The God's Eye Weeps

                                    

                                          
The air hung heavy with the weight of impending battle, thick and cloying as if even the gods hesitated to breathe. From their vantage point high on the ridge, shrouded by the skeletal embrace of leafless trees, Aemond and Daena waited, silent but not at ease. The winds whipped around them, carrying the faint clang of steel from the men below, the smell of damp earth, and the distant cries of crows circling in grim anticipation.
Vhagar shifted, her scales glinting in the weak morning light as she let out a low, guttural growl that reverberated through the ground. Aemond’s gloved hand rested on her neck, his touch firm yet absent-minded, his gaze locked on the sprawling expanse of the battlefield below. His silver hair, tied back tightly, did little to soften the harsh lines of his face, and his single eye burned with a quiet, controlled fury.
Beside him, Vermithor crouched, his bronze scales gleaming faintly despite the muted light. Daena was smaller than her mount, dwarfed by the sheer size of the beast, yet she sat upright, her shoulders stiff with a tension that seemed to weigh heavier with each passing moment. Her eyes scanned the horizon with trepidation. Her fingers gripped the reins tightly, and the faint tremor in her hands betrayed the storm within her.
Below them, the fields leading to Harrenhal sprawled out like a chessboard waiting for its pieces to move. Aemond’s forces were hidden within the tree line, their movements ghostly and methodical.
The silence stretched between them, broken only by the occasional low rumble from the dragons. Finally, Aemond’s voice cut through the stillness, sharp and deliberate.
“You’re quiet,” he remarked, not looking at her.
Daena’s gaze remained fixed on the distant ruins of Harrenhal, her jaw tight. “What should I say?”
“Perhaps something that shows you're ready,” he replied, his tone clipped.
“I’m here, aren’t I?” she shot back, her voice firmer than she felt.
Aemond turned his head then, his eye narrowing as he studied her. “Being here and being ready are not the same thing.”
Daena’s lips pressed into a thin line, her grip on the reins tightening. “Do you think I take pleasure in the thought of burning men alive, of fighting dragons, of… killing?”
“This is not about what you want.” Aemond snapped, his voice rising before he caught himself. He exhaled sharply, his tone softening. “This is war. There’s no place for hesitation. No place for doubt.”
“I’m not hesitating,” she said quietly, though the weight of her words hung between them like a leaden chain. “But if you’re expecting me to revel in this… you’ll be disappointed.”
“Disappointed?” he repeated, almost to himself. “No. I know you better than that.”
The admission hung in the air, unspoken truths threading through the space between them. For a moment, he seemed poised to say more, but he stopped himself, his lips pressing into a firm line.
Instead, he turned back to the battlefield, silence stretched between them again, broken only by the distant rustling of the wind through the trees. After a moment Aemond spoke again, his tone quieter but no less resolute.
“You’ve proven your loyalty before. I won’t deny that. But today—” He paused, as if searching for the right words. “Today is your final test.”
Daena frowned, her brows drawing together as she regarded him. “What exactly do you mean by that?”
He hesitated, the faintest flicker of vulnerability crossing his face before he buried it beneath his usual mask. “Today, you’ll prove not just to me, but to all of them, that you stand with me. That you’ve chosen your place, and that you’ll fight for it.”