It was placid in the keep, like the still waters before the dew drips into a pool. But placidity can be deceiving. Aemond knows this– he's always known it. It is exhausting, as a person, to keep your guard up at all times without respite.

The previous night was a respite. A much needed change in flow, in focus. But he is suspicious of such a gift– mayhaps he doesn't deserve it. He has always been damned. This very notion is why he awoke early in the morn from the deepest sleep he's known in years... to an empty bed.

Shera had gone. His head throbbed from how deeply the sapphire felt embedded into the socket, pressing at the tender teams of nerves that the maester said makes up one's eye. He throws his legs over the side of his bed, twisting and turning until his spinal column cracks, somehow giving a sliver of relief.

Mayhaps I shall speak to her. His fingers, blistered from overworking the blade since Aegon was crowned, made quick work of his tunic. His outfit was a simple black undershirt and leather nightcoat. It was early enough in the Keep where dressing properly didn't particularly matter– Shera's chambers were a swift enough walk away, anyhow. He made his way hastily to the guest hall, which was bereft of guards.

Odd.

Upon opening the door, the momentary feeling of lightness and interlude in an otherwise rigid life, was snuffed out. Snuffed out like the dithering flame upon a bedside table, smoke swirling upwards until there is nothing but coldness. A chill ran up Aemond's spine that could only mean one thing; something was wrong.

The room was torn to shreds, blood splattered on the cobblestone floor like rose petals. His mind swam momentarily, heart squeezing in abject horror. Wrong, wrong, wrong. This is wrong. His boot squelched into the still drying pool of ichor as he descended further into the unfolding scene of gore and carnage. All of her things were broken, drawings strewn and stained, her dress stands were pushed over upon one another, and a cup of her tea was left half-drank, liquid absconded to the side.

Picking up the cup, he inspected the remains of the tea leaves and murky fluid. His senses were overwhelmed by the pungent scent of milk of the poppy– and dreamwine. The leaves were soaked in the duo of medicinal regents, the combination of both only used in dire situations of pure agony, intended to keep the imbibed numb to pain— as well as the world around them, lulling them to a deep sleep and even a deeper sense of malleability.

Wrong, wrong, wrong.

A low growl filled the room, Moongeist emerging from the adjoining bedroom. His hackles were raised, lip curled, showing off his bloodstained teeth. The whole of his muzzle was caked in the stain of flesh.

"Where is she," Aemond spoke, glowering at the giant wolf as if he were nothing more than a pup. "Where is she?"

Moongeist's hackles lowered as he sniffed the air, snapping his mouth shut. His amber eyes roved towards a mass in the corner of the room. 'Twas a man. Dead, with the fingers on his left hand ripped off, and his windpipe torn out. Aemond shifted the corpse with the tip of his boot, his expression dimming even more into a scowl.

"I don't give a shit about this sod," he hissed to the wolf, his pupil constricting into a tiny orb hoisted over a violet sea. He knew he looked mad— he could feel the madness creeping further and further into him with each passing moment that he didn't find Shera. "You didn't do your duty, dog."

Wrong, wrong, wrong.

The wolf whined, a warbling noise that turned into a growl as he nosed some of his master's strewn items on the floor.

"You're useless!" Aemond's voice raised above its usual whispery tone, the rage bleeding into him like he was a stuck pig. "You had one duty— to protect her," his hands balled into fists, unsure whether he was yelling at the dog or himself. "You fucking failed."

His own visage caught his eye on the shattered mirror. He looked crazen, as if he were to sprout wings and claws like Vhagar and burn the world down in search of her.

Mayhaps he would.

—

'Tis so quiet, she thinks. So quiet— like death. Am I dead?

She walks along the darkness, soles skimming a pool of cool water. There's ripples in her wake, reverberating out into nothingness. She feels fine. It's disconcerting, in a way, how normalcy in itself can feel abnormal. Shera is able to stand steady on two feet without assistance or hindrance, her sight wide and clear as she gazes to the void.

Death isn't much like they say it to be, now is it? Not so cold, but not so fiery either.

A glint catches her eye— the infinite void to her side has formed itself into a door. Not just a door, but a hallway with a myriad of cracks of light.

A myriad of choices.

Her hand stills on the knob closest to her. It is ornate bronze, deep grooves worn into the metal from much use. A small twist, and the gateway gives in.

The sunlight is blinding, more bright than she remembers. There is a pleasant sting in her eye as it adjusts from the total encompassing darkness of nothingness to the ever growing, lilting palette of everything before her.

The place seems familiar but Shera cannot quite place it, as if it is an amalgamation of many places she's been before— so close to perfection but in all totalities completely wrong. It was a garden with all of the flowers in bloom, grapevines growing up the trellising walls to escape, to mayhaps grasp the sun. There is a faint scent of sea air and she can almost feel the spray of a rogue wave crashing against the seawall.

