- Vaes Dothrak -

Aemond found himself unexpectedly enjoying the bustling heart of Vaes Dothrak. Though the city itself seemed to be little more than mud and twigs, the market thrived with a vibrant energy that fascinated him.

Stalls overflowed with curious items and exotic wines, each more intriguing than the last. He had indulged in his first taste of Arbor Gold and found it infinitely superior to the sour wine of Pentos.

As he meandered through the market, his hand instinctively strayed to his hip, seeking the familiar weight of his sword. But here, within the sacred city of the Dothraki, no steel could be bared, no blood could be shed.

It was a rule that applied to all, and Aemond found a strange solace in knowing that every other man walked similarly unarmed.

His eyes trained up to the Mother, a mountain sacred to the Dothraki, his sister said that her husband started a journey there to make a sacrifice to his gods.

Over the time he's been here, he rarely conversed with the Khal, he spoke little of the common tongue and his own teachings from Jhiqui and Daenerys were far from him speaking fluent in speaking to his good-brother.

He does know a few fun curse words, so it is known. "You look lost, My Prince," a voice called out.

Turning, Aemond's tense expression softened into a rare smile as he saw Jorah Mormont approaching, notably absent from his usual plate armor. "I haven't felt so lost since the first years after leaving Braavos," Aemond admitted, a hint of nostalgia in his voice. "And no more naked since my days chasing Viserys in the godswood of the Red Keep."

Jorah chuckled, a warm sound that resonated in the cool evening air. "I have only been here twice, and each time is new to me," he confessed, his eyes reflecting the myriad of experiences he had gathered in this strange land.

Aemond nodded thoughtfully, the idea of asking Jorah to be his guide swiftly dismissed. Perhaps he should have brought Jhiqui, but she was occupied with his sister and the unborn child she carried.

"Did we come across one another by accident, or was there a reason, Ser?" Aemond inquired, his curiosity piqued.

The old knight laughed, a deep, hearty sound that seemed to ease the tension between them. Together, they made their way back to the tent where Daenerys awaited. She had invited him and Viserys for supper and mentioned she had gifts to bestow upon them. Aemond saw little point in lingering at the market any longer.

Breaking the silence on their walk back, Aemond turned to Ser Jorah. "Tell me, Ser, where is your home in Westeros?" He knew the answer but sought more about the knight's mysterious past.

He may have been born in the Red Keep but he's seen nothing of the regions surrounding the city, especially the North. "I come from Bear Island," Jorah began, his voice tinged with regret. "I was its Lord until..." His words trailed off, leaving the rest unspoken, but Aemond could guess.

As they neared Daenerys's tent, their conversation was cut short by the sight of Viserys stumbling out, battered and bruised, clutching his cheek. He looked at them for a moment, his expression a mixture of pain and anger, before storming off in the opposite direction.

He groaned softly as he hurried inside, his heart pounding with a mix of anger and concern. There, his sister sat, being tended to by Irri and Doreah. His eyes widened in fury as he saw the angry red mark on her cheek, the tears streaming down from her eyes.

"Aemond," his sister's voice quivered with a mixture of relief and hope as she ran into his embrace. He gently parted her, inspecting her wound with a frown. "I hit him. I hit the dragon," she confessed, her voice trembling.

Jorah, standing nearby, cleared his throat, his own anger evident. "Prince Rhaegar was the Last Dragon, Princess. Viserys is nothing but a shadow of a wyrm in comparison."

Aemond's expression hardened, finding it difficult to defend his neglectful brother, but not impossible. "He is still the true King, the scion of the dragon, and he will be talked of with respect, Ser," Aemond retorted. "It was Viserys who took care of us all these years."

As Irri escorted a battered Doreah outside, Jorah stepped closer. Now, it was just the three of them. Aemond gestured for the knight to leave and helped his sister to her bed, her belly growing noticeably with each passing moon since they arrived in Vaes Dothrak.

"My eggs. Bring me my eggs," she demanded softly. Aemond searched and retrieved one, handing it to her. She smiled, curling up with the egg pressed against her breast.

Aemond then fetched a blanket and covered her. He stayed by her side for an hour or so, watching over her. As he looked around, he noticed some leathers on the ground. Bending down to pick them up, he heard her voice break the silence.

"I had one made special just for him," she said, rising into a sitting position. "He thought I was ordering him and struck me. He rounded on me and would have done worse if I hadn't struck him back."

A smile crept across Aemond's face. "I bet it felt good, giving him a taste of that dragon he likes so much." It was something their father was fond of saying, a sentiment that resonated more with Viserys growing up at court.

