Do your late night thoughts
ever lead you back to me?
– faraway

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Half a year passed since his family left King's Landing, and Aemon could not have been more annoyed. While the first few weeks on Dragonstone had been thrilling, filled with numerous adventures and discoveries, it was now just another island. Another castle for him to roam with nothing to do. At least the Red Keep had his friends: Rhaenyra,  Alicent and Brynden, who were still there while he was here.

The walls that made up the giant fortress of his ancestors once contained a magical feel to them. He had spent hours staring at every carving engraved into the stone, every nick in the material. He had been convinced that behind those walls lay a series of tunnels, hidden from everyone but those deemed worthy enough to know about them.

A childish imagination that was conjured by his mind when he still thought of Dragonsgtone as something special. He had only been on Dragonstone a few times, all of which had been short visits before the six-month residence that was still stretching far and long into the future. Back then, he had not cared enough to explore everything properly. His only worry had been which dragon would finally claim him.

Silverwing, with her pale white wings glittering like snow in the sun. Vermithor, the last remnant of his great-grandfather. The forever elusive Grey Ghost, who only allowed himself to be seen for a few moments before he disappeared again. The ill-tempered Sheapstealer with a taste for mutton.

He would have even been happy with a newborn hatchling. Or even the Cannibal, he laughed to himself under his breath. A much younger version of himself wouldn't have cared if he endangered the dragons of everyone else if it meant he finally got to taste the sky and the wind for himself.

That was not the case anymore. The occasional proof of the Cannibal's existence – a flash of a whip-like ebony tail on the other side of the Dragonmont – was terrifying and bone-chilling. Recently, a hatchling had met its end in between the Cannibal's teeth. The poor thing hadn't stood a chance against the enormous and much older dragon. The crimson beast had snuck into the hatchling's layer in the middle of the night, tearing it from existence before it reached the first year of its life. It was safe to say the mangled remnants of a single torn-up wing had been enough to deter Aemon even further.

He still held out hope sometimes that a dragon would eventually accept him. Daemon had not claimed a dragon until he was sixteen. Rhaenys had been around a similar age. But with each of his siblings that hatched a dragon in the cradle, with each already-grown beast that would prefer to strike him dead than accept him, hope dwindled. Now, it was little more than a lump of simmering coal, fighting to keep ablaze even a  moment longer.

Visenys took flight on her dragon two months ago. The sight of Veraxes' forest-green wings spread broadly as he swooped high and low over the cliffs had been majestic. Visenys' squeals and laughs were still engraved in his mind. How would he act if he ever got the chance to fly alone?

Viserra was far too young to fly yet, as was her dragon, but the dragon keepers had deemed her old enough to at least meet with it. His sister had barely begun to speak, but even she had let her happiness be known, perched atop their father's knee.

And Aeron, he was only a few months old. And yet still, the Gods had deemed him fit enough to have a dragon of his own. The egg placed in his cradle hatched only a month after his birth. A small and snivelling thing with pale violet scales and white accents. His father had named it Carthion, after a warrior from some Valyrian legend Aemon had never heard of. He and Uncle Daemon had discussed it thoroughly over supper the night the dragon hatched. The gleam in their eyes could rival the stars that littered the sky. All the while, Aemon gripped the table so tightly the wood creaked and tried not to cry.

And thus, he stopped any explorations of the Dragonmont he had planned, the pain of rejection and the childish voice in his mind screaming 'it's not fair' trumping any form of enjoyment he might've gotten from it.

The only thing he had to keep him entertained were the letters he received from his friends. They were piled high on his table, all worn from the number of times he reread them. Nothing special stemmed from them, but it was the only thing keeping him linked to King's Landing, and he wasn't sure he could ever not cling to them desperately.

Brynden wrote of the same things over and over again. His weapon training, his annoyance with his younger brother, a pretty girl he had seen. Occasionally, he would ask after Visenys as well. When Aemon's sister first found out, she blushed beet red. Aemon had never seen her be so affected by anything before.

Rhaenyra's letters were more melancholy than Brynden's, usually containing her grief and bottled-up anger. Aemon did his best to soothe her with the words he wrote on empty parchment. There was not much else he could do this far away. And with no dragon to mount and fly across the bay, he couldn't reach her.

