The Golden Wyrm

"...There is no measuring Muad'Dib's motives by ordinary standards. In the moment of his triumph, he saw the death prepared for him, yet he accepted the treachery. Can you say he did this out of a sense of justice? Whose justice, then? Remember, we speak now of the Muad'Dib who ordered battle drums made from his enemies' skins."

―Princess Irulan, from "Arrakis Awakening"

…

​

Aemond stood before the looking glass, the dim light of early dawn creeping through the narrow slit of the window behind him. He stared at his reflection—at the boy standing there, a face both stern and young. His fingers moved deftly as he finished securing the dark buttons of his mourning coat, each clasp snapping shut with a soft, final click. The fabric was of deep black, as was the custom for a funeral, its texture rich, woven from wool as dark as a raven's feather.

The silence of the room pressed in around him, a stillness that mirrored the cold emptiness he felt somewhere in his chest. He had never known Laena Velaryon, not truly, only through his dreams of Vhagar's dreams. She had always been a figure at the periphery of his life—a dull echo, her presence a memory formed mostly by what he remembered the dragoness memory of her. But death had a way of drawing even the peripheral into sharp focus. It made strangers into family, and family into strangers.

Aemond reached for the scabbard resting on his table. Its length was slender, wrapped in a dark leather that caught the light with a dull gleam. Inside was the blade—a knife with a faint resemblance to something out of a well-remembered dream. A crysknife. The weapon had an alien look to it, its ivory dragon-bone blade carved with gentle curves, almost serpentine in shape. Aemond had designed it personally, commissioned its creation with the bulk of his savings. The greedy thing drank his blood readily before returning to its sheath. Today, he wore it for the first time, in the Fremen manner, tied close to his waist.

Bloodied palm bandaged, he buckled it now, his hands moving with a sureness that belied his youth. The knife settled against his hip, the weight of it somehow grounding him. He had seen death before—seen it in the eyes of his father, in the faces of the smallfolk who came to the keep seeking aid they would never receive, in the eyes of the tormented seeking reprieve in a fiery death. This life, for all its flaws, had begun to feel comfortable, and the darkness Paul once knew well, distant, something for other people, begot by other men. Alas, tonight would be different. Personal. A reminder of his purpose.

A knock sounded at his door, sharp but respectful, and Aemond turned, his back to the looking glass. He strode to the door, unhurried, and pulled it open. A servant stood there, his eyes downcast, his voice quiet. "Prince Aemond, the family gathers."

Aemond nodded once, a short, decisive movement and stepped out into the corridor, the scabbard at his hip swaying gently as he walked. The halls of Driftmark were a maze of stone, their walls adorned with trophies, carvings, and banners depicting the silver seahorse of House Velaryon. He could hear the murmur of voices in the distance—his family's voices, low and sombre. The sea air carried with it the scent of salt and damp, the distant cry of gulls echoing mournfully through the hallways.

He approached the courtyard, the place where the funeral procession would begin. The people were gathered, dark figures standing together in clusters, their faces turned to the pyre, to the casket that held Laena Velaryon's body. Aemond moved among them, finding his place beside his mother, who gave him a brief nod.

Across the courtyard, he saw the Princess Rhaenyra, Ser Harwin Strong and their sons, their base-born hair dull in the pale morning light. There was tension in the air—an unease that settled on the shoulders of every member of the family. The Blacks and the Greens, even now, divided by everything else.

The funeral began, and it was Vaemond Velaryon who led the procession. He spoke in High Valyrian, his voice carrying over the assembled crowd, strong and full of conviction. Aemond listened, though his eyes remained on the coffin and the sea beyond. Vaemond's words were carefully chosen, his eulogy speaking of Velaryon strength and the importance of blood. Pure blood. He spoke of Laena, of her pride, her heritage, her lineage. His gaze flickered more than once towards Rhaenyra's sons, his voice tinged with an edge that was unmistakable.

