Author's Notes: Happy New Years, my dear readers! We're going to start off the new year with a bang!
I hope you're all doing wonderfully. Thank you so much for reading, dropping a Kudos, and leaving a comment! Your comments are much needed warmth in this time of winter.
I made some tiny structural changes to TDR as a whole. If you look at Chapter 1 and Chapter 35, you'll notice that they've been further titled with 'Book' names. And Chapter 34 now says "End Book 1" at the end of the chapter. I'd been contemplating this for a while, but I occasionally speak about TDR in parts. I feel like there's a clear enough delineation from what happened in one part to another that I decided it should be formally acknowledged. It just changes aesthetics, but I thought you'd like to know that I think of TDR as having 3 parts to it.
I would like to thank catzrko0l for being such a great beta reader! You make me feel so much better about my chapters and their presentation!
Chapter 64
Aemon XXII
He panted and his eyes scanned the scrub and the dunes. Unlike the daytime, the night was teeming with life, both inside and outside of the city of Sunspear. Though the air was crisp, it could not penetrate his thick pelt and it only seemed to invigorate his appetite. He could almost convince himself that the sand was snow beneath his paw pads. For the first time since they'd left the North, he and Ghost were finally in their element.
The sun had long set, but his eyes penetrated the darkness, searching out movement. There were rodents hidden under these dunes. He could hear the scrabbling of their claws against the surface of the sand. If he wanted fresh meat, he would have to be patient like a cat. The saliva dripped from his teeth and he licked his lips to wipe it up. Ghost flicked an ear as he heard tiny paw steps disturbing the sand; he dropped to his belly and crept forward.
Aemon thought he could feel his own heart pounding in his body. He was both excited and alarmed. With a great effort, he pulled himself out of Ghost and shot straight up in bed. He gasped for air like a man breaking the surface of water; his nightshirt was soaked through with sweat and he shivered as it began to cool on his skin.
He threw the covers off and went over to a bowl of water and splashed himself. He remained leaning over the bowl until he felt his pounding heart slow and his breathing eased. He had nearly forgotten about warging. It had been so long since he'd done it. His dire wolf had been stuck in King's Landing, unable to roam at night due to Aemon's fear of poachers or hunters. With Ghost's first prowl since Winterfell and the stress of the impending trial, Aemon easily slid into his mind in a bid to get away from his own.
It was still early. He stripped himself of his damp shirt and threw it carelessly on the floor. The only light in the room was a single candle that flickered on the bedside table. Aemon looked at it for a moment, then snatched up the candle holder and slid out his door. The Hound fell into step behind him.
He wasn't sure which he was seeking: Ghost or air. His legs were restless and his mind galloped like a panicked horse. Could he reasonably expect this fight to go the same way as the one before? Was Prince Oberyn destined to die by the Mountain's hands no matter what? He didn't believe that. After all, what was the point of him and Jaime being sent back to change the world's path if it was equally as fated to all end in blood and ice?
Could he sway the odds? As king, he was forced to simply stand by and watch like everyone else, a helpless spectator. But is that all he was? Surely there was something he could say that would make Prince Oberyn rethink his strategy.
This revenge will be the death of you, he thought and then waved that away. According to Jaime, Prince Oberyn had been utterly insouciant before the fight. He had been certain he was going to win and thus quench his family's thirst for vengeance.
Aemon wandered through the halls aimlessly and was certain he was causing a number of raised eyebrows among the guards. His trousers were loose and his chest was bare. After the warging, the cool air felt good against his skin and it seemed to be clearing his mind.
He stutter-stepped when he glanced back at the Hound and was reminded of the younger Clegane's enmity towards his own brother. It had filtered through the camp that the Hound sought retribution against his own brother as well. It was yet another quest for vengeance that went unfulfilled. King's Landing had been overrun by the dead by the time they had gotten there; since the wights and White Walkers could cut across the countryside without any regard for terrain, there had been enough to simply walk by and continue their conquest while the forces of the living had holed up at Riverrun.
Once they had stumbled upon the empty streets of King's Landing, with many roofs having fallen in due to the copious amounts of snow, the Hound began muttering about how he'd 'wasted it.' It was only with much prodding from Aemon, that he had then shouted, 'My life!'
