Crown of Bone and Ice

༺ 𖤍 ༻

❦ Jane Snow ❦ At first, Jane thought she was dead. Not from Vhagar’s dragonfire, not from a blade in fair combat — where one could at least face one’s fate head-on — but in a foolish and pitiful way, crushed by a stone like a rat no one had noticed under a boot. There was a bitter irony in that. For a whole month under the vaults of Harrenhal, she had treated such “rats” in human form, pulling them from the jaws of death only to have them hurled back into the bloody slaughter of Westeros. Now it was her turn. Only instead of a boot, there was a chest clad in dragon armor — heavy, warm, soaked in blood, smelling of iron and smoke. Alive. Too alive for it to be the mercy of the gods. The air thickened like ashen soup. Jane tried to breathe in; her ribs tightened as if someone’s iron fingers had clamped onto them and had no intention of letting go. Breathing out proved no easier. She had to wrest every scrap of air from herself, like the last piece of bread in a famine year. Her fingers found the cold, smooth metal of the cuirass above her. Beneath it was a heavy body, pressing her against the rough, damp stone. Her left shoulder ached; her right felt as if it had been severed from her body. Her legs were somewhere out there in the darkness, pinned by someone’s knees so tightly that she could barely feel her own feet. Aymond. The name didn’t come to her right away. At first, just fragments. The roar of Vhagar, a wall of fire, the shadows of people with torches, the clang of steel in the smoke. His silhouette in the breach, tall, unshakable, as if carved from black stone. Her dagger in his hand. His boot on her back. Her scream. And the collapse. The falling wall. The blow. Darkness. — Get off me… — The sound that escaped her wasn’t a voice. It was more like the hoarse, animalistic hiss of someone whose throat had been stepped on. — Get off me… or at least don’t hold me down. At first, the weight pressed down harder. She felt the iron breastplate dig deeper into her chest, the air rushing out and getting stuck in her throat. A sharp pain flared up somewhere in her hip, and the world began to spin. Then something shifted above her. Steel scraped against stone with a screech so loud it made her ears ring. The sound echoed off the walls as if they were lying not in ruins, but in the belly of a stone dragon. Aemon tried to lift himself up. She felt Aemon’s hands brace against the edges of her head, his elbows tremble, the muscles beneath his armor tense. His knees, clamped between her thighs in a death grip, slid across the stone in search of purchase. Something heavy creaked slightly, settling a couple of grains. He cursed in ancient Valyrian. The words flowed like molten metal. His hot breath burned her neck, thick with dust and rage. — Quiet, — his voice rasped in her ear, low as a dragon’s growl. — Shut up. If you cough, you’ll choke us both faster than Harrenhal ever could. — If… you… — She swallowed, her throat burning. — Don’t get off, it won’t make that much… of a difference. Ayamond did not answer. He merely pressed his gloves even harder against the stone arch, as if he intended not merely to support it, but to bear the weight of all of Harrenhal upon himself. There was something in that stance reminiscent of the old tales of giants propping up the heavens, only he was no god. Rather, he was a curse sent by the Dragon himself. The darkness around him was not the familiar night darkness of Winterfell, where stars shine above the battlements and torches cast a warm light on the stone corridors. Here there was nothing. No glimmer of fire, no whisper of campfires, no moans of the wounded in the infirmary. Only thick, palpable darkness. Jane tried to move her right hand. It responded with a dull ache and a short, helpless jerk. Her hand pressed against metal — Aymond’s breastplate. Her palm opened, feeling for straps, rivets, the edge of a cloak stuck to his back. Her left arm was pinned between her ribs and something hard — perhaps a rock, perhaps his sword in its sheath. Her legs… her legs were somewhere. — You… — Her voice faltered. — Do you even realize that we’re buried under the ruins of a castle that’s a tomb in itself? Ayamond gave a brief, humorless smile. — If Harrenhal wanted to kill us, he would have done it right away. It seems he has other plans. — What other plans? — She tried to turn her head, but the weight wouldn’t let her. — Is he going to crush us slowly, like bugs? — Perhaps. Or perhaps he’s waiting for us to kill each other,” his voice was even, almost indifferent, but she could