Chapter Text
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chapter two (part i): seek you out, flay you alive…
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“I want to get married.”
Aemond sat cross-legged on the plush, deep-purple carpet of Daenerys’ vanity room, a mannequin head perched in his lap as he meticulously brushed out the hair till it shone silver with a white baleen brush, and parted it into several sections. Aemond secured the smaller pieces with duckbill clips to keep them out of the way and focused on a large, voluminous section that would serve as the base. He took the delicate pieces near the scalp and pulled them into tight, neat braids with deft, steady fingers and unerring precision.
Without lifting his gaze from his task at hand, Aemond gave a low hum of acknowledgement. “Good for you, sugar. Who’s the lucky groom?”
His sister gave a tinkling laugh. “You, silly goose.”
Daenerys was stretched out on her stomach beside him, feet crossed at the ankles and swung lazily in the air. She was dressed in a puffy and fluffy, white tulle-and-taffeta wedding gown she had worn in the eighties. Old photo albums were sprawled in front of her and she was browsing through the recent one from seven years ago; the screen of the nearby open laptop showing pictures of resort locations on the Summer Isles. It was not hard to guess where the conversation was heading. Still, Aemond indulged her.
“Everyone always told me you were after my body, but I didn’t want to believe it.”
“Incredible.”
“My body?”
“Your ego.”
“Thanks, I’ve been working on it for decades,”* Aemond drily remarked, around a dimpled, charming grin, and bumped his knee against her shoulder. “As for your offer of matrimony: I would have to humbly decline. The lady is most fair, but I fear I’m not the marrying kind.”
“I literally have you here in a tux,” she exclaimed, pointing to a glossy picture of the two of them standing at the altar.
Admittedly, dressed in midnight-black and glimmering-ivory, both moonlight-luminescent and with their long silver hair tumbling down their shoulders, Daenerys and he made for a handsome couple—aesthetically pleasing, if eerily, disturbingly homogeneous. (The latter was to be expected: they were siblings after all. Sort of. Kind of. From a particular point of view. But siblings nonetheless.)
Aemond peered down, examining the photographic evidence. “Look, this chap is smiling. That doesn’t sound anything like me. Must be some other devastatingly handsome vampire with an eyepatch.”
She punched him hard in the thigh, ignoring the indignant cry of ‘Oi! Watch the wig!’, and flopped down on her back. “Gah! You’re so annoying! I hate you.”
Aemond gave her a sly, fond look out of the corner of the eye, and sent her a wave of warm affection, tinged with good-humour and amusement.
Dany only huffed and waved him off, and Aemond went back to work. He finished the smaller base braids and gathered larger sections towards the crown of the mannequin’s head, carefully coiling them into elaborate, medium-thick braids for a complex, textured look. Before long, delicate, slender braids draped down from the main bun, cascading gracefully in glossy, polished strands that hung perfectly in place. Perfect recall and impeccable fine-motor control made the end product look smooth and flawless. Dany had found the braided hairstyle while browsing online, and demanded he recreate it for her.
“Here,” he proffered the mannequin head towards her, still critically examining the coiffure. “How does it look?”
Daenerys sprung up: all smiles and dimples, and bright eyes; full of excitement that buzzed along Aemond’s skin. She made a grabbing motion with her small hands. “Gimme! I wanna try it on.”
She took the wig off the mannequin and put it on, bouncing towards the nearest full-length mirror to examine Aemond’s work, her long skirts tangling behind her. Her natural hair was a downy, white-blonde, barely three inches long and close-cropped to her scalp. Vampires could not grow their hair beyond the length it became during the transformation. However, if a vampire’s hair was cut, it grew back much quicker than a human’s—returning to its original length in mere days.
That was how and why one wall of Daenerys’ large vanity room was lined with dozens upon dozens of wigs, all carefully arranged into a variety of intricate hairstyles. Most were woven out of Aemond’s hair, as Dany enjoyed the silky texture and the silver colour the most; and some spotted the rich, auburn ringlets of Alicent, or the tousled golden blonde waves of Aegon. There were occasional mannequin heads featuring Criston’s full, dark curls and Haelaen’s caramel-brown locks, and even one or two wigs made out of Vhagar’s deep-bronze*, knee-length hair. Daenerys misliked the length and coil-pattern of Daeron’s hair—claiming short curls that tight and a round face made her look like a ginger Betty Boop—so she had never shaved him bald for a wig.