The Hound hadn't lasted much longer after that. As far as Aemon could tell, he had dedicated himself to ending his brother and since it had been snatched from him, he became listless and his actions were rote. It didn't help that the realization of King's Landing, the seat of power, having been overrun without them even knowing about it meant they were walking toward a slow death.
Conscious of where they were in the halls of the palace, Aemon continued walking until he found a more isolated spot. "Hound, Prince Oberyn and your brother are fighting to the death tomorrow." He stayed silent and Aemon continued, "What do you think?"
"My cunt of a brother will get what's coming to him. 'Tis a shame I can't be the one to deliver him to the Stranger."
"Is it that important to you?"
The Hound was quiet for a moment and in the dark of night, Aemon could not see his face and so could not read his expressions. "I'll just be glad that someone takes the head off that cunt. Prince Oberyn is not called the viper for nothin'. Whether my brother wins or not, he's a dead man."
That's right, Aemon thought, considering it for a moment. There was no Qyburn to save the Mountain and make him even more of a monster than he already was. There was some relief to that, but it still didn't solve the issue of saving Prince Oberyn's life. Was he influential enough that the Prince would heed his words? But then what could he say?
He started walking again as he continued to mull the problem. He turned a corner to walk into the courtyard and stopped. Prince Oberyn himself was standing on the veranda, overlooking the tiled mosaic that stretched across the floor. He was without a candle, but the moonlight spilled across the ground, making the sandstone walls glow. The prince turned at Aemon's footsteps and once again gave him an avaricious smile.
"Good evening, Your Grace. Or good morning. It's a bit late to be wandering around at night." Prince Oberyn approached him. He had on trousers and a robe that was open.
"I could say the same of you, Prince Oberyn," Aemon replied evenly. "Shouldn't you be sleeping? You will need your strength for the trial."
"That won't be necessary. The Gods favor me. My sister, Princess Elia, shall be avenged finally after too long."
Aemon could already feel his frustration burning in his gut. "And yet you make light of the good fortune they have brought you. Hear this: I am allowing you to fight on behalf of the Crown because I recognize the injustice and insult that Dorne has suffered these long years. As Princess Elia's brother, I believe you have the chance to administer that justice on behalf of her and her children. I expect you to act with the same amount of gravitas as any other champion would. Do not take this lightly."
Prince Oberyn cocked his head and he was giving him a curious look. "You seem oddly concerned for my welfare, Your Grace."
"I shouldn't have to warn you of the consequences of your loss. Whether the Mountain dies tomorrow or later, he must die first or his cause is validated in the eyes of the Gods."
"No cause is more favored than the cause of justice."
"You still have to fight, Prince Oberyn. The Gods don't fight for you."
Prince Oberyn made a disgusted noise. "Are you sure you're Prince Rhaegar's son? You sound so much like my brother, Doran. 'Tis a miracle we ended up with a sensible king on the throne after all. You should not fear, Your Grace. A viper needs only strike once."
"But you won't stop at one strike."
"You would dare tell me how I should take my revenge?" The prince's voice had gone deadly quiet and there was a thrum of anger in his voice.
"I would dare you to think beyond your revenge. Your sister and her children will remain as cold in their graves with or without your revenge; it will only be a matter of whether you join them or not." Prince Oberyn stepped forward, his fists clinched and his lip curled in anger. All it took was the shivering sound of the Hound halfway pulling out his sword to stop the prince in his tracks. "You have daughters. They need you. Be sure to live, for their sake." Even in the dim light of the candle and the moon, he could see Oberyn was becoming stony-faced like Robb would when he'd had to convince his cousin out of one of his bad ideas. He'd never been successful at it as a bastard because he couldn't compare to the wonder and hero-worship that Theon had offered. But now he was king and his words could not simply be brushed aside.
"I appreciate your words of wisdom, Your Grace, but I must return to bed. I'll need my energy," he replied in a mocking tone. Prince Oberyn brushed past him.
Just before he rounded a corner, Aemon called out, "Would you like to hear a story?"
"What need do I have for stories?" Prince Oberyn snapped back, but he had turned.
"There is a woman called Old Nan at Winterfell. I think we all agreed that she was as old as the hills. If we believed in the Seven, we might've considered her the Crone incarnate. She always had stories about the time of the Children of the Forest, King Bran of old, and the fight against the Long Night. But there were other stories. Care to hear one?"