The letters he received from Alicent were much more reserved. Not as personal as Rhaenyra's and certainly not as open as Brynden's. Her words weren't casual but clipped with a formal tone. Aemon read hers the most. The evening he had seen her on those stairs, dressed in her mother's old dress, did not leave his mind. He read between the lines, worried that if he didn't scour every letter she wrote in her beautifully fluent handwriting, he would miss the cry for help. But nothing of that sort was ever in them, and Aemon was constantly left unsure.

With nothing to do, Aemon accompanied his youngest sister and her nursemaids. Watching Viserra babble and waddle around the gardens was far more appealing than staring at the wall in his chambers. Viserra's eyes were bright with wonder at every new thing she found, whether a pretty red flower or a crawling beetle.

Sometimes, she would say something he did not understand and not because of her lack of vocabulary. Once, she had stared into nothing for a long time before the word Aegon left her mouth. Aemon remembered the deep confusion swirling inside of him, he thought she had meant to say 'Aeron' or 'Aemon' instead but mispronounced it, but then she repeated it with clarity. There was no mistaking it the second time.

It was the strangest thing Aemon had experienced, especially since no one named Aegon was alive in their family that she could be referring to. The strangest, until one day, Viserra tugged at his pant leg with wide eyes.

"I want to see your dragon," she babbled at him, the words rolling uncomfortably and uncertainly off her tongue. Aemon felt his heart twist inside his chest, but he smiled at his sister kindly.

"I don't have a dragon, Serra," he reminded her patiently. She was just a child. She did not understand. He expected Viserra to accept his answer, maybe throw a little fit or frown at him, but instead, she tilted her head and pouted in a confused manner.

"You do," she insisted, the corners of her mouth tugging down. "I saw you." Aemon's breathing stuttered to a stop. For a long few moments, it felt like he was drowning. Viserra was just two years old, almost three. Too young to understand that she couldn't have seen such a thing. Unless she did, the small simmering hope inside him whispered.

Almost instantly, his mind zeroed in on memories of the tales he was told as a child. Valyrian men and women who dreamt of the future. Just as fast as those thoughts came, he stamped them out. That couldn't be right. Even if Viserra were a dreamer, which was as unlikely as Aemon ever having a dragon or becoming king, she wouldn't be able to interpret such visions.

"And what is it you saw?" he asked, despite himself. Viserra blinked at him, not expecting the question. She frowned, her adorable face scrunching up. And then she looked up at him, indigo eyes snared onto his face.

"It was big and brow," she said, referring to whatever dragon she thought she saw. "And you were on it."

"Was I?"

Viserra nodded. Aemon's chest tightened. He did not ask Viserra anything else, too afraid to ask himself what it could mean. If it was real. If it was just a dream that any child could have. He told himself he should be happy for receiving a bit more hope.

He honestly wished he never heard it at all.

°•~━━✥❖✥━━~•°

Mysaria was a strange woman. She skittered around the halls of Dragonstone like a spider in her gowns of long white silk, ebony hair running loose down her back. Her Yi-Tish features were undeniably beautiful, her eyes enchanting. But that was not what Aella considered strange. It was the way Mysaria held herself, tall and spindly and elegant, but when faced with Aella she shrunk and withered.

Whenever Aella entered the room, Mysaria would bow low just as anyone else did, but then she proceeded to act as if Aella's servant. It made Aella uneasy. Mysaria was the woman that Daemon had chosen to take from King's Landing with him when he left. He had given her an entourage of guards and offered her lavish gifts frequently. He'd never acted like this towards any of his other lovers.

Aella would never admit to the sting of jealousy whenever she watched the two of them together. It was not her place to be envious, she knew that. And so, she tried to treat Mysaria as a friend. A sister-in-law, even, for that was the role she seemed to take on Dragonstone.

Surrounded by guards in steel armour and golden cloaks, Mysaria looked like a true lady. It was a bad thing, Aella knew, that her proud demeanour crumbled in her presence. No matter how hard she worked to fix it, it didn't work. When invited to drink tea or take a walk through the gardens of Dragonstone, Mysaria would come, but she would not speak openly or even say anything unless she was spoken to first.

Aella didn't know how to approach it. She didn't know how to make Mysaria see that Aella did not look upon her as lesser, just because of her origin. She was aware of Mysaria's background, of the chains that once weighed down her wrists and ankles, and how she was sold into a brothel in King's Landing. It made Aella sick to think about it.

