The Golden Wyrm

"We do not believe in coincidence. We are the hands of the universe, shaping destiny."

―Reverend Mother Gaius Helen Mohiam

…

​

The stone corridor outside the council chamber felt colder than any sea breeze. Malentine Velaryon shifted his weight as he waited, glancing from time to time at the towering doors. He was a man grown, well into his thirties, but standing here—awaiting Prince Aemond Targaryen's audience—left him feeling a strange discomfort, as if he were a green boy still clinging to his sword hilt during his first battle.

Truly, Aemond unnerved him, though Malentine would never dare show it. For all his strength and experience as a Velaryon knight, there was something about the prince that went beyond the natural order. Some whispered that he was more Valyrian than the others, that he carried a touch of the Old Blood not seen since the time of Old Valyria. Malentine was no believer in children's tales, but even he, dense as his brothers claim he was, knew something was odd about that one.

When Aemond finally emerged, the subtle curl of satisfaction on his lips lent Malentine a hint of relief. The prince's good mood was never to be assumed, and he inclined his head in deference as the young dragon drew near.

"Prince Aemond," Maletine greeted, his voice steady, if overly respectful. "I trust the council session was to your satisfaction?"

Aemond raised a brow, a spark of amusement in his gaze. "You've a good instinct, Ser Malentine. Come with me. There's much to discuss, and not all ears are meant to hear."

They moved down the narrow hallways until they came to a less obvious path: an alcove set in a dim recess of the wall. Aemond swept his hand along a rough-hewn stone, and a section of the wall shifted, revealing a small, unmarked door. Without hesitation, Aemond led the way inside, with Malentine trailing. The passages twisted and turned, winding deep into the Red Keep, eventually spilling into a chamber lit only by a single torch and a brazier in the centre.

A woman stood there in silence. She was cloaked and still as a statue, her gaze lowering only briefly as they entered. Aemond offered no introduction, and Malentine took the hint, keeping his eyes ahead.

Once they were seated, the prince eased into the stone chair by the brazier's light and turned his gaze upon Malentine. "So, Ser Malentine," he began, his tone smooth, almost conversational. "How has King's Landing treated you?"

The question was unexpected, and Malentine felt his tongue stumble for a moment. He steadied himself and gave a small, dutiful nod. "It's been... lively, Your Grace. I've found the city full of variety, even for one accustomed to Driftmark. The markets teem with strange wares, and the people... well, they've grown to have a certain charm."

Aemond chuckled quietly, folding his hands in his lap. "Indeed. A man who finds charm in that pit might even find it in the Stepstones, though I suspect they offer less to smile upon." He leaned forward, eyes flickering with some distant, private amusement. "And your cousin Vaemond, how fares he?"

"Quite well, Prince Aemond. He's ever eager, as you know. The men have rallied behind him, and he speaks often of your strength and vision."

Aemond's smile didn't waver. "Let him praise as he pleases, so long as his ambitions do not tempt him to overstep." He paused, his gaze meeting Malentine's with a look that froze the words on the knight's tongue. "I say this to remind him of his place, Ser Malentine. He is not to petition the crown in my absence. I'll see to it that a true-born Velaryon sits that seat he longs so desperately for—no one needs overplay their hand."

Malentine's mouth was dry, but he nodded, accepting the command without question. "Of course, Your Grace. I'll ensure he understands."

Aemond inclined his head, and the tension in the air lightened, as if a taut rope had been carefully eased. "Good," he said, satisfaction flickering across his features. "Now, tell me of the preparations on Driftmark. The fleets—are they ready?"

Malentine found himself settling more comfortably on his feet, eager to please. "The fleets are mustered, and every seaworthy vessel has been counted. Driftmark stands ready to begin your instructions. I've also ensured the shipwrights will increase their output in the months to come."

The prince gave a nod of approval, his eyes glinting like tempered steel. "Once the harbour on the Stepstones is completed, I want the majority of your vessels relocated there for the meantime. This campaign will be secure only if our reach extends to those islands."