"Must I?" The prince asked flatly.
Aemon barreled on ahead. "A long time ago, when the Starks ruled much of the North as Kings of Winter, long before your own ancestors came from the Rhoyne across the Narrow Sea, the King of Winter, Rickard Stark, sent his daughter, Princess Arya to Last Hearth to marry an Umber. It cemented an alliance between Stark and Umber. The princess had a son whom she loved and that gave her purpose in an otherwise unhappy marriage.
But the story didn't end there. The Red Bolton King, who everybody called the Weeper, led a host against Last Hearth. It was said that he was part giant, for how huge he was, except the giants were gentle creatures unless roused, but the Weeper was mad and cruel, even for a Bolton. The Red host captured the keep, and the Weeper flayed the Umber petty king. But before that he killed his son and then raped his wife, Princess Arya, before him, then gouged her eyes and split her in two.
When the King of Winter and his sons heard this, they were enraged beyond measure, and so they gathered a mighty host to besiege the Dreadfort. Prince Torrhen Stark led the host, as he wanted to avenge his sister with his own hands. And so, as was the North's custom, he challenged The Weeper to a fight, one on one. The Weeper was known across the realms to have never lost, but the Stark man was not faint of heart. The Weeper fought with an axe so big that most men needed two hands just to lift it. Yet the Stark Prince was fast, and he used his speed and agility to jab at the huge but slower man whenever he could. After a while the Weeper was bleeding from many cuts and had slowed even further, and so Prince Torrhen was finally able to deliver a mortal hit to his enemy's side. Knowing that the blow was fatal, the Stark Prince wanted to make the Weeper scream in pain as he had made Princess Arya scream before she died. After severing his hamstring and disarming him with his sword, the Prince stepped closer to the fallen man, perhaps to gouge the Weeper's eyes as the monster had done to his sister.
But that proved a fatal mistake, as the Weeper summoned a last bit of strength and swept the Stark off his feet with his monstrous long hands, and then smashed his face with his spiked fist. As his last act, the Weeper popped the Stark Prince's eyes like those grapes we ate for dinner."
Prince Oberyn was quiet for a moment, but his expression remained unreadable. "A lovely story, Your there a moral to it?"
And Aemon replied, "Yes, there is. Good men die as often as monstrous ones, no matter how just their cause."
Oberyn snorted. "Goodnight, Your Grace."
Just as Prince Oberyn was turning the corner, Aemon called out to him, "I heard the Mountain enjoys crushing his victims. Stay out of his reach and I'm sure you will be alive and victorious."
It halted the prince, but then he continued on without acknowledging it. With a defeated sigh, Aemon ran a hand through his own hair and then turned and began making his way back to his own bed. Now that the bloodlust of his wolf had leached from his veins, he could feel his own exhaustion beginning to pull on his eyelids and there was an ache in his shoulders.
"How did you hear that about my brother?" The Hound suddenly asked, just as he reached his door.
Aemon froze, having nearly forgotten that the younger Clegane had been listening to the entire conversation. "Jaime told me," he said quickly. He couldn't look the Hound in the eye and slipped inside his room.
When he fell into sleep once more, he felt himself flying through the air like he was riding Rhaegal and beneath were the endless, marching hordes of the undead on the icy plain. He flew and flew, but the swarm was unending, like a plague of locusts. He awoke with a cry and stared wildly around the room.
Were the hordes already arisen and marching south? In his other life, he was certain there were still a few more years before the threat became urgent. He recalled from his surviving Brothers, who'd made it back from that ill-fated scouting mission that Lord Commander Mormont led, that they had seen the dead marching then. That was still not for another year at least.
We may have less time now, Aemon thought. Did the Night King have the power of a God? He had certainly seemed unkillable like one. It had taken bringing forth Lightbringer at the very last moment to fulfill the prophecy and end his terrible reign. Could the Night King know that the Gods had upset everything and perhaps that would motivate him to make his moves sooner?