feel the tension in his muscles beneath the armor. — In any case, if you want to survive, stop squirming. — Survive? — A cough was already rising, but she swallowed it along with the dust, feeling his weight press her into the stone again. — Are you serious? We can’t even see what’s above us. Maybe one more rock, and that’s it. — Then don’t get in my way, — Aymond shifted slightly, and for a moment she felt a faint rush of air. — And be quiet. Every breath you take is extra weight I have to hold. She closed her eyes — though what difference did it make when it was pitch black all around—and tried to steady her breathing. Somewhere far away, beyond the confines of this stone tomb, Vhagar roared. Or was it just the blood pounding in her ears? — We’re… buried under the rubble, — she said aloud, as if trying to make sense of a world falling apart. Her voice sounded muffled, as if coming from the bottom of a deep barrel. — We’ve… been buried. — You might as well tell me that the sun rises in the east and the stars twinkle at night, — he replied in an even, almost indifferent tone. — Don’t take me for a blind man. — And yet… it’s nice to know that my only neighbor in this stone tomb isn’t lacking in the gift of observation, — she whispered, trying to hide the tremor in her voice. He let out a short, dry chuckle — not a laugh, but merely a shadow of one, devoid of any joy. Jane carefully slid her right hand down toward his side. The fabric beneath her fingers was damp, warm, and sticky with blood. She pressed gently, feeling for the edges of the wound. Aemon flinched, a quiet curse in Valyrian escaping through his teeth, but he did not push her hand away, though he undoubtedly could have. — You are wounded, — she stated, not asking. — Thank you, healer, — his voice rang with biting irony. — Your insight amazes even me. — A deep wound, — she continued, carefully tracing the jagged edges of the cut with her fingers. — It’s bleeding heavily. If a blood vessel is hit… — Then you’ll drown in my blood before you have a chance to stitch me up, — he cut her off sharply. — Stop moving. — If you bleed out, — she continued calmly, — I’ll stay here. Beneath you. With your dead body on my chest. In a day, it will start to decompose. In two days, it will swell. In three… — Enough, — Amond cut her off, and there was no mockery left in his voice. Jane fell silent. In this stone trap, every sound seemed deafeningly loud. Even their breathing sounded like the roar of a storm. Somewhere in the distance, beyond the thick stone walls, a fire crackled. Above, muffled and intermittent, a dragon screamed… or was it merely the echo of memories stuck in her mind? Here, beneath the ruins of Harrenhal, the world had narrowed to two people, a thin layer of air, and the crushing weight overhead. She could feel his chest rising and falling beneath his armor. He was breathing faster than she was. The air passing through his lungs grew hot, heavy, saturated with sweat, smoke, and blood — hers and his. She tried to breathe shallowly, conserving every breath. They had always been taught to conserve bandages, herbs, and needles. But no one had taught them to conserve air. Until today. — You had a flask, didn’t you? — she said when her throat finally went dry. — I saw it. — I did, — Aymond didn’t deny it. — And? — The pause dragged on. — Are you going to die with a full flask, dragon? — If I die, — he replied, — it won’t matter to you whether it’s full or empty. But while I’m alive, — he paused, and a barely perceptible smirk slipped into his voice, — I intend to dispose of it myself. — If you die, — she corrected, — I’ll have to breathe in your corpse. Believe me, I know what dead people smell like. Especially in the heat and damp. So if you’re going to be a pig, at least be a halfway generous pig. This time he really did smile, quietly, barely audibly, but something human slipped into the sound, unlike the icy mask. — You’re talking to a prince of House Targaryen as if I were a guard dog at the gate, — Aemon remarked, and there was no threat in his voice, but rather a weary surprise. Something soft touched her lower lip. The scent of leather, old wine, a faint taste of iron. He brought the flask to her face, not roughly, but not with care either — rather with cold calculation. — Drink, — he said in an even tone. — Don’t make me your servant as well. She pressed her lips to the neck of the flask. The wine was warm, heated by his body and the cramped space; it smelled of leather, but it seemed the best she’d ever tasted. Jane didn’t drink; she held the liquid in her mouth, letting