Chapter Text
A…boy,” the words fall from blood-covered lips, his body shaking from the shock of the events that had brought this about; all of them are his fault. It is something he cannot deny anymore. The boy once swore to kill him, after all. He had been warned, yet he had kept on and had become a threat to those the boy cared for.
Too late did he see that the young apprentice had surpassed the master, “…is now,” blood soaks the once white part of his hair, now matching the ink black of the other part of it; only the pool of blood under him gives away the wounds he had received, the black of his clothes hiding the blood, though the white revealing the crimson, soaking through it like a flag. His dark skin paled quickly with the blood that ran down the steps. His voice husky with a death rattle, knowing his time was short now, he lay on the steps of the glorious House of Black and White, his expression proud. Proud of the best student he had ever had, of the one he had hand-picked all of those years ago, the only one who could have been capable of striking the killing blow to him, “… no one.”
Who knew that that little waif of an omega boy, being sold as an enslaved person all those years ago, that he picked up in Pentos, would be the one to end him? HIM!
Dante Creed, the best Faceless Man the House of Black and White had ever created, was now lying on the ground bleeding out from several stab wounds that this, this, whelp of a boy had given him! The boy he had taught, trained, and loved like his own son!
He honestly could not be prouder of the boy.
The young man with moon-touched hair, worn in long, complicated braids that combined into one that fell to almost his hips, his one emerald green eye shone with the fire that had carried the boy through the many betrayals he had suffered through his training with the Faceless Men, shook his head, “I am Aemond Targaryen, of House Targaryen,” the young man said proudly, without fear.
It was a shame. He knew Dante thought he wouldn’t see his boy in action or the vengeance he would reign down on those on his list, to see that list underlined in red. Oh, how glorious his boy would be covered in the blood of his enemies!
“…and I am going home!” Aemond declared with a determined look on his face.
Dante smiled slightly, “Of course you are, little dragonling,” he said softly. It was the only thing the boy ever wanted, talked about, dreamed of, worked towards every day of his training. Hearing this in his dying moments with the boy didn't surprise Dante.
Aemond’s face crumpled in grief as he stepped forward, “NO!” Dante shouted. The boy mustn’t look back; he could only go forward now, “Do not look back. I go to meet the Stranger.”
Aemond shook his head in denial, whispering, “Not today.”
Dante coughed, feeling blood slide up his throat as he said, “It is my day. You saw to that.” Aemond flinched at the words as if they had hurt him, and maybe they did. But Dante had never minced words with the boy before, and he damn well wasn’t going to do it while he was dying of the wounds the whelp had given him.
“There was no other ending to my story but this…” Dante frowned when he saw the tears fall from Aemond’s eye. No, that wasn’t right; his son shouldn’t shed tears over him. He didn’t deserve them, “No man is worth your tears, dragonling, least of all me.”
“I never wanted this outcome, master,” Aemond whispered.
Dante laughed, his vision darkening: “It was always my destiny to die by a dragon’s claws. If it wasn’t you? It would have been another of your house. I’m glad it was you…” and he was, it was no lie told to comfort the boy. Dante never wanted any other death but the one given to him by the son of his heart.
“Master,” Dante could hear the regret in Aemond’s voice. That had to stop, Dante thought. He deserved his end at Aemond’s hands. He knew that even if the boy didn’t want to see it. Dante’s ending had been written long before they had ever met, and Dante had no regrets. He had lived long and had been to many places, had many lovers and those he had loved.
“…No regrets, Aemond Targaryen.” Dante hissed; he couldn’t feel any pain anymore. His time grew short, and soon, the Stranger would be here for him, “Have no regrets when you meet the Stranger, my apprentice.”
Aemond responded as he always did, “I will meet him with my eye open and spit in his face when he comes for me.”
“That’s my boy,” Dante said, coughing again; it was getting hard to breathe now, his breath coming in pants, not long now. It was time to send the boy away; he didn’t need to see Dante’s death, “Go now.”
“Master, no—”
“You will obey me, apprentice!” Coughs racked Dante’s body, and as the blood came up thicker in his throat, he closed his eyes, “Just…obey…me…this…last…time,” he struggled out.
“Yes, master,” the words broke over a soft sob, the term ‘master’ sounding more like ‘father’ than Dante had ever hoped to hear it said to him. Aemond’s footsteps faded quietly as he walked away.
Dante sighed in relief; the child of his heart would live. Aemond would choose the life he wanted, and not the one, the House of Black and White, would push onto him. Whether Aemond decides to return to Westeros or continue living in Essos would be up to Aemond and no one else. But Dante knew Aemond and that he needed to take back what was his that consumed him like fire. That the call for the blood of his enemies was great.
The last thing Dante Creed heard before the Stranger came for him was the grief-stricken cries of dragons in the distance.