When Aemon finally left his room to break his fast, his heart was filled with despair. Once again, the weight of the enormity of the task before him crushed his shoulders; it was nearly enough to leave as bent back as an old crone. One step at a time, he cautioned himself. When he had first returned to Winterfell in his new life, he had frequently agonized over the one thousand things he needed to do to prepare everyone. It was only by breaking it down into smaller chunks did he feel the pressure ease off and he could give each chunk the attention and care it deserved. Things had become complicated again once they took King's Landing. Now he had to track a dozen things at once; it was enough that he was certain he was overlooking others. He had to rely on Jaime to cover the ones he couldn't. They would live or die as a team, of that Aemon was certain.
The previous day Prince Oberyn had taken his time reaching the table to break his fast, but he strode in not too long after Aemon arrived with an enormous grin on his face. His daughters, Princess Arianne, and Prince Quentyn all gave him similarly knowing smiles. Apart from Prince Doran, the entire family seemed to pulse with restless energy. Aemon would normally be loath to dampen their spirits with his dire mood, but he couldn't summon the energy to care.
He openly stared at Prince Oberyn, studying him carefully. Had the prince taken his words to heart and was he going to show restraint? Based on his boundless energy and bloodthirsty smile, he had a feeling his words of warning had been smothered like the last spark of a flame.
"Must you be so gloomy, Your Grace! Rejoice! You conducted the trial perfectly; I was wrong to doubt you," Prince Oberyn called out loudly. "One would think you did not favor the way the trial went."
"I would rather have declared them guilty and beheaded them myself," Aemon snapped. He took a long sip of his water, then closed his eyes to control his breathing and rein in his temper once more. He was angry at himself more than anything. "I'd rather not chance one of my hosts meeting an untimely death. It has a tendency to sour negotiations."
"Your Grace!" His uncle, who had finally joined them, stared at him in shock. Aemon cast a glance at him, but he couldn't bring himself to feel contrite.
Prince Oberyn barked a laugh. "That it does. Have no fear! I have no intention of dying today."
"There are better men than you who died too soon."
"We finally seem to be seeing eye-to-eye in some respects, Your Grace," Prince Oberyn said, his smile becoming more appreciative. "You are wise to recognize me for who I am, though I am still disappointed you prefer to sound like my brother."
"It is refreshing to no longer be the lone voice of reason," Prince Doran spoke up, not breaking his gaze from the bread he was spreading jam upon. "Take heed, Oberyn."
Prince Oberyn scoffed.
"It doesn't hurt to be cautious," Aemon replied. "The Mountain is not to be taken lightly."
"Did you not tell me yesterday to have faith in you? Now you must have faith in me. I fully intend to deliver the justice our sister and her children have long deserved," Prince Oberyn replied with a finality that brooked no further discussion.
The trial-by-combat was to take place the hour before the sun's zenith. According to Princess Arianne, the grounds would be crowded with the people of Sunspear who had yearned for justice to be delivered against Ser Gregor Clegane and Ser Amory Lorch, ever since the king's and princesses' untimely deaths. Prince Doran offered Aemon a makeshift throne, but he declined it. He was already restless with nervous energy, he'd never be able to sit still.
Although Aemon was not participating in the fight, he had decided to dress in his armor. His longsword had been ever present at his side, but now he felt himself unconsciously grasping it and had to force himself to let his hand rest. It would be difficult to resist the impulse to dive in and assist Prince Oberyn in toppling the Mountain, but the rules wouldn't allow it. Furthermore, he would be derided as a cheat and a reputation like that would be nigh impossible to shed.
Maybe the armor wasn't a good idea, Aemon thought. In just a matter of minutes, his undershirt was sticking to his chest. The hot summer air of Dorne scorched his lungs and gave him a burning sensation on his head like his hair had caught aflame. Somehow his uncle looked untouched by the heat and he couldn't help shooting a few annoyed glares at him. His Kingsguard, Ser Preston and Ser Arys, seemed equally unaffected despite wearing their full gear and helmets. He envied their ability to remain unflappable even as his leg muscles twitched with unspent energy.
He could sense young Olyvar bouncing up and down with excitement. The boy had joined their party just as they were leaving for the tournament grounds and Aemon had very nearly sent him back to spend the time alone in his room. The fight was hardly fit for a boy, but little Bran had seen his first beheading at eight. Olyvar was nearly twelve and had never seen a duel. Aemon hardly expected the justice to be delivered to be palatable for one's stomach, but he had decided in the end it would be a good lesson. Olyvar would at least walk away with an understanding that the good suffered just as readily as the bad.
