"Anger is a great thing, sometimes. It makes a man strong. It makes him do things he might not otherwise do."

— Brienne of Tarth

…

It was a truth universally acknowledged that Prince Aemond could be a source of vexation should he choose to. Otto Hightower, seated in his chambers with the intent to fashion order from chaos, found himself more than usually burdened by such vexations. The quill in his hand trembled with the force of his displeasure as he completed a letter meant to soothe the frayed nerves of a minor lordling. The missive, though trivial in nature, was yet another proof of the disorder that plagued his life as Hand of the King.

The interruption of a knock at the door was, in this case, not unwelcome. Otto called for his steward to enter, who bowed low before announcing, "Prince Aemond has returned, my lord. He was seen speaking with one of his companions in the west courtyard."

Otto's expression betrayed neither the relief that sprang to his heart nor the irritation that soon followed it. He rose, adjusting the folds of his cloak, and strode from the room with the dignity befitting his office.

The courtyard, illuminated by the soft hues of twilight, presented an elegant tableau. Aemond leaned on a pillar, his one good eye trained upon the young woman at his side. She was striking in appearance, her height lending her an air of command, though her features betrayed a youthfulness that tempered such impressions. Her hair, a cascade of white, and her lavender eyes marked her as one of the dragonseeds the prince had taken to keeping around.

Pets, some called them—though such insolence was never expressed in their presence, for Aemond's temper was well-known and little inclined to forgiveness. Indeed, Aegon himself had once ventured a jest on the matter, an indiscretion for which he had paid dearly. Remarkably, he had not since repeated the offence—a testament, perhaps, to the wisdom that occasionally followed chastisement.

Their conversation ceased upon Otto's approach. Aemond turned to face him as he approached, his smile polite but reserved. "Grandsire," the prince greeted, inclining his head. The young woman curtsied gracefully, though she did not speak.

Otto allowed no time for pleasantries. "The council has been most uneasy, Aemond," he said, his tone measured but firm. "Your absence for such a length of time—without warning, no less—has caused considerable alarm. It was feared that Princess Rhaenyra or her husband might have detained you—or worse."

Aemond regarded him with an expression that seemed to convey amusement. "I apologise for any distress I have caused, Lord Hand. I was delayed, though not by the Princess or her lord husband. I chose to visit Riverrun and offer my condolences upon the death of Lord Grover Tully. His grandson, Oscar, seemed most willing to renew their house's fealty to the crown."

This reply only deepened Otto's annoyance. "A commendable effort, to be sure, but one that ought not to have been undertaken without the council's knowledge. You are a prince of the realm, not a knight-errant to roam the Riverlands at your leisure."

Aemond inclined his head again, the picture of contrition. "You are quite right, of course. It was a lapse in judgment."

The apology, though deftly spoken, rang hollow in Otto's ears. Before he could press the matter further, Aemond turned to the young woman. "Rowenna, fetch Addams and Nettles, if you would. Remember to tell them to pack for a trip."

Rowenna curtsied once more and departed without a word. Otto watched her go, his curiosity briefly piqued, before returning his attention to his grandson.

"You spoke of renewing fealty," Otto resumed, determined to reclaim control of the conversation. "Allow me to inform you that ravens have brought news of sworn allegiances from Houses Arryn, Tyrell and Lannister as well as from two dozen minor houses. Aegon's claim grows stronger with each passing hour."

"That is excellent news."

"And yet you seem unsurprised."

"I had every confidence in your guidance, Grandsire," Aemond replied. "What cause had I to doubt the outcome?"

Otto's patience, frayed as it was, found its breaking point. "Confidence in my guidance is well and good, until said guidance touches upon matters of actual import. Why, pray, did you speak against my proposal to deal with Princess Rhaenyra swiftly and decisively? Every moment she draws breath is a moment of peril for the realm."

Aemond's expression shifted ever so slightly, a flicker of thought crossing his face before he responded. "I had my reasons."

"Which you have not deigned to share."

"No, I have not."