“It looks wonderful. Thank you!” she chirped, her eyes sparkling as she tilted her head to and fro, admiring her reflection. Joy and delight radiated off Dany, and bathed Aemond in a golden haze of tender feeling.
With delicate care, she removed the wig, taking care not to damage it with sudden movement, and handed it back to Aemond. “Can you weave some beads into it? I think I have some purple agate here somewhere.”
Aemond nodded and set to work as soon as she handed him a box of beads. Meanwhile, Daenerys glided into the depths of her closet. Moments later, she returned, dressed in a simple cotton top and white linen trousers.
“Anyway,” she said, plopping down on the carpet next to him and winding her arms around her knees. “Mawage is wot bwings us togeder today*.”
“No.”
She batted her eyelashes. “Can’t a sister ask her beloved brother to get fake married platonically?”
“She can. She, however, shall not receive a satisfactory answer. Vampires don’t need to get married,” Aemond stressed.
At the sight of her pout, he conceded. “Not unless they wish to. Which I do not. Ask Aegon or Helaena this time. They would make for a more height appropriate fake spouse and look better in the pictures.” Aemond thrust his chin towards the open album. “Last time, you needed to stand on a box just to fit into the frame with me.”
Weddings were one of the few true delights in Daenerys’ immortal existence. For a while, in the seventies and then the nineties again, she even worked as a wedding planner. Alicent hypothesised it was something she had never got to experience in her human life, and the entire family indulged her fancy. After all, no other vampire was likely to entertain the idea of going through the performative motions of a wedding—let alone a fake one. The Hightowers were the only family committed to the charade of human life, and even the other animal-feeding coven up in the Frostfangs did not cling to the illusion of humanity as meticulously as they did.
Aegon adored being the bridegroom and relished every moment of playing one; a born performer, he thrived as the centre of attention, especially with no humans around to spoil the hedonistic fun of a vampires-only party. Helaena, on the other hand, had little love for weddings—never having one of her own with Aegon—but her love for Daenerys was strong enough to play the blushing bride for her sister, time and time again.
Daeron never participated. He had a rather serious stance on the matter of matrimony, firmly believing the sanctity of marriage should not be infringed upon with pretence and play-acting. Aemond personally thought it was absurd to cling to outdated social constructs when they were undead creatures of untold desires and lusts, far removed from moral conventions. However, Daeron was still young—barely fifty-four-years-old and forever frozen in the body of a seventeen-year-old schoolboy. Aemond graciously granted him leniency where he would not for others.
“Or, you know,” Aemond continued, as Daenerys watched him loop polished purple agate onto the ends of braids and secure the beads with a thin, silver thread. “You could marry a human again.”
The only spouse-to-be in Daenerys’ little marriage game that appeared in photos more frequently than Aegon, was a human. Dany loved the drama of a passionate, whirlwind romance with an unsuspecting human, culminating in a lavish, ostentatious elopement somewhere in the tropics. Only for Daenerys to tragically perish in a staged boating accident during a honeymoon—permanently extracting herself from the human’s life.
If it was a little cruel, it was what it was. Their family were vampires—granted they abstained from human blood on ethical grounds—and, at the end of the day, humans were little more than entertainment to them. There was a beautiful impermanence to humanity, a gentle sadness to their fragile, fleeting lives, but such was the way of their world—vampires were the predator, and humans the prey. In the grander scheme of things, humans were fundamentally insignificant.
“That would necessitate I go spouse hunting,” Daenerys murmured, eyes distant.
Aemond handed her the finished wig, and she uncurled and bounced to her feet. Lovingly, she put the newest addition to her collection away onto the shelf, fingers lingering on a sweep of a silver braid, before turning around.
“It’s just… Helaena said she saw me in white again. She said I looked beautiful. So I thought…” Dany looked down, intently studying her bare feet, and tucked her hair behind her ears. A miasma of embarrassment wafted off her. “Well, it doesn’t matter what I thought. I have a feeling I should stay in Eastwatch.”
Aemond knitted his pale eyebrows, a genuine question in his voice. “Was it a feeling?”