Bare feet pad onto the cobbled walkway deeper into the terrace, fallen petals wilting under her. She leans to a honeysuckle plant, rubbing its leaves between her thumb and forefinger. Upon closer inspection, the flower is home to insects.

No, not home. It is made of insects.

Beetles, millipedes and caterpillars writhe under her touch. The flying bugs buzz around her, their fussing akin to anger, their temper flaring with every step of her trespassing.

"'M sorry," Shera whispers, hastily wiping her hands down the front of her chest. "'M sorry," she continues as she slowly backs away, back the way she came. As she makes her escape, the garden oasis withers. It begins to decay before her eyes, maggots and blowflies feasting on the rotting remains of the plants.

Back into the darkness, she slams the door behind her. Just before it fully closes, the image of a barn owl crunching upon a locust is her final glimpse. The errant buzz of parasitic and opportunistic gnats rings in her skull like a taunting song. She almost trips over her own limbs as she backs away slowly, stomach wringing itself into knots.

Onto the next door, the knob is a curved ring, better suited for knocking rather than just opening. It would be rude to come in uninvited, wouldn't it?

Shera wraps the door three times, each wrap more thunderous than the last. The door is hewn from an odd red wood, the hinge creaking as she walks in. It's suddenly warm— not unlike the warmth and breeze of King's Landing, but decidedly different, the hum of a distant roar reverberating in her mind.

"Hello," a small voice piqued. It belonged to a young girl, no older than six years old. Her hair was a pale silver, violet irises wide with trepidation. "Are you one of Ser Willem's friends?"

The appearance of the girl struck Shera like a bolt of lightning— she was of Valyrian descent, surely, but she didn't recognize her. She shifted her weight uneasily between two feet as she stared at the child. "Ehm," she muttered. "I am, indeed— a friend of Ser Willem's."

The girl held her hands behind her back and mimicked Shera's nervous swaying, but in a decidedly more childlike fashion. "He is sleeping. He sleeps a lot," she said, tilting her head towards a hallway. "Would you like to see my room?"

Something in Shera's chest rattled against her ribcage as the child spoke. She felt a certain keen sense of terror, feeling that she did not belong here. And yet— she took the girl's hand in her own as she was led down a corridor.

"I have my very own room. I usually have to share with my brother or with a lot of other people. Sometimes it is not a room at all," the girl pauses, tugging Shera gently to the open window. "I even have my very own window. I like to look at the lemon tree."

"Do you like lemons?" Shera asked, staring at the one lone lemon tree that stood stalwart.

"They are... yucky by themselves. Viserys tricked me into biting into one like an apple," she pouted. "It was quite mean."

Viserys? Shera's heart floundered. "Viserys? Is that your brother?"

The girl nodded.

Shera did not recall Viserys and Daemon having a sister. Her mind swam as she stared at the girl, then the open window. "You must forgive me— I have forgotten your name."

"Daenerys. My brother calls me Dany."

Wrong, wrong, wrong. In learning High Valyrian with Aemond all those years ago, they had also extensively studied the winding circled wreath of the Targaryen family tree— as muddled and messy as it may be, Shera could recall no Daenerys.

That creeping fear that had nestled into her body as soon as she saw the girl began to grow— grow into an ever engulfing beast. 'Twas the same feeling she had when she saw the vision of Rhaenyra and Viserys talking about Aegon's dream. The feeling that she was trespassing on something, being somewhere she was never meant to be.

That sensation gripped her wholly, her body moving faster than her mind as she fled Daenerys' room, towards the red door that led out.

"W-where are you going?" Daenerys whimpered, following behind Shera quickly. "I'm sorry— did... did I do something? Please don't go."

Shera turned the knob, stepping halfway out of the abode and into the darkness. She looked back at Daenerys— she was engulfed in flames, shadowed by a hulking black mass of writhing scales and dread come again.

When she fled back into the abyss fully, the red door closing behind her as flames licked the wood, her consciousness faded.

She was done dreaming.

—

The twisting of her rings was a nervous habit that Rhaenyra never broke. It would be a fruitless effort to do so, as she would pick up some other compulsion in a similar fashion. Tearing out strands of hair from the root, pressing crescent indentations upon her skin from her nails— or mayhaps, picking the skin around the nail bed until they are red and bloody. That one seems familiar to her.

Her hands now, however, aren't occupied upon twisting her rings at the moment. They're splayed over her stomach, palms playing over the stretched skin. The maesters say she is due any day now, 'tis only a waiting game.

How she desires for a daughter, so wholeheartedly.

Something pulls at her. The hour is late and Daemon's side of the bed is cold, blanket still in the same position from the morning. It's an odd, inexplicable tug to something that has her out of the room and meandering down the hall with a candelabra. The shadows dance upon the ancient stone, casting light upon the deep cracks.

