the only one to remember towels, and she passes them out to catch the water.
"The Grandmaester will not be joining us," Ser Criston announces. "He's handling the situation."
Her father grows stern. "Before we begin, I would like to share the message Prince Daemon returned." He pulls out a tiny piece of paper and clears his throat. "She's in good hands. Found a protector and a leash. Worry not, the links are gold. No need for J to faint."
The room turns to Ser Criston, who does a very poor job of hiding his smirk. "What?" he asks. "It was simply a small jab at Prince Daemon."
"I don't get it," Aegon says.
"It's…" Lord Tyland struggles for a moment. "Beneath us, Cole." He catches Ser Criston's confused expression. "Keep trying, you'll get there."
"I still don't get it," Aegon insists.
Lord Tyland turns to Aegon. "Leash means chains."
"Oh." Aegon shrugs. "Not very funny."
Her father sighs. "From now on, no outside correspondence without council approval. Is that clear?" Everyone nods. "Good. Moving on to today's development." He looks to Lord Tyland. "What is your plan?"
"It's taken care of," Lord Tyland assures them. "Lady Fell will join her at midday for a brief visit. We've hidden all the signs of confinement and will explain away the construction as security from the outside. Both Rhaenyra and Princess Helaena are taken to sleepwalking, among other… symptoms. We only mean to prevent either of them from throwing themselves unto the spikes."
"And what of the meeting itself?" her father asks.
Lord Tyland gives Aegon a meaningful look. "It's taken care of."
Aegon does not return the meaningful look. "Why are the shark and the squid looking at me?"
Ser Criston and Lord Tyland both sigh, and Ser Criston decides to move on. "It's not even a lie, really. That's what makes it so easy. There's a madwoman in there already. We're just… letting her out."
"What are you talking about?" Alicent asks.
"Well," Ser Criston says, "if you think about it, aren't most Targaryen women a little mad? Even those that aren't mad are still… I mean look at Helaena."
"Precisely," Lord Tyland agrees. "Mayhaps women have more difficulty with the mental and emotional strain that comes with a dragon bond." He raises a finger. "Which is why I choose the younger one."
Ser Criston frowns. "I think you should put that ice pack somewhere else."
Alicent has also had enough. "Have you learned nothing from a broken nose?"
"Yes," Lord Tyland says. "Obviously! I've learned that dragonriding women are crazy." He raises his ice pack to toast Aemond's matching one.
"I don't know," says Ser Criston. "It might just be in the blood. All of King Jaehaerys's daughters were at least a little mad, aside from Septa Maegelle, even the ones without dragons. I mean, think of Saera!"
Aegon slams his hand upon the table, seemingly more out of the desire to disrupt than true passion. "Don't you dare talk about Saera like that! Regardless, mayhaps the question we should be asking is who's driving Targaryen women crazy."
Aemond stiffens. "That's… that's what Baela said," he mumbles.
Aegon smiles. "Oh, I know." He rolls his egg along the table to crack the shell. Aemond's shell also cracks, but he refuses to let those cracks grow. He just sits there, perhaps attempting to project composure. After this morning, Alicent finds it quite relatable.
Giving up on understanding whatever brotherly communication transpires, Lord Tyland moves on. "Lord Larys has already begun to spread whispers."
"I'm also working on containing whispers," Lord Larys says. "We should be able to stop word of Lucerys's death from spreading before the King's funeral, so long as it goes ahead tomorrow. After that… I cannot speak for its containment."
Her father nods. "Daeron spent the night at Highgarden and should be here by late tonight." It was Daeron's absence they had used to justify an emergency wedding and coronation before the funeral, so his attendance was obviously essential. "Lord Borros will not make it for the ceremony, but he still sails for King's Landing for the council."
"Good," Aemond says. "He might finally choose his bride. I did not know if he would prefer the prettiest or the eldest, so I simply said that both might join us, and the one he does not choose might serve as Mother's lady-in-waiting." He had not shared that information with Alicent yet, and she has to admit she's impressed he remembered she needed a new one. Hopefully, a Baratheon would have no links to the City's spy networks.
And yet... was it fair? Typically, a young high-born woman would vie for such a position because it would put her in contact with many potential suitors, but there was not a man among Alicent's close circle she would ever encourage the girl to pursue. A problem for another day.
"Lady Cassandra is the heir presumptive," her father says. "I don't see why he would refuse Storm's End in favour of a prettier face."
"I see why," Lord Wylde says. "Should Lord Borros have a son she will be heir no longer, but her sister will still be pretty."