the moisture touch her tongue, cheeks, and throat, and only then did she allow herself to swallow. A hot stream rushed inside, melting something that had tightened in her stomach. Her throat begged for more. She tore herself away from the flask, nearly growling in disappointment. — Well done, — Aemond said sourly, taking the wineskin. — I thought I'd have to tear it away. — I'm a healer, — she reminded him, trying to keep her voice steady. — I know what it's like to die of thirst. I don't need this. He drank slowly, as if they had a supply. He closed the flask again. She heard the leather creak softly as he tucked it back somewhere on his side. — Generosity doesn't suit you, Prince, — Jane said, trying to hide her irritation. — Your kind don't share. They burn. — Don't get used to it, — he snapped, without a hint of a smile. — I need you alive. Bye. "Bye." That word calmed her more than anything else. As long as he needs her to breathe, he won't strangle her, won't accidentally push a rock onto her head, won't break her neck for the sake of silence. Until then, they're in this together. Almost. Jeyne carefully turned her head, as far as his hand above her temple would allow. Her cheek touched the rough stone, her tongue tasting dust on her lips. Slowly, centimeter by centimeter, she began to probe the space around them, without moving the rest of her body. To the left was a wall, cold, smooth, damp in places. Water trickled down it slowly, in tiny drops. Or blood. Jeyne tried to discern the scent and realized there was no longer a separation between them. Harrenhal permeated everything. The same sharp, ancient scent of dampness, stone, and centuries of spilled blood. To the right, her hand came across something soft and wet — a scrap of Aemond's cloak. Beyond was a stone. Above them was the very one he held with his whole body. Jane carefully felt its edge, where the boulder didn't quite touch the archway Aemond had dragged them under. Between the two stones was a narrow triangle of emptiness. Very small, smaller than her palm. But it was there. — There's a crack, — Jeyne whispered. — Above you, a little to the left. If we remove a few small stones… — She reached further, feeling something the size of a fist, gently wedged between the larger boulders, — there'll be more room for air. And maybe for me. — For you? — he repeated, clearly distrustful. — Are you planning on crawling out? To where? — I don't know, — Jeyne answered honestly. — But I don't particularly like sitting and waiting for Harrenhal to completely digest us. This castle devours all who dare enter. She clutched the stone in her fingers. Dust fell down her wrist, and somewhere above her, edge scraped against edge. — If all this slides away, — Aemond said, now in a different tone, without mockery, — it will be all the same to either of us. There's no difference between the living and the dead here. — So you're afraid? — she whispered. Aemond turned to face Jane. His eye in the dim light looked like a shard of Valyrian steel. — Fear is for the weak. I understand the nature of this place. Hatred toward him flared again, warm, scorching. Not because he'd pressed her, not because he'd nearly burned the camp. But because Aemond managed to speak as if even here, in the hole beneath the rubble, he still stood taller. As if the stone weighed more heavily on Jane than on him. As if Harrenhal itself bowed to the dragon's blood, not hers. Jane finally pulled out the first stone. Slowly, grain by grain, like someone pulling an arrow from a wound, careful not to hit a nerve or rupture a vein. Dust fell across her face, her nose itched, but she pinched her nostrils, allowing only her eyes to water. Nothing collapsed. The weight above them creaked slightly, like a disgruntled beast, but held its ground. Something changed in the narrow triangle of emptiness. A thin stream of coolness wafted into it. Very faint, barely perceptible, but different, not the fetid stuffiness they'd been breathing before. It smelled not of burning, not of blood, not of burnt iron. Simply of damp stone. She took a short breath. Her head cleared slightly, as if the first ray of dawn had broken through the haze. — There's air, — Jane said. — There's a void somewhere nearby. Or maybe another tomb, only deeper. — You're going to climb in there, — he said, not as a question, but as a statement, cold and even. — If the prospect of dying on top of me doesn't inspire you, — she replied, trying not to betray the tremor in her voice, — then yes. At least to see what kills us first: the stone, hunger, or your