"Blood is what makes us," Vaemond said, his eyes drifting pointedly towards Jacaerys and Lucerys, their dark hair so at odds with the pale silver of House Velaryon. "Blood is our strength, our legacy. And it must remain pure, if we are to endure."

Aemond saw the slight shifts in the crowd, the glances exchanged, the whispers that rose like the rustling of dry leaves. He watched as Daemon, standing apart, let out a sharp, incredulous sound—half laughter, half sneer. More solemn words followed, drifting over the gathered crowd, carried on the wind like a lament. Aemond kept his gaze steady, watching as the casket was lowered into the sea, the dark waves lapping hungrily at the wood. The sounds of the sea grew louder, drowning out the voices around him, and for a moment, all Aemond could hear was the roar of the water, the crash of waves against the stone, the endless pull of the tides.

***

Vaemond stood in the courtyard, exchanging formal words with guests, each phrase as practised and hollow as the gestures that accompanied them. The sound of the sea was ever-present, the distant crash of waves against Driftmark's rocky shore, and the salt in the air mingled with the scent of smoke from the brazier. The guests wore their grief like cloaks, dark colours and bowed heads, and Vaemond moved among them, a sombre figure with a mask of duty, his thoughts elsewhere entirely.

It was a movement to his left that caught his eye—a figure approaching, his gait uneven, slow but deliberate. Vaemond turned his head slightly, narrowing his eyes as he recognized the club-footed man weaving through the mourners with an uncanny ease. Larys Strong. The man's eyes caught his, offering the faintest of nods, and his lips curled into something that might have resembled a smile, though there was no warmth to it.

"Lord Vaemond," Larys murmured as he drew near, his voice low, nearly swallowed by the sea breeze. He dipped his head in a deferential bow, his eyes flicking up, always watchful. "Might I have a word? In private, if it pleases you."

Vaemond studied him, suspicion lurking behind his gaze. There was something about Larys Strong that never settled right with him—a sense that he looked not upon a man, but a mask, a facade. But curiosity gnawed at him, and there was something else too—the hope that perhaps Larys brought word of something useful—from the queen perhaps, if the rumours were true—something that might help him address the concerns that had festered in his heart for so long.

After a heartbeat, he nodded, curt and purposeful. "Very well," he said, gesturing for Larys to lead the way.

The two walked in silence, leaving the mourners behind, their steps muffled by the damp sand beneath their boots as they made their way towards a secluded stretch of the beach that lay beyond Driftmark's halls. The sound of the waves grew louder here, crashing against the shore, the sound drowning out the voices of the mourners in the distance. It was only when they were well out of earshot that Vaemond turned to Larys, his patience already worn thin by the charade of secrecy. "What is it you want, Strong? I have duties to attend to."

Larys paused before he stepped aside, gesturing to a figure standing just beyond the curve of the rocks. Vaemond's eyes narrowed further, his lips pressing into a thin line as he recognized the boy. Aemond Targaryen. The young prince stood there, his gaze sharp, his gaze fixed on Vaemond with an intensity that belied his age.

Vaemond felt the heat of indignation rising in his chest. He would not be insulted like this. He turned on his heel, his back to them, his voice laced with disdain. "If this is some jest, I have no time for it," he said, already taking a step away. "I will not be summoned by a child."

He had taken but a single step when Aemond's voice cut through the roar of the waves, clear and sharp. "Then I must assume you content, my lord, to let Rhaenyra's bastards sit the Driftwood Throne?"

Vaemond froze, his breath catching in his throat. The words struck like a blow, the accusation hanging in the salt-choked air between them, heavy and undeniable. Slowly, he turned, his eyes narrowing on Aemond. The young prince had not moved, his expression calm, almost indifferent, but there was something in his gaze.

"What did you say?" Vaemond's voice was low, dangerous now, a simmering fury just beneath the surface.