Her father rolls his eyes. "Spoken like a first-born son."
Aegon coughs. "Or a man who killed his wife through exhaustion."
"Regardless," her father says, "he sails without his daughters. I worry the encounter has left him reticent."
"But he brings the remains?" Alicent confirms. Aemond tries to disappear into his chair.
Her father nods. "Both wings. Or rather, pieces of—"
"Good," she says.
"Despite our story," Ser Criston says, "I do think the funeral, behind a mourning veil, should be her final public appearance. We don't want to risk word reaching her. I do not know how to account for her… reaction." Everyone nods, Alicent included. She had to admit to her relief upon reading the Velaryon's terms. She supposed it was beneficial for neither side to have Rhaenyra truly lose her mind.
But she will find out eventually.
When the conflict is resolved. She'll tell Rhaenyra herself, once it's safe to do so. Mayhaps once she's borne an heir, and Jacaerys and Joffrey are safely in exile. But will they run to Prince Daemon, if they're truly forced to flee? She'd learned that Joffrey called him Father, and regardless of whatever transpired, she knows by now you can always count on a Targaryen to obsess over the Rogue Prince, even if they don't like him.
He still needs to die. Even if he doesn't break his agreement, the boys will break it for him. And Alicent cannot help but wonder if the men of the council have already come to that conclusion. If they still meet in secret to discuss other 'darkling schemes.'
Her father checks off yet another row from his list, then turns to Aemond. "And our other guest of honour?"
Aemond tries to shake his head. "The saddle is not ready."
"Right," Aegon says, ever so slowly peeling his egg. "Your saddle isn't ready." Alicent glares, both for the comment and for dropping the shell fragments into the council ball divot, but he pays her no mind. He looks around. "Does anyone have salt?"
"Thank you for volunteering, Aegon," her father says.
Aegon raises his goose egg to his forehead as a toast. Aegon… They'd never involve Aemond in their unsavoury business; they would not wish to 'sully his reign.' But perhaps Aegon could be her window? No. Whilst they might trust his depravity, they would never trust his discretion. Nor should Alicent.
Aegon's voice brings her back to the room. "Oh, wait. I'm busy today, remember? Since you got Rhaenyra sick. She needs me to help make her Valyrian remedies. She does not like Maesters."
Her father is unconcerned. "That sounds like a job for the maids. If she needs someone with a tongue she can call one of us." As usual, Aemond stirs at the possibility of learning Valyrian practices, but Alicent shakes her head at him. She does not trust his ability to compose himself around Rhaenyra yet. He looks down in silent agreement.
Aegon looks to him like he's missing the obvious. "But she doesn't want any of you around her, presumably because one of you is always either hurting her or uselessly apologizing for hurting her. And she doesn't like being alone with Larys's scary gargoyles."
"Rhaenyra will be fine," her father insists. "If she refuses help that's her problem. She's too demanding for a prisoner."
"Well, she is a dragon queen," Aegon reminds him. He turns to Aemond. "And your wife. You know, you should probably take more of an interest, since they gave you the fun sister." Aemond shifts, Alicent glares, everyone else ignores him.
"Lord Larys," her father says. "What narrative is emerging so far, in regards to Storms End?"
"I have only a few whispers from the docks to work with," Lord Larys says. "I expect that will change once more ships with those present make their way here. But for now, there are only a few details upon which most agree. Fortunately, in regards to the conflict in the Round Hall, rather than the skies." But the fortunately is undercut by his expression.
"What do they say, My Lord?" Alicent asks. "The part that motivates your expression." The expression that says, nothing good.
"Unfortunately," he says, "people tend to recall, and pass forward, the most salacious details of a story. In this case, most present, and most who spoke to those present, agree that when Lucerys and Lady Baela turned to leave, His Grace called them back and threw a dagger at Lucerys, demanding one of his eyes."
"Aemond!" Alicent cannot help but admonish. Her father just sighs and rubs his ice pack against his forehead. It's starting to melt.
"To him," Aemond insists. "Not at him." Aegon sniggers.
Lord Larys continues past their interruption. "At which point His Grace apparently said 'I plan to make a gift of it to my mother,' to which Lucerys replied, 'Mayhaps I'll make a gift of my own. I'll make a gift of your stones to my mother.'" But then he goes silent. He looks to Aemond, who shakes his head and shrinks back into his seat, looking nervously around the room. As if he's anticipating… getting into trouble.
Alicent has no intention of letting it go. "Continue, My Lord."