arrogance. Aemond paused. In the silence, sweat could probably be heard trickling down his cheek. Echoes of battle drifted in, dull thuds, roars, the crackling of burning beams. Somewhere above, things were collapsing and burning. — If you start crawling, — he finally said, and there was no irritation or threat in his voice, only cold calculation, — you'll hit my hands. If I let go of even one stone, this ceiling will settle on our heads. When you want to die, you don't have to ask my permission. Until you do, don't move. — You're used to commanding, — Jane said, clenching her fists so tightly that her nails dug into her palms. — Even under rubble. Even with a mountain of rock above us. — I'm used to surviving,— Aemond replied without a trace of emotion. For a while, they lay there, listening only to their own breathing. Their pulse pounded in their temples, like the distant clash of stone on stone. The pain in their right knee grew more and more pronounced, the dull ache in their lower back giving way to a sharp, piercing ache. The fingers of her right hand were going numb, her left had long ago become a strange appendage, the existence of which she remembered only through the pricking needles of goosebumps. Somewhere, far away, above, the dying continued. Rare screams echoed, the smell of smoke grew stronger, as if something new had caught fire somewhere nearby. At some point, Jane's body became a cluster of pressure points. His right shoulder, pressed into the stone. His lower back, breaking under the weight of his body. His left hip, numb beneath his foot. His neck, twisted at an impossible angle. His head felt like an open skull, stuffed with cotton and ringing. The darkness pressed down like a tombstone, and every breath sent a sharp pain through his ribs. They cracked like dry branches under Vhagar's wing. The stone was so close that it seemed if he lifted his head slightly, his forehead would crack like a clay pot under his heel. A damp chill seeped under his armor, penetrating his bones, his thoughts. Harrenhal didn't just hold them; it slowly, patiently crept inside, saturating every breath. Jane listened to herself, to the barely perceptible movement of air. A faint draft blew under the edge of the stone slab. — There's a passage here, — she said. — The water flows down. There's a way. — Move. Now. While we still can. Aemond shifted slightly, clearing just enough space for movement. Jane rolled onto her side, pressing her chest into the icy stone. Her fingers found a crack. Sharp edges, uneven surfaces to grasp. She began a slow, crawling movement, like a worm in the depths of the earth. Every centimeter was painful. Her ribs ached, her skin abraded against the rough stone. But Jane kept moving. Aemond followed her. His breathing grew heavier, short hisses escaping through his clenched teeth. His armor scraped against the stone. "Don't stop," Aemond's muffled voice rang out. — And I don't plan to, — Jeyne breathed, squeezing deeper into the cramped space. — I won't end here. Not in the belly of Harrenhal. They crawled along an old sewer channel, over stone blackened by centuries of water and other people's waste. Harrenhal smelled like its own womb here. The stone mercilessly scraped against their shoulders, arms, and stomach. But the air gradually changed, becoming colder, yet cleaner. The draft grew stronger. There had to be an exit somewhere ahead. There had to be. As long as they kept crawling, this cursed castle couldn't swallow them. Harrenhal, which had seen entire families destroyed, would not suffer new victims, not today. Not from them. Aemond's breath was hoarse and ragged beside them. His shoulder touched Jeyne's, hot and sticky with blood and sweat, and this closeness was worse than dragonfire. — Breathe more quietly, — he whispered. His voice was broken, yet strangely even, the voice of a man accustomed to giving orders amidst screams and chaos. — Your snoring will wake the dead of Harrenhal before we find a way out. They had been crawling for an eternity, or hours, or days. Here, time vanished like water down a slippery wall, silently and irrevocably. A narrow opening yawned before them, the castle's belly, a dark maw promising not an exit but a new trap. Aemond paused for a moment, assessing the gap. His shoulders wouldn't fit through like this. Without a word, he yanked off his sword belt. The blade thudded dully against the stone. Then Aemond reached for his cuirass. His fingers, clenched with tension, struggled to unfasten the buckles. The metal slid off his shoulders with a grinding sound, revealing