As she descends through the castle, the logical and queenly part of her mind is in protest of her current situation. A heavily pregnant wife shouldn't go looking for her husband in the middle of the night. And yet— the other part of her brain, the one that had an insatiable thirst for truth had her driving forward.

Hushed voices hummed low towards the sequestered guest chambers. From the inflection and cadence, one of them was Daemon. The other, hurried and blathering like an anxious mouse, was unknown to her.

"Y-you set us up for failure, Daemon! I nearly lost my own life— you didn't tell us of the beast!" the mystery voice quipped, quivering in pissant fear.

"Pity you didn't lose it, then. I told you what I needed from you and what you needed to do. Any other extraneous details are unnecessary." Daemon responded coolly.

Rhaenyra walked closer to the open door, heavy candlelight illuminating from within. She hastily blew out her own.

"Unnecessary? You're mad! Outright bonkers! I... I want double the pay— n-no, triple! As compensation for the hazard to me life!"

"You'll receive what we agreed upon."

"I need more! Or— or I'll go back to King's Landing and tell the King what happened! He's fond of that little thing, isn't he? Or mayhaps his brother, with the giant drag—"

The man's voice was cut off, silenced by what Rhaenyra could only assume was a blade. The sound of his body crumpling and soft gurgling confirmed it. She stepped into the room, fisting her skirts. The mystery offender was now divorced from his head, akin to the way Vaemond had been. Daemon was wiping the blood and viscera off of Dark Sister upon the bedsheet. The bed in question, however, was not unoccupied like she had thought it would be.

The small, crumpled form of Shera Stark, identified by the undone length of curls falling by her wayside, was unconscious upon it.

Rhaenyra blinked profusely, heat rising within her as she tried to piece together exactly what was going on.

Daemon let out a soft sniff, "Bloody idiot."

"Daemon? What... what is this?"

"What does it look like? The key to the North." he sneered, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Rhaenyra's hands came together as she loosened the ring on her pointer finger. "She does not look like she is a willing participant in being here."

From the looks of it, the girl was hardly breathing. Her chest rose and fell in such shallow lengths that it took a moment to register if she was even alive at all.

"I doubt she would be. I did what needed to be done."

"What... needed to be done? No, I don't think you've begun to count the errors you've made here. Did... did you even think of the consequences, Daemon?" Rhaenyra started, her face emanating a red-hot heat, only continuing to warm as she twisted her ring with a violent, fervent nature.

"Consequences? I've brought her here to solve our problems, Rhaenyra. Do you think that honor-bound Northerner Cregan Stark would still fight for you as Queen if you broke your oath to keep his sister safe? He very well may kiss Otto Hightower's hairy sack just for his sister to return to him. We won't win this war without the North. And we won't have the North without the girl."

"There is no war yet! I am still awaiting responses from Alicent on how we may resolve the... misunderstanding of crowning Aegon in my stead. You... you've only fanned the flames of something you have been brewing for years against the Hightowers. Cregan is an honorbound man, he swore an oath."

"I am merely thinking ahead, Nyra! Oaths are broken as easily as they are made. Alicent is no friend of yours any longer, you're no longer a girl! As if we can count on any lies coming from that cunt. You have a blind side for Alicent, Rhaenyra, you always have!"

"And even so— you've stolen Shera in the night. From what your... accomplice said, 'twas a messy fight. What do you think, my half-brother Aemond shall think, when he comes upon Shera's rooms in disrepair and bloodied?" She narrowed her gaze, trying to keep a hold on herself. "You've brought ruin to our doorstep. We both know what he is and what he can do, you know he favors her— all he has to do is mount Vhagar and rain fire upon us! You have invited that possibility to our home, to our family!"

Daemon was silent for a moment, jaw clenched and lip twitching ever so slightly. He glanced over at the unconscious girl, brow furrowed. "We need to satisfy the oath you made to Lord Stark. The betrothal will be fulfilled," he kept wiping his blade on the sheet, even far after it was clean. "They must marry on the morrow."

"The oath," Rhaenyra echoed, voice suddenly hollow. "Marry— she is not even conscious, Daemon. She won't even be able to recite the vows or cut Jacaerys' lip."

Her husband let out a scoff, a sound so synonymous with who he was. "There won't be a Valyrian ceremony, even if she was completely well. Needn't any more Andal blood mingled than is already necessary," he finally sheathed his sword. "It will be done as quickly and painlessly as possible. Lord Cregan will need to hold up his side of the oath forthwith."

Rhaenyra worried her lip between her teeth until she tasted copper. "You cannot make these... rash decisions without coming to me first. I will not tell you again, Daemon."

Daemon, surprisingly, acquiesced— verbally, at least. He stared at her for a few heartbeats with a hard glint in his eye before bowing out of the room.