Lord Larys looks to Aemond, who has now adopted a pleading expression, then he looks to her father, who nods. He then decides who holds the real authority. "Most of the accounts agree that the verbal conflict started in full once His Grace then replied with, 'Actually, I believe I will be the one making a gift of my stones to your mother.'"
In honour of his goose egg, Aegon honks out a laugh. Everyone else twists their faces in disgust as they turn to Aemond, who at least has the grace to look embarrassed. He transfers the ice bundle from his hand to shield his face.
"Oh, Your Grace," Ser Criston bemoans through his teeth. "Really?"
"We already have an optics issue!" her father reminds him. "You cannot be gallivanting around the realm acting like your brother!"
"Wait," Aegon says. "Are you accusing me of being a bad influence? Are you saying that I perhaps," he uses that goose egg to point to himself, "egg him on? I egg him on! Get it?"
"Yes, Aegon," Alicent says so he can get his satisfaction and allow them to move on.
Aegon nods, then finally eats that stupid egg. Alicent hopes his japes will disappear with that egg. "What is our official story?" he asks as he chews. "Since I was so rudely expelled." He smiles at Lord Tyland. "Then again, had you not kicked me out, I never would have gotten to witness—"
"Yes, Aegon," her father says, for the others had yet to hear their strategy either. "We have a story. It does make things easier that we need not tell Rhaenyra—"
Aegon cuts him off. "That Aemond went full Orys Baratheon?" He wiggles his raised fingers for effect.
"We tell as much of the truth as we can," Alicent says. "It was a regrettable accident. Aemond was attacked and forced to defend himself." It felt almost petty to use those words, but they were the words that always came to her when thinking of Aemond and Lucerys and Rhaenyra and lies. But then Ser Criston chuckles, her father smiles at her, and she's overcome with shame. "I do think we should express our remorse to his family. Some sort of apology. Mayhaps—"
"No," her father declares. "To apologize is to accept blame. We might express our sadness and convey our sympathies, perhaps. But Aemond merely meant to escort them from our bannerman's territory — we have a duty to protect our leal lords, after all. Vhagar was tired, and then they involved actual fire in an attempt to insult him — witnesses attest that one of the smaller dragons fired first, after all— and they didn't understand the stakes they introduced. It was supposed to be a warning snap, but Vhagar is large and has trouble adjusting, and Arrax was small and fast and erratic. He—"
Aegon laughs. "Wait!" he says. "Wait, wait, wait. You truly threw me out of the meeting for being unhelpful, only to use my idea? And a ridiculous one at that!"
"It was my idea," Lord Wylde says. "To keep to the truth as much as possible. We're simply… omitting certain details that would compromise the integrity of the Crown." Her father nods. Alicent joins Aemond in staring at the table.
Aegon scoffs. "Sure. I see how it is. My ideas are good when it's convenient. But when I use them, they're no good?"
"Aegon," Alicent says. "What are you talking about?"
He laughs again. "He flew into her mouth! You're saying he flew into her mouth! I kick Aemond a couple dozen times as a child and say he ran into my foot, and I'm the one to get in trouble, but Aemond eats Luke, so Arrax flew into Vhagar's mouth!" He doubles over. "Hey, hey Grandsire, I guess you ran into Vhagar too. Or rather, you ran into Vhagar's goose egg!" He clutches the table to stop himself from falling out of his chair. He turns to Lord Tyland. "Hey, hey Tyland, how exactly does one run into a pitcher of water?"
"Aegon!" Aemond shouts. Thank the gods. It was clear no one else knew what to say. "Have some decorum."
"Or what?" Aegon challenges. "I'll run into your fist? Wait, you cannot make a fist!"
But her father can. He slams his fist upon the table. "Enough!" he says in the voice that actually makes Aegon stop. Aegon stops. For now.
Aegon crosses his arms and pouts. "This sucks, I can't even laugh about it with Rhaenyra."
Everyone stills when he says her name. Lord Wylde finally interrupts the silence. "In regards to Rhaenyra, we still have two vulnerabilities. Word reaching her by accident, or Ser Harrold telling her on purpose."
Ser Criston is prepared. "We'll inform Westerling following the funeral. I don't think it should be a problem; Prince Daemon actually instructed him not to tell her."
At least that man can do one thing right.
But the first half of Lord Wylde's statement still troubles her, and she says as much. "I know we need to keep her away from anyone who would tell her, but I worry about her disposition if she's left too isolated." Ser Criston scoffs, and she shoots him a warning look. "If we're going to keep her confined, she needs a companion."