his shirt. — Help, — Aemond snapped at Jane through clenched teeth. She stepped closer, her trembling fingers untying the leather straps at his sides. The cuirass fell to her feet, raising a cloud of ash. He pulled off his boots, tossing them aside: the soles, scarred by stone fragments, no longer held their shape. All that remained was a thin linen shirt and trousers, scorched in several places. — Now you, — his gaze slid over her tattered dress. — Take off your cloak. It'll only get in the way. She nodded, barely able to feel her own fingers. She threw off the heavy cloth, soaked in blood and ash. It fell soundlessly, like another skin torn from a living being. The stone immediately dug into her shoulders, tearing at the remnants of her clothing. — Crawl, — Aemond breathed into the back of her neck. His breath burned her neck. — Or stay here, feeding the ghosts of Harren the Black. She sucked in a breath and crawled. Her palms slid along the wet, slippery stone. Her knees hit the sharp edges of the broken stone, each blow aching. Behind her, she could hear his even breathing, too close. Ahead, a faint light flickered, not a torch or daylight, but a flickering glimmer reflected in the water that slowly seeped from the cracks, pooling into a black puddle. An even thicker stench wafted from there, as if the very bowels of Harrenhal had opened their mouths. The vault of the underground drain was so low that they could only walk bent over. They trudged forward, almost doubled over under the stone slabs laid during the reign of Harren the Black. The icy water reached their thighs and sank deeper into the dark passage. The slabs, coated in moss and slime, slid underfoot. Charred debris floated in the water, the remains of beams damaged the day Balerion unleashed fire on the castle. The air was heavy, saturated with damp and the smell of burning. Ahead, the passage narrowed, the torrent grew faster. In one place, a slab settled and parted, creating a narrow gap between the stone blocks. The remains of iron fastenings, now reduced to rusty fragments, were visible along the edges. Aemond bent down and ran his hand over the stone. — We'll squeeze through here, if we don't get stuck. She felt a crack. The water was right up to the opening; if she entered, it would completely cover her. — We'll be sucked in, — she said. — Good, — Aemond replied. — We'll get to the air faster. — To die in the water with the green prince, — she said quietly. — That's a lovely song. He didn't answer. He merely placed his hand on her forearm and guided her toward the opening, where the rusty fragments protruded less frequently. The water deepened. She lost her footing. The current caught her and pulled her into the passage. Jane dove in. The water closed over her head. The smell of damp and stagnant water assaulted her nose. The pipe narrowed. The walls scraped her shoulders, tearing the fabric. The stone felt slippery under her palms. The water carried away her warmth. She was suffocating, but she couldn't stop. Ahead, a light was visible, faint but distinct. She kept moving. There had to be an exit ahead, otherwise they would remain here, in this drain. Their bones, like those of those who died here centuries ago, would one day wash out. Jane jerked, hit her knee on a stone, and nearly choked. A scream caught in her throat, dissolving into the water. A hand yanked her hair back, a sharp, merciless tug. She nearly hit the back of her head on the low stone vault. — Don't stop, witch! — His voice, distorted by the echoes of the dungeons, sounded alien, as if it belonged not to a man but to an ancient spirit languishing in these passages for centuries. — One more turn. I see light. — Light. — She clung to the word like a last straw. She pushed off the slippery bottom with her feet, drowning out the throbbing pain in her calf, and swam forward, almost blind. The water pulled her down, her clothes clinging in heavy layers, her hair curling around her face as if cold fingers were trying to hold her in the darkness. Finally, something brighter than the murky reflection of the water flared ahead. An opening, a grate, almost intact but rotted at the base. Beyond it, a silver strip of moonlight spread across the puddles. Jane slammed her shoulder into the remains of the grate, rotted at the base. They groaned, cracked, breaking with a wet crunch. Icy water enveloped her up to her chest, then to her waist, as she tumbled out of the pipe, clinging to the edge. Her fingers refused to obey, her whole body shuddered; she felt like a fish washed ashore. They crawled