No doubt, Mysaria had not wanted to end up as a whore in the Street of Silk. Slavery was forbidden in Westeros, but that didn't mean that human trafficking did not take place regardless. And if a slave ever approached a guard to receive help, well, the City Watch had been a band of mongrels until about a year ago, when Daemon had become their commander. And now, most of them were here on Dragonstone as another act of rebellion against Viserys, so they weren't present to help anyone anyway.

The situation was different throughout Westeros in each city, but for whores who were sold as slaves, it was most likely just the same.

Never in her life had Aella been faced with injustice as horrible as Mysaria had. How could she ever empathize with her, when she didn't understand? How could she make Mysaria understand that she meant no harm to her? After months of quiet aversion, unsurety and distrust between them, it was difficult. But Aella was finally fed up with it, and so she went to the only person in the castle that knew Mysaria more personally.

Daemon was sitting at the Painted Table when Aella found him, staring out of the open windows at the sea. Even from where she stood, he was mesmerizing. His silver hair shined golden in the rays of the setting sun. He looked as though he were placed in a painting.

He didn't hear her approach until she was right beside him. "How do I make Mysaria like me?" She knew she must've sounded like a little girl asking such a question. Daemon's brows furrowed in confusion before he let out a chuckle of amusement.

"I don't know if you can," he admitted, gesturing to the empty chair at the Painted Table. Aella made her way to it, skirting her hand over the engraved map on the table. Her fingers crossed over Driftmark, to Dragonstone, then to Duskendale, and finally to King's Landing.

"Why not?" she asked, sitting down in the chair. "I haven't done anything to her and I do not want us to be uncomfortable around each other. We live in the same castle!"

"You can each take a different wing then," Daemon said, but paused when he noticed her annoyed glare. After a moment, he sighed and looked down at his hands, rubbing his thumb over the ridges of his knuckles. "She knows I was in love with you." Aella was stunned silent, eyes shooting in the direction of the door. Luckily, the guards had stayed outside. She doubted the men would ever blab out Daemon's secrets – too loyal for their own good – but that didn't mean she wanted them to hear.

"What does that have to do with anything?" Aella muttered, keeping her eyes on the door and pointedly away from Daemon. Loved, he'd said. He didn't love her anymore. Aella had been distinctly aware of that fact for a while, but when he had come to her the day before the heir's tourney, before Aemma's labours, she had thought that maybe it wasn't as true as she'd thought. Was what it that he had said to her? I just need to hold you. Why would he come to her, why would he want to hold her in his arms, if he didn't love her?

Maybe it was the memory of the things they'd shared. The vocal acknowledgement that his love for her was in the past felt like a sharp knife in between her ribs. She tried hard to now show it.

"She thinks you are scorned by her presence," Daemon said, a dramatic lilt to his voice. Aella lifted a brow but still didn't look at him. "She's waiting for the moment you deem one of her actions a mistake and punish her because of it."

"I would never do that!" Daemon nodded.

"I know, but she doesn't," he said. "I've tried to tell her so, but she is used to living in fear." Aella had to wonder how she felt on Dragonstone, surrounded by hundreds of men at arms who were willing to protect her. Admittedly, it was because Daemon ordered them to, and the moment he was no longer pleased with her, he could take that protection away. But it was still there. And she thought that Aella would take it from her. Because of envy and ill will.

Jealousy and envy were something that Aella most certainly felt, but she didn't want to take it out on Mysaria. It wasn't like it would be fair anyway. Aella herself had a husband. Had children by him. And Rhaegon was at Dragonstone as well. For Aella to have a spouse and demand fidelity from Daemon would be insanity.

She did not care that Daemon had a wife, or a mistress, or anything else. The root of her anger was not his possession of those things. She missed being free to run around the Red Keep with him, to sit around in the library for hours and have him take her into the city under the cover of darkness. She missed the feeling of his skin on hers, of his lips on her body, his hands on her hips. It hurt more than she cared to admit that they'd never have those things again.

She must've stayed silent for a bit too long because Daemon shifted in his seat and asked, "How are you doing?" Aella shrugged before she could think too much about it. She didn't want to think too much about it. There were too many feelings that she was constantly burying.

"I'm fine," she answered, her voice clipped and contrived. Daemon shook his head.