Aemond stepped closer, his hands crossed behind his back, his gaze unbroken. "You spoke of Velaryon blood earlier," he said, his voice as smooth as the sea at night, each word deliberate, cutting. "Of its purity, its strength. You meant every word, did you not? Yet here we stand, watching as Rhaenyra's bastards are paraded before us as if they have a rightful claim to the Driftwood Throne. As if true-born Velaryon heirs are to be set aside. Ignored."

Vaemond's jaw tightened, his hands curling into fists at his sides. The boy's words were like an echo of his own thoughts, a mirror held up to the fears and anger he had harboured in silence. He had seen the boys—Jacaerys, Lucerys—seen their dark hair, their features that spoke not of Velaryon lineage, base-born. And yet Corlys had turned a blind eye, had taken them as his own, as the future of House Velaryon. It was a betrayal, a stain upon their legacy.

"What do you want, boy?" Vaemond demanded, his voice rough, the mask of civility slipping away, his eyes locking on Aemond's. He could see it then, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of Aemond's lips.

"An understanding," Aemond said simply. "Between us. You want a pure-blooded Velaryon on the Driftwood Throne. I want the same for the Iron Throne. Aegon may be a fool at times, but better a fool than a whore's bastard. Together, we can ensure that those who are unworthy will not inherit what they do not deserve."

A pause. Hesitation.

"...Your mother sent you to me?" Vaemond asked at last, his voice uncertain, trying to gauge just how far the Queen's machinations extended. Aemond gave a slow shake of his head, a hint of something almost like regret in his eye.

"No. My mother is far too preoccupied with other matters, unfortunately," the boy said. "But in time, I am sure she will come around. Today, however, I have come to you for a related matter, one that I believe would be of mutual benefit, one that would bring us closer to securing the purity of our bloodlines. The Driftmark throne is yours to claim, Lord Vaemond, should ill, gods forbid, befall Corlys. But you will need allies."

Again, Vaemond hesitated. He looked to Larys, who stood silent, almost forgotten, his head bowed as if to keep his thoughts hidden. The sea crashed behind them, each wave echoing the tumult in Vaemond's chest—anger, betrayal, and something else—a dark hope. He turned back to Aemond, searching the boy's face, looking for any sign of deceit, any hint that this was a game, a trap laid. But Aemond's gaze was steady, unwavering, and there was a fire there, a determination that spoke to Vaemond's own sense of injustice, his own desire to see things made right.

"What would you have me do?" he asked in the end, eliciting a smile from the young, blue-eyed dragon.

***

The night was thick with mist, the kind that seeped into the bones and made everything feel heavy. Aemond moved quietly through the Keep's halls, his footsteps barely audible on the stone floor. He slipped past the door guards, men dulled by the late hour, their heads nodding from the monotony of keeping watch over a castle that rarely saw danger. There was no excitement in his veins, only a cold resolve. This was something that needed doing, a task that fell to him alone. He did not expect glory, nor thanks. His father would call it reckless, his mother would not understand. But Aemond did not need their approval. He needed Vhagar.

The greatest of all living dragons, ancient and terrible. She had been Laena's mount, her pride, her bond. And now Laena was gone, her body consigned to the sea, and Vhagar was riderless. No one else dared approach her since, still wrapped in their grief or perhaps cowed by the great beast's formidable nature. Aemond had no such luxury as fear. Fear, he knew, served no one but itself.

As he left the keep, the mist thickened, swallowing the narrow path that led down towards the beach. The cold air turned his breath to mist. He could hear the sea now, the crash and pull of the waves. The darkness was heavy, pressing in from all sides, as though the night itself sought to deter him. Aemond pulled his cloak tighter.