The simplicity of this admission struck Otto like a closed door. For a moment, he was rendered speechless, a condition he found both unfamiliar and intolerable. Aemond, sensing his discomfiture, stepped forward and rested a hand upon his shoulder—a gesture at once familiar and unsettling.

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"Grandsire," Aemond said softly, his voice carrying an earnestness that belied the coolness of his manner, "you have placed your trust in me before, and I ask that you continue to do so now. The risks I take are mine alone, and I assure you, they are undertaken with the utmost care."

"You speak in riddles, boy."

"Perhaps," Aemond allowed. "But there are some burdens best borne alone. Were I to share every detail, you might find yourself inclined to counsel against them. That is not a risk I am willing to take."

The audacity of this statement left Otto stunned. He opened his mouth to reply but found no words that could adequately convey the depth of his exasperation. Aemond withdrew his hand, his demeanour once more one of formal deference.

"Trust me, Grandsire," he repeated.

"As you always have."

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The air of Dragonstone was thick with salt and smoke. The great pyre at the heart of the island's ancestral grounds had been hastily assembled—stone and iron and dry wood piled high, the flames already licking hungrily at the air. Daemon stood at the front of the assembly, unmoving, save for the restless flick of his fingers. His eyes, dark and hollowed by grief, were fixed upon the swaddled form set at the heart of the fire, upon the child that had never breathed, never lived, and now was claimed by the flames in a tradition older than the throne itself.

Rhaenyra stood beside him, her eyes fixed on the fire, her face as pale as the ash that began to rise from it. The wind caught the edges of her gown, tugging at the fabric as though to remind them both of the world's relentless turning. The Greens had taken everything from her: her peace, her father, her birthright. And now, they had taken her daughter too.

Daemon said nothing as the fire consumed the child. What was he to say? There was no need for words; for, in truth, there were none to be spoken. The rituals of the day, so often full of ceremony and pomp, seemed so utterly inadequate in the face of such grief. His heart, like the flames before him, was a fierce thing, though it burned with a darker fire than that of Syrax's breath.

Beside him, Rhaenyra's distress seemed to swell, and though she did not weep aloud, it was clear that her grief was an unspoken tempest. A fury, perhaps, which could never be quelled, not even in the face of such an irreparable loss. Daemon felt it as surely as if it were his own, but still, he remained silent

"They took her, Daemon," Rhaenyra said, her voice scarcely rising above the whisper of the wind, yet there was a tremor in her words that betrayed her quiet anguish. Her eyes, though fixed upon the flames, seemed to search for an answer in them. "They killed my daughter."

A muscle twitched in Daemon's jaw, but he made no reply. What words were there to speak? There was nothing that could undo what had been done, nothing that could restore that which had been lost. He stood motionless, his gaze still locked upon the pyre, his thoughts as distant and cold as the sea itself.

When the funeral rites had concluded, and the mourners—those few who had borne witness—had dispersed, Daemon turned away from the scene. He did not glance back at the pyre, nor did he speak to Rhaenyra. Even then, there were no words to be found, for he knew not what to say.

The salt of the air stung his nostrils as he strode away from the heart of the island, the wind tugging at his cloak. Yet he did not allow it to sway him. He walked with a steady step, as though the very motion of his limbs might somehow steady his spirit, though in truth it did little to quell the storm within. At length, he found himself upon the rocky shore, staring out at the vastness of the ocean. The waters, though constant in their motion, seemed to him as endless and indifferent as his grief.

It was there, alone amidst the sound of the waves crashing against the rocks, that Daemon found a peculiar kind of solace. For though his grief was vast, it was not to be given over to tears or lamentations. There would be no more mourning today. There would be no more grief. Not while the Greens still lived, still held the throne, still robbed them of all they had. His gaze remained fixed on the horizon, his thoughts darkening with a resolve that could not be dismissed.

"Aemond," he muttered, his voice low and dark, as though he spoke to the very sea itself. "Another wrong, another sin added to the tally. You have stolen from me what can never be returned, and for that, I swear by all that is sacred, you shall answer. Indeed, your gods may be merciful, but you shall find none with me."