Death was an odd thing for Aemond. He'd never experienced it really, not in any capacity specific to him.

The death of Laena Velaryon changed his life in many ways, technically, but the idea of her death, her corpse floating to the bottom of the sea to become fish food didn't stir any emotions within him.

But now— that feeling... It was odd.

"Brother, there's been an accident," Helaena had said.

The next words that came from her mouth were garbled as his ears rang, a high pitched throbbing echoing through his skull. He must've said something alarming, as Helaena, who usually didn't wish to touch or be touched, wrapped her arms around him as his legs failed, wobbling like a newborn fawn's.

He didn't really hear much of the substance of what Helaena said– there was no way around it: Rosemary was dead. She was... dead? Dead.

"Her... body? Her belongings?" he muttered, his one eye glassed over in a wet film of tears. Gods, when was the last time he cried?

"Burned. They found her... charred near flea bottom. She's gone to the field– away from the rats and stags..."

"Flea bottom? W– what was she doing there?" Rats and stags?

Helaena shook her head.

"I want her things– all of them. Have them brought to my chambers." he grunted, unlatching himself from Helaena's hold and beginning to pace. He looked over, seeing her discarded nightgown and swiftly picked it up.

The servants gave odd looks once all of Rosemary's things were cleared out of her chambers and brought to Aemond. They looked at him knowingly– but he couldn't care. The opinions of sheep meant nothing to a dragon.

His chest clenched as he thumbed over a blue blanket, Rosemary's ever familiar scent entangled into the fibers of the quilt. Aemond didn't know much about Rosemary's mother and only scarce details she shared about the Vale, but something about the blanket resonated within him. Sitting near the dying light of the sun as it receded over the horizon, he traced the stitches outlining the depictions of little lambs and nightingales, flitting near the moon and stars, braided into an image that felt so very much like her.

He expected her to slip through the passageway any moment now, murmuring apologies about her lateness and throwing herself into his open arms, peppering kisses along his skin–

She couldn't just be dead, could she? They were plaited within one another's being, he hadn't asked her for a dance at a ball, nor taught her how to properly wield a blade– he didn't even have the chance to introduce her to Vhagar, to take her flying. Aemond imagined her face, lips parted in awe as they would skim the stars above the clouds.

He wanted to share all of it with her, share more parts of him that he thought were recused so dreadfully far into the depths of his chest– he wanted to know her better. He should've gotten to know her more, know every freckle and stretch mark on her body and be able to map them without eyes, able to discern what she was thinking just by the wrinkle of her nose.

He just needed more time– more time with her, to know her more. It was already such a beautiful thing to be so intimate with someone like they had been, but there was a block. A small barrier that kept them from being linked wholly and irrevocably.

Not the sort of walls Aemond had within himself, no– those were self-imposed, defense mechanisms against further toil to his psyche, erected ever since Driftmark. Rosemary had a barrier that wasn't of her own volition, but rather circumstances that she was dragged into. He placed her quilt onto his bed for the time being, eye roving around the room in thought.

His eye landed on a vase near the corner of the room. It was filled with wilting, ugly, yellow flowers. They had been bright and sprightly just days before, shoved into his hands by his wife-to-be. Not his Rosemary, of course– Floris.

Floris.

Floris.

Brow furrowed, he walked to the flowers, plucking one of the petals and snapping it between his fingers. It left an ugly, powdery yellow-brown residue.

The barrier revealed itself.

–

Floris was sitting in her solar, feeling elated. The wedding was coming up soon and everything seemed to be perfectly aligned– not more bumps, hitches or maid-shaped indiscretions.

She leaned back in her chair relaxing for a mere moment before the door flew open, causing her to jump. Her eye caught a flash of white before he was in front of her, kneeled down, clenched fists on either side of her chair.

Aemond, her betrothed. His hair was a mess, his one violet eye wild.

"Hello, my betrothed," he hummed. Heat broiled off of him like a roaring fire, the veins in his neck popping, his vessels running through his calloused hands thrumming. "I'd love to have a chat with you."

Floris backed up on her chair, her throat going dry. "A-Aemond– this is highly irregular," she stammered, her tongue feeling heavy and thick in her mouth. "What... would you like to chat about?"

He shoved back off of the chair, sending it and Floris skidding backwards. "I've heard that my poor sister's handmaiden, she was so beloved by Helaena, has passed," he began to pace, his arms behind his back, fists clenching and unclenching with barely contained rage, "That is quite sad, isn't it?"

"Y-yes, quite." Floris whispered, her gaze going to her hands.

"Look at me." he stopped his pacing, his one eye trained on Floris as she avoided his sight.

"... Aemond– you must... understand," she continued, "... please."