Vhagar loomed ahead, her great shape a terrible silhouette against the sky, her eyes twin embers glowing faintly. She rested by the edge of the water, her wings folded close, her head resting upon the ground. She looked old, older than Driftmark, older even than the sea itself, though she was nowhere near that age. Had she been one of Shai-Hulud's many forms, she would have been but an infant. Yet, she was still a relic of another age, a weapon whose ancestors were forged in the fiery bowels of Old Valyria to reshape the world.

Aemond approached, his gait easy and unyielding. He had no illusions about what he was attempting. Dragons were not tame beasts. They were fire and fury given form, creatures of destruction. But what was fire before the Muad'Dib? What fury before the Kwisatz Haderach?

He took a step forward, then another, his eyes never leaving Vhagar's. The great dragon lifted her head, her ember eyes narrowing, focusing on him. The intensity of her gaze bore into him, assessing him. He felt the weight of her attention, as though she were stripping away his skin, seeing what lay beneath. Suspicion flared in her gaze and the dragon's maw glowed crimson as a deathly growl emanated from her chest.

"Calm, Vhagar," Aemond intoned, calling upon the Voice as he reached out to the old queen. "Dohaeras. Serve me."

The old queen regarded him for what felt like an eternity. Her gaze was unblinking, ancient, and knowing. Then, slowly, she moved, lowering her head, her breath hot and smelling of burnt cinnamon, washing over him. Aemond reached out, his fingers unfurling, and laid his hand on her scaled face. The warmth of her spread through him, her rough skin beneath his touch. She rumbled low, the sound vibrating through his bones, and Aemond knew. She had accepted him.

A soft smile creased his face, his fingers trailing over her scale. The ridges of her body were steep, the climb difficult, but he persisted. He had never been the biggest nor the strongest, but he was relentless and that was enough. Soon enough, he was atop her, seated between the great ridges of her spine. The world seemed small from up here—Driftmark's towers little more than toys, the sea an endless dark expanse. He felt the power beneath him, the tension in her muscles, the heat that radiated from her.

He tightened his grip on the reins, the old leather cool beneath his fingers. He leaned forward, his face set, his voice firm. "Soves," he commanded. Fly.

For a heartbeat, nothing happened. Then Vhagar moved, her wings unfolding with a sound like the earth tearing itself apart, the force of it almost unseating him. She rose from the ground and began charging towards the sea, the beach falling away beneath them, her wings beating with slow, powerful strokes, each one propelling them higher. The wind tore at Aemond's cloak, pulling at his hair, but he held on, his body pressed low against her warmth. The mist fell away as they climbed higher, the cold air biting into his skin, each gust like the edge of a knife.

***

As Aemond dismounted from Vhagar, his boots landing softly in the loose sand that skirted the castle walls of Driftmark, his expression sank into a mask of cold indifference as he made his way back through the gate. He knew what was coming, and he had planned for it, had set every piece in motion with the careful precision of a man playing cyvasse.

The corridors of Driftmark were silent, save for the occasional murmur of distant conversations, voices muffled by the thick stone walls. Flickering torches threw long shadows, the light twisting and writhing, making the stone seem alive, almost malevolent. Aemond strode through these halls, his steps certain, his fingers brushing the hilt of his knife. There was no hesitation in him, no doubt. What would transpire tonight was necessary. He felt nothing for it. No anger, no remorse. Only purpose.

He had watched them all long enough to know their reactions, to understand their anger, their entitlement. He knew they would be waiting for him, knew the rage that burned in their veins would drive them, compel them to confront him. That they would rise, like children do, without thought for consequence.

And there they were, just as he had foreseen, gathered at the far end of the corridor. Jace, Luke, Baela, and Rhaena—all of them, waiting for him, their eyes aflame with anger, their expressions twisted with disbelief. The torchlight reflected off their faces, catching the fury in their eyes, the defiance in their clenched jaws. Aemond let his gaze sweep over them, taking in their flushed cheeks, their trembling fists. It was almost laughable, how easy they made it.