"Understood," Malentine answered, then paused for a moment before speaking again. "...But what of Lord Corlys?" he asked.

"What of him?"

"With his campaign coming to an end and his return imminent, I fear we may not have the same latitude to act as freely as we once did. Shouldn't that be of some concern?"

Aemond, however, didn't seem overly perturbed by Malentine's fears, waving them away as one does smoke. Then, almost as an afterthought, the prince gestured to the woman in the chamber with them. She had remained silent all the while, standing in the shadows without so much as a murmur. Her hood masked her face, and even the brazier's glow couldn't pierce the shroud she wore.

"This," Aemond said simply, "is one of my Speakers. She will accompany you back to Driftmark to ensure all goes as planned."

Malentine's brows raised, but he caught himself before any expression showed. He cleared his throat and gave the woman a respectful nod, though she didn't so much as look in his direction.

"A Speaker?" he ventured cautiously.

"She is one of many," Aemond said, his voice calm. "Her task is simple: to serve. She will serve as a chamberlain to Lord Corlys when he returns, and until then, she'll serve as any other maid in your house. You are not to hinder her tasks nor draw attention to her presence. She answers to me alone."

There was a chill in the air that had nothing to do with the brazier's dying warmth.

"As you wish, Your Grace. I'll see that she is settled quietly."

The prince looked at him, a searching look in his gaze before it made way for a slight smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Good man, Malentine." He rose to his feet, his casual stance a marked contrast to the hard edges of his words. With a dismissive nod, he turned toward the door.

"Farewell, then, and godspeed," he said, his tone light once more, almost as if they had discussed nothing more than the weather.

Malentine inclined his head deeply, watching as the prince left, his steps echoing down the hidden corridor. He turned, meeting the woman's gaze for the first time. Her eyes were impassive, dark and unreadable, offering nothing in return. Without a word, she moved toward the door, slipping through the shadows as if they belonged to her.

Malentine followed a pace behind. Though his steps were sure, the unease lingered.

***

Aegon's head throbbed with a dull, relentless pulse, the kind that felt as if it might split his skull apart if he dared open his eyes fully. The air in the room was stale, filled with the unmistakable stench of spilled wine, smoke, and sweat. Every part of him ached, from his head down to his limbs, as if he'd been dragged through mud and beaten for good measure. When he finally forced his eyes open, he found himself in a dim, unfamiliar room, its wooden beams swaying faintly in his blurred vision.

There was a servant girl kneeling in the corner, scrubbing furiously at the floor, her shoulders hunched over what looked to be a fresh stain of bile. His bile, he realized with grim distaste. He tried to call out, his voice coming out hoarse and rough, but the girl only stiffened at the sound, avoiding his gaze as she hastily finished her task. With her bucket and rag in hand, she darted out of the room without so much as a backward glance.

He sat up slowly, the blanket slipping from his shoulders as he took in his surroundings. Where was he? Aegon tried to recall the night before, piecing together scattered memories: a rowdy tavern, the warm embrace of a woman he couldn't quite place, the blurry sight of cups filling and emptying at his lips. It all drifted away in a haze, and he cursed under his breath.

Some minutes passed, each one filled with nothing but the muffled hum of his headache and the sour tang on his tongue. He was still trying to gather his wits when the door creaked open, and a familiar figure stepped in—a pale woman with a cool, appraising look and a sneer tugging at her thin lips.

Mysaria.

Aegon's stomach twisted with distaste, his already foul mood darkening. Of all the people to stumble upon him in his current state, it had to be her—the worst of his brother's lickspittles.

She took in the room with a quick sweep of her gaze, her lip curling as she noticed the disarray, the overturned goblet and the wrinkled sheets. "Quite the mess," she remarked coolly, crossing her arms. "Again, it seems Prince Aemond's concern would go wasted."