"You're not," he said, "the servants tell me you have frequent nightmares and that you eat less and less every day." Aella's brows furrowed. She hadn't taken any of her servants with her from King's Landing. She didn't think she needed them, and she didn't have any more ladies-in-waiting to bring with her either. Not after Lady Hightower passed away.

"You're having the servants here spy on me?" Her brows furrowed tightly. It was true, she did have nightmares and she was eating less. Nights consisted mostly of horrors and sights she wished she could forget. The glint of a blade in a maester's hand, a silver-haired beauty writhing on the birthing bed in pain. Aemma's scream that wrenched her gut, pulling her heart from her chest over and over again.

When she woke, she emptied the contents of her stomach into her chamber pot, not being able to keep it down. And then during the day, she still felt queasy, and food didn't go down well. Besides, she knew she'd vomit it out anyway when the nightmares came again, so what was the point of eating anyway?

The nights she didn't dream of Aemma, she dreamt of her little Rhaenys. The stillborn girl that accompanied Aeron and left her soul scarred once more. It was not the first time she'd lost a child, but it was still a horrid and painful thing. An aching salty-wet feeling in the back of her throat whenever she thought of it.

She could barely look at Aeron without being reminded of it, and that hurt her even more. Her poor boy wasn't responsible for the death of his sister, but it was the only thing she thought of when she held him. She thought he'd offer her comfort, but that hadn't been the case. She hoped that in time, those feelings would change. She didn't want to not be able to look upon her son for the rest of her life.

"I am not having them spy on you. They're worried." Daemon frowned. "And so am I." Aella shook her head. Daemon admitting that he cared for her well-being warmed her heart the slightest bit, but that didn't mean she was happy about it. She'd be thrilled had their relationship been anything other than a cruel stalemate. This was just making her feel worse. A small feel of what things might've been had things gone the way she'd wanted them to.

"Then they should've told Rhaegon. My husband," Aella argued, finally turning back to look at Daemon. "What I do or don't do is none of your business." Daemon suppressed a scoff, only letting out a small huff of air.

"You're living in my castle, are you not?" he asked. "It is my business."

"It's not your castle though, is it?" Aella chuckled dryly. "Rhaenyra is the Princess of Dragonstone. You got yourself disinherited when you insulted Aemma's son by calling him the heir for a day." Anger surged through her, old and suppressed, something she thought she'd gotten over. But was she any better? In the moments after Aemma's death, she had wanted to throw the boy from the window, so that Viserys might feel the pain she was. An innocent babe, guilty of nothing but his existence. And she'd wanted him gone. Tears burned the back of her eyes at the thought. Suddenly disgusted with herself, she blinked them away hard. "My apologies, I'll be taking my leave now."

As she stood up, Daemon's hand shot forward, and he grabbed her forearm. "I really am worried, Aella. If there is anything you need. Anything. Then you should tell me. I will give you anything I want."

Aella smiled at him sadly. "You can't give me what I want."  Daemon's brows furrowed and he leaned closer to her over the Painted Table. He was just far enough away from her that she couldn't feel his breath but sensed a whisper of the warmth of his skin.

"And what is it you want, Aella?" he asked, lilac eyes searching her blue ones. Aella swallowed around something thick in her throat. Her lungs hurt as she forced herself to not inhale for a long moment, collecting herself so she wouldn't outright cry in front of Daemon. It was ridiculous that she, at her thirty years of age, could hardly control her emotions when faced with him and what she felt for him. She'd call herself childish, had she not spent so long drowning in these feelings to the point of near death. Childish was not the world she'd use. There were just too many sensations. And she felt too much.

"I think you know." She didn't give him enough time to answer her. Tearing her forearm from his grip and hastily leaving the room.

°•~━━✥❖✥━━~•°

"You have got to be jesting," Rhaegon cried in disbelief, arms limp at his sides as he stared at the thing that was placed on the table in front of him. Daemon looked away sheepishly, but his smug grin remained.

A smoking cauldron meant for storing dragon eggs stood on the table, the cap of it taken off to reveal what was inside. Hot coals let out swirls of smoke and the air rippled around the oval-shaped dragon egg. The scales that made up its surface were a deep bronze-like brown, more like Vhagar than Vermithor, but still bronze.