She nodded and Aemond cursed softly. “Something is going to happen soon and it would be best if the family stayed together for it.”
Aemond rose slowly, as to not startle his sister, but he still saw her flinch imperceptibly when his shadow fell across her. He stilled, towering over Daenerys as he carefully regarded her. “How long have you felt this?”
“Not long,” she shrugged, casting her eyes away. “A few days.”
“Daeron returned from Frostfangs a fortnight ago.” Aemond tried to make his tone sound non-accusatory.
Daenerys finally met his gaze—white-gold locked with the sunlit-topaz of his right eye. “If it’s something related to him, Helaena would have told us.”
Would she? Aemond uncharitably wondered, recalling how withdrawn and distant their sister had gotten lately. He had thought her morose and melancholic because the seventieth anniversary of her rebirth was fast approaching. Helaena’s death was surrounded by grief and tragedy, and she was sensitive around this time. But perhaps… there was something more to her pensive moods, something else she was hiding.
Daenerys placed her faith and trust in Helaena wholeheartedly, and Aemond deeply envied the purity of her convictions; wishing, not for the first time, he was as good as her. Instead, he was a fortress of scepticism and cynicism, built brick by guarded brick—always on high alert and suspicious even towards his own family.
Aemond stomped on his misgivings.
“All right,” he acquiesced, searching for something—anything—to reassure her, and maybe himself. “It’s probably nothing then. Criston entered a radio giveaway the other day. Maybe he’s about to win an all-inclusive trip to Skagos, or something.”
She scrunched up her nose, her earlier self-consciousness fading, swept away like footprints in the tide. “Ew, Skagos. Who’d willingly go to that miserable place?”
Aemond raised his eyebrows, his eye rounding comically wide. “What? You don’t want to hunt unicorns?”
“I hate goats. They taste awful.”
“You eat belugas. You’ve got no ground to judge anyone’s taste in blood.”
“One of these days, you will try aquatic animals and realise, they actually don’t taste that bad. A little tangy and a bit different from land-dwelling mammals, I admit, but much better than reptiles.”
“I’d rather die of desiccation, thanks.”
“Oh, come on!”
✨✨✨
Dear Sweetrobin,
My therapist said journaling daily would be a productive way for me to clarify thoughts and regulate emotions, but so far it only made me feel even more of a basketcase raging teenage cliché. Is that self-reflection? I wouldn’t know.
What went well for me today? Why, thank you for asking!
Today was rather exciting. Myranda Royce is the only friend I made who owns a car—she lives in Long Barrow, a fancy gated community a couple of miles away from the edge of the Eastwatch border—and I readily admit, I was not above begging her for a lift to Queenscrown. It’s the only decently sized city in the area—and both of us were in need of a bit of casual shopping.
Brandon has not changed my room since I was eight-years-old and it really shows. I have Powerpuff Girls bedding and my collection of My Little Ponies is proudly displayed on the shelves. I’m keeping the latter because they are cute and took me ages to collect, but I’m kinda creeped out by the idea of sleeping on a pillow with Buttercup’s giant scowling face. Bubbles is smiling, Blossom looks determined, meanwhile Buttercup is gearing up for a mean right hook. It’s making me queasy. I keep thinking she’ll punch me in my sleep.
Any. Way.
I bought a new bed—sleeping on a single is not the way—new pillows and duvet, new bedding, new bathroom essentials. Actually, I’m not going to list everything I purchased, it will take too long. Suffice to say, my room is getting an upgrade because I refuse to reside in close proximity to plywood furnishings from the seventies. Brandon can indulge in his Dazed and Confused-inspired aesthetic in the rest of the house, but I will not participate in such deviancy.
I also found this absolute darling, satinwood trifold dressing table with hand-carved detailing and hand-painted floral embellishments, in the local antique shop. It was a marvel and a steal, and I’m still reeling from the find. The antique hunting scene here is quite extensive, I don’t think I would have minded living this far up north earlier if someone told me about it.
What didn’t go well?
I got mugged!
Well. Almost.
Myranda and I were on our way to have dinner together, when someone rushed by and snatched my purse, ripping it off my shoulder. I reflexively yelled and gave chase, but I knew I would not be able to catch up. I’m fit, but I’m no sprinter. Luckily, I didn’t have to be.