Aegon scoffed, rubbing at his throbbing temples. "I didn't ask for his bloody concern," he muttered. "I can look after myself, worm."

She laughed, a short, mirthless sound. "Can you, now?" She looked him up and down, her gaze lingering on the stains on his tunic, the grime on his hands. "The state of you would suggest otherwise."

Aegon clenched his jaw, feeling a familiar surge of anger. He forced himself to hold her gaze, unwilling to let her see the sting her words held. "And where then is the boor, hmm? Has he grown tired already of rubbing his many virtues in my face and gone flaunting them elsewhere?"

Mysaria's sneer deepened. "Prince Aemond has more pressing matters than babysitting a man-child, I assure you." She adjusted the thin shawl draped over her shoulders, the pale fabric catching the dim light as she continued, her tone laden with disdain. "It takes considerable effort to even ensure you are looked after, prince. Yet, It seems you strive to make even that more of a challenge."

He didn't like the way she said it, the way her gaze grew colder, more distant. Her words struck him with a sharper edge than he'd expected. His brother had truly sent her, hadn't he? To chastise him, to ensure he didn't do anything to embarrass House Targaryen more than he already had. The weight of Aemond's reputation, his successes, hung over him like a heavy chain, one he could never seem to shake.

"Go on, then," he muttered, his voice bitter. "Tell my brother I'm fine. Perfectly fine, as always."

Mysaria's face was unreadable, her voice softer but somehow sharper. "Aemond didn't send me to coddle you, nor to waste more time than necessary. You'll clean yourself and vacate this room by the hour's end, so it might be scrubbed properly. I'll not be leaving one of my girls to be forced to deal with the likes of you again."

With a final glare, she turned on her heel, leaving him alone in the dim light of the room, her steps echoing down the hall until they faded into silence.

"...Fucking whore," the prince said many moments later.

***

The forest was hushed as if holding its breath, every rustling leaf and distant bird call softened by the deepening twilight. Queen Alicent moved cautiously along the narrow trail, Ser Criston beside her, the evening's chill creeping into her bones. Her steps were measured, the hem of her green gown trailing through the dirt. In the silence of the trees, King's Landing felt far behind, its noise and stone walls replaced by the soft, earthy scent of damp leaves and the dim glow of evening. Her gaze fell ahead, drawn to the looming shape of Vhagar, outlined against the twilight like some ancient hill, her scales a dark, sullen gray under the dying light.

As they drew closer, Alicent's steps slowed. Even at a distance, the dragon's sheer size was enough to send an instinctive chill through her. Vhagar's head rested on the ground, her eyes narrowed to mere slits, though a faint tendril of steam drifted from her nostrils. She was old, with eyes that seemed more wise than beast.

Alicent stopped a safe distance away, her fingers tightening around her shawl as she spotted Aemond near the dragon's side, his tall, lean figure half-hidden by the bulk of the great beast's flank.

"Aemond," she called, careful not to raise it too loudly. The prince looked up, seemingly unsurprised to see her so far out of the city. His single blue eye caught hers in the gloom.

"Mother," he replied, his tone mild as he resumed his task, tugging the final strap on Vhagar's saddle into place. "I did not expect you to come all this way." A lie. Sometimes, she could tell when he told those. Most times though, she could not.

She hesitated, unwilling to draw nearer, her gaze shifting uneasily between her son and the monstrous creature he called his. "A son should not depart without his mother's blessing," she managed in the end, her voice wavering slightly.

Aemond paused, his hands lingering on the leather straps as if weighing her words. "I ride North, as I told the council," he said, his tone light, almost teasing as he secured a pack to the netting that draped over Vhagar's scales. "The Vale is not so distant. I'll be back soon enough."

She drew her shawl closer, taking a careful step forward. "The Vale…" she repeated, her tone probing. "It seems an unusual choice for a journey."

Aemond's gaze met hers, unwavering but unreadable, his face set in a calm mask. "The Vale has its charms," he replied evasively, turning back to his preparations. "High mountains, strong people, and, of course, beautiful sights."