"Excuse me!" Aegon exclaims. "I do believe I am Rhaenyra's companion. If you're so concerned about me missing patrols, Helaena can take over. Although," he narrows his eyes and points to Aemond, "Rhaenyra told me she suspects you only gave me 'busy-work' to keep me away from actual work."
"Aegon," she warns. "Your companionship got me poisoned."
"I know!"
Her father has a more specific concern. "And who knows how much information they were able to trade in that time. You might have compromised us, Aegon. And what were you and Prince Daemon yelling about as he left?"
Aegon fans his hand over his mouth. "Are you admitting that my Valyrian is superior?"
"I'm saying it's more depraved," her father says.
"Well," Aegon says. "If you must know, he gave me a message to pass on to Rhaenyra."
They all stare at him. "And?" Alicent asks.
"It's private," Aegon brags.
"Aegon," she says in unison with her father.
He's unmoved. "You do know what privacy means, right?"
"Prisoners do not get privacy," her father declares.
He pouts once more. "Fine, If you must know…" He scans the room and stops at Aemond. "Cover your ears, baby brother. Wait, you only have one hand. Mother, cover his ears."
They just stare.
"I'm serious," Aegon warns. "It's rude enough to tell as it is. I'd like to maintain my principles as much as possible. And my parts. You do realize he's not gone forever, right?"
She looks between Aemond and her father. Her father shrugs. Alicent does then cover Aemond's ears. Gently, and careful not to startle him. He lets her; likely because he's made the same inference she has. Alicent only regrets that her hands are not free to cover her own ears. "Go on," Alicent says.
Satisfied, Aegon continues. "I asked Prince Daemon if he had any last words for me to pass forward. And he said to tell Rhaenyra that he'll remember her by the second-to-last time he fucked her, rather than the last time he fucked her. And I said that he should think of something nicer to say because that seems a little rude and backhanded for a last message. And then he said not really because the last time he was like, 'Please I'm bored,' and she was like, 'Alright, fine but I'm not doing any work and I'd better still finish because I'm not climbing onto Syrax all frustrated,' whereas the second-to-last time was the Dothraki thank-you. And I was like, 'Oh, alright, that makes sense.'"
No one responds. Aegon tries to reassure them. "And I'll have you know that when I told Rhaenyra she said, 'Oh, how sweet. I'd been so worried about how he'd remember my performance in bed. And I'm especially glad that he decided to share that information with my captors.'" He spares a moment for thought. "Actually, I think she might have been being sarcastic. I think she was a little annoyed with him."
Alicent uncovers Aemond's ears; he takes in the expressions the others wear and asks no questions. Lord Tyland is the only one with words. "What's th—"
"No!" she and her father both order. Some things are better left unknown.
"Right," Alicent says. "Circling back to… Rhaenyra, I think we should revisit the option of Helaena as a companion. Given that we've yet to tell her, we can trust her not to say anything." She was still concerned about Rhaenyra's influence, but she has to offer her something. Then again, she did already offer Rhaenyra her sons.
Aemond tries to nod. "I think we can keep Helaena sequestered enough that she need not find out."
"Also," Ser Criston adds, "it looks better if we keep them both out of sight. Like the family is keeping to themselves in a difficult time, rather than keeping only Rhaenyra confined."
"Very good then," her father says. "If that's all, we might adjourn and attend to the situation with Lady Fell."
"Not so fast," Aegon says. "Did I not tell you to add my presentation to the agenda?"
Her father rises. "You've presented quite enough." Everyone else follows suit.
Except for Aegon. "I have a diplomatic message from the Blacks," he says. "I imagine that's worth your time."
Everyone sighs and returns to their seats.
Aegon removes a rectangular box from his bag and places it on the table. "If you recall, we spent most of yesterday going through Rhaenyra's trunk. Or rather, Mother and I did. Aemond spent most of the day sulking."
"Aegon," Alicent wants.
"Right. Anyways, I found a diplomatic package from Lord Beesbury. I thought it best to present this… essential message to the whole council, given the diplomatic origin." He turns to Aemond. "Though, I do believe it was addressed to you." He slides the box across the table, and Alicent takes it, as she has two working hands. Ser Criston circles around and the others lean to peer at it. The wooden box has an attached parchment card bearing Lord Beesbury's seal and signature, and a single word that occupies most of the parchment.
Kinslayer.
"I know!" Aegon delights in their silent horror. "Looks like someone has a stinger after all."
Alicent truly does not wish to open it, but faced with a waiting audience, she undoes the ties and slides off the lid. The box has an unusual amount of empty space, containing only a cloth pouch and a small jar of Honeyholt honey. Beware Our Sting, is inscribed across the label.