out, coughing, spitting out mud and water saturated with the smell of ancient wars. They emerged into a huge, vaulted hall, scorched by the flames of bygone years. Columns rose like the charred trunks of a cleared forest. The stones were blackened and cracked. Debris, charred beams, and dropped spearheads littered the floor. The flags of the black and green were equally tattered, reduced to rags that hung helplessly in the gusty winds. She sank to her knees, shivering from cold and exhaustion. Her arms were bruised and covered in dirt; the blood on her skin was no longer distinguishable from the black water of the dungeon. Her dress was a tattered garment, more befitting a battlefield corpse than a daughter of the North. Aemond propped himself up on his elbows, then sat up, hissing in pain. His leg wound oozed fresh blood, washed clean by the sewage, and the sight simultaneously made her feel better and worse. Better, because he, too, was a living, vulnerable body, not an invulnerable monster on Vhagar's back. Worse, because the scent of that blood awakened something ancient, dormant in the castle. — You're not going anywhere, — he said quietly, and the silence held more menace than any scream. — Until I find out who you are. Who you serve. Jane smiled hoarsely, through the pain. — Your uncle, — she muttered, — is so mired in the madness of this castle that he barely remembers how many men he has in his camp. He doesn't need me. You only need me, so you have someone to drag back to King's Landing as a trophy. — Perhaps, — Aemond finally said quietly. — But even a useless trophy can be useful. If you know how to use it. He took a step toward the dark doorway leading deeper into the castle, where the surviving staircases and corridors loomed black. He turned. — Don't make me drag you by force. The wind howled through the breaches, bringing the smell of burning and ash. Somewhere above, in the night sky, Vhagar circled, ancient as Valyria itself, a vast shadow over the cursed castle. She followed him, each step sending pain through her ribs. They walked forward, between the molten columns. Each step echoed dully, as if the castle were repeating them, whispering in its own language, the language of stone, fire, and forgotten oaths. Dark spots, elongated silhouettes, loomed in the gloom—were they the shadows of those burned by Aegon's first fire? Legends said the souls of those who screamed under Balarion's breath were forever fused into stone. Jeyne caught herself quieting her steps, breathing more carefully. The moon peeked in almost immediately, sprinkling the dust motes hanging in the air with silver light. On the floor, under a pile of rafters, someone's boot was visible, sticking out from under a boulder; its skin was swollen, as if frozen. Birds had already made their way here. A dead raven, turned on its back, its eyes glassy. She stopped. Aemond did too. For a moment, they both froze, looking at that boot, at the death frozen in stone. Someone's story was here, cut short at the same moment as theirs, only for some reason their castle had spat them out and swallowed his whole. — Let's go, — he said finally. — Before Harren remembers us. — Are you talking about yourself like that? — Jeyne couldn't help but ask. — You're too much like this castle. Aemond turned to her. His eye glinted in the moonlight, holding death, pain, and something else she didn't want to name. He tugged her hand, breaking her stupor in the face of death, and led her deeper into Harrenhal, toward an unknown exit that might not even exist. The night breathed above them, the stone breathed around them. Jeyne and Aemond were two tiny sparks in the belly of a dead colossus. And as he held her wrist, as her fingers dug into the casing, she knew only one thing. Even if they found a way out, there would be no freedom. Other walls awaited them, his home, his war, his dragon. For now, they had Harrenhal. And its darkness. And their breath, intertwined in a single rhythm, like a challenge, like a promise, like a curse. The hall beyond the cellar opened before them, vast, vaulted, and charred. The columns were cracked, left by the curse of Harren the Black. They walked in silence. Their footsteps echoed in the void, the wind howled through the cracks, carrying the smoke of the Dance, black against green, blood on the snow of the Riverlands, dragons against dragons. In the damp gloom of the drain, the rat attacked unexpectedly. Pain shot through her leg, its teeth biting through skin and muscle, leaving a deep scar. Jeyne limped, feeling for the wall, moss and slime slipping under