Prince Oberyn strutted onto the fighting grounds and grinned merrily. The commonfolk cheered and he waved at them. Aemon gritted his teeth, trying to control his anger. No helmet, the barest of armor! He truly has a deathwish.
The cheers quickly turned to howls as Clegane and Lorch were escorted to the grounds. Lorch looked grim and pale, but determined. Clegane was already dressed in leather armor and his face was hidden by a helmet, however, Dorne did not appear to have pieces of armor that fit a man of his girth. He lacked gauntlets entirely and there were gaps where his vambraces, greaves, and pauldrons ended and the other pieces began. He lacked a bevor which left his throat exposed. The Mountain seemed content to rely on a long piece of mail that was more suitable for a horse to cover those gaps. His feet and wrists were still chained together, but then a guard turned a key and the chains fell apart. The rest of his guards all scurried away, but Clegane ignored them and stomped over to a longsword that had been thrown into the ring for his use. However, it wasn't a longsword for him as he wielded it easily with one hand. Neither fighter was allowed a shield in the hopes for a quicker match.
Prince Oberyn squared off with the Mountain. He pointed his spear at the monstrous man, his good cheer melting away into stony anger. "You have been living generously at your Master's feet while we have longed for your head. Now, I will take our revenge. You will scream and repent the name of our beloved Princess Elia Martell before I am done with you."
The Mountain remained quiet, but he hefted his sword and set his stance. Prince Oberyn dropped down into his fighting stance as well, but he was too keyed up to remain still and his spear swayed from side to side like he was a snake hypnotizing his prey. There was a collective intake of breath as the onlookers waited for the call.
"Your Grace?" Prince Doran gently prodded.
Aemon stirred and released a shuddering breath, hesitating still. He didn't want to give the call, but it was as inevitable as the sun setting in the west. "May the Gods consider justly. Fight!"
With a great roar, the Mountain swung his blade in a semi-circle, but Prince Oberyn danced out of reach. The crowd hollered and moved in tandem. Everyone followed the movement of Oberyn's spear as it jabbed and rotated, seeking an opening. The Mountain was quick and swatted, either at Oberyn or the spear, every which way. For such a large man, he was doing an admirable job of keeping the prince in front of him and keeping bunched up like a clam. However, Aemon noticed that the Mountain's movements were becoming clipped and there were a few grunts of frustration as Oberyn continued to dance around him. The Mountain drew back for a wide swing and Prince Oberyn darted in and jabbed him in the slit above the Mountain's grieve by his knee.
And so the death blow has been delivered, Aemon thought, shifting anxiously. No doubt the Prince had dipped the tip of his spear with poison, but Clegane merely bellowed like an enraged bull. If Oberyn managed to contain himself, would he continue dancing around and keep his distance, or would his arrogance and thirst for vengeance make him forget himself?
"Will you admit to your crimes, beast?" Prince Oberyn shouted.
Clegane took more measured jabs as he began to fend off Prince Oberyn's darting spear. He grabbed at the spearhead in what Aemon felt was an attempt to break it off, but once more Prince Oberyn shifted the spear and jumped nimbly away. Aemon thought he could hear Clegane growling as the Prince stayed just out of reach, striking at the Mountain's unprotected hands until blood was dripping down them.
"Had enough, monster? Did you end my sister's misery when you thought she'd had enough? It wasn't enough to see her little son's skull smashed open before her eyes? Say her name!"
The Mountain pulled his sword back to skewer Prince Oberyn. The prince dodged and slid around Clegane's backside to jab his spear at the exposed joint of his knee again. Clegane roared and swung the sword around to deliver a fatal blow, but Prince Oberyn had already jumped back. The Mountain crumbled to one knee and had to use his free hand to leverage himself up again, but he staggered on his feet and breathed harshly. He charged forward with a jabbing thrust of his sword and then swept it after Prince Oberyn, trying to follow him. The crowd bent and swayed with every movement of the Mountain's sword, dodging and weaving together.
"Do it, Ser Gregor! Kill him," Lorch shouted, clear desperation on his face. The guards pulled on his chains in a threatening manner and the bystanders hissed at his words. He cowered in the face of their anger.