"Take it for yourself, brother, wear it for me," his sister's voice was soft yet firm as she handed him the garments.

Aemond carefully inspected the clothes, running his fingers over the fine fabric. It was a tunic and leggings of crisp white linen, complemented by leather sandals that laced up to the knee. A bronze medallion belt and a leather vest adorned with fire-breathing dragons completed the ensemble. "Beautiful, sister, thank you," he replied, a genuine smile gracing his lips.

The bond between them deepened, for the blood of the dragon ran fiercely within their veins.

A fortnight later, the air was filled with anticipation as the celebration drew near. His sister was to present and name her son before a gathering of minor and major Khals and their bloodriders. The festivities promised to be grand, involving the eating of a horse's heart and the solemn preachings of the leader of the Dosh Khaleen, the revered widows of fallen Khals.

For the occasion, Aemond wore the attire intended for their brother. Jhiqui, with deft fingers, braided his hair, a symbol of honor he said he would truly earn when he fought his first battle. The braid felt like a promise, a testament to the strength and resilience of their lineage.

The camp buzzed with activity as preparations were made. The scent of roasting meat wafted through the air, mingling with the earthy aroma of the Dothraki's steeds. Drums beat a steady rhythm, an undercurrent of excitement that pulsed through the ground.

As Aemond walked through the camp, he went in search of his brother who was in a darker mood and growing even more impatient, waiting for Khal Drogo to fulfill his promises and hand him his crown and army.

However, he eventually gave up and started his way back to the hall where the gathering was being held.

A bloodrider guarding the entrance scrutinized Aemond's attire, his gaze lingering on the intricate designs. After a moment, he gave a nod of approval, allowing Aemond to step inside.

"Aemond!" Dany's voice rang out, filled with warmth. Aemond smiled as he approached the dais, presenting himself to Drogo and his bloodrider, Qotho.

Clearing his throat, Aemond spoke in the roughened, savage language of the Dothraki. "Anha athzalar mai ki yeri, gaezo. (May the Great Stallion bless you, brother)."

Drogo glanced at his wife, then back at Aemond, nodding in acknowledgment. Aemond ascended the dais, taking a seat close to Dany. Behind her stood Ser Jorah, who had taken care to wash and present himself well for the occasion.

The ceremony began with a somber yet celebratory atmosphere. Drogo and his riders brought in a wild stallion, its powerful form shimmering under the torchlight. Using edged knives of stone, they carved out the horse's heart, presenting it to Daenerys, who stood poised and resolute.

Aemond couldn't help but feel a pang of unease at the sight of the raw, uncooked heart. Eating raw meat, especially a horse's heart, was a concept that disturbed him deeply. However, his sister's determination and strength shone through as she took the heart and began to eat, surrounded by the Dosh Khaleen who chanted and prayed.

For a moment, Daenerys looked as though she might be overwhelmed, but she pressed on, consuming the entire heart. She sighed heavily, her lips and hands stained red with blood. "Khalakka dothrae mr'anha! (A prince rides inside me!)" she proclaimed.

The oldest of the crones raised her arms, her head tilting back as she gazed at the roof of the hall, where smoke from a great fire obscured the stars and moon above them. "Khalakka dothrae! (The Prince is riding!)" she declared. The others echoed her words, "He is riding!" "Rakh Rakh haj! (A boy, a boy, a strong boy!)"

The clanger of bronze birds and the booming warhorns filled the air until all fell silent. Drogo helped Daenerys to her feet, her legs unsteady but finding their strength.

The one-eyed crone stepped forward, her gaze intense as she looked at Daenerys. "I can see him now. The thunder of his hooves," she said. "What will be his name, the Stallion Who Will Mount the World?"

"His name shall be Rhaego!" Daenerys announced, her voice strong and clear.

Aemond smiled, murmuring, "Rhaego, a very fine name."

Jorah agreed, a hint of pride in his voice. "A name to stun even the Demon of the Trident."

Aemond found himself chuckling, imagining the usurper standing back in fright of his princely nephew. The thought filled him with hope for the future, envisioning a time when they would reclaim their rightful place, and his nephew, Rhaego, would grow up under the greatness of the House of the Dragon.

With the naming done away, the rest of the night was to go smoothly and he planned to drink until he was in a stupper, then he would take Jhiqui back to his tent and get comfortable.

That was until Viserys barged through, dressed in his soiled clothes and brandishing his sword on his hip.