A figure swept past me and bolted after the mugger, tackling him to the ground. Before I knew what was happening, the man was on the ground, gripping his shoulder and groaning in pain. And of all people, Daeron Hightower was standing over the mugger; auburn curls windswept, smiling brightly, my purse in his hand. Later when we were alone, Myranda swooned and said it looked like something straight out of a movie.
“Miss, I believe this is yours,” he said and handed my bag to me. The man on the ground moaned and complained that he thought his shoulder was broken. When none of us extended any sympathy towards him, he muttered if a bag was really worth all of this.
My brain was still rebooting after witnessing Daeron’s rather dazzling smile and, embarrassingly, you know what I said? “It’s not just a bag… It’s Prada.”*
Somehow, Daeron thought it was funny—he laughed. (His laugh is almost as nice as his smile. He has very even teeth. Loras would be jealous.) He did not catch the movie reference, for which I am thankful. A cute boy does not need to know what sort of comedy films I watch with the girls during sleepovers.
What can I change tomorrow?
I acted like a totally awkward dweeb.
I think I managed to stutter out a ‘thank you’ and grabbed Myranda, dragging her off towards the restaurant while I still had shreds of my dignity intact. Thankfully, when I glanced over my shoulder, Daeron did not seem insulted. In fact, he looked amused. I sure hope it was not at my expense. Loras would never let me live it down if he heard that a boy made me act like airheaded klutz.
Sansa Stark is the proverbial Head Bitch In Charge of girlhood. Boys, no matter how endearing and charming, do not make her nervous.
I’m going to bake Daeron some thank you cookies to give on Monday. Or would cupcakes be more suitable as a thank you gift. Brownies? Macaroons? Over a four way call, Jeyne advised I should avoid nuts, in case he’s allergic. Brandon has Meemaw Stark’s old cookbook stored somewhere in the kitchen, maybe I can find something useful there.
Seven Hells, I haven’t baked in ages. Not since—
[indistinct scribbles]
Sweetrobin, I think you’d like Jeyne and Beth. You’d definitely like Myranda. She’s the sort of girl who’d sneak you a sweet before dinner with a wink and a titter. I’m not sure if you’d like Daeron—he’s nice, but you never liked any boys around me.
Robin… Robin, I miss you, and I’m sorry. I’m so very, very sorry.
✨✨✨
Aemond perched high in the branches of a tall sycamore tree and tilted his head back, nostrils flaring as he tested the air, lips curling back faintly to taste the scents on the wind. He expanded the radius of his gift, feeling the surrounding forest out.
When he and Daenerys first joined the Hightowers, Alicent had not quite believed that his gift extended to non-humanoid lifeforms, too. She had never considered the idea that animal prey could feel the same chilling sense of impending doom in the face of an approaching demise as humans could—it was a foreign notion that she could not grasp at first. The household’s theological debate on whether animals have souls raged on to this day, but Aemond never concerned himself with it.
Aside from humans, other mammals were the easiest for him to read—they experienced a range of emotions: most were simple and straightforward; refreshing in their lack of complexity, but still real. They were capable of loving and caring about each other, and could feel sorrow and grief. Reptiles registered faintly on Aemond’s radar, just enough to pick up some basic emotions from them, and fish not at all—which led Aemond to theorise that the depth of insight his empathic abilities provided was closely related to the complexity of an organism’s nervous system, particularly the elaboration of cerebral hemispheres. The more intricate the neural network, the stronger the emotional connection he could sense.
In the end, it meant that he’d feel the fear of a dying doe just as easily as he would the horror of a slaughtered human. Humans weren’t all that different from animals—they just managed to hurl a hell of a lot more regret and pain and desperation at him before he snuffed their lives out.
Still, the potency of animal emotions was less than those of humans and thus more tolerable for his gift. Aemond never wanted to go back to the dark days of walking a fine line between depression and starvation.
He felt a smoulder of primal hunger to the northwest, coloured by anticipation and raw desire, fueled by the prospect of a successful kill—a predator on the prowl. Aemond launched himself in the direction of his target, gracefully leaping from treetop to treetop in great, swift bounds; nearly soundless and barely disturbing the foliage in his pursuit.