Aemon was too caught up in the fight to pay Lorch much attention. He didn't even notice the heat anymore, as he trembled with nerves and his heart was in his throat. Once again, he caught himself reflexively grasping the hilt of his sword and had to loosen the grip on it before he did something foolhardy.
Prince Oberyn laughed, and while it was loud, he never took his eyes off of his prey. "The Gods are on my side! Your life will end today and I will choose when," he crowed.
With a furious roar, Clegane leaped forward in a burst of energy and sudden speed, angling the sword towards Prince Oberyn's body. Prince Oberyn ducked and rolled. Sparks flew from Clegane's sword tip as it scraped across the stone on Prince Oberyn's heels, but he managed to stay just ahead of it. With that spent effort, Clegane crumpled to his knees, his breath coming out in harsh gasps. The longsword slipped from his fingers as his hands trembled from the effort of trying to push himself back onto his feet to stay in the fight.
Prince Oberyn stepped in front of the Mountain and glared at him. "The Stranger shall take you to the bottom of the Seven Hells. It's where murderers of women and their children populate to receive their just reward for their horrific deeds. But not yet. You haven't said Princess Elia Martell's name. Say it! Say her name!"
Aemon felt his hackles raise and he gritted his teeth. His uncle clamped a hand on his shoulder as though it would be enough to prevent Aemon from screaming or shouting or leaping to Prince Oberyn's defense.
Without making a sound apart from his heaving breaths, Gregor Clegane leaped forward, his hands up, ready to grab Prince Oberyn. The prince sank into his stance. The Mountain halted in midair, gasping and struggling, flailing weakly at the man underneath him. His hands left bloody smears upon Prince Oberyn's shoulders but then fell limp as he gurgled his last breath. Aemon stared in disbelief and then realized that Clegane had skewered himself on Prince Oberyn's spear, right through his throat. The prince held him there for a moment and then with a great effort that left him breathless, heaved the great beast of a man off to the side.
Silence fell over the crowd as they watched the blood leak from the Mountain's open throat. Aemon felt like he'd been holding his breath through the entire fight and he let it leave in a shuddering gasp. He gratefully reached up and patted his uncle's hand on his shoulder and felt safe enough to show the relief on his face to him. His uncle nodded grimly at him and squeezed Aemon's shoulder in solidarity.
"More's the pity. I would've liked to have heard him say her name," Prince Oberyn said quietly, a far cry from his usual boisterous energy.
As if it was a signal, the crowd rumbled like thunder into a mighty cheer. They rushed into the ring to celebrate and embrace their prince. Aemon noticed men pulling down their drawers to piss on the Mountain's body.
His energy returned as anger filled his veins and he stepped forward towards the revelers and commanded, "That is enough! He is dead! I will not stand by and allow you to desecrate a body, no matter how monstrous." A handful of guards stepped forward and shoved the men away.
"That is magnanimous of you, Your Grace," Prince Doran said, rolling his wheelchair forward.
In an even voice, Aemon replied, "The Gods do not favor those who disrespect the dead."
"They didn't seem to care much about Dorne's dead."
Aemon cocked his head at him and studied him quietly. Prince Doran's face was carefully neutral, but he was seeking a reaction the same, as his brother did with his insulting jabs. When Aemon spoke, it was carefully, "We are not to know the minds of the Gods. It is up to us to make our own decisions; we should strive to maintain our dignity and never stoop to the level of the monstrous. If we do, can we say better than them?"
"We have not murdered women and children."
"Is that really such a drastic step after the murder of men?" Aemon replied and in his mind's eye, he could see Olly's body twitching and pale as he struggled against the noose around his neck.
Prince Doran continued to weigh his words, but then he smiled and the guard, Areo Hotah, wheeled him away to congratulate Prince Oberyn.
Aemon kept his distance. It was not his victory and it was not his revenge. The people of Dorne, of Sunspear, deserved their celebration after waiting for it for so long and enduring the great insult of Robert Baratheon's dismissiveness.
"Are you satisfied, Your Grace?" His uncle asked, stepping up beside him.