"Look. At. Me." he was upon her again, standing this time, like a foreboding cloud. He just needed to look into her eyes and he would know– no need for a trial, no need for a jury or judge. Merely an executioner.

Her head raised, blue eyes meeting his one violet. They were rimmed with tears, her pupils looking like maddened slits. "I-I had to!"

It was all the confirmation he needed. His hand slammed forward, a dagger sinking into the velvet of the chair backing, just an inch from Floris' head. "Tell me what you've done."

"It... it wasn't me– not... not all of it, truthfully," she admitted, her voice marred with choked sobs.

"You're pathetic," he spat, "Tell me, who was the intelligence in your little scheme, since it obviously wasn't you– you don't have the gall."

Floris' throat bobbed as she cried, "T-That horrible man– L-Larys Strong. B-but, I didn't... I didn't kill Rosemary– I just... wished to scare her away. If she's dead– it was his doing!"

Aemond stared at her for a long moment, unblinking. "You will leave, Floris. You will leave the keep and go back to your father, tail tucked between your legs. Remember this, I am merciful in this only, consider yourself more lucky than Larys," he backed up, dislodging the blade from the chair, lifting up Floris' sobbing face by the chin with the point of it, "You will leave and speak nothing of this– if I ever even hear a whiff of her name coming from your mouth, I will kill you. I won't grant you such a kindness of life again," he nicked the soft skin of her chin, small drops of blood beading. He stowed his dagger and walked towards the door, "Consider this betrothal dissolved."

–

The Keep was bustling with activity for the week after Floris' sudden departure – rumors swirled of her getting cold feet, her integrity as an intact maiden coming into question, and that she was fraternizing with Larys Strong.

Larys, having caught wind of this, had some foresight that his nefarious doings had been uncovered. He returned to Harrenhal, effectively escaping Aemond's retribution. Aemond was a bit agitated at the rat slipping through his fingers– but there was always time. Harrenhal was only a dragon's ride away, he would get his soon enough.

It all felt like a blur to Aemond, the tumultuous months after Rosemary's death. Rhaenyra's arrival, the trial, the execution of Vaemond by Daemon, the dinner, the toast– his father's death, his brother's crowning. Helaena woke up screaming many nights, demanding that the tunnels be guarded more sufficiently and she didn't go anywhere without an escort– it was obvious to Aemond that she'd seen something that frightened her deeply.

Aemond was to be an envoy for his brother's cause– or moreso, his grandsire's. Anyone with eyes could see that Aegon didn't wish to be King, nor was fit for it. Flying to Storm's End– he wished that his grandsire would've sent someone else instead. He had already disgraced himself to Borros Baratheon, and had no desire to see Floris again.

It was raining, as was typical of the Stormlands. Vhagar growled uneasily underneath Aemond. "Umbagon gīda, uēpa riña," he murmured, reaching up to pat her scales. Keep calm, old girl. "Nyke ȳdra daor jaelagon naejot sagon kesīr, tolī." I don't want to be here, either.

He landed outside of the ramparts, quickly seeing why Vhagar had been agitated. A small, adolescent dragon was fidgeting anxiously in the courtyard leading up to the castle. He didn't recognize it, but guessed it was likely one of Rhaenyra's brood.

Stepping into the building, he saw him. Little Lucerys Strong– or Velaryon, if he was to be proper.

"Prince Aemond," Borros, the damnable oaf he was, shouted, "I assume you have come to ask for my banners for your brother, have you? Seems that Prince Lucerys has beat you to the punch, I'm afraid."

"Ah, did he now?" Aemond hummed, his arms behind his back as he glared at Lucerys– who was no older than sixteen, "May I remind you that it 'twas my brother, Aegon, who was crowned before the masses in the Dragonpit? My brother, the King Aegon, who wears the conqueror's crown, bears his name and wields our ancestral blade Blackfyre?"

Borros grunted. "That is all well and fine– but what is House Baratheon to do with Valyrian names and titles and swords? I can't very well pick my teeth with Blackfyre, now can I? What do you have to offer to me? I suggest you speak quickly, as you've already disgraced my house once by sullying my daughter's reputation."

Anger seethed within Aemond, his fist clenching and unclenching. "We have my brother, Daeron, to offer as an option for betrothal to one of your daughters."

Lucerys shifted uneasily next to Borros, his hands fiddling with a piece of parchment.

"Lucerys has already offered himself and his brother, Jacaerys, to marry two of my daughters. Your brother, Daeron, is no older than fourteen. One of my daughters could marry Jacaerys within a fortnight– even if Daeron was older, how am I supposed to know that your side of the family won't spurn us once again?"

Fucking hell.