Alicent raised an eyebrow, unamused by his deflection. "You are not one to chase idle charms, Aemond. Tell me plainly—what is it that draws you to the Eyrie?"

A faint smile touched his lips, though his eyes remained focused on the task before him. "Mother, you are relentless," he said with quiet amusement. "If I am so forced to confess… I go with the hope of finding myself a wife."

The words caught her off guard, and for a moment, she thought he was jesting. "Marriage?" she echoed, disbelief turning to sharp concern. She felt her heart quicken, struggling to process the revelation. There was a hint of irritation in her voice now, her green eyes narrowing as she took a step closer, forgetting her fear of the dragon for a brief moment. "You speak of such things so easily, as if it were merely a passing matter. And yet you planned this without a word to me?"

Aemond's gaze softened, and he turned towards her, lowering his voice. "I would not make such a decision lightly," he assured her, his tone gentler now. "And I have not. But the matter of securing our family's strength grows more pressing by the day. I would see the bonds of House Targaryen strengthened—not just in King's Landing, but with allies who can be trusted."

She shook her head, her voice tight with anxiety. "Allies, yes. But the Vale?" Her hands gripped her shawl tighter. "I had not thought you would go so far, not for marriage."

Aemond inclined his head, acknowledging her distress. "And yet, I would not act without careful thought." He cast a glance up at Vhagar, his hand absently brushing her massive scales. "It may seem hasty, but there is wisdom in diversifying our alliances. And Lady Jeyne is a formidable ruler; she governs her lands well, and any match secured with her house would benefit us greatly." Aemond looked at her fully then, his expression turning bemused. "Besides, I am a man grown, Mother. Surely you do not think I require your leave for every decision."

Alicent's breath escaped in a sigh, a reluctant acceptance softening the hard line of her mouth. "You are certain of this path, then?"

The young prince smiled. "I walk no path but my own, Mother."

Alicent studied him, and for a moment, the memories of his childhood rose unbidden, memories of a boy who had once clung to her skirts, eager for her approval, her guidance. Now, he stood before her, poised, self-assured, a man who held his own course with quiet resolve. He would go forward, with or without her approval, and the realization struck her with a pang of both pride and sorrow.

"Very well," she said softly, after a long pause. "But remember, Aemond… even the strongest bonds can falter. I would also have you remember your brother Aegon." She took a breath, feeling the weight of her own misgivings. "There is a distance between you, and I fear it grows wider by the day. Brothers ought not to grow so apart."

Aemond's expression softened, a flicker of something more vulnerable showing in the set of his jaw. "I know," he replied, a rare note of hesitance in his voice. "But Aegon… he has little care for responsibility, for duty. It is a difficult thing, to find common ground."

"That may be," Alicent said, glancing away as if to shield her own worry. "But he is your brother, Aemond, and one day he may yet need your guidance, more than you think." Her voice lowered, weighted with a mother's burden. "I should have done more to ensure you two were closer. Perhaps I gave you too much freedom in your education, in your allotment of your time, too young, and kept him too sheltered. I regret that now."

For a moment, the silence between them deepened, broken only by the soft crackle of the wind rustling through the trees. Aemond shifted, nodding thoughtfully, as if weighing her words. "If that is what you ask of me," he said at last, "then I shall try."

It was a small promise, but it was something, and Alicent's heart eased a fraction. She offered him a faint, weary smile, letting her gaze linger on him for a moment longer.

With a final nod, Aemond turned to mount Vhagar, his movements sure as he scaled the dragon's massive flank and settled into the saddle. The great beast stirred, her wings unfurling with a heavy rustle, and Alicent took a step back, her heart pounding as the dragon's immense power became impossible to ignore. Aemond looked down at her, a smile on his face before his gaze flickered to the knight standing a step behind.

"Ser Criston."

"Yes, my Prince?"

"Look after my mother for me, would you."

"Of course, my Prince."