The Silver Dragon | Aemond Targaryen

Chapter 13: The Sapphire

Aemond woke at dawn each morning consumed by the knowledge that he would not see Arianwyn that day.

He missed her so much it ached; the pain sharpened by the fact that he knew now it would be years before they saw each other again. It took all his strength to pull himself from his bed, rather than sleep until she was at last free of her father. For in his dreams, they were still together.

But Aemond had made her a promise. The next time she saw him, he would be the fiercest dragonrider since Aegon the Conqueror. He could not accomplish that by lying despondently in bed.

So, he stood and faced the sunlight streaming in through an eastward facing window, stretching his sore muscles. Each morning he tried to gaze far enough into the sea to see Dragonstone, to see the castle, and Arianwyn's tower. But all he ever saw was the horizon.

He dressed, as he always did now, in leathers he had ordered specially made to be suited for both fighting and flying. To be as fierce as the Conqueror, his skill on dragonback must be matched by an equal proficiency with the sword.

Cole had been so impressed by Aemond's progress over the past year, especially as he adapted the loss of his eye, that the Kingsguard had gifted him with a real blade to replace the flimsy wood of his practice sword. It was simple, and wrought of ordinary steel – the ancestral Valyrian steel of House Targaryen was wielded still by the King and Prince Daemon – but it was still a fine sword.

And Aemond had grown into a fine warrior. True, he was blessed with some amount of innate skill, but it was his dedication to the art that made him truly great. Every morning, without fail, he went directly to the training yard after a meager breakfast in his rooms. He usually had the yard to himself for at least an hour before the other guards and knights began to arrive.

Aemond cherished that time he spent alone. It allowed him privacy as he brutally attacked the practice dummy, imagining it was Daemon. If any of the others saw the way he attacked then, viciously and mercilessly, they would no doubt ask questions. But this was one fight he had to wage alone, at least for the time being.

Perhaps one day, after the King was gone, he would have the chance to wield his blade against the real Daemon. He would make him suffer for all he had done to Arianwyn, and her mother.

For now, all he could do was imagine. As he did so often these days.

He imagined Arianwyn standing on the ramparts, watching him with a proud smile on her face.

He imagined her across the table from him in the library, reading to him with her sweet voice until he fell asleep

He imagined her astride Emrys, flying beside him through the skies and laughing as the wind whipped through their hair.

He imagined her everywhere.

But she was never truly there.

For the first time in his life, Aemond was dreading his nameday. It had never been in his nature to enjoy the interminable celebrations and massive crowds, but the festivities meant that he could spend several days with Arianwyn by his side from dawn to dusk.

She would talk for him when he was too shy, encourage him to try the strange new creations from visiting foreign chefs, and squeal with delight at every present he received. Her presence was always his most favorite gift.

Now he would have to endure it without her.

Getting through the tourney was relatively easy. He simply refused to leave the royal box, and he didn't have to engage with anyone he didn't already know. When he tired of talking with even them, most of the jousts and duels were impressive enough to hold his attention. Still, he would rather be riding Vhagar. But he had sent her to the Kingswood to roam and hunt while the tourney took place.