He felt shamed by the boar Borros– all the while, Lucerys couldn't help but to stifle a chuckle. Just as he did at that damnable dinner. He felt his blood boiling and he had to stifle the urge to mount Vhagar and burn this castle to the ground.

The next hour was a blur. He remembers mounting Vhagar after Lucerys mounted his little whelpling– he remembers... the storm, the droplets feeling like shards of ice against his skin. His heart was beating in his ears, his taunts in High Valyrian to the boy prince sounding like echoes from someone else's mouth. He felt like a puppet to his own savagery, the entire chase pulling from something animalistic and cruel within him, like the song of a swinging blade.

It was a sickening sound, truly. The sound of Vhagar's jaw snapping that poor hatchling to pieces, little Lord Strong scattered over the bay. It was a sound Aemond wouldn't forget.

He had to imagine that Rosemary was ashamed of him, wherever she was in the afterlife, if there at all.

–

Aemond had become a shell of himself, two years of the war passing by like granules of sand filling an hourglass. The humanity of him recused back behind those walls once more, his body working through the autonomy of the primal fire that coursed through him.

He didn't feel alive.

He wasn't, really.

Quite a few assassination attempts on the Red Keep were thwarted from Helaena's plea for increased security. Guilt swirled in Aemond's gut– it was repercussion. Punishment for what he'd done, what Vhagar had done.

He went into a self-imposed exile to Harrenhal, citing it as a military strategy to hold the fortress– but in reality, he felt he was a dead man walking. He may as well add the ghosts and curses of the ancient stronghold to his list of crimes.

The only moment of clarity he'd had was when he executed Larys. Aemond dragged the crippled man from his hiding hole in Harrenhal, and let Vhagar's flame bathe him. It wasn't a sizable meal for Vhagar, but satisfying nonetheless, for a moment– before he felt nothing once more.

The witch– Alys. She flitted around Aemond, whispering in his ear like a buzzing fly. He did lay with her, but would never spend inside of her. It felt like he was just going through the motions, trying to stoke a fire within himself that was long snuffed out. She didn't feel anything like Rosemary– she was bony in all of the places where his Rosemary had been soft. After they would couple, he would send her away before she even had a chance to wipe herself off.

At night, he dreamed of her. Rosemary. Her warm hands cupping his face, murmuring sweetness to him, like a siren's song, like the call of the void.

Then Daemon came upon his ugly bloodwyrm.

A duel, then.

"We've both lived too long, uncle." he shouted, mounting Vhagar.

"On that, we agree. You've lived too long since you killed Lucerys in cold blood."

"Mayhaps I will arrange a meeting for you two, then, uncle?"

It was a battle of gnashing teeth and flames, the glint of Dark Sister seen–

His death, he was staring it in the face. His death had a face, too– Rosemary. She whispered in his ear every night that they would soon be together. This must've been it, her ghost telling him of their reunion soon to come.
He opened his arms, welcoming his uncle's thrust of his blade–

Darkness.

It was cold, cold... waves washing over him like he was bobbing across the surface of the lake.

Rosemary– where was she? Was he dead? Please, let him be dead. Let the nightmare be over.

The washing of waves came over him more, the tide ebbing and flowing over his body, pushing him. His head throbbed and he couldn't move his arm– his extremities were cold, but his head... felt lighter.

Opening his one eye, it was clouded in red. Red. Oh, good. He's gone to the Hells.

"Ser?" a voice called, sounding so far away. "Oi, Mare, come help me. He's bleedin' out."

"Gods, he ain't look too good, Jon. Think he's gonna kick the bucket before we even get 'em off the stones."

"Leave... me..." Aemond somehow croaked out, his voice sounding like he had gargled rocks. "I'm meant... to be... dead..."

"Seems fate got more in store for you, lad," one of the men said, "I'd be damned by the Seven themself if I leave you here to die on the shore. I ain't going to Hell without trying, eh?"

Aemond felt two pairs of arms lift him up, their murmurs coming in and out of focus.

"We're gonna get ya to the town tailor, lad. Ain't no maester from the citadel, but she can right a stitch better than any– and ya needin' a stitch or two. Miss Marigold will fix you right up." the other said, still not totally convinced.

The jingling of a bell was heard– all Aemond could see still was red. "Marigold! We've got a live one for you– he's hurtin' real bad."

The scent of lavender wafted over him like a balm as the seamstress stood over him. She made a choked sound, a sob– and a finger wiped the blood from out of his eye. His vision came into focus and the ever familiar visage of his love– she was there. She was real. She was... alive? Alive.

"Rosemary?"

"Aemond?"

A small, quiet voice was heard. "Mama, who's there?"