Dream Of Winter | C. Stark & H. Targaryen

Abyss

Aemond POV

The dragon prince felt like the walking dead the past few weeks. He was getting through the motions one day at a time. His duties at court left very little time for extracurricular activities.

But the leisure time he did have was hollow and lackluster. Vhagar felt his anxiety, temper and uncertainty through their bond. His own feelings bled into her own conscious and made her a moody ticking time bomb.

More than usual that is.

His sister's dreams had opened a door that wouldn't close back. Again and again he felt the heat of Arrax's attack. Tasted the primal fear when his dragon swallowed him and his nephew whole. The texture of flesh and blood was scarred to his being.

Aemond knew his pain was warranted. For disobeying his mother's wishes and chasing Luke atop Storm's End. The temporary high of power and dominace wasn't worth the tragedy to follow.

He's barely managed to hold his anger whenever he found some of Daemon's old goons at Fleabottom.

Grandsire had named his uncle Ser Gwayne Hightower the new commander of the gold cloaks. The two of them have been cleaning the ranks of the city watch from any and all sympathizers to the Rogue prince.

The Club foot took good care of any prominent agents of his uncle and was also helpful in their hunt of Daemon's former lover Lady Mysaria, better known as the White Worm.

She was as elusive as ever. Her reputation as a cunning shadow puppeteer wasn't exaggerated, loath as he was to say. But Aemond had sworn a blood oath to find and dismember all those complicit in the death of Helaena's child.

Mysaria and Daemon gave the order. Borg and Corey were mere instruments. Despicable tools. But replaceable and commonplace.

If it takes a year or ten he will exact justice. He'll cut off the head of the snake.

**
Aemond made his way to Cregan's room. The two have gotten closer since the dreams first began. He appreciated how the northman believed his account of the story.

At the time, the wounds of his future were so raw that he would've pleaded for absolution from anyone who'd listen, even if it turned out to be a pagan.

But his future good-brother was a better man than the Seven-Pointed star described. If his soul is truly doomed to suffer for believing in demons then most mortals are equally condemned after death.

Aemond most of all.

He knocked on the door and waited. The door was opened by Cregan's cousin Brandon. The Umber heir sneered at his arrival and he resisted the urge to respond in kind.

It was bad form to reduce himself to the level of uncouth heathens.

Umber turned to Cregan and spoke in the northern old tongue he preferred to use whenever Aemond was in his presence.

"Your dragon septon is here."

"Prince Aegon?"

He recognized Cregan saying his brother's name. Why the two would mention him is anyone's guess.

"No the actual septon. Not the one who wore the robes for a sennight."

He doubted Umber ever sang his praises, but it's a special kind of petty tactic to speak behind his back, in front of him.

If this remains constant, he'll be forced to tutor Cregan in high valyrian to have the pompous northman taste a bit of his own medicine.

He doesn't know if it's worth his efforts. Incineration is always on the table.