Rhaena was the first to step forward, her eyes bright with unshed tears, her voice breaking as she spoke. "You took her," she accused, her grief and rage palpable. "Vhagar was my mother's. She was meant to be mine."

Aemond regarded her clinically, her words carrying no weight beyond what they added to the unfolding scene. "Meant?" he echoed, his voice intentionally dripping with disdain. "A dragon is not yours by birthright, girl. She is claimed by those who have the will to take her. If you think yourself worthy, then perhaps you should have acted before I did."

He saw her eyes widen, saw the rage twist her features. She lunged, her small fists swinging, a child's rage made manifest. Aemond caught her wrist effortlessly, his grip bruising, and with a single fluid motion, he threw her to the ground. She landed with a thud, the air leaving her lungs in a sharp gasp.

Then came Baela, letting out a cry as she started forward, but Aemond turned to her, his eye cold, his voice a low growl. "Come at me, girl, and I'll feed you to my dragon."

The words had the desired effect. For a moment, there was silence, a heavy pause in which Aemond could feel the weight of their fear, their uncertainty. He waited, and then the boldest of them, Jace, moved, as he knew he would—his face contorted with anger, his hand curling into a fist as he charged. Aemond sidestepped easily, his own fist connecting with the boy's jaw and sending him sprawling into the dirt.

Luke followed, his smaller frame crashing into Aemond, his fists flailing wildly. There was no technique, no skill—only blind rage. Aemond grabbed him by the collar, throwing him to the ground beside his brother. The boy's head bounced off the floor with a crack as his nose broke, then he was silent, unconscious, his body limp in the dirt.

Aemond turned then, looming over Jace, who still lay on the ground. his face was a mask of impassivity, his eye cold and distant. He felt no satisfaction, no pride. Only resolve. He lifted his foot and drove it down, stomping the other boy into the dirt.

It was then that the sound of footsteps echoed through the courtyard, and Aemond turned to see a trio of Velaryon guards rushing towards them, their armour clinking. Behind them, Harwin Strong emerged, his eyes widening in shock as he took in the scene before him.

"Enough!" Harwin shouted, his voice ringing across the courtyard. He rushed forward, grabbing Aemond by the shoulders, pulling him away from Jace. Aemond thrashed as was expected of him, his rage clear for all to see. An act.

In that moment of chaos, Jace scrambled up, his face twisted with pain and fury. His hand went to his belt, finding the hilt of a knife., and with a cry, he lunged forward, the blade slashing upward. Aemond saw the blade come up at him, yet he didn't move. He didn't break free of Harwin's grasp, even as he felt the searing heat of his left eye coming undone beneath Jace's blade. He didn't fight back even as his base instincts bade him to do so like an animal.

Instead, he screamed then, the sound shrill and loud, reverberating through the courtyard, echoing off the stone. Blood poured down his face, blinding him, staining his hands as he clutched at the wound. He staggered backward, feeling Harwin's grip loosen, feeling the hands that had held him pull away in shock.

Ser Harrold Westerling arrived then, his white cloak billowing as he raced into the courtyard, his men at his heels. "What is happening here?" the Lord Commander demanded, his voice urgent, his gaze darting between the children, the knight, the guards, the bloodied prince. He moved to Aemond, kneeling beside him, his face pale as he tried to coax the boy into calmness. "It's all right, lad, it's all right. Let me—Gods be good! Who did this?"

For a moment, there was only silence. The guards, the children, all stood frozen, too stunned to speak. And then Aemond pointed, his finger trembling, his voice weak, filled with pain and accusation. "...He held me so Jace could take my eye," Aemond lied, his voice cracking, the words barely a whisper.

"Lies!" Harwin Strong retorted, his face twisted in shock, his hands held up as though to ward off the accusation. But before he could say another word, one of the men Aemond had requested of Vaemond spoke.

"The prince speaks the truth, Lord Commander," said the quickest among them, stepping forward, his expression solemn.

"We saw it happen as we arrived."