Haven't I Given Enough? (Always The Fool) - Aemond Targaryen

12: Take Flight, My Love

The dark that promised a flight on dragonback quickly approached, setting Harlys' nerves on fire.

Aemond had scavenged a set of riding leathers for her to wear, lined with fleece to keep out the cold, and she had been thankful for them—until she noticed the number of stays that she had no idea how to do up.

Blushing, she had to ask Aemond for help.

"Tell me about flying," She spoke, staring at a fixed point over his shoulder as Aemond adjusted the straps on the top of the leathers, careful to keep his hands from brushing against her unnecessarily. "Tell me how you claimed Vhagar."

She caught his smirk and knew she was inflating his ego by asking the question, but she didn't care. The longer they remained in silence, the worse her nerves grew.

"I claimed Vhagar a mere week before you arrived at the Keep to petition my father." Aemond began, and Harlys remembered seeing him in the throne room. How fresh and brutal his scar had been then, how little it had mattered in the grand scheme of her life. "Her last rider, Lady Laena, died a dragonrider's death."

A shiver went down her spine that had nothing to do with the tale of Laena's passing and everything to do with Aemond's fingertips skimming over her leather-clad skin as he spoke.

"After the funeral held at Dragonstone, Vhagar had remained unclaimed and was slumbering in a field." Aemond moved so that he was at her back, ensuring that everything there was fastened correctly. Her hands were clenched fists at her sides. "I approached her, unafraid, and climbed into her saddle. We rode for hours in the night until I was forced to return to the ground."

"You were only a boy; you must have been afraid." Her words were little more than breathy whispers as Aemond moved to stand in front of her again. In his hands was her cloak and on his face a smug grin she wished to wipe off.

"No, my lady, I was not." He put the cloak around her shoulders and she rested her hand atop Lathar's blade to remind herself of the control over herself that she needed to exercise. But with Aemond so close, control seemed like a distant concept. "I am Targaryen, born to ride dragons."

"Then you will excuse me, prince, if I am afraid. I am no Targaryen, and House Strong has been burned before."

"You need not call me prince, wife," He seemed to be moving closer, his words growing quieter. The world around them melted away into a blur. "And you do not need excuses."

As quick as he approached, he was gone, and Harlys drew in a shuddering breath to try and center herself. What was it about Aemond that made her lose focus so easily? Why did he seem so intent on claiming her one moment and then disappear the next?

Gathering a hold of herself, Harlys hurried after him.

—

The stench of the dragonpit reminded her far too much of the lingering scent of burnt flesh that permeated her very core in the few wretched days she was forced to remain in Harrenhal and see to it that her father and brother were properly sent to the next world.

It was of those flames she thought of as she approached Vhagar, it was the window she jumped from that she recalled as she prepared herself to climb onto the beast's back. As she reached for the ropes to climb onto the saddle, she froze.

"I lied, Harlys," Aemond murmured in her ear as he stood behind her, waiting for her to climb onto the dragon. Her heart stopped as she tried to piece together what he may have lied about, why he had waited until they were alone and far from any guard to tell her. "I was afraid the night I claimed Vhagar."