"When did you have the time to get this?" Rhaegon questioned, putting his hands on his hips. Daemon shrugged as if the fact that he'd stolen a dragon egg from the Dragonpit in King's Landing was some small thing. He couldn't have gotten it on Dragonstone, the egg was a bit older and Rhaegon wasn't aware that Silverwing or Karnax laid any batches as of late. Dreamfyre had, however, but she most certainly wasn't on the island.

"I want my child to have an egg placed in its cradle, it's the tradition of our house," Daemon explained, and his words made Rhaegon freeze. A child. He wasn't aware that Daemon's mistress was pregnant. Not to mention that giving an egg to a bastard child was sure to cause havoc. As if sensing the argument, Daemon raised a hand to silence him. "I plan to marry Lady Mysaria."

That made Rhaegon's eyes widen even further. "You mean to take her to wife?" he exclaimed with a shake of his head. "Daemon, you already have a wife." Rhaegon didn't have anything against Mysaria, but there was no possible way for Daemon to take a second wife. "The Faith would never allow it! They barely accept us marrying brother and sister, do you honestly think that they will turn a blind eye to this?"

"I don't need the Faith to allow this. I am the blood of the dragon and it's the tradition of not only our house but of Old Valyria itself to take second wives." Rhaegon doubted that the argument of tradition would work in this aspect. The best thing that would happen was that Daemon would be sent into exile, as Maegor the Cruel had when he took a second wife. On the other hand, there was a large possibility of Daemon's head ending up on a spike. Wrath of dragons be damned.

Rhaegon had no answer for a while. No answer that Daemon would listen to anyway. All he could do was stare hopelessly at his brother and wonder what in the Seven Hells had happened to get him to do this. They'd been living on Dragonstone in relative peace for six months. Never in that time had Daemon mentioned something like this. Not once.

Stealing a dragon egg from the Dragonpit was one thing. Something that could – and probably would – be forgiven. But the moment word got out that Daemon wanted to wed a second wife, a commoner at that, a slave, a whore from a brothel. It would be chaos. There was no way that the Vale would let that stand. Not when Daemon's first wife was one of their own. The common people wouldn't be so happy either. Mayhaps some of them would write ballads of the Prince and slave, but the people of Westeros were god-fearing, and most would not like this.

He didn't even want to think about what the Faith would do. The Doctrine of Exceptionalism could only do so much.

"Why are you doing this?" he eventually asked carefully. "Are you still so angry with Viserys that you're willing to destabilise the whole realm to get back at him?" Daemon's brows pinched together, as though he'd not anticipated Rhaegon seeing through his reasoning so quickly. "I know you don't like Mysaria enough for this to be a love match."

"I don't love her," Daemon confirmed and crossed his arms over his chest tightly. "And I am angry with Viserys. He replaced me for a girl who has no experience and is far too young to understand the consequences of anything."

Rhaegon raised a brow. "You weren't experienced either when Viserys was crowned. And you were much older than Rhaenyra. She will learn quickly and adjust." A sigh. "But being replaced by Rhaenyra is not what angers you. It's that Viserys did not listen to you before he sent you away. It's that he'd rather listen to Otto Hightower than you, his brother."

His brother did not move. Only stared, harsh eyes glaring daggers into Rhaegon. Being picked apart layer by layer was not something he enjoyed. Usually, it wouldn't be something anyone was capable of. But Rhaegon knew Daemon's feelings well enough, for they were his own as well. He hadn't been sent away or cast out. Not in the way Daemon had been.

In reality, it'd been a long time since Rhaegon felt like he belonged in the Red Keep. On the council. Besides his brother. He had always felt like an appendage that no one truly wanted. Just there for the formality of things. With every one of his suggestions that had been turned down or ignored, the rope around Rhaegon's neck tightened and tightened until he was suffocating. And no one had cared enough to see that it was happening. Not until he said he was leaving, and only then did Viserys speak up. But he didn't fight it. Didn't show that it truly mattered.

"When Viserys comes to retrieve the egg," Rhaegon began, deciding that there was little that he could do to convince Daemon to stop when he was in this state of mind. Rhaegon didn't think he had it in himself to fully try anyway. "I will come with you. I don't want there to be bloodshed here."

The Rogue Prince didn't say anything to him after that.

Author's Note

Finally a new chapter! I'm sorry for the long wait but I've been super busy! There was supposed to be more to this chapter, but I just wanted to get it out for you guys