her fingers. — Harrenhal preys on the weak, — Aemond said suddenly, without turning around. His voice was dull, like a hammer blow. — And you are weak. — And you are a green dog on Alicent's chain, — she snapped. — Vhagar won't get you out of here. — The old beast won't fit through these damned holes. He stopped. He turned slowly, his eye narrowing to a slit. — Vhagar awaits. And when I escape, you will understand what 'Fire and Blood' means. — Your fire will burn you, Prince. Just as Harren burned in his tower. Aemond stepped closer, looming. — Harren was a fool. He built walls instead of dragons. I am a dragon. — You're a man, — Jeyne hissed. — With one eye and a wound that will soon fester. His jaw clenched, but he turned and moved on. They continued on. The hall gave way to a corridor, narrow, lined with niches strewn with bones — rats, humans, and old ones left over from Aegon's first fire. The curse whispered in her ears, shadows moved out of the corner of her eye, the wind carried the groans of those who had died under the fire. She felt the lock creeping beneath the casing, chilling her blood, awakening the fear of her ancestors. The Starks knew places where ancient ice hid beneath stone and waited. Another turn, and a rustle. Sharp. The tugging of a bowstring. Jeyne froze, clutching the wall. Aemond pushed her behind a column, the charred stone scraping his elbow. Torches flared in the darkness. The Targaryen crest was barely visible on the cuirasses, black as the night over King's Landing. The dragon, once scarlet, had faded with time, and only the deep, joyless color of the metal hinted at their allegiance to the "blacks." Survivors under Vhagar's wing: the tall one with a sword, the lame one with a dagger, the young one with a bow at the ready. The light fell on Aemond. Silver hair, a patch over his left eye. The tall one attacked first, Aemond sidestepped like a shadow, and slit his throat in a single motion. Blood gushed in a hot wave, spattering the column. The smell of iron assaulted his nose, heavy as a blow from a fist. The lame one rushed to the side, aiming for the wounded side. He ducked under the blow, the blade struck true, the crunch of bone echoing through the hall. Blood spattered his face, his hair. The young man with the bow froze, the arrow trembling in the drawn bowstring. Aemond straightened, breathing heavily, blood trickling down his chin. He slowly raised his sword. — You're next, — the archer's voice was even, almost casual. The archer dropped his bow, his gaze darting to Aemond's sword. A flicker of joy crossed his eyes. This is the end. But then recognition came. — Your Highness... — he whispered. — Oh, you still remember me, — Aemond chuckled. — That's good. Then you can deliver the message. He leaned a little closer, his voice quieter. — Tell Daemon, he thinks he's won? He's wrong. — I'll be back, and when that happens, he'll understand the real game is just beginning. The archer nodded, his gaze fixed on his blade. — I'll pass it on. — You will, — Aemond straightened up. — Because if you don't, I'll be back. And then you won't need the bow; you'll be a target anyway. He straightened, as if accepting his new role. Not a fugitive, but a messenger. Not a victim, but the voice of a prince. Aemond stepped into the darkness, head held high, his fingers still trembling. Harrenhal was consuming him, but the words he carried with him already had a life of their own, like a seed from which a storm would grow. Jayne stepped out from behind the column. Her legs trembled, but she stood straight. — You could have killed him, — she said. — He could, — Aemond replied, looking in the direction the archer had gone. — But death isn't always the best answer. Sometimes you need to let people know you're alive. So they fear you, not a ghost. The wind howled through the breaches again. Rage flared within him, burning his throat. Jeyne rushed into the corridor, barefoot over sharp shards of stone. Blood seeped from her feet, the tatters of her dress whipping her legs. Ahead loomed a breach, beyond it the wind of freedom, the forest beyond the walls, the wolves of the North, a life without the green flame of dragons. Her heart pounded in her chest, beating a frantic rhythm. Her knee exploded with pain, a rat bite, a sharp stone. She fell, but even through the shroud of pain, she continued to crawl. A shadow covered her. The collar squeezed her throat, suffocation gripped her body. Her back was against the rough wall. Aemond's fingers closed on her wrist, bones crunched, and her breath caught in her throat. — If