Each member of the family had their own distinct hunting methods and preferred prey. Aemond’s style did not lend itself for close company; it was aggressive and dominant. He stalked his prey and challenged it, forcing it into submission before savouring its final moments and devouring it. The prolonged rush of the hunt intensified his instincts, making the eventual relief of a feeding more potent. It almost eased the frustration of being confined to animal blood, adding a sliver of the thrill of the hunt to what otherwise felt like a barely adequate substitute.
Sometimes, he wondered why he tortured himself like this.
The animal blood diet was not without a silver-lining. It made vampires… quieter. More rational. Subdued their instincts some. Made them less inhuman. Animal blood filled a basic need: it was tolerable to taste and fed his body enough to maintain its functions, but it merely sustained and only just appeased the never-ending thirst. Human blood came with its own inherent drawbacks: it ignited. Drove a vampire hot and wild, feeding into the primal instincts, fueling impulses and an untamed, animalistic fervour. However, for nourishment and growth, a vampire indubitably needed their primary food source. It gratified and satiated in a way a mere substitute failed to do; only human blood truly quenched that primal hunger.
And Aemond liked animals a lot more than he liked humans, if he was honest.
But he grew fond of the Hightowers. He wanted their company. He wanted to stay.
So he kept the diet and the lifestyle, and put himself through the motions of snapping the shadowcat’s neck quickly, before it realised it had lost the fight and was going to die, lest the inevitable fear and pain distressed him and put him off his feeding. Aemond sunk his fangs into its neck, latching onto the jugular and inhaling its blood deeply and greedily, easing the fire in the back of his throat.
When the beast was completely drained, Aemond unlatched his fangs and felt them retract into his gums. He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, trying to chase the high that came from blood.
It was not enough. It was never enough.
Feeling vaguely disgruntled, Aemond straightened up and slung the carcass over his shoulder, careful not to damage it. Criston would probably salt and preserve the meat to sell it to the local butcher—a convenient evidence to support the Hightowers’ frequent hunting trips. The shadowskin pet was a sleek silver-grey, stripped like beams of moonlight through the foliage, and would be gifted to Helaena for one of her projects. She was as likely to make a plush from it as sew a cloak.
He walked at a leisurely pace, enjoying the crisp bite of the night air and the quiet that settled over the forest. Long before he caught his scent downwind, Aemond registered the pulse of Daeron’s emotional signature.
Much like Aemond, Daeron preferred to hunt alone; it gave him a chance to escape the constant input from his gift. In Aemond’s opinion, it would have been preferable if Daeron had taken up Daenerys on her offer to teach how to hunt marine life. If any location promised an escape from the clamour of the thoughts of others, it was the vast, open ocean. Regardless, he could not fault his brother for his refusal. Animal blood was unpleasant enough—fish blood sounded abhorrent. It was all the more baffling why Daenerys actively sought it out.
Daeron stepped out of the shadows: a ghostly figure, glowing in the moonlight. Where Aemond hunted shirtless and barefoot, dressed only in a pair of activewear trousers, Daeron had not changed out his clothes and as such, his shirt was muddy and ripped to tatters, his neck and jaw were stained bloody—whatever he had caught had put up a fight.
Aemond tilted his head to the side. Daeron was agitated; nervous and on the edge. The inner turmoil reflected in the chaos of his hunt.
Aemond plucked a stray leaf out of his brother’s hair. Rough night?
“I wish to speak to you.” Despite the distinct lack of hunger Aemond picked up from him, Daeron’s eyes were the colour of burnt clay—dark and conflicted. “I need your help.”
Did something happen? Are you hurt?
Daeron shook his head. “I put myself on a path… from which I do not think I have the strength to turn away.”
Aemond had a piercing, cutting quality to his gaze—he seemed to see into the heart of everything; cataloguing, calculating, and skilfully prying at secrets, at weaknesses. He carefully examined his brother: his wilted posture, the rounded shoulders, the stubborn set to his jaw, and the bone-deep resignation that permeated him, dulling his emotions. He put an arm around Daeron’s stiff shoulders and deftly plucked out the spark of trepidation at their proximity, instead subtly infusing him with trust and calm, and confidence.
Tell me, Aemond mentally prompted, in as kindly a tone as he could make it. His time with the Hightowers made him soft, he knew. It cultivated gentleness and kindness, and consideration in him—qualities he struggled to summon for most of his existence.
