The Dance Moves Westward

                                    

                                          
The room was heavy with silence, broken only by the faint crackle of the dying fire in the hearth and the soft, uneven rhythm of their breathing. Aemond lay on his back, his gaze fixed on the wooden canopy above. The intricate carvings of dragons coiling and writhing across the beams blurred together in his vision, his mind still caught in the aftermath of their shared intimacy. The sheets clung to his skin, damp with sweat, though the fire did little to chase away the chill creeping in. Beside him, Daena’s presence was a weight he couldn’t ignore, her breathing quieter now but steady, a soft counterpoint to his own.
Daena lay beside him, her body wrapped loosely in the silken sheets. Her hair spilled over the pillows in wild waves, damp and clinging to her flushed skin. Aemond turned his head slightly, his lone violet eye tracing every detail of her — the curve of her neck, the way her lips were slightly parted as though still catching her breath. The faint sheen of sweat glistened on her skin like dew, and her expression, though serene, carried a weight he could not ignore.
Daena stirred slightly, turning her head to meet his gaze. Her brows knitted together, as though she hadn’t expected to find him watching her. She hesitated, her eyes darting away, and a flicker of something — embarrassment? Uncertainty? — crossed her face before she composed herself.
“I leave at first light,” Aemond said suddenly, his voice breaking the fragile silence. It was steady, but there was a hardness beneath it — a soldier’s tone, as if he were giving orders. “The Hightower forces, along with Cole and his men, will likely reach Harrenhal by nightfall.”
Her eyes widened slightly, a flicker of something — fear, perhaps — crossing her face. “And you wish me to go with you?”
“I do.” His voice softened slightly as he shifted, propping himself on one elbow to better see her. “Vhagar is slower than she once was,” Aemond explained, his voice measured, though there was a slight edge to it. “Her wounds are healing, but she is not at full strength. Vermithor is nearly her equal in size and power. With him by my side, along with Daeron’s dragon—”
“Tessarion,” Daena murmured.
Aemond nodded. “The three of us will be unstoppable. The blacks won’t stand a chance. But more importantly—” He paused, his gaze locking with hers. “I will not leave you behind again. I won’t give anyone the opportunity to lay a hand on you.”
Daena’s lips parted, but no words came. Instead, she sighed and turned onto her side, facing him fully. Propping herself on one elbow, she studied him, her expression unreadable. Aemond watched her, waiting for the storm of her thoughts to break. But when she reached out suddenly, her fingers moving toward the leather strap of his eyepatch, his body reacted before his mind could stop it.
His hand shot out, gripping her wrist firmly. Her small gasp filled the space between them. “What are you doing?” he asked, his tone low and sharp.
“I’ve never seen you without it,” she said softly, though her voice held a hint of defiance. “You hide so much. Even from me.”
“And you thought this was the moment to pry?”
“I only wanted to—”
“To what? Laugh at me?” His words were bitter, a defensive shield raised before she could wound him.
Her brows knit together in offense. “I wouldn’t laugh,” she said, her voice tinged with frustration. “Gods, you’re so—” She stopped herself, exhaling sharply.
Aemond regarded her for a long moment before sighing heavily. He reached up, tugging the eyepatch free with a quick motion. Turning fully to face her, he fixed her with a challenging stare. “Go on, then. Sate your curiosity.”