—

He had no need for riding leathers, no need to put his hair up, no need for his eyepatch. All he required was his sword and his rage.

Servants and highfolk alike plastered to the walls as Aemond parts through them like a ship's masthead, whispers and aghast looks glazing against his hull. He isn't calculated and cold like usual, as is his reputation around the Keep. His aura is rash and filled with churning lava, sparks threatening to singe any who stray too close.

The wolf follows behind him— for a reason that Aemond cannot quite understand— Moongeist stays five feet behind him, but matches his fervor and drive. The pair of them are an unlikely duo— and yet, they are unmatched in their combined terror.

"Where are you off to, brother?" Aegon interjects suddenly, flanked by his newly appointed Kingsguard lackeys. The crown sits low on his brow– coming back from a council meeting where he most likely received a tongue lashing from mother and grandsire alike.

"I've need of something," Aemond answers, words short and clipped.

Aegon's brow raises as he inspects his brother, seeing Moongeist's hulking form behind him. "You know what they say about lying with dogs, brother," the king continues, in his faux laissez-faire tone that he is ever so fond of. "You will get fleas."

"They took her." the prince said— flatly, dejectedly, detached. The single strand of self control still tethered within him straining. The thread was unraveling bit by bit with each word, each moment wasted.

"... what?" Aegon whispered, the varnish of his empty words fading away.

"They. Took. Her." Aemond repeated, looking up at his brother.

Aegon paused, no doubt feeling the heat and blood rising within him at the revelation. "W— wh—,"

"They took her right under our noses, Aegon. As if she was a dessert for a child to pilfer," the prince's hand flexed and unflexed, itching for his sword. "I am going to retrieve her."

"Retrieve her? And do you know exactly who took her? Where she's been taken to?" Aegon leaned in, brow knit. "Or are you just planning to abscond on your dragon and burn down Westeros until you find her?"

Aemond did not respond for a long moment. "You and I both know who did it. And you know they lie right across the bay upon Dragonstone. An easy enough conquest for Vhagar."

"What shall you expect upon your arrival, brother? For Rhaenyra and Daemon and their endless brood of brats to kneel at your feet? 'Oh, please, we are so sorry for taking your ambiguous lover, please don't burn us!'" Aegon's hands clasped together in mock sympathy. "You and I both know that Daemon would rather incinerate everything around him than kneel to you or I. Mayhaps even his own wife."

"Something must be done, Aegon. They will think us— me— weak for letting them waltz in and take what is mine." Aemond continued to pace, his body spun tight like a taut spring, half ready to bolt through the hall at a moment's notice. With each passing moment, the copper spring strains as his patience lowers and his rage simmers.

"It is really disconcerting when I am the levelheaded one here, Aemond," the king continues, stopping his brother's pacing with a firm hand to his shoulder.

"So you propose we do nothing? Let her lie in that den of... traitors?"

"I never said we would do nothing."

—

Drip. Drip. Drip.

The neverending sound of water splattering onto the floor is the ballad of the ancient castle— most of it in disrepair and ruin from the hot malice of dragonfire.

"A raven arrived from King's Landing, early this morn," the pageboy offered the slightly damp letter to the current castellan, Ser Simon Strong.

"Aye, thank you Tomas. Be sure to get yourself some porridge, keep your bones warm." Simon grinned, the deep wrinkles of his face lifting in mirth. He split the seal which was embossed in the symbol of some bug or other— he couldn't quite identify which house the sigil was from.

His eyes scanned the paper, which was not addressed to him. Rather, it was addressed to another resident of Harrenhal. The scriptures upon it was not of the Common dialect, only bits and pieces of words with some odd runic language.

"Alys!" the older man called. "I know you're skulking about out there. I believe this letter is for you."

Peering from the doorway behind him, a woman slunk to his side, her movements swift and precise. Her sudden and quick appearance caused him to jump. "Aye? What makes you think it's for me?" she hummed, tilting her head in a bird-like manner.

"Your name is Alys Rivers," Simon pointed to the addressing line of the letter, the name 'ALYS RIVERS' spelled out in the common tongue before the rest of the script becomes nonsensical. "Is it not?"

"Depends on who you ask, I suppose," Alys blinked, tugging the paper from the lord's fingers. "Hmm."

"I presume you can read that hogwash, can ye? Wouldn't surprise me none, you're a very odd woman." Simon waved his hand to dismiss her.

She took the dismissal in stride, slipping out of the chamber like she had never been there in the first place. Unfolding the letter completely, most of which was in the Old Tongue.

To Alys Rivers,

ᛏᚺᛖᛁ ᚨᚱᛖ ᚲᛟᛗᛁᚾᚷ. ( THEY ARE COMING.)

ᛈᚱᛖᛈᚨᚱᛖ ᛁᛟᚢᚱᛊᛖᛚᚠ (PREPARE YOURSELF.)