(High Tide, Driftmark, 120 AC)
The tunnel leading to the Hall of Nine was a throat of stone, amplifying the sound of the storm outside. But as Aeryn approached, soaking wet and shivering from the cold rain, he heard sounds that had nothing to do with the weather.
He heard the wet thud of fists against flesh. He heard the high-pitched, feral screaming of children.
Aeryn stopped in the shadows of the archway. He wiped the rain from his eyes and engaged the only defense he had left: his mind.
Observation: Four against one.
Subjects: Baela and Rhaena Targaryen (attacking). Jacaerys and Lucerys Velaryon (attacking). Aemond Targaryen (defending/counter-attacking).
Status: Uncontrolled violence.
Aemond was standing in the center of the tunnel, cornered but ferocious. He was covered in mud, his clothes torn, but his face shone with a terrifying euphoria. He had ridden the dragon. He had touched the sky. The blows of his cousins meant nothing to him now.
"She was mine!" Rhaena screamed, lunging at him. "You stole her!"
Aemond shoved the girl back with a strength born of adrenaline. She fell hard on the stone.
"I claimed her!" Aemond roared back, his voice cracking. "I rode her! While you were crying, I was flying! Maybe your grandmother can find you a pig to ride! It would suit you!"
Aeryn watched from the dark. His first instinct was to step forward, to use his voice to command order as Ser Vardis had taught him. But he hesitated.
He saw the look in Aemond's eyes. It was the same look Daemon had. A wild, uncontrollable fire. If Aeryn stepped in now, he would just be another log on the bonfire.
Let them tire themselves out, Aeryn calculated cold-heartedly. Let the fire burn down.
But the fire didn't burn down. It exploded.
Jacaerys, his face red with fury at the insult to his betrothed, charged. "Don't you speak to her!"
Aemond caught Jace easily. He was older, bigger, and trained by Criston Cole, the most ruthless knight in the realm. Aemond punched Jacaerys in the stomach, doubling him over, then kicked him in the ribs.
"Come at me!" Aemond laughed, a sound that was jagged and wrong. "Come on, Lord Strong!"
The name hung in the air like a curse.
Jacaerys froze. Lucerys, only five years old, looked at his brother with wide, fearful eyes.
"Say it again," Jacaerys whispered, pulling a small dagger from his belt. Aeryn's eyes widened. Steel.
"Jace, no!" Aeryn whispered to himself, taking a step forward.
But it was too late.
"I said... Lord... Strong," Aemond sneered, picking up a heavy rock from the tunnel floor. He raised it high, his intention clear. He wasn't playing anymore. He was going to crush Jacaerys's head.
"You will die screaming, bastard!" Aemond shouted.
Analysis: Aemond is going to kill the Heir's son.
Consequence: Viserys will break. The King will die of grief. I will be blamed.
Fear, cold and sharp, pierced Aeryn's chest. Not fear for Jacaerys, but fear of the King's disappointed face.
Aeryn broke into a run.
But before he could cover the distance, Lucerys Velaryon moved.
The little boy, terrified for his brother, lunged forward with the dagger. He didn't aim. He just slashed blindly at the face of the monster threatening Jace.
Slash.
A sickening sound. Like a knife cutting through a ripe melon.
Aemond dropped the rock.
For a second, there was silence. Then, Aemond brought his hands to his face. Blood—dark and copious—spurted through his fingers. He let out a scream that sounded like an animal being butchered.
"My eye! My eye!"
He fell to his knees, thrashing in agony.
The other children froze, horrified by what they had done. Jacaerys dropped his dagger. Rhaena covered her mouth.
But Aemond wasn't done. The pain triggered a berserker rage. Blindly, screaming in hate, he scrambled to his feet. He couldn't see, but he grabbed the rock again. He lunged toward the sound of Lucerys's breathing.
"I'll kill you!" Aemond shrieked. "I'll kill you all!"
He was swinging the rock wildly, inches from Luke's head.
Aeryn collided with him.
Aeryn didn't try to reason. He didn't try to soothe. He hit Aemond at full speed, tackling the older boy around the waist.
They crashed onto the wet stone floor. Aeryn, smaller and lighter, used the momentum to roll, pinning Aemond's arm—the one with the rock—under his knee.
"Stop!" Aeryn shouted, his face inches from Aemond's bloody mask. "It is done! Stop!"
Aemond thrashed, bucking like a wild horse. "Get off! Get off me, Royce! I'll kill him!"
"You will kill no one!" Aeryn gritted his teeth, pressing his forearm against Aemond's throat to cut off his air. It was a move Ser Vardis had taught him for subduing drunk squires. "Drop the rock, Aemond! Drop it!"
Aemond gasped, choking, the blood from his ruined eye dripping onto Aeryn's face, warm and metallic.
"Let... me... go..." Aemond gargled.
"If you kill him, your father dies!" Aeryn hissed into his ear, his voice trembling with the terror of that truth. "Do you hear me? If you kill Luke, the King dies! Drop it!"
Aemond's hand went limp. The rock clattered to the floor.
Aeryn didn't let go. He held his cousin down, both of them panting, covered in mud and the blood of the dragon.
The sound of heavy boots echoed down the tunnel. The Kingsguard.
"Halt! Halt in the name of the King!"
Ser Harrold Westerling burst into the light, his sword drawn. He stopped dead when he saw the scene.
The Velaryon princes cowering. The Targaryen girls weeping. And in the center of the carnage, the quiet, scholarly Prince Aeryn pinning the King's son to the ground, his grey tunic soaked in red.
Aeryn looked up at the White Cloak. His violet eyes were wide, the pupils dilated with shock.
He slowly released the pressure on Aemond's throat and rolled off. Aemond curled into a ball, sobbing, clutching the empty socket where his eye used to be.
Aeryn stood up. His hands were shaking uncontrollably. He looked at the blood on his palms.
I stopped the death, Aeryn told himself, his mind frantically trying to organize the chaos. Aemond lost an eye. Variable: Permanent damage. But Luke is alive. Variable: War postponed.
He looked at Jacaerys and Lucerys. They were staring at him with fear. They didn't see a savior. They saw the cold efficiency with which he had choked his own kin.
"My Prince," Ser Harrold said, his voice horrified as he knelt beside Aemond. "What have you done?"
"I didn't do it," Aeryn whispered, stepping back into the shadows. "I just... I just stopped the rock."
More guards arrived. Then the shouts began. Servants screaming for the Maester.
Aeryn retreated until his back hit the cold stone wall. He watched them carry Aemond away. He watched them escort the crying Velaryon boys.
He was alone in the tunnel again.
He touched his face. The blood on his cheek was cooling.
He had wanted to be a dragonrider tonight. He had wanted to bring glory to Viserys. Instead, he was standing in a puddle of his family's blood, shivering, with the taste of copper in his mouth.
This is fire, Aeryn realized. This is what it costs.
He wiped his hands on his tunic, but the stain didn't come out.
"Come, Prince Aeryn," a guard said roughly, grabbing his arm. " The King summons everyone to the Hall. Now."
Aeryn nodded. He walked like a prisoner to his execution. He knew that the real violence hadn't even started yet. The children had fought with rocks and knives. Now, the adults would fight with words.
And Aeryn was terrified that he didn't have a shield strong enough to survive what was coming next.