"The Mountain is dead and Prince Oberyn is alive. That will have to do for now," Aemon replied. He tore his eyes from the screaming and dancing crowd to Ser Amory Lorch. His guards had the presence of mind to not join in on the celebration and still held his chains. The knight was sitting in the sands and weeping.
Yet again, a wave of anger and disgust swept over him. Lorch had butchered a little girl with half a hundred stab wounds and he still wept for his own life. He had failed to heed Princess Rhaenys Targaryen's weeping pleas, so he would receive no consideration for his own. It was tempting to take his own sword and reenact her murder upon her killer, but he would have to satisfy himself with beheading him on the morn.
When Aemon next turned back to the crowd, Prince Oberyn had extricated himself from the center and was now striding toward him with a satisfied smile.
"As you see, Your Grace, the Gods favored me," he said, spreading his arms out.
"I see that. Congratulations on your victory, Prince Oberyn. It was well-earned," Aemon replied, granting him a small smile. "I am glad my fears were unfounded after all." He held out his hand.
Prince Oberyn eyed it for a moment, but then took it. "I must thank you for your advice. He might have surprised me there at the end were it not for your warning."
Aemon raised his eyebrows at him in incredulity.
"Don't seem so shocked. I heed good advice when I hear it."
"Praise be to the Gods."
Prince Oberyn chuckled and clapped him on the back. "Come! To the hall to celebrate!" He then started steering him there and Aemon allowed him to do it; Ser Arys and Ser Preston clung at his sides as closely as they dared.
The servants in Sunspear had been busy preparing a feast for the victory and Aemon was grateful that their efforts had not been wasted. Now that his blood had cooled once more, he found himself ravenously hungry and piled food onto his plate. For once, he wasn't the center of attention and he reveled in that almost as much as everyone else had reveled in the fight.
Aemon indulged in at least two goblets of wine. He even caught his uncle nursing a goblet and gave him a wry grin.
"What?" His uncle asked at his smile. "I will imbibe for a victory. And a great victory it was. The Old Gods smile upon us."
"That they do," Aemon whispered.
A crowd of nobles were still gathered around Prince Oberyn. Aemon couldn't hear what he was saying, but he gesticulated dramatically; he suspected a new, glossier version of the truth would start winding its way into the city on the morrow. He and Jaime are two sides of the same coin, he thought with a half-hearted shake of his head.
For the first time since he had arrived, he felt the tension in his shoulders ease and his heart sang with the happiness of events going his way once more. With luck, the negotiations would proceed and the festivities would put Prince Doran into a cooperative mood.
A maester seemed to materialize from the crowd and bent to whisper in Prince Doran's ear. He had a letter clutched tightly in his hand. Aemon narrowed his eyes, having never seen Sunspear's maester wandering about, not even to deliver the mail. Prince Doran caught his eyes and Aemon felt his good cheer evaporating when he was pointed out.
The maester steadily made his way through the crowd to reach his side. As he drew closer, the noise level dropped and Aemon glanced around to see that his progress was now being eagerly followed by everyone. He furrowed his brow in irritation that he was unable to receive the letter in a private setting.
"Your Grace, urgent news from King's Landing," the maester whispered into his ear and handed off the letter.
Aemon frowned at him wondering how he could possibly know that, only to see that 'Urgent' was written on the outside in Jaime's sloppy hand. He felt his heart skip a beat as he broke the Lannister seal. It was longer than normal and he curled around it in an attempt to prevent someone from reading over his shoulder.
His eyes quickly skimmed the message and, with a handful of words, his heart felt like it sank into the cavern of his own chest. There was a coded message beneath the simple sentence and he itched to decipher it, but that would have to wait until he had retired to his room. He rolled the letter back up.
"What is it, Your Grace?" Prince Oberyn asked from across the table.
Aemon was quiet for a moment, still absorbing the news. He understood now why Jaime hadn't bothered trying to conceal its contents; this was news that would filter through the whole kingdom in a matter of weeks anyway.
"Robert Baratheon is dead," he replied once he met the prince's eyes.
Author's Notes: I hope you enjoyed the chapter! Did you think I had forgotten about warging? The fight is won and now the news has reached Aemon of the old king's death.
I also will not be posting 1/25. I will be...at Harry Potter World. I will have no room in my brain for GoT at this time, only Harry Potter. Slytherins unite. Next chapter will be posted 2/8.