Compelled by his gift, Daeron whole demeanour sagged with relief, as he began to speak at length about the Stark girl, and all the while, Aemond pondered.
He tried to see it from Daeron’s perspective. Was it about control? Daeron had always taken great pride in the abstinence he exhibited, wielding his restraint like a badge of honour. Was that the allure of Sansa Stark? The fact that she was his greatest temptation. If he could maintain a relationship with someone whose very existence pulled at his darkest impulses, it would mean he was capable of overcoming even more dire trials—conquering greater demons. Daeron was broody and self-deprecating at the best of times, fully believing theirs was a cursed existence. Aemond could see why the idea of taming his vampiric instincts held unparalleled appeal to Daeron.
“I have tried to stay away,” Daeron confessed in a rapid whisper. “But everywhere I go, I see her through the eyes of other people—I can’t help but watch her. She haunts me. My every other thought is of her.”
Aemond squared his shoulders and straightened to his full height, expression turning thunderous; he loomed over Daeron, casting a shadow over him. For the first time, he chose to speak, tone low and dangerously soft: “You have been instructed to stay away from her. This family indulges your habits, Daeron, but you must understand that the girl is your singer. You shall doom both us and her in one fell swoop with your juvenile desires.”
Daeron snarled, blunt teeth snapping at him in anger, but Aemond’s iron grip on his shoulder kept him firmly in place. Let her go. Find somebody else.
His brother’s inarguably biggest failing was his fixation of humans which manifested in his proclivity to pursue them romantically. Sansa Stark was not the first girl who drew Daeron’s eye, and she would not be the last—she was merely the latest pretty face to feature in a long series of infatuations. However, she was an indulgence the family could not permit.
The girl might be insignificant, in the grand scheme of things, but her demise by his brother’s fangs could unleash a cascade of unfortunate consequences for all of them. She was the daughter of the Chief of Police, and Brandon Stark was connected to the freefolk residing in the Gift. An entanglement with her could spark a chain reaction of falling dominoes which would converge the human law enforcement, the temperamental shapeshifters, and the royal Meereenese coven upon them.
With Sansa Stark comes a veritable shitstorm of repercussions.
Daeron raked a hand through his hair, jaw locking painfully tight as Aemond’s thoughts hammered into him. His eyes were conflicted and desperate—imploring. “I can’t help it. Something is drawing me to her.”
The anguish tearing through Daeron gave Aemond pause and thawed his icy temper. Is her allure worth disobeying Alicent? Endangering the family?
Daeron immediately snapped his jaw shut with an audible click, his expression settling into something almost repentant. He registered to Aemond to be genuinely contrite, aware of his transgressions. Aemond’s cheeks hollowed sharply as he pursed his lips into a thin line. He was not in the habit of being disobeyed—he found defiance amusing, though appreciated it in none but himself.
Ultimately, however, the burden of the decision rested on Alicent’s shoulders; she was the matriarch of the Hightower family. For that was what they were—a family, not a coven. Most of the time, Aemond admired that about them, but occasionally, he resented the absence of a stricter hierarchy and social structure. Alicent did not respond to insubordination with the decisiveness and efficiency of a coven leader. If a member defied her, Alicent handled it with patience and care of a mother dealing with her child—rebukes and punishments were allotted, and a redress sought.
In Alicent’s place, Alys would have ordered Aemond to mete out the standard disciplining, and Daeron would have suffered for his disobedience. Vampires were resilient and robust, but not indestructible—and far from immune to pain or the countless ways it could be inflicted. His brother would have found himself swiftly pulled apart at the seams and his limbs locked away in boxes, close enough that they would inch towards the body, but be unable to connect. The head would remain tenuously attached to the torso—just enough for lucidity, but not enough to speak or be able to escape the agonising absence of severed body parts and leaking venom.
The excruciation of ripped limbs for a vampire went beyond the brutality of the act; each missing piece remained emotionally tethered to the body until it was burned. The closer the detached parts came to each other without reattaching, the sharper and more intense the pain would become. If Alicent handled her progeny like Alys, for three days and nights, Daeron would know no escape from that agony, and the lesson would be etched deeply into him.