Her father scoffs. "Not a man of subtlety, is he?"
Alicent ignores him in favour of the cloth pouch. She retrieves the contents and holds up an eye patch. One of Aemond's custom-made eye patches. Aemond snatches it from her hand. Aegon rubs his hands together.
Her father is suddenly interested in Aegon's presentation. "How did he get that?"
Aegon beams. "Baela ripped it off during their hair-pulling contest." Aemond rubs his scalp at the mention.
"How do you know?" Alicent asks.
"Because he also sent this!" He brandishes a scroll in glee. Aemond is now the most alert she's seen him since that night, and Aegon notices. "Yes, I opened it first. I was curious!"
"Aegon," Aemond warns.
But for naught. Aegon stands, unrolls the scroll with a flourish, and clears his throat. "Thought you might want this back. It ended up around the Princess's wrist whilst she was pummeling you—"
Aemond bursts from his seat, sending it to the floor, but Aegon pays him no mind. "And she didn't have time to return it because you were too busy cowering and crying like a baby."
Aemond rounds the table to reach him, but Aegon frolics to the other side. "I would like to pass forward an apology, as the Princess did not realize she was also engaged in hair-pulling, but it was somewhat instinctual and necessary at times to stay mounted. She still has no idea why you felt the need to resort to hair-pulling, but she regrets it nonetheless, for she feels the move is beneath her."
Aemond is now running around the table. Aegon too has resorted to running. "She did also consider apologizing for telling you that your father never loved you, but after witnessing your conduct that night, anyone can clearly see why that might be true."
Aemond reverses course, but Aegon does the same just in time. "Now, I know from our time together how concerned you are with honouring Visenya's legacy, and I fear that losing a slap fight to a little girl atop her dragon, and begging for mercy at the point of her sword, might lead you to worry in that regard."
Aemond attempts several more reversals, but Aegon keeps countering after only a few steps. "I wish to assure you that I am certain your encounter would make Visenya proud, because Princess Baela is, without effort, far more of a dragon than you could ever hope to be."
Aemond realizes he'll have no luck running laps. Heedless of his injuries, he launches over the table via Aegon's empty seat and tackles him. Lord Tyland barely gets out of the way in time, but the ice bowl does not, and the contents fly throughout the room. "That was the last of it!" Lord Tyland laments.
Because Aemond has but one working hand, Aegon is still able to hold the message just out of reach. He hops around to keep them both upright. "She will make for a glorious queen, and I regret that neither you nor I will live to see that day. Bu— Ah!"
Having accepted his disadvantage in a fistfight, Aemond hooks his leg around Aegon to drag him to the floor. Though it appears he has half the scroll to go, Aegon is apparently satisfied with his presentation. He laughs. And laughs. And then tries to fend off Aemond. "Hey! I'm not just your brother anymore I'm also your wife's favourite brother. You hurt me and you can say goodbye to any chance of a Dothraki thank-you!"
Aemond pins him with his legs. "I'll just tell her you ran into my foot!" Impressively, he manages to snatch the scroll and toss it to Lord Wylde, who stands to add it to the fireplace.
Aegon manages to squirm away, but Aemond slams him back down. "Ow! Mother! Are you going to do something?"
Her father stands. "I think this meeting is adjourned. Let us see to the Grandmaester's progress; Lady Fell's meeting is but an hour away." Not even bothering with the spheres, the rest of the council rises. Lord Tyland cautiously sidesteps the grappling brothers. Alicent suspects they're going to need even more ice than yesterday.
They file out without looking back, and she stops her father and Ser Criston in the corridor to voice her worry. "Are you certain that Rhaenyra is even motivated to give a convincing one-on-one performance?"
Ser Criston nods. "We have Westerling and two dragons — and we can have Vhagar destroy a wing from each before we need to actually kill one. I—"
He's interrupted by a shriek. Aegon scrambles on his stomach and manages to get halfway through the door before getting caught by an unseen force. He clutches the floor with his nails for but a moment before he's dragged back into the chamber. "Help!"
Ser Criston turns his attention back to them. "I said we wouldn't even tell her which dragon beforehand; we'll just flip a coin after she fucks up. Regardless, I don't think motivation is necessary in this case." He gestures for her to follow to the Holdfast.
Aegon's cries follow them down the corridor. "Seven Hells, you really are a hair-puller!"
We've reached Part 3! I'll be updating a chapter a week every Sunday for the time being.