you run again, I'll break your legs, — he said quietly, almost tenderly. "I'll drag you by the hair." — Why didn't you finish me? — Jane asked quietly, her voice echoing in the void. He slowly looked up. In the dim light, the pupil of his single eye seemed a bottomless abyss. — First, I'll find out why the Blacks need you. Why Daemon kept you at Harrenhal. What you know of his plans. She clenched her fists, feeling the stone dust crunch under her nails. — You think I'll talk? — You will. — Aemond stepped closer, his shadow falling on her like a wrought-iron grate. — Because you have no more allies. Not in the castle, not beyond its walls. Aemond pushed Jeyne behind a column, pressing his palm into the rough stone, without a hint of caution, without a shadow of hesitation. They froze, merging into the shadows. Three figures emerged from behind the rubble, wearing green cuirasses, a faded three-headed dragon on their chests, as if scorched by Balerion's fire. The prince's guard. Not warriors, but shadows. One was lame, holding a torch; another, his hand in a bloody bandage; the third, a sword like a crutch. Their faces were sooty, their eyes dull, as if the last sparks of life were fading within them. Seeing Aemond, they froze. They didn't rush forward screaming, they simply stopped, as if they had seen a ghost from Valyrian legend. — Prince Regent... — the tall man breathed hoarsely, his voice cracked like old armor. — You... are alive. Not joy, but relief mingled with disbelief. They sank to one knee, slowly, through the pain, through every broken joint, through every wound that neither prayer nor wine could heal. The torch flickered, illuminating them. Aemond was covered in dirt, blood, and sewage, his face bruised, his hair matted with dried blood. Jane, in bloody rags, barefoot, barely able to stand, wounded. He wasted no words on greetings. His gaze slid over the guards, lingering on each one, assessing, cold. — A prisoner, — he said finally, not asking, but affirming. — Taken during the assault. The guards' gazes slid over her, wary, heavy as the hammer of justice. — Take her to the camp, — Aemond ordered. "Keep her under guard, separate from the others. No one touches me without my orders. Disobey, and you answer to the king. To the dragon. Two men stepped forward and grabbed Jeyne's arms, harshly, silently, without wasted movement. Their fingers dug into her skin like Vhagar's claws. She flinched, but there was no strength left, only an echo of pain in every nerve, only a weakness gnawing at her bones. They dragged her forward, without words, without a glance. Like leading cattle to slaughter or a slave to the penal servitude. Aemond followed. Jeyne stumbled, sharp stones cutting her feet, blood dripping onto the gray stone, mixing with the ashes of the fallen. Ahead, the camp lights flickered through the fog, not salvation, but a new cage. A green camp. Enemies. Harrenhal released them from the stone maw, but only to hand them over to another beast. She was alive, but chained to the Prince Regent, heir to the blood of Valyria. The camp greeted them with the smell of burning and iron. The fires burned dimly, casting crimson reflections on the soldiers' exhausted faces. Some were mending armor, some were drinking water from canteens, some were sleeping, leaning against their saddles, but everywhere there was a wariness, a readiness for another fight, for another betrayal, for another portion of ash that would cover these bodies tomorrow. One of the guards pushed her forward. — This way. Jayne was led into a canvas tent, pitched away from the main pavilions, like a plague, like a disease they feared to unleash. Inside was a bundle of straw, a jug of water, and a dim oil lamp, smoking like a soul in agony. The air was heavy, saturated with the scent of fear. — Sit still, — the guard said, leaving. — And don't even think of running. Every stone here is the prince's eye and ear. One false step, and you will become an example to the others. Like those who failed to understand their place. The leather curtain fell, cutting her off from the world. Voices were immediately heard behind it—guards had taken up positions at the entrance. She sank down onto the straw, pressing her palms to her wounds. Blood still oozed, pain throbbed in time with her heart, but more terrible than the pain was the realization. Freedom remained within the walls of Harrenhal. And here there were only chains. Behind the tent canvas, voices, the clatter of boots, and the neighing of horses could be heard.

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