Aemond looked at Daeron—a brother he cared about; a vampire he helped raise—and wondered what he would do if Alicent would issue an order to discipline Daeron. Aemond wanted to believe he had grown beyond who he once was and had shed the ruthless savagery of his past like snakeskin—that he would not hurt his brother this way. However, Aemond knew himself well enough to admit that in the crucible of a command, he might not know his own response until his back was put to the wall and he was forced to make a choice.
(After all, he had not known until the very last moment, not until he was already in motion, that he would choose Vhagar over Alys; that he would choose his friends’ happiness over the orders of his sire.)
Daeron blanched, flinching, and shifted his weight, but he did not step away. Aemond had always worked hard to guard the darker parts of his mind and block Daeron’s gift, but sometimes, stray thoughts and glimpses of his past slipped through in disturbing flashes.
Moonlight shimmered iridescent on the soft, rounded curve of Daeron’s cheek and in that moment, with his eyes veiled by his curling hair and his mouth set in a sullen pout—Aemond was struck by just how much like a young child his brother looked. How young he still was; frozen at seventeen, despite existing for over half-a-century. If anyone in the family was allowed the foolishness of mistakes, it was him.
“For the record, I do not approve,” Aemond drawled, for he indeed seldom understood his own heart until the very instant he acted. “However, I recognise that it would be better for all of us if I help you, lest you stumble your way into a disaster.”
A surge of relief and gratitude so palpable crushed into Aemond, and momentarily knocked his breath out. In the same instance, Daeron stepped into his personal space and pulled him into a fierce embrace. “Thank you, brother,” he whispered.
“There, there,” Aemond muttered, giving him a few awkward pats on the back. “Look at you, getting so emotional.”
She’s just another human girl, Ron.
“You only can say that because you’ve never been in love,” Daeron said as he stepped away, eyes shining, his tone lighter than it had been all night.
Aemond rolled his eye. “One would argue you’ve professed to be in love too many times for the sentiment to hold much weight.” The ease and speed with which Daeron claimed to have developed tender feelings was perturbing. Hadn’t he wanted to drain her dry just a month ago?
“That was then and this is now,” Daeron said, matter-of-factly, and Aemond could only chuckle.
“Race you!” Daeron suddenly exclaimed, shoving Aemond to the ground before taking off like a bullet southwards in the direction of their house.
“Cheater,” Aemond called out, goodnaturedly.
He was back on his feet and racing after Daeron in an instant, careful to keep the shadowskin pelt secure over his shoulder. He launched himself high into the treetops, leaping deftly from branch to branch, covering more distance than Daeron could on the uneven ground. Despite Daeron’s speed and the head start he had, Aemond was quick to catch up.
Timing his next jump perfectly, Aemond dropped down out of the foliage like a jungle cat, arms wrapping around Daeron’s torso and pinning his forearms to his sides, trapping him soundly. They tumbled to the ground and rolled, both laughing. Daeron was quick and fast, and mind-reading gave him an advantage over his opponents, but Aemond was made different—he was born anew with a singular physicality and raised in vastly different conditions.
“I yield,” Daeron laughed, a mix of delight and anxiety swirling through him. “You and your ambush attacks.”
Aemond released him, getting to his feet with a smirk. “It’s called guerilla warfare tactics.”
“You say that every time. Still feels like I’ve been taken out in a hit-and-run.”
Grinning, Aemond slapped him with a dose of disorientation to steal an edge and shot off southward, laughing as he dashed through the trees. He hoped he had not scuffed the pelt too badly for Helaena with their antics. The love of speed and freedom was in his bones—he galloped at break-neck pace on horses as a human and raced as a vampire across the open plains of Flatlands, even if he found himself running for his life more often than not.
Aemond streaked through the dark, thick underbrush of the forest, soundless as a ghost. Something more potent than adrenaline coursing through his body, heightening his senses and filling him up with the dark thrill of a chase, driving him forward like a bolt of pale lightning through the night.
Behind him, he could hear Daeron gaining ground rapidly.
Despite the drawbacks, despite all concessions he had to make—Aemond was genuinely happy he and Daenerys had caught the rumours of Hightowers and sought to join the household together. This sedate life of his was not perfect, but it was more than Aemond had once dared to hope for—it was more than he had ever expected he deserved.
And he